CHAPTER THIRTY: Zaethan
Zaethan flipped the motumbha stick, rolling it between his palms. The ladles on either end hovered in anticipation over the freshly cut lawn.
Jabari whooped twice, running between their opponents. Sliding on his thigh, he tore through the green and thrust the ball of laced hide through the air, dirt and grass accompanying its flight. Zaethan shouldered another player, not bothering to watch him crash to the earth, and lowered the stick, dashing to the middle of the field. Spinning through a triplet of oncoming players, he spied the narrow goal basket.
Without hesitation, Zaethan launched the ball upright and spun the stick. Striking with the backside of the adjacent scoop, it soared over the heads of his competitors. He released a series of similar sounds, summoning his teammate. Zaethan spotted Jabari beyond the cluster guarding the basket, the Andwele warrior swiftly retrieving an arrow and aiming for the flying target.
The crowd voiced their disappointment as the arrow narrowly missed, followed by a steady clap after the ball fell into the mouth of the basket.
“Kàchà kocho, Alpha Zà.” Jabari shrugged and snatched the ball, wiping off a chunk of soil on his relaxed gunja pant. “Eh, uni! Knick a lick, yeah?” The warrior’s accent thickened as he displayed a slash in the hide.
“Zullee.” Wekesa snatched the ball from Jabari’s grasp and tossed it to another member of his team. A red cord wrapped about his forearm, distinguishing their opposition for the onlooking nobles. Zaethan’s men did not need dye to know whom they were against. “When you run with men, instead of cubs, you’re never in this position, Zaeth.”
Rotating his wrist, the blue cord around Zaethan’s muscle suddenly felt constricting. “What position, Wekesa?”
“Liability.” His rival’s playing stick swung and smashed Zaethan’s calf where it was still healing from the y’siti’s witchiron. Biting down, he refused to show the pain. “Yeye qondai, Alpha Zà?”
“Eh, meme qondai…I understand you’ve been playing a risky game.” Zaethan crouched low, awaiting the signal for the pitch. “On the field, and in my city.”
“Think Bastiion’s still yours, Zaeth?” A wailing cry rang out as the ball glided above. Wekesa’s murky eyes widened, exposing their whites. “Kwihila rapiki mu jwona!”
The blunt end of his ladle socked Zaethan’s middle, causing him to double over. Spitting out a mouthful of bile, he sprinted after Wekesa, both men tracking the lost ball between players. Nearing the bastard’s heels, Zaethan roared. He whipped the stick around Wekesa’s abdomen, pinning the man as he caught the opposite end in stride. Lifting the other alpha off the ground, Zaethan yelled at the throbbing pain in his leg as he careened them to the left and freed the stick, hurling Wekesa onto the green.
“Ho’waladim,” Zaethan bit out, striking the shredded earth inches from Wekesa’s head. “That’s what’s due you.” He ran ahead to his team of off-duty sentries on the far side of the field.
One of Wekesa’s men hoisted the ball, preparing his serve, and howled for his archer. Zaethan searched the lawn for Jabari, whooping the same. Hailing an arc, Wekesa’s player aimed for the furthest basket in front of the royal pavilion. Zaethan rushed under Jabari’s arrow, trusting its trajectory. He might have been inexperienced in his youth, but Depths, the cub was a good shot.
The gong rang out, signifying the end of the match just as Jabari’s arrow spliced their opponent’s and impaled the hide victoriously into the third basket, stealing the goal. Zaethan rammed into Jabari and cupped his head of sweaty coils.
“Shtàka! Uni zà!” He shook the youngest member of his pryde triumphantly. “Rounds of bwoloa, as many as we can drink.”
“Owàa lent me his eyes, yeah?” Jabari’s fingers drew away from his face and toward the clouds. Strapping his bow to join the final arrow in the slim quiver, he trailed Zaethan to the secondary pavilion, where Dmitri watched the match with the Zôueli princess.
“Good game, Zaeth, good game!” Dmitri gripped his cane and stood, continuing his applause. “I tried explaining the rules of motumbha to Bahira’Rasha.” He colored slightly and waved to the exquisite woman lounging to the right of his seat, elevated from the others. “I fear I may have confused things further.”
“Bahira’Rasha.” Zaethan bent his knee, her Zôueli title feeling bulbous as it exited his mouth. Bowing to the woman, he flatly recited Dmitri’s lines as promised: “We are graced to host you for the summer solstice. The sun shines brighter in Orynthia for years to come.” He doubted the last part sounded the least bit genuine, but offered a toothy grin nonetheless.
“I like this Darakaian arrowball, as you call it.” The princess didn’t get up, and seemed to enjoy the fact she wasn’t obligated to. Zaethan straightened as she looked him over. “It is barbarous.”
Rasha elongated her figure as she reclined, in a way Sayuri never could. The Pilarese al’haidren noticed as well and attempted to imitate Rasha’s gestures from the end of the row near Ira, who fished something out of his empty glass. The princess dripped gold and precious stones, and her entire being sparkled when she tossed her head and laughed heartily.
“Bloody and riveting, you are.” Her nose crinkled, jingling a chain that connected to a jeweled earpiece. She idly crossed her legs, enveloped in billowy pants beneath a type of skirt. Ironically, her feet were bare, though no less decorated than the rest of her.
Zaethan scanned the witch seated next to the princess. “I get that a lot. Lady Boreal, you’re looking well,” he offered lightly. Regret from their encounter lessened when he saw her ivory jaw was devoid of the lovely bruise he’d gifted it. “The sun does the Boreali good, after all,” he commented, noticing how gracefully her fractured wrist moved as she plucked a grape off its stem.
“I keep reminding you how resilient I am,” the witch said to the fruit.
“Ah, my new friend, Loo-Shah…” Rasha rolled her given name and clutched the witch’s arm, drawing her closer. “This wit of the highlander, I love.”
“Won’t you join us, Zaeth?” Dmitri motioned to the empty place in the line of spectators. “I’ve ordered your favorite,” he added, gesturing toward an amber bottle on a valet’s cart.
In Zaethan’s periphery, players departed the field, equipment in tow. Passing the next pavilion, more prominent in scale and grandeur, Wekesa was called out of the pack. Breaking from the group, he sauntered up the steps and leaned into the shade for Zaethan’s father to relay something. Their commander’s fingers twitched as he went on in Wekesa’s ear.
“Alas, I must see to the guard.” Zaethan squinted under the sun. Dmitri grimaced, not entirely pleased, but ascertained the course of his thoughts, jerking his chin toward their parents.
“We’ll see you at dinner?” Though posed as a question, Zaethan knew better.
“Dinner,” he confirmed, and bowed to the princess. “Bahira’Rasha, shàla’maiamo.”
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Zaethan picked up his pace as he walked in front of the king’s pavilion, pretending to ignore the closeness between his father and the other alpha. Tetsu Naborū appeared to offer comment on their discreet dialogue. Zaethan wondered how entangled Wekesa was in Lateef’s plan for additional ships stationed in Lempeii, or if the haidren to Pilar had simply seized an opportunity to spew partisan poison to the closest party.
“Zaeth, my boy!” The king descended onto the lawn and slapped Zaethan across the back. “I put my aurus on you. Sack of gold you just earned me!”
Dmitri’s father sloshed his wine as he turned to the queen of Razôuel, who seemed disinterested in his royal pocketbook. The Zôueli regent wrinkled her hooked nose at a plate of Uriel pie an attendant offered, clinking an opulent set of chains across her cheek. He understood her reaction when she flicked a dollop back at the attendant, unimpressed. Uriel pie was already dreadful, made worse in the heat of summer.
Zaethan risked another glimpse into their pavilion. His father’s fist clenched and shook over the arm of his chair. Wekesa’s fat braids swung as he inched away.
“I think I earned a good washing, Your Majesty.” Zaethan mock scrubbed his middle and winked at the king. “I should take care of all this mud before charming Razôuel’s queen.”
“Oh-ho!” King Korbin’s belly, padded from his era of hard-earned peace, rumbled at the jest. Pulling the front of his thick belt into position, he again reached out and gripped Zaethan’s shoulder. “Just spectacular, my boy. Go, brush up and see to those yayas. Now, in my day…” His bushy brows leapt high, shading his jade eyes when his hand covered his mouth, remembering his wife beside the western queen. “Oh, on you go!”
Marching toward his office, Zaethan’s fingers tightened around the playing stick he still carried. He bid farewell to his teammates, grateful Jareth and Brandor had been available to leave their posts and put on a spectacle for Dmitri’s guests. They were his best Unitarian passers, not kakk squabblers like the rest of the sentries.
It was a good thing he still controlled their schedules.
Zaethan neared the hedge maze, intending to take a shortcut to the guard house. At its opening, Felix Ambrose sloshed his goblet and moved aside, off the path. Overly dressed, in typical yancy fashion, the noble dribbled sweat into his wine, intently staring past Zaethan. Looking back, he saw the noble’s gaze was fixed on the exotic princess as she rose from her seat and took Dmitri’s arm.
“She’s off limits, Lord Ambrose,” Zaethan warned the man, then coughed as he was hit by a waft of pipe marrow. “Depths, Felix, take a bath.”
He proceeded through the opening in the bushes and into the maze. Someone’s swallow-call whistled from the field as they jogged around the bend.
“Do you hear the birdies, Zaeth?” Wekesa repeated the call and ran up the path, his arms draped lazily over the motumbha stick across his shoulders. “They’re singing a certain prisoner is missing. He flew away.” His fingertips flitted as he barged in front of Zaethan. “Flew like Owàa in the morning, yeah?”
“Kàchà kocho.” Zaethan’s thumb wiped away a bead of perspiration from the match. “Birds fly. If you’d borrowed his wings, you might’ve won. Now, get to your post.” His boot shifted off the gravel path. “That was an order.”
His windpipe collapsed when Wekesa sidestepped, hooked his rod over Zaethan’s head, and propelled them behind a hedge, forcing a gulp of greenery down his throat.
“I played your game.” Wekesa’s spit sprinkled the back of Zaethan’s spine. “Well, this is mine. You took from me, yeah? Now, I’m taking it all!”
“Using which prisoner?” Zaethan’s snicker made it harder to breath. “You failed,” he taunted, wedging a hand between the stick and his throat. “Uni, nothing to show the tribes but dead cross-castes.” He used the little space to twist forward, wrap his arm around, and pound his knuckle into Wekesa’s kidney. “Return to the valley,” he wheezed. “Take your pryde, leave the city, and I won’t tell the commander what you’ve done.”
Bent over, Wekesa laughed cruelly. “But Zaeth, what about all those helpless roach cubs?” His eyes rounded in mock horror. “You tested their jwona. Freed their murderer.”
Zaethan’s fist collided with Wekesa’s mouth. Blood foamed around the other alpha’s teeth as he smiled wildly. Standing over his rival, Zaethan stepped away, though every fiber of his being wished to beat Wekesa to within an inch of his life.
“Do it…I attacked my alpha.” Wekesa sneered, dripping pink saliva. “We both know who he’ll punish.”
Panting, Zaethan dipped down and picked up the motumbha sticks strewn in the grass. “You’ve taken back plenty,” he huffed, electing to walk away. “Enough.”
Zaethan unraveled the blue cord and chucked it to the ground. As he exited the hedge maze, that swallow song echoed through the exterior garden once again, partnered by a faraway promise.
“Do you hear the birdie, Zaeth? I’m going to take everything.”
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“Ano, ano. That’s not how he’s doing it.”
The four Darakaians huddled in Zaethan’s snug office, Kumo barely squeezed between the desk and Jabari. He fidgeted awkwardly to avoid the corner of the wood. Its orientation was a little too intimate for the beta’s liking.
“Ah, see.” Zahra punched his bicep and gestured to the topmost map on the desk. “I told you, uni, those tunnels are shut up. Packed full of rock and shtàka.”
Zaethan leaned back on the hind legs of his chair, letting his third harass Kumo while he considered an alternative. “He has to have help,” he said finally, throwing up his hands and bringing the front legs to the floorboards. “Wekesa can’t be everywhere, yeah? He was in Fahime when you found the first body.”
“And what about Arune and that yancy’s estate maid?” Zahra added, hand on her hip. The muscles in her arm flexed when she reached for a map underneath the stack.
“Arune could be an outlier.” Zaethan bounced his heel. “Ira said it resembled an animal attack. Maybe a coincidence.”
“Coincidence hillman trap, Alpha Zà.” Jabari’s coils swung back and forth. “Never trap a tricker, ano. Trick trap the hillman or kakk keep a calling.”
Kumo glared at Jabari. “I hear kakk calling now.”
The mountaineer cautiously pointed to the map. “Because you hillman, being trapped by the trick.”
“Jabari’s right,” Zaethan interjected before someone received a black eye. “Even if he enlisted help, the killings multiplied once he arrived. Depths, he all but admitted it!”
“Alpha Zà.” Zahra leaned against the desktop and leveled with him. “He tell you plain? We know your shared past. What if it’s a distraction, yeah? Let you believe it’s him, distract you while he rallies support for a challenge.”
Kumo rubbed his neck, then dropped his arm. “Makes sense, Ahoté.”
“Wekesa said that more children will die,” Zaethan articulated each syllable, “because we let his thief escape. He looked me right in the eyes, and said they’d die for it.”
Zahra shared a glance with Kumo. Her brow lifted, sending creases across the sheen of her smooth scalp, disrupting some of the inked Andwele markings. “All right, then. Uni zà.”
Pinned against the door jamb, Jabari watched the older three warriors deliberate. Zaethan sighed and ripped a different map off the floor, unrolled it, and massaged his temples.
“You’ve watched him for weeks, Zahra. Even if he walked straight out the gate into Marketown, he couldn’t come back the same way.” Zaethan waved to the web of streets in his lap. “Not after that. Not after what he does to them.”
“Wekesa goes where we all go,” she replied. “The guard house, his suite, the hall, kitchens, the war room—” She trailed off as the parchment crunched in his hands.
“The sentries on our payroll don’t know anything, either.” Kumo scowled. “Even threw in a couple extra dromas. Nothing.”
Hammering at the door caused Jabari to jump. Zaethan nodded for him to permit the newcomer. Tripping into the already crowded room, Takoda nudged Jabari into the hall to fit in front of the desk.
“We have it, Alpha Zà!” He beat the surface of the desk and announced, “I found how he’s sneaking past us!” Takoda poked his thumb at Zahra and stood taller. “Well, past you, at least.”
Zaethan’s third whacked Takoda upside the head. “Owàamo to you, too, cocky cub-rub.”
Takoda recovered and flipped through the papers, rotating a blueprint of the palace main. His index finger glided over the lower level and tapped the kitchens fervently.
“Here.” He flopped his braids over, bending down. “It’s an unlocked access to the sewer. Kitchen hardly touches it, yeah? Nasty, kakka-shtàka sludge canal, but the lock is rusted. Never fixed.”
Zaethan chewed the inside of his cheek and peered at Takoda. “How’d you learn this?”
“Eh…” A rosy blush swept his forehead, and he grinned sheepishly. “So, there’s this yaya in the pantry, and she was giving me a, uh…” Takoda cleared his throat. “A tour.”
He winced as Zahra smacked him even harder.
“And after the completion of your tour?” Zaethan asked.
“She starts raving about dark spirits, moving buckets, puddling. Kakk talking, yeah?” Takoda flapped his hands around. “Somebody’s been using it.”
Zaethan rolled up the map and hit Takoda in the chest with it. “Zullee, my friend. Zahra,” he ordered, pushing off the desk, “I want you with Dmitri tonight. The rest of us are needed out there. We need to arrest Wekesa in the act.”
“We bringing Maji’maia with us?” Kumo swirled a finger around his eye. “Tàkom lai na huwàa?”
“Ano zà. Our brother has become a monster. It’s Darakai’s responsibility to put him down.” Zaethan belted his kopar. The witch’s accusation rang in his ears as if he still laid on the mat of that training room. “Damn the day we step aside and invite Boreal to do it in our place.”