“An admission of wrongdoing is the beginning of accountability, never its conclusion.”
— From the Principles of Guild Conduct
The garden behind the courtyard was almost deserted. A fountain murmured beneath the shade of a broad-leaved tree, and the Festival's drums arrived softened by the garden wall. Kẹ́hìndé would have preferred somewhere less pleasant for the conversation he was about to have.
Omotoyosi had followed him without complaint. Her borrowed official sash was twisted around one fist.
“Sit,” he said, indicating a bench.
“Are you certain?”
“I am certain that I would rather not conduct this discussion with you hovering over me.”
She sat. He remained standing, the folded writ held loosely between two fingers.
“Three months,” he said. “Not three days. Not until you change your mind.”
“I know.”
“And I am a member. Not a prospective applicant you can politely turn away.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
“You might have mentioned that before I touched the thing.”
Omotoyosi opened her mouth. Whatever answer she had prepared died before it reached her lips.
“Can your Guild end it?”
“No. Not just because we want to. The binding runs its course.”
“Then what can they do?”
“Hold the person responsible accountable. Decide what duties or privileges you can reasonably be offered. Seek an examination of the relic. But I won't pretend a formal complaint can take back those three months.”
He looked at the golden lettering visible through the covering sheet. For the first time since the seal had awakened, he felt the full absurdity of it: his name had been given to an institution he had never visited, by a stranger who had spent an enjoyable morning pretending to like him.
Or perhaps she had liked him. That possibility annoyed him even more.
“You were after Tàíwò,” he said.
Omotoyosi's shoulders tightened. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Golden Baobab needs someone people will notice.”
“Then hire a crier. I hear they're very effective.”
“We have criers.”
“Clearly not effective enough.”
Against his better judgement, he saw the corner of her mouth move. It vanished when she noticed his expression.
She told him about the Guild's history without the flourish she had used at the Festival. Golden Baobab had opened difficult routes, brought medicines into isolated settlements and defended people who had no imperial regiment waiting beyond the horizon. The work continued, she said, though the most prestigious commissions and the strongest young recruits now went elsewhere.
“A prodigy with your brother's name could change how people see us.”
“His name,” Kẹ́hìndé repeated.
“And his ability. I know the difference.”
“Apparently not well enough to distinguish his face from mine.”
“That was an extraordinary mistake.”
“It was a rather ordinary failure to do your research.”
“An extraordinarily expensive ordinary failure, then.”
He nearly laughed. The impulse angered him. She was adept at making a disaster sound like an inconvenience shared between friends.
“Do not mistake my willingness to talk for forgiveness,” he said.
“I haven't.”
“And do not start offering me instructors, training chambers or special equipment. I have the palace.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because the last scout I spoke to offered to introduce me to a sword instructor whose name I already knew. He taught me when I was twelve.”
“Oh.” She considered that. “That must have been embarrassing for him.”
“Very.”
“Then I won't insult you with another name from a list.”
A breeze stirred the leaves above them. Kẹ́hìndé looked towards the gate. Bámidélé would be returning from the eastern desk soon. He should have been relieved. Instead, he found himself wishing for a few more minutes to decide what to do without his attendant's horrified assistance.
Omotoyosi followed his gaze. “There is something I could offer you that the palace can't.”
“Not anything. I promised not to offer you a smaller version of what you already have.”
He turned back.
“At the palace, every journey is arranged for a prince. Every guard knows whom to protect. Every instructor knows whose son he's teaching. Golden Baobab goes where an imperial expedition might cause a diplomatic incident simply by arriving. We take work because the work needs doing, not because a court wants an appearance.”
“Are you telling me your hunters would forget who I am?”
“No. Some would be impressed. A few would make themselves tedious about it. But a broken bridge doesn't care about your father's title. Neither does a hungry Vekari.”
“And that's your sales pitch? Our bridges are dangerous and our enemies discourteous?”
“I'm saying you could go somewhere and discover what you can accomplish when nobody has prepared the answer for you.”
He took his time replying. It was a better offer than armour or a training hall. He had heard of Guild expeditions since childhood, had envied the freedom of their reports even when the accounts were embellished. He could travel with the empire whenever he wished, but every imperial journey carried an entourage, a flag and the expectation that he would return looking like a prince.
“What would they expect of me?” he asked.
“Whatever anyone else on the team was expected to do. On a difficult commission, you'd have to earn their trust. You could choose to join an expedition after the appropriate assessment, and you'd find that the people beside you have ambitions of their own.”
“Would I be permitted to fail?”
Omotoyosi blinked. “Yes.”
“Publicly?”
“Probably. Our members are rather good at that.”
He gave a reluctant breath of amusement. This time he did not try to hide it.
“And you could go without Bámidélé arranging the seating,” she added.
“Leave my attendant out of this. He is excellent at arranging seating.”
“I'm sure he is.”
“He would be furious to hear you say otherwise.”
“I hope never to find out.”
For a while they listened to the fountain. Kẹ́hìndé imagined an unfamiliar road, a mission shared with people who would argue with him because he had made a poor decision rather than quietly arrange for someone else to repair it. It was the sort of experience he could never ask for without the request itself becoming a royal event.
He looked down at the writ.
“Had you approached me openly, I might have listened.”
“I realise that now.”
“You realised it before. You simply preferred an answer I couldn't refuse.”
Omotoyosi lowered her eyes. “Yes.”
The admission carried no defence. He appreciated that much.
“Can members ask to undertake work together?” he said.
“Sometimes, if they're qualified and the Guild approves the team.”
“Even if they belong to different households?”
“The Guild doesn't organise missions by household.”
Kẹ́hìndé pictured Tàíwò listening politely to another evening of congratulations, the same unreadable courtesy with which he received criticism. His brother's gifts had been evident for years. So had the distance he seemed to maintain, even from family. Kẹ́hìndé could remember the last time they had trained together; he could not remember the last time Tàíwò had been genuinely surprised.
Perhaps a journey outside the palace would change that. Or perhaps it would reveal that he had misunderstood his brother entirely.
“You still want Tàíwò,” he said.
Omotoyosi hesitated. “I would be lying if I said otherwise.”
“Then find him.”
She stared. “Your Highness?”
“Find a way to do to Tàíwò what you did to me. Make him a member of Golden Baobab for three months, and I'll keep what happened today between us.”
Her expression changed so quickly that, under different circumstances, he might have enjoyed it.
“You can't mean that.”
“I do.”
“He hasn't agreed to anything.”
“Neither had I.”
“You were furious about that.”
“I still am.”
“Then why would you ask me to do the same to your brother?”
He had expected this question. The answer was less comfortable now that he had to give it.
“Because I want to meet him somewhere beyond our walls. Somewhere neither of us is introduced before we enter the room. I want to train with him, work with him, compete with him. I want to know whether he can be my brother for an afternoon instead of the empire's prodigy.”
“And,” Kẹ́hìndé added, “I intend to surpass him. I should like him to witness that without an audience telling us how to feel.”
“That sounds rather like a reason to invite him.”
“An invitation is an excellent idea. It was also available to you this morning.”
He heard how unkind that sounded. He did not take it back.
“If I manage it,” she said cautiously, “you won't report me?”
“I said I won't make what you did to me public. That doesn't mean your Guild won't hold you responsible when it learns the truth. And don't mistake my silence for forgiveness.”
“I wouldn't.”
“You said something similar about Festival paperwork, I imagine.”
“I deserve that.”
He studied her. “I know you're clever, Omotoyosi. You had better discover whether you can be careful as well.”
“And if your brother despises me afterward?”
“Then you will have something in common with the person sitting before you.”
“You're standing.”
“Don't improve my insults for me.”
She let out a startled laugh, then looked as though she regretted it. Kẹ́hìndé was annoyed to find himself almost laughing too.
He folded the covering sheet around the writ and tucked it inside his jacket. The bargain was morally ugly; he knew that. It was also his, rather than one arranged by a court official or suggested by a tutor. For the first time all afternoon, he felt as though he had made a decision instead of merely endured someone else's.
“I'm not promising to stay with Golden Baobab,” he said. “Three months is what the writ has taken. Anything afterward will be my choice.”
“Understood.”
“And this is not forgiveness.”
“Understood.”
Omotoyosi stood. Her expression lost its customary sparkle.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I did enjoy talking to you. The puzzle, the Festival. That part wasn't a trick.”
He remembered her irritation when the wooden pieces refused to separate, and the triumphant way she had held them up afterward.
“That makes the rest of it worse,” he said.
She accepted the answer.
He was almost at the gate when she called to him. “Your Highness. Does your brother have any ordinary interests?”
He looked over his shoulder. “Do you intend to win him over with a pleasant conversation this time?”
“I intend to begin somewhere.”
He considered her for a moment. “He likes books. He dislikes being asked whether he has finished them. And you would be wise not to assume that because he is quiet, he isn't paying attention.”
“That sounds ominous.”
“It is advice.”
He left her beside the fountain.
* * *
Omotoyosi remained in the garden until the sound of his footsteps faded. She opened her satchel and checked the case protecting the unused writ. It was still there. Kẹ́hìndé had not seen it, and she had no intention of volunteering its existence.
She ought to report to Golden Baobab immediately. The first activation alone could ruin her career. Keeping it from the people who could help manage the consequences would make matters worse.
A message from a fellow scout blinked on her device.
*You've been suspiciously quiet.*
Omotoyosi started to type *Everything is fine*, then erased the lie.
*I need leadership to know I've activated one of the forbidden writs. It registered Kẹ́hìndé Adéyẹmí. I mistook him for his brother. I'm coming to explain.*
She sent the message before courage could desert her.
The reply arrived almost at once.
*OMOTOYOSI.*
A second followed.
*Come straight to the pavilion. Do not touch anything else.*
She put the device away and headed for the Festival avenue. Bámidélé passed the far gate as she emerged, walking briskly towards the courtyard, no doubt ready to complain about the pointless errand. She turned aside before he could recognise the borrowed sash.
Near the drink stalls, a seller was struggling to keep up with a queue. Omotoyosi paused. A place behind the counter would give her a view of the avenue when the royal procession passed. Perhaps Tàíwò would be among them. Perhaps she could begin with a conversation this time.
She approached the seller to ask whether he needed help, promising herself she would reach the pavilion before the ceremony.