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women’s barracks. She walked with the same sultry flu idity as my sister, Waivia.
Tansan seated herself upon the stairs of the barracks, and the old woman with eyes the color of snails left my side to hand Tansan the babe in the sling.
“Sit here, sit,” another woman murmured to me. “Join us for evening meal. You are hungry and thirsty, yes?”
I stiffly lowered myself to the ground, failing utterly to hide the pain I suffered in the process. Several women crouched on their haunches around me, staring, their chil dren clustered beside them.
The old woman with eyes the color of snails returned to my side and crouched before me. She thumped her bony chest; the sound was the same as if she’d struck an unripe gourd. “I’m Fwipi. You?”
“I am the hatagin komikon’s wai roidan yin,” I murmured.
“No, not good, that. A name, a name.”
“That’s my name.”
“Gaaa! That’s just a title. You have no name?”
“Kazonvia.” Not exactly a lie, as I was the second girl to leave my mother’s womb.
Fwipi grimaced. “Your name is Secondgirl? Empty name, that. Emperor’s ways. You like his ways?”
How annoying, her question. How irritating, the growing crowd as the men who’d accompanied the dragonmaster into a mud-brick hut now joined the women sitting about me. I needed to lie down, couldn’t think clearly.
“The Emperor’s a despot,” I snapped. “He’s not worth my piss.”
Fwipi sucked in a breath. Several of those about her ex changed looks.
“People who say such things lose fingers, lose tongues,” Fwipi chided. “Endangers the lives of us all, such perfidy. Better to hold such thoughts close, hey-o.”
Several elders in the clan murmured agreement, and no more was said to me until two women carrying a plank piled with kadoob tubers raked fresh from embers weaved amongst us, offering food.
Instead of taking their place around the outskirts of seated men, the women and children of the arbiyesku sat side by side with them. Instead of waiting until the men had eaten their fill before touching the food, the women and children ate at the same time as they did. Irregular be havior. But I approved. I loathed the custom of women and children eating last.
Not that I ate. A stone-size kadoob tuber, charred and wizened, sat unheeded upon my lap while I stared, ex hausted and aching, at nothing in particular. Beside me, Fwipi exchanged a few words with an old man. They spoke in Djimbi.
Fwipi addressed me again, her pitted teeth flashing like speckled black beetles. “You watch only tomorrow. You’ve traveled far, hey-o, you’re tired. Watch only.”
The old man beside her nodded and beamed agreement, revealing gums as toothless as a newborn’s.
Fwipi placed a dry hand on my arm. Her eyes traveled to the dragonmaster, who was just joining us. “Don’t fear him now. You do as your clan sees fit. We’ll protect you, yes?”
She thought I’d been beaten by my claimer. I gritted my teeth and forced myself to act the grateful, submissive woman. “Thank you,” I murmured, eyes downcast.
The old man stirred. He was holding something toward me, dry, contorted, the color of bone. Maska root. He said something in Djimbi, and though I didn’t understand him, the meaning conveyed was plenty clear: Eat.
“Thank you,” I repeated again, this time with sincere gratitude in my voice, and I took the precious root, swiftly peeled it with my teeth, and began chewing. It tasted like bile.
As those around me ate, children with potbellies and twiggy limbs slowly summoned the courage to draw nearer me. They gathered in a semicircle, openly curious. One of the children cleared her throat, a sloe-eyed girl about six years old, skin the color of a honey-drizzled cake and mot tled with small, very faint green whorls.
“What was your clan before this one?” she demanded.
“I belonged to the hatagin komikon, not a clan.” I was aware that everyone was listening to my reply.
“Is your claimer mad?”
I bit back a heated