“You will stand with the city Mahweni even if they rise up against Bar-Selehm?”
“Rise up,” he echoed, liking the sound of it. “Yes. But not against Bar-Selehm. The city is many things. We would rise up only against parts of it.”
“You’d be killed,” I said. “They have better weapons, trained soldiers.… You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That is possible,” he said. “But the Grappoli also have better weapons and soldiers. If we are going to die, better it be for what we believe is right.”
The weight of the previous week pressed down on me, and I suddenly felt weary and sad beyond measure.
Again he shook his head, this time like a whinnying orlek, as if to clear it. “I am sorry about Kalla,” he said. “You would have made a good mother.”
“If you actually think that,” I said, “you haven’t been paying attention.”
“Paying?” he echoed.
His confusion annoyed me. Even in the moment, I was ashamed of the feeling. “I wouldn’t make a good mother,” I said. “I’d make a terrible mother. If I’ve learned nothing else over the last few days, I’ve learned that.”
“No!” he said. “You cared for her. You kept her safe. When things are calm and you have a good husband—”
“No,” I said, my voice louder and harsher than I meant it. “I climb chimneys. I hurt people. I put the lives of everyone I know at risk.”
“No,” he said. “You are a good person, Anglet. A beautiful person—”
He extended a hand to mine but I ignored it, getting quickly to my feet. I knew he was trying to be helpful, supportive, and though I could see something else in the way he looked at me that I didn’t have time to reflect upon, I appreciated it. But the extent of my failure crowded in on me and made me bitter.
“I’m grateful for your help, Mnenga,” I said in a voice that showed no gratitude at all, “but don’t think you know me. You don’t, and it’s better for you that way.”
He blinked as if I had slapped him, and though I was struck with sudden remorse, I could think of no way to mend the moment except by leaving it.
“I’m sorry,” I said, turning and walking away before I could change my mind.
*
THAT NIGHT AS I was making my way back to the Martel Court for a few hours’ sleep, I heard the sound of chanting and followed it to look. In Unification Square, a crowd of Mahweni had gathered, and I saw that among the Assimilated majority were men and women in the homespun weavings and animal skins of the tribal herders. They all sang, rocked back and forth like a basin of unsettled water, their voices full of suffering and anger. Earlier in the day, one of the white rallies had replaced the effigy of the Grappoli ambassador with the puppet of a black man with wild hair, broad lips, and staring eyes. They had burned it in a metal drum, but some of the Mahweni had recovered the remains and it was now the repurposed focus of their own protest. A company of white dragoons was watching the writhing, boiling fury of the crowd with growing unease, and when I saw one young officer nervously unbuttoning the flap of his pistol holster, Willinghouse’s words came back to me.
The very brink of disaster …
CHAPTER
31
CORPORAL TSANWE EMTEZU LIVED in Morgessa, the largely black area on the northeast side of the city, close to the Ramsblood temple, an orderly neighborhood of small, well-maintained terraced houses with tiny front gardens where roses and the sandalwood-scented heylas grew. Most of the people who lived there were factory workers and tradesmen. Their children went to Hillstreet School or, if they were religious, to Truth Mountain, which was run by Pancaris nuns. Most left at twelve, going on to apprenticeships or, like Sarah, straight into employment.
Emtezu’s wife opened the door, cradling an infant only a couple of months older than the one I had left at Pancaris. She was black, though I had seen other wives and husbands in the neighborhood who weren’t, and she looked me over, her face carefully empty. When she led me through into the back, she moved with unstudied economy, graceful as a dancer, and as we passed the foot of the stairs, she called up, stilling the movement and childish laughter that came from above without raising her voice.
“When I come up there I expect you to be ready for school,” she said.
She led me into the kitchen, where her husband was sitting at the table, staring at a newspaper. He did not seem surprised to see me.
“I suppose I should be glad I’m not being arrested for the way I took you to see Sohwetti,” he said. He glanced at his wife, who was fussing by the sink, and I could tell his casualness was feigned. “Am I likely to be?”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t know what you were leading me into.”
“It seems I had our leader’s priorities wrong,” he said bitterly.
The front page of the Morning Star on the table in front of him blared, SOHWETTI SIGNS SECRET LAND DEAL!