They played with Kwame and Wero—not Yero—until just before the tidewind. The other servants had to make it back to their homes in the Ember Quarter before the tidewind struck.
“See the way they approached the egg in the center? What does that look like to you?” Sylah had said during the first game.
Anoor looked at the formation, the two groups of counters on either side.
“Center peel,” Anoor whispered. “Oh, it’s just like the trial of tactics!”
“Exactly.”
As soon as Kwame realized they were learning about military strategy for the tactics trial, he threw himself enthusiastically into the game. They swapped partners to “learn about teamwork,” they cleared the board halfway through “to prepare for the unexpected,” and they turned the board every new game to “adapt to new terrain.”
Anoor immersed herself into every new challenge, and with each movement on the board she took herself one step closer to winning the next trial. She wouldn’t go back to her old life. She couldn’t.
Anoor learned more about tactics in that one night than she had in the four weeks prior. They went back to the library every third day after that.
—
Hassa was tired. She moved around the Maroon with hunched shoulders, her satchel bursting with goods, but no one buying. She moved the bag farther up her shoulder with her limb and slid her other wrist into the gaping belly of her bag. Her arm moved around, feeling the shapes of the objects inside with the soft bit of flesh at the end of her wrist.
Hassa didn’t need fingers, no Ghosting did. Their shared disability meant there were few things that Ghostings hadn’t adapted to use. Except threading a needle, though Hassa had gotten close once or twice. She hated that her money was spent at haberdasheries who took advantage of Ghostings’ inability to sew.
Hassa felt for the remaining objects in her bag: tree gum, milk honey leaf, some crockery, and a bag of joba seeds. The last packet in her bag wasn’t for sale. The dried leaves were the hormone herbs Hassa steeped in hot water twice a day to support the growth of the body that was right for her.
Hassa withdrew her limb and accidentally withdrew the bag of joba seeds. She hastened to place it back in the bag. Though she hated selling joba seeds, she knew half the people in the Maroon would happily claim the packet as their own.
It made her think of Sylah.
She missed her company, her sardonic quips, her unique ability to stumble through life without dying, despite the close calls Hassa had saved her from. But at the same time Hassa was relieved. Sylah was finally clean. She’d been trying to sell Sylah painted watermelon seeds for over a year, but she always figured it out. And Sylah had said it herself: “If you don’t take my money, someone else will,” and Hassa needed the money for the elders.
Marigold arrived, their eyes wide and blinking fast. It was rare to see Marigold this agitated; the musawa was the most levelheaded person Hassa knew. Something was wrong.
They found them, they signed, their arms dashing back and forth over their torso with each fervent word.
What?
Hassa’s eyes burned, but she didn’t cry. Her signs were firm, slicing through the air with practicality. Are the tunnels compromised?
No, the army found them near the Lakes of Jin-Dinil.Marigold’s mouth puckered in contempt.
How?
The pregnant one, she gave birth. Her cries called the officers. It gave them away.
Hassa grimaced. She had known the Ghosting was too pregnant to travel. Did anyone survive?
They took all the young ones who were yet to be maimed. They were sent straight to the abattoir. The rest were slaughtered. An example for any other Ghosting trying to flee the fate of our ancestors’ penance.
Hassa bowed, a small gesture acknowledging all the lives lost.
We will need to find a new route out of the tunnels, somewhere far from the Central Lakes,Marigold continued.
Yes.
We’ll need to make a few trips during the night, scout out the best route.
Yes.Hassa nodded assent again.
It’s getting too dangerous.