I have been leaning against the tree for a while now. Arms crossed, and my fingers tapping out a steady rhythm on my elbow. As I watch the men move with purpose, sorting through piles of expensive-looking items.
My patience is wearing thin.
They have been at it for over an hour already.
My eyes are drawn to the single carriage on the path ahead; it surely guided the convoy at the time of the landslide and was luckily saved from being buried. There is no one around—except for the three men guarding it. The occasional rocking of the carriage and swaying of the curtains inside indicates for some movement, so there is someone in there.
I wish I could check more closely, but the glares the guards throw at me when they catch me staring for too long are enough of a warning. It must someone of great importance for guards to be assigned to them and not even stepping out when the head of the convoy himself is out here.
I turn to Vyswe'eyaga who is curiously browsing through the pile of discarded goods. Ewa and Sazayi are there too, observing her as she would dig out an item, inspects it for a while, then moves on to another one.
Her activity has attracted quite a few curious glances in her direction, but she does not seem to care, and since she is touching broken goods anyway—and asked for permission before that—they mostly leave her alone. But I can tell.
I doubt Mr Mubarak possesses any merchandise of mystical properties, even if he does, I doubt that they are of any interest—I can't see why she is so fascinated when as a Nchāren n she has seen much more impressive… Is it because they are shiny or because they are from a foreign nation?
Well, at least she is entertained.
"Hey."
I tilt my head to the voice and immediately frown the moment I see N'jobu approaching me. "What do you want?"
"Is all this really necessary?"
"I don't follow." I say, giving him a side-eye.
He lets out a long, aggravated breath through his nose before continuing, "We helped them with the obstructed road, but do we need to go as far as escorting them?"
"Is that not the right thing to do?" I ask, raising an eyebrow, "I taught you were raised better than that, N'jobu."
The veins in his neck bulge, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like it might shatter as his glare pierces through me. Then he lets out a single non-comical laugh.
"Very funny…" He drawls, "but let's be serious. I had the impression you guys were in a hurry to go somewhere, but now you have the leisure to stray off course?"
I study him for a few seconds, then shrug indifferently. "So what? It is no business of yours."
"It very much is, after all, I am travelling with you."
"You imposed yourself on us, that does not entitle you to anything." I snap. "At least be quiet and make yourself scares."
If looks could kill, I would surely be turned to dust with how enraged he is. The air feels heavier, and searing heat exudes from his body… as if he is planning to attack me. But I stand my ground, meeting his burning stare with utter indifference.
The seconds tick by as we glare at each other, and just as abruptly as he came, he pivots on his heel and leaves.
"You certainly are very pleased now."
Vyswe'eyaga cocks her head, focusing her chestnut, glowing eyes on me questioningly before realisation hits.
"Oh, you have no idea," she says, a hint of a grin flickering at the corners of her lips. "I can now say that stumbling upon this caravan has been the best thing that has happened since embarking on this journey."
She leans back, idly swinging her feet as the waggon lurches forward. We are currently moving at a measured pace, both because the ground is still wet and muddy, and because of the number of vehicles threading the small path. So walking on foot or sitting on a waggon does not make much of a difference.
Well, I guess it makes much of a difference for her—I glance at Sazayi laying besides her, without a care in the world, it looks like he is taking a nap—or him.
"I would not mind it if we were to just travel like this from now on… A lot less tiring."
"Too bad for you... it won't last." I smirk, and she stares sullenly at me, her lips puckering into a pout. The gesture makes me laugh, even as she glares harder at me, I cannot help it. Vyswe'eyaga can sometimes be so childish—she is usually mature and collected—I forget that she is older than me.
"I still cannot believe they got so lost as to end up here," she says, shaking her head. "The feat is almost astounding."
"Eh, it's his first time beyond his homeland… as it is for all his men. He told me that he got swindled into buying a fake map of the land when he first docked in Bamen's harbour. As if it were not enough, he was attacked by a group of bandits. His men managed to fend them off and run away, but before they knew it, they were completely lost."
"Oh… That is… awful."
I nod in agreement, "it was likely a ploy the man who sold him the map was a part of; they would scout and approach seemingly unsuspecting travellers, try to misdirect them by selling them forged maps, or even offer services as guides, and wait for the moment they get isolated to attack them and rob them of anything of value. If someone is unfortunate enough, it is human traffickers he can get attacked by and not just petty robbers."
Her eyes open wide. "H-Human trafficking? People do that?"
I look at her for a few seconds, her face draining of colour and her skin turning ashen. Learning of an illegal network of human trafficking seems to have shaken her a lot. The Nchāren empire was that safe, huh?
…I need to warn Uncle to report the gang in the harbour—before their numbers swell beyond control.
"It's mostly safe in towns and cities—"
"—But not so much out in the wild, right?" She interjects, then adds under her breath, "as if the Junjus were not enough… now there are buglers and human traffickers."
"That is why people like mercenaries are employed for protection. Nothing bad will happen, don't worry." I add. But the look she gives me tells that she is not much comforted by that.
"A-anyway…" She stammers, trying to change the subject, "I am curious, why were you arguing with N'jobu earlier?"
"I was not arguing," I tell flatly, "just N'jobu being his annoying self."
Vyswe'eyaga cocks her head to the side, looking amused.
"Really, it's nothing important." I insist.
"Of course," she says. Then says under her breath, "Men sure have an interesting way to show affection."
We move onward in relative silence, slowly but surely navigating through the slippery terrain of the mountains. The narrow path, once stony and firm, has turned into a mire of soaked earth and shifting mud. Boots sink slightly with a muted squelch, the procession of wagons groans, wooden wheels slipping in the slush with every hesitant turn, the threat of sliding is constant.
The decline, already steep, is made more treacherous by the light drizzle that seeps steadily from above, persistent and chilling which keeps the ground ever so damp.
The process was terribly tedious, but we were able to get out of the mountain range several hours later, due east. And as the sun began to set in a fiery reddish tint, we stopped to make camp.
Our camp was ready in minutes since we only had our sleeping bags to unpack.
In contrast, the foreigners took over an hour to methodically erect several tents and larger-than-necessary campfire. Why they make it so big is beyond me. One would think it preferable to not expose our location so glaringly… But with a group as large as ours, I suppose it is useless.
One thing that stands out the most is the central tent of the encampment. The structure—a vibrant-coloured canvas stretched taut over tall wooden poles—is as large as four of the other tents combined, and standing at twice their height. The sheer extravagance of this tent… I am at a loss for words.
Soon the door of that carriage I saw earlier opens, Sir Mubarak steps down, his movements brisk as he circles to the far side and pulls open the opposite door. And from within, a woman emerged.
She is a petite woman with soft olive skin, her face is small, framed by dark, gently curled hair that she gathers beneath a loosely draped scarf edged in gold thread. She places her hand on Sir Mubarak's, smiling gently at him when she steps down.
He slowly guides her to their tent, and as she briefly surveys the surroundings, her gaze meets mine—her eyes a warm honeyed-brown shade—lingers for a breath before she dips her head in a subtle nod, before disappearing behind the curtains of the tent.
"…Interesting."
I start, then glance over me only to see Ewa standing there. She has her arms crossed over her chest and is looking thoughtfully at the camp ahead.
"You startled me," I say after a breath.
"I didn't know you were into older women, Bossman," she says, completely ignoring me. "Older, married women at that. Oh, how scandalous."
"Wha—"
"—No! No need for excuses. I won't judge your preferences." She smiles deviously.
"You just did, though."
"Aha! Then you admit to lecherously staring at someone else's wife."
Her outburst draws a few questioning eyes in our direction—specifically at me!
"Wh-what? I don't admit to anything! Don't cause people to misunderstand."
She bursts out laughing.
"Relax, I was just joking around." She says as she pats my arm. Her gaze drifts back briefly at the encampment in front of us, letting out a short huff as she studies overly large fire, the rows of tents and lingering on the largest one at the centre. Her expression has abruptly become still and unreadable, and I am gradually wondering what is on her mind.
She blinks once, her brown eyes looking golden from the fire's glow when she focuses back on, and smiles sheepishly, "Let them do their thing, come eat instead… Or do you mind if I get your portion?"
"I very much do." I say, following her back to our own camp.
~~~~~~~~~~~
"My friend... Thank you, thank you so much," Sir Mubarak takes my hand in his own and shakes it vigorously, an ecstatic smile pasted on his bearded face.
"Don't mention it," I answer in his dialect.
He shakes his head.
"No, what you did for me... You helped us, not only that—you and your people went out of your way to escort to this point when you had no obligation to. I will never forget this."
He cast his gaze toward the horizon. Several hundred meters ahead, the vast wilderness gradually gave way to a straight, flat road—one that led to the first town at the outskirts of the Akwa Kingdom.
It is a small town, home to no more than a couple of thousand people. The journey had been slow and uneventful, stretching over a full week. But we made it.
"You should be able to reach town before nightfall, I think. From there, it will be another two weeks of travel to the capital."
"I cannot thank you enough for that."
"It's quite alright." I hesitate an instant before adding, "When you are at the capital, if you are interested, ask for Master Mvondo."
"Oh? And he is?"
"A trader, I know him well. I think he would be interested in working with you—that is why I am proposing."
He lets out a low rumble, casually stroking his beard as he thinks, then he looks straight in my eyes. "I will think about it, but I cannot make any promises."
"Of course," I nod.
I never expected him to agree immediately, anyway. He will certainly conduct his own research into the identity of the person called 'Master Mvondo' before deciding whether to follow my advice.
Father is a major trader in the Kingdom, and I have no doubt sir Mubarak will be more than eager to get to work with him once he learns that. From what I observed, his goods were of fine quality as well—father might well be interested in doing business with him.
"This is where we part ways, then."
"Please wait a moment," a voice calls out. The door of the carriage squeaks open, and Sir Mubarak's wife descends from it.
I fail to hide the surprise on my face. During our travels, she rarely showed herself when we were travelling—I only ever saw her from afar when she was climbing or leaving her carriage in the mornings and evenings, or when she briefly parted the curtains as we moved along.
But now that I get to see her from this close, the first thing I note about her is how small she is—the top of her head barely reaches to my chin. She could never be mistaken for a girl, though, the traces of aging on her face are too big a giveaway.
Sir Mubarak eyes her questioningly, "Dear?"
She stops beside him, and hands me a medium-sized package. "Please have this… as a token of our appreciation."
"You don't have to, madame. Really."
Yet she firmly pushes the packet into my hands. "I insist. It is not merely enough to thank you and your friends' kindness. We will make sure to properly repay you someday. You are Kayin, yes? My name is Munya."
"It's a pleasure to know you, madame," I say, bowing slightly.
"Farewell, then."
Sir Mubarak nods his head. "Have a safe journey wherever you are going."