“Resources,” Khepri said.
Omotoyosi folded her arms. “You keep saying that as though it’s a greeting.”
“It’s an excellent beginning. Tell me what Golden Baobab has.”
“A hunters’ Guild is not a warehouse you can browse.”
“Then tell me what it does.”
She leaned against the tamarind counter. The stallkeeper kept polishing the same glass, listening despite his efforts to appear occupied. Around them the Festival was moving towards evening; people hurried past carrying ceremonial necklaces and bags of festival food.
“We escort caravans across unsafe roads. Clear dangerous territory. Investigate reports of hostile creatures. Take protection contracts. Sometimes independent expeditions.”
“Sometimes?”
“When the work warrants it, and when we have enough capable members.”
“What happens to materials recovered in the field?”
“It depends on ownership clauses. The client might have first claim. Otherwise the Guild decides what can be kept, sold or studied.”
“Excellent.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“Because you’re giving me useful answers.”
Omotoyosi studied his folded wings. “You came to Vos to become a hunter?”
“That and so many other things, I came to find somewhere worth working.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“I know.”
He unfolded one of the small jointed plates near his shoulder. Light caught the workmanship beneath it. Omotoyosi had seen plenty of expensive equipment brought into the field by people who expected craftsmanship to compensate for inexperience. His wings looked different: repaired sections, mismatched fasteners and alterations clearly made after problems encountered outside a workshop.
“You built these?” she asked.
“Who else would have been foolish enough?”
“How many times have they failed?”
“Define failure.”
“Have you fallen?”
“Never all the way.”
She looked at him.
“That,” he said, “was meant to be reassuring.”
“It wasn’t.”
Khepri grinned, but when he began describing what he wanted from Golden Baobab, his attention sharpened.
Access to recoverable materials. Permission to examine unusual objects before they were sold or discarded. A place to work. Experienced hunters willing to explain why an invention that performed beautifully in a controlled test became useless after three days in rain, mud and hostile territory.
“A workshop,” Omotoyosi said.
“To start.”
“How large?”
“Secure storage. Ventilation. An independent Chi supply if possible. Sturdy walls.”
“How sturdy?”
“That depends on your definition of reasonable damage.”
“Mine or yours?”
“An important distinction.”
“And after the workshop?”
“A laboratory.”
She waited.
“Preferably underground,” he added.
Omotoyosi stared at him. “You’ve been speaking to me for less than an hour, and you’re already planning an underground laboratory at my Guild?”
“I haven’t asked them to dig anything yet. I’m assessing whether they could be persuaded.”
“Does everyone you meet find you exhausting?”
“Only those paying attention.”
She laughed in spite of herself.
* * *
Omotoyosi glanced at the folded writ. The lettering was faintly visible through its case. Nothing she’d said so far gave the boy any reason to trust her.
She was a scout, not a Guild master. The writ had already made Khepri a member, but it had not given her the authority to promise him valuable equipment, unrestricted access or a private laboratory.
“What do we receive?” she asked.
“Better equipment, if I earn your trust. Repair work. Designs built around conditions your people actually face. And whatever else I prove capable of doing.”
“We already have armourers and craftsmen.”
“Good. I’d rather work with people who know what they’re doing.”
He said it without condescension, and she looked at him more carefully.
“You’re not trying to replace them?”
“Why would I? They know the Guild, its tools and its problems. I don’t. I’d be an idiot to throw away that knowledge.”
“Yet you want a laboratory before you’ve taken a contract.”
“I want to discuss one. There’s a difference.”
“Can you hunt?”
“I understand enough not to confuse knowing how a creature moves with knowing how to survive its attack. Your hunters would have to teach me.”
Omotoyosi looked again at the repaired seams of his wings. He spoke of learning from her hunters as readily as he spoke of selling them inventions. She couldn’t decide which claim she wanted tested first.
“And your rank?”
“You’ll find out at the ceremony,” he said. “You can judge my work in the meantime. I’d prefer the two not to be confused.”
Someone knocked on the closed stall’s shutter. Omotoyosi waited for the footsteps to fade before answering.
“You’d need an assessment,” she said. “Leadership would interview you. Someone would examine your inventions. You’d begin with rules and supervised work, not an underground palace of research.”
“Tragic. But reasonable.”
“No promises on materials. No promises on a workshop.”
“Then we have something to negotiate.”
She indicated the golden lettering on the writ. “First, we have to deal with how you were enrolled.”
His expression lost its amusement.
“Agreed. I want the document examined by someone who understands its pattern. I'm already a member, apparently, but I won't accept an assignment until I understand what that entails.”
“Good.”
“Don’t sound surprised.”
“It’s been a surprising day.”
He folded the writ into a clean cloth and slipped it into his document case. Omotoyosi kept the damaged protective case.
This version was taken from the page the author publishes on without permission; reading the chapter there supports the writer.
“What if the Guild doesn’t want you?” she asked.
“Then I'll look elsewhere when these three months are over. I still intend to challenge the way I was registered.”
“And if we do want you but refuse your conditions?”
“Then we see what they can offer now. If the laboratory isn’t possible yet, I’ll give them a reason to reconsider.”
“You aren’t making this easy,” she said.
“Neither are you,” he said. “Fortunately, I rather enjoy a difficult problem.”
* * *
The first ceremonial bell sounded over Vos.
Khepri looked towards the square. All along the avenue, families were folding away chairs and shepherding young participants towards the gathering place.
Omotoyosi noticed the dark stone beneath his collar.
“You’re coming of age today.”
“I am.”
“And you’ve spent the afternoon arguing about laboratory space?”
“I also had an excellent drink. Don’t diminish the occasion.”
“Yes.”
She waited. He checked the fastening on his bag.
“Well?”
“You’re a recruiter.”
“That’s not a colour.”
“It’s a very good reason not to tell you.”
Omotoyosi laughed.
Khepri gave her the location where he expected to be after the ceremony. In return, she pointed out Golden Baobab’s pavilion and promised only to introduce him to someone entitled to discuss the proposal.
He started towards the avenue.
“Khepri.”
He turned.
“I’m sorry about the writ. I should never have left it where anyone could touch it.”
“No. You shouldn’t.”
“I’ll help arrange the review.”
“Good. And don’t use another one.”
The words struck closer than he knew.
“There aren’t any left,” she said.
He studied her a moment, decided to leave the subject for another conversation, and raised his tamarind cup in farewell.
“For what it’s worth, your choice of drinks is excellent. Your document management needs work.”
“Go to your ceremony.”
“With pleasure.”
* * *
After he left, Omotoyosi tried to explain to the stall owner why she had borrowed his counter, lost control of a forbidden document and somehow enrolled two people in a Guild without either of them agreeing.
He listened until the second explanation became complicated.
“Are you buying the rest of the tamarind?” he asked.
“Apparently.”
“Then you can tell your story somewhere else.”
She paid him.
Her earlier message had reported Kẹ́hìndé's activation. Now she owed the Guild an account of Khepri's as well. She sent another warning with both names and the circumstances, leaving the details for a formal report.
Then she looked towards the green-and-gold pavilion.
For years she had believed Golden Baobab needed more to force the world to look. The young inventor had offered a different possibility; become worth looking at.
She did not yet know whether his abilities matched his confidence. That was something the Guild could investigate.
And it would have to investigate honestly.
* * *
Khepri joined the stream heading towards the ceremonial square.
A group of boys debated which Guilds would pursue anyone who revealed Refined. A girl straightened her training sash before approaching a scout, only to find three other hopeful recruits waiting to speak to him. Nearby, two parents argued about whether their daughter should enter medicine or hunting. Above them the Festival lanterns were being lit, one after another.
He watched a patrol of experienced hunters pass beneath a banner, their equipment worn in ways no fashionable shop display could reproduce. The smallest carried a repaired brace over one knee. Another wore a pack with an ingenious balance frame he immediately wanted to study.
His hand settled briefly on his bag. The writ still had to be challenged, but the thought of meeting Golden Baobab’s hunters, examining what they brought back from the wild roads and perhaps travelling with them had begun to crowd out his irritation.
Beyond the streets waited open roads, unfamiliar creatures, and questions no academy had answered for him. Somewhere among those questions were memories he rarely allowed to interrupt his work.
For now, he would begin with an introduction.
And perhaps a modest underground laboratory.
Modest, he decided, was a wonderfully flexible word.
* * *
The people of Vos had developed an extraordinary interest in neckwear.
Every participant entering the ceremonial square seemed to be fingering a necklace, straightening its cord or holding the dark stone up to the light, as though a sufficiently determined inspection might persuade it to reveal a rank early.
“Stop touching it,” a girl told her younger brother.
“I’m checking.”
“You checked five times.”
“It could have changed.”
“It hasn’t.”
Khepri walked past, amused.
The square opened ahead of him beneath suspended banners. The stone platform at its centre was enclosed by terraces filling with families and Guild representatives. Lanterns hung from tall pillars; beyond the galleries, ancient trees carried thousands of smaller lights among their branches.
Near the entrance, a grandfather was explaining the ceremonial paving to several children.
“Those stones have been here since before my grandfather was born,” he said.
“What do they do?” asked one child.
“They mark where the generations gather.”
“Do they shoot anything?”
“No.”
The child looked devastated.
“Not everything needs to shoot something,” the grandfather said.
Khepri privately considered that the boy had a reasonable question.
A steward checked his necklace and waved him into the participants’ enclosure.
“Remain inside the marked area until recognition is complete.”
“Any danger of the stones exploding?”
The steward stared.
“No.”
“Disappointing.”
“Move along.”
* * *
A young woman near the edge of the gathering area was wrestling with her necklace clasp. Her hair had been braided into a careful pattern, her robes were immaculate, and her expression suggested the clasp had personally insulted her.
“You’re bending the hook,” Khepri said.
She looked up. “Can you fix it?”
“Probably. Unless you’d prefer another twenty minutes of combat.”
She handed it over.
He straightened the small catch, adjusted the spring and returned it. The clasp closed with a quiet click.
“Oh, thank the heavens.”
“The heavens had little to do with it.”
She laughed. “Are you nervous?”
“About a clasp?”
“About tonight.”
“Not particularly.”
“My father’s told the entire family I might be Initiate.”
“Are you?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then your father has set himself up for an interesting evening.”
“He means well.”
Khepri glanced at the galleries, where relatives were shouting names and waving so enthusiastically that several participants had begun pretending not to recognise them.
“Parents often do.”
She looked at her dark stone again.
“What if it’s red?”
“Then it’ll be red.”
“That’s all?”
She thought about that, then shrugged.
“That I haven’t done enough.”
“Did you train?”
“Of course.”
“Learn anything?”
“A great deal.”
“Then the necklace won’t erase it.”
She examined him for a moment.
“You talk as though you don’t care about rank.”
“Oh, I care. I’d be foolish not to. Rank measures things that become very important when someone much stronger decides to make you regret standing in front of them.”
“So you are worried.”
“About what the Chronicle might say? No. About what people do with the information? Sometimes.”
He checked his place among the participants. She moved with him, apparently deciding that a stranger who could repair clasps and hold a conversation was preferable to worrying alone.
* * *
The royal party entered beneath a separate archway.
Kẹ́hìndé walked beside Bámidélé, exchanging greetings with visiting dignitaries and young participants who called out to him. His ceremonial necklace rested against his chest. Beneath the easy greetings, he remained conscious of the old writ concealed inside his own jacket.
A ridiculous thing to have happened on a day he had been looking forward to for years.
He pushed the thought aside. Nobody had earned this celebration for him. Whatever appeared on his necklace belonged to the work he had done.
A small commotion followed another royal arrival.
Tàíwò crossed the enclosure without fanfare, dressed in dark clothing that made the pale mark on his cheek conspicuous. He offered the required courtesies, then took his place where the attendants directed him.
Several participants tried to stare discreetly.
None succeeded.
Kẹ́hìndé noticed. His brother appeared not to.
“Do you think he’ll speak to any of the recruiters afterward?” Bámidélé asked quietly.
“If he wishes to torment them, perhaps.”
The attendant almost smiled.
Across the square, Tàíwò looked briefly in their direction. Kẹ́hìndé raised two fingers in greeting. His brother acknowledged him with a slight inclination of the head.
That was enough.
* * *
Omotoyosi arrived after the final procession had begun.
Her borrowed scarf hung crookedly, a sleeve bore a stain from the tamarind counter, and her colleague had sent enough messages to fill an entire Guild report.
“You look dreadful,” the colleague said when she reached the green-and-gold canopy.
“I’ve had a productive afternoon.”
“Is that what we’re calling it?”
“Until I think of something better.”
“Leadership wants the complete account.”
“They’ll have it.”
“No charming omissions?”
“None.”
Her colleague studied her, then stepped aside.
Omotoyosi surveyed the participants. She found Kẹ́hìndé among the royal attendees, the set of his shoulders unmistakable even at a distance. Tàíwò stood elsewhere, serene beneath all the attention directed his way.
Then she spotted Khepri near the girl with the repaired necklace.
Her colleague followed her gaze.
“Who is that?”
“An inventor.”
“Potential recruit?”
“Potentially.”
“What does he cultivate?”
“I haven’t asked.”
That earned a look of genuine disbelief.
“Omotoyosi.”
“I know. A remarkable change in technique.”
The next ceremonial bell rang before her colleague could answer.
* * *
An elderly woman took the central platform without Guild colours or royal insignia. The crowd greeted her with a respect that required no announcement.
“Children of Tembara,” she began, her voice reaching the galleries through the old amplification pillars, “tonight we acknowledge the paths you have already walked.”
She spoke of years of practice, of parents who had carried supplies and instructors who had demanded another attempt, of participants whose progress had been swift and others whose progress had remained invisible to their neighbours.
“Some of you will see a colour you have hoped for,” she said. “Others will see one you did not expect. Some stones will remain dark. None of those outcomes is a verdict on your entire life.”
A boy at the edge of the enclosure stopped twisting his cord.
“The Chronicle recognises. It does not bestow. What you do tomorrow belongs to you.”
Khepri approved of the brevity.
Then the bells sounded again, lower and longer, their notes overlapping until the stone beneath the crowd seemed to carry the vibration.
The first light appeared.
Red blossomed across the enclosure. More followed, spreading outward in ripples. Yellow shone among the red; here and there, blue flared, drawing startled cries from the galleries.
Not every necklace lit.
A boy near Khepri turned his dark stone over twice, searching its surface. Two friends beside him looked uncertain whether to congratulate one another. Farther away, someone tucked her unlit necklace beneath her robe.
The crowd was already deciding what each colour meant. Khepri heard congratulations and disappointed murmurs rising from neighbouring families.
Khepri looked at his own.
Red.
Awakened, as expected.
He rubbed a thumb over the stone, already considering what to test next. He suspected the Guild would object to at least half.
Beside him, the young woman stared at her red stone.
“Oh.”
Before he could say anything, a voice thundered from the gallery.
“THAT’S MY DAUGHTER!”
She looked up in horror.
“FATHER!”
A man was standing with both arms raised.
“LOOK AT HER!”
People laughed. The young woman covered her face, though she could not conceal her smile.
Khepri glanced at her.
“Your public relations department is unusually enthusiastic.”
“I’m never bringing him to another ceremony.”
“An empty threat. He’d find a way in.”
She laughed.
The colour at her throat had not changed. Neither had the pride of the people watching her.
Khepri let his necklace settle.
Then a new sound moved through the square.
Not cheering.
A sharp intake of breath, spreading from the royal enclosure, followed by voices calling out in astonishment.
He turned towards it.