the news, although she, too, keeps her voice from rising. “It can’t be. They never leave the First District of Broken—”
“Apparently, they do.” Heldo-Bah holds a knife by the blade between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, judging carefully the distance to the ground. “And by the Moon, this is one that won’t get back again—not tonight, at any rate.”
Veloc looks uneasily at his friend: the dim light and the shifting shadows of the leaves are transforming Heldo-Bah’s face into an exaggerated mask of delighted bloodlust. “You would murder a woman, Heldo-Bah?” Veloc whispers.
“I would murder a panther,” comes Heldo-Bah’s answer. “There are better uses for the women of the Tall—and not the kind you’re thinking of, Veloc. Or not
merely
that kind. She could also bring a ransom such as we have never demanded: weapons that the Tall have always refused us—”
“Stay your blade,” Keera whispers urgently, putting a hand before Heldo-Bah’s arm as he lifts the knife. “You’ll murder neither woman
nor
panther—not unless the cat attacks us. They are possessed of powerful souls, and I want no such enemies—” Her lecture stops short. “Hold …,” she says, more perturbed than ever. “What sorcery is
this
?”
The Wife of Kafra keeps her eyes on the panther’s as she squats before the animal, her long legs angling out through the slits in her gown. The great beast begins to growl again, and to shift from side to side nervously—but just then, as if seeing the fire and the stew pot for the first time, the woman glances about quickly, beginning to hurry her apparent ritual.
“Has she seen us?” Veloc asks, withdrawing deeper into the leaves of his tree with no more sound than a flitting thrush.
“Steady.” Heldo-Bah, too, nestles further into his perch, looking even more pleased. “She’s seen nothing—but we, apparently, are going to see a great deal …”
The Wife of Kafra quickly unties a golden cord that gathers her robe at the waist. With impressive confidence, she strides directly to the panther, as ever staring into his eyes intently; then she kneels, and puts her nose to the throat of the beast.
“She invites death!” Keera says. “Unless she
is
a sorceress …”
The foragers grow silent once more. The woman’s long hair falls in front of her breasts as she moves her cheeks against the cat’s face in long strokes. The panther growls, but the noise soon fades into a loud purr: the beast, still confounded, is now completely enthralled.
“Oh, Moon,” Keera whispers. “This is sorcery, indeed.”
“If she persists,” Heldo-Bah cackles, leaning forward eagerly, “what that cat will do to her will be anything but sorcery …”
As the panther continues to purr and only occasionally growl, the woman begins to run her long fingers through the thick golden fur as she might a human male’s hair, coaxing the animal to fold his forelegs; and then, with a swiftness that startles the Bane foragers but not the cat, she slides onto the animal’s back, looping the golden cord that girdled her waist about its thick neck. When the woman pulls back on the cord with authority, the panther stands; and when she tightens her knees on the cat’s shoulders, he starts forward slowly.
Heldo-Bah clearly fears that his prized quarry will escape, however unbelievable the method; and he produces the same knife once more, ready to do what he must. But then he, his two companions, the Wife of Kafra, and even the panther snap their heads toward the southeast, expressions of alarm on all their faces:
Through the forest comes the low call of a powerful horn, its sonorous, steady drone slow to reach its peak but full of urgency. Called the Voice of the Moon, the massive instrument rests against a high hill in the Bane village of Okot, and is as old as the tribe itself. It was fashioned from clay taken out of the bed of the Cat’s Paw, after the first of the
“Apparently, they do.” Heldo-Bah holds a knife by the blade between the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand, judging carefully the distance to the ground. “And by the Moon, this is one that won’t get back again—not tonight, at any rate.”
Veloc looks uneasily at his friend: the dim light and the shifting shadows of the leaves are transforming Heldo-Bah’s face into an exaggerated mask of delighted bloodlust. “You would murder a woman, Heldo-Bah?” Veloc whispers.
“I would murder a panther,” comes Heldo-Bah’s answer. “There are better uses for the women of the Tall—and not the kind you’re thinking of, Veloc. Or not
merely
that kind. She could also bring a ransom such as we have never demanded: weapons that the Tall have always refused us—”
“Stay your blade,” Keera whispers urgently, putting a hand before Heldo-Bah’s arm as he lifts the knife. “You’ll murder neither woman
nor
panther—not unless the cat attacks us. They are possessed of powerful souls, and I want no such enemies—” Her lecture stops short. “Hold …,” she says, more perturbed than ever. “What sorcery is
this
?”
The Wife of Kafra keeps her eyes on the panther’s as she squats before the animal, her long legs angling out through the slits in her gown. The great beast begins to growl again, and to shift from side to side nervously—but just then, as if seeing the fire and the stew pot for the first time, the woman glances about quickly, beginning to hurry her apparent ritual.
“Has she seen us?” Veloc asks, withdrawing deeper into the leaves of his tree with no more sound than a flitting thrush.
“Steady.” Heldo-Bah, too, nestles further into his perch, looking even more pleased. “She’s seen nothing—but we, apparently, are going to see a great deal …”
The Wife of Kafra quickly unties a golden cord that gathers her robe at the waist. With impressive confidence, she strides directly to the panther, as ever staring into his eyes intently; then she kneels, and puts her nose to the throat of the beast.
“She invites death!” Keera says. “Unless she
is
a sorceress …”
The foragers grow silent once more. The woman’s long hair falls in front of her breasts as she moves her cheeks against the cat’s face in long strokes. The panther growls, but the noise soon fades into a loud purr: the beast, still confounded, is now completely enthralled.
“Oh, Moon,” Keera whispers. “This is sorcery, indeed.”
“If she persists,” Heldo-Bah cackles, leaning forward eagerly, “what that cat will do to her will be anything but sorcery …”
As the panther continues to purr and only occasionally growl, the woman begins to run her long fingers through the thick golden fur as she might a human male’s hair, coaxing the animal to fold his forelegs; and then, with a swiftness that startles the Bane foragers but not the cat, she slides onto the animal’s back, looping the golden cord that girdled her waist about its thick neck. When the woman pulls back on the cord with authority, the panther stands; and when she tightens her knees on the cat’s shoulders, he starts forward slowly.
Heldo-Bah clearly fears that his prized quarry will escape, however unbelievable the method; and he produces the same knife once more, ready to do what he must. But then he, his two companions, the Wife of Kafra, and even the panther snap their heads toward the southeast, expressions of alarm on all their faces:
Through the forest comes the low call of a powerful horn, its sonorous, steady drone slow to reach its peak but full of urgency. Called the Voice of the Moon, the massive instrument rests against a high hill in the Bane village of Okot, and is as old as the tribe itself. It was fashioned from clay taken out of the bed of the Cat’s Paw, after the first of the
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