I kicked and rolled, but could not throw him off, and then when it seemed like he might just take a rock and bash my skull in, he was scrambling to his feet and turning toward the sound of voices.
My head was ringing with the weight of his blows, but I managed to get onto one elbow and looked to where two black men had entered the cave. I had never seen them before, and neither, judging by their astonished and uncertain faces, had Von Strahden or Gritt. They were young men, bare chested and wearing only the belted grass skirts of the Unassimilated Tribes, and at shoulder height, poised to throw, they bore short spears with long, leaf-shaped metal tips.
Gritt’s rage was boundless. He did not hesitate, but snatched for the pistol in his belt and swung it round in a low, precise arc.
He pulled the trigger.
It clicked. Empty. It was my revolver. He lunged, snatching up Vestris’s fallen pistol, turning, and aiming at the black boys he so despised.
I was still on the ground, half behind him, but I kicked him hard in the ribs with my steeplejack’s boots, and his first shot went wide. There was a sudden silence. I did not understand why he had not fired again—not till he slumped beside me, one of the Mahweni spears buried in his chest.
I rolled away in horror and revulsion, remembering only at the last instant to take the gun and train it on Von Strahden, who was motionless, braced like a cornered animal.
It was a long moment before I dared consider the two boys, and I saw the resemblance immediately.
“You are Mnenga’s brothers,” I said.
One of them nodded. “Mnenga said you might need help,” he said. “That you were alone among hyenas.”
“Thank you,” I gasped. “I was.”
CHAPTER
37
ONE OF THE BROTHERS—the elder, whose name was Embiyeh—led Von Strahden out of the cave and down by a hidden path to a point closer to the freight line, and I followed with the pistol while the other brother, Wayell, went back to guard Vestris, remaining in the antechamber so that he would not be exposed to the mineral.
The mineral that is slowly killing my sister, moment by moment.
We had not reached the bottom before we saw the mismatched carriages barreling along the Bar-Selehm road in a column of dust.
Among them were Andrews and a squad of armed officers, Willinghouse in the family coach, and a pair of cabs stuffed with reporters led by a dictatorial Sureyna. The last to emerge was Mnenga, who embraced his brother and spoke to him softly in their own language. Me, he kept his distance from, giving me simply a nod and a bashful, cautious smile when he found me looking at him.
I walked to him, folded him in my arms and held him tight to my breast, breathing my thanks and apologies. I felt the strength of his grip around my shoulders, the shuddering of his breath against my chest, and I was not surprised to see the tears in his eyes when we finally parted, though he immediately took a step back and away. The space between us yawned like a chasm, and for a long moment we just looked at each other. Then Willinghouse was beside me, and Mnenga took three quick strides away.
“Are you all right?” asked Willinghouse, his face pale save for the sickle-shaped scar, which glowed like hot metal. “That looks like a nasty cut.”
I unfastened my hair, shook it loose, and considered him.
I wanted to ask him how much he had known or suspected about Von Strahden, how much he had not told me, even though that might have put my life in jeopardy; I wanted to yell at him, to blame him, but I could not.
After a moment, he broke eye contact, gazing out across the bush toward the city, and he nodded. “Good work, Miss Sutonga,” he said.
Again, I considered him, and he opened his mouth to say something else, but then looked at his shoes. I had never seen him so ill at ease, and for all his finely cut clothes and air of authority, he looked thoroughly out of place.
“I’m glad that…” he said, then hesitated. “Well. Yes. Very good work indeed.”
And then he was walking away, and through the space where he had been, I saw Mnenga watching. For a second our eyes locked and something sad and pained passed between us, and then he too turned to face the city and began to walk away.
“Excuse me, Anglet, if it isn’t too much trouble!”
The voice came from the Willinghouse coach. The window screen was down, and Dahria was leaning out, her eyes full of exasperated boredom.
“Dahria,” I said as I approached.
“First name terms now, is it?” she said.
“I’m not pretending to be your maid anymore,” I said.
“Quite,” said Dahria. “Well, I have one final duty for you, and I would be obliged if you would take care of it immediately because it is exceedingly tiresome.”
“What?” I asked.
She opened the door and leaned back so that I could see inside.
Tanish was sitting in the corner—pale, tired, and bandaged, but very much alive and smiling like the spring.