suppose some man comes whining to Master Suresh l’Merqerim. This man claims they must all take a months-long, budget-busting detour across the continent. Hmm, and on what basis? the master shall quite reasonably ask. Rumor and surmise, is the answer he receives. Well, says the master, extemporizing (for he considers himself a man of wide, deep wits, and so does not dismiss
any
counsel out of hand, but first weighs the credibility of his source); and whom does Master Suresh l’Merqerim find before him? What wild-eyed woebetider? Just a lowly guardsman—oh,
you
know the one! That so-called “Sorcerer” fellow, who hails from some green yonder off the very maps of civilization.
Demane’s consternation was plain to see.
Kaffalah half-smiled. “You got all that, right?” He lifted his brows as if to say
Yeah, bruh: he
be
wearing me out too
. “It come in the night, so I never did see it myself. I just heard the roar a couple times.
Not
a lion, though I really couldn’t tell you what. Like this—” The brother’s jaw dropped: the merchant jumped, and the crowd nearby spooked en masse. Demane’s flesh pebbled and chilled at Kaffalah’s uncanny mimicry. “One brother did tangle with it, and got chewed up pretty bad. Before he died, the brother said it was some kind of dark color. Not black. What he said . . .”—Kaffalah squinted and shook his head, acknowledging that his report could only be met with incredulity—“ . . . that it was . . .”
“Green,” Demane said in Merqerim; then, in his own tongue:
“Jukiere.”
Cumalo came up and slung an arm over Demane’s shoulder, nosily leaning in.
“Jooker?” Kaffalah said. “What’s that?”
“You know!” Demane looked from Kaffalah to the merchant. “
Jukiere
. Big tooth, like lion, but only eat pork pork and . . .
we
pork.”
The merchant frowned. “Speak sense, man. Who can understand what you are trying to say?”
Demane said, “Cumalo! What is their word for
jukiere
?”
“Jook-toothed tiger.” Cumalo’s Merqerim was excellent. “They are big cats and prey only on boar and people—they don’t care which. Want a fresh kill
every
night, too.”
“Jook-toothed tiger? The wizard cats? Do you mean the demons with teeth like this?” The merchant held an index finger curling down at either side of his mouth like outsized fangs. Briefly, he gave them a look of suspended disbelief, as one does when ready to laugh, provided the punchline proves good, and quickly forthcoming. Then the merchant became angry. “An old bush legend. Mere superstitious nonsense! There is no such thing as a
jook-toothed tiger
.”
Ah, but there was. We, humanity, have our predators too, sir: and bred to the purpose. When the oceans swallowed the island, and the gods wicked and kind returned to heaven in their Towers, they left behind many children, powers that were benign and wrong, both. Among the worst were the wizard cats. The jukiere are clawed like lions, with teeth more terrible; as strong as bears, but wasteful and capricious killers, like polecats. And I’ve not yet spoken of their mastery of maleficia . . . in his own tongue, yes, Demane could have said all this and more. The best he could do in Merqerim, however: “Jooker, them . . . bad.
Bad
animal.” He turned in frustration to Cumalo. “Will you please tell this fool that a
bush legend
ate up seven men from his caravan!”
Cumalo answered in Merqerim. “Maybe he’s right, Sorcerer. I never heard of any jook-toothed tiger over here, this side of the continent.”
The merchant had done with such folly. From already a few steps away: “Kaffalah!” He snapped his fingers as for a dog.
No mistaking the rapport went both ways. With surreptitious glances they’d made free of each other’s person, and yet some strange reticence held as well: at least on one side. Kaffalah looked between Demane and Cumalo as if to suss out whether he came third where only two were wanted. Then, reluctantly, he said,
any
counsel out of hand, but first weighs the credibility of his source); and whom does Master Suresh l’Merqerim find before him? What wild-eyed woebetider? Just a lowly guardsman—oh,
you
know the one! That so-called “Sorcerer” fellow, who hails from some green yonder off the very maps of civilization.
Demane’s consternation was plain to see.
Kaffalah half-smiled. “You got all that, right?” He lifted his brows as if to say
Yeah, bruh: he
be
wearing me out too
. “It come in the night, so I never did see it myself. I just heard the roar a couple times.
Not
a lion, though I really couldn’t tell you what. Like this—” The brother’s jaw dropped: the merchant jumped, and the crowd nearby spooked en masse. Demane’s flesh pebbled and chilled at Kaffalah’s uncanny mimicry. “One brother did tangle with it, and got chewed up pretty bad. Before he died, the brother said it was some kind of dark color. Not black. What he said . . .”—Kaffalah squinted and shook his head, acknowledging that his report could only be met with incredulity—“ . . . that it was . . .”
“Green,” Demane said in Merqerim; then, in his own tongue:
“Jukiere.”
Cumalo came up and slung an arm over Demane’s shoulder, nosily leaning in.
“Jooker?” Kaffalah said. “What’s that?”
“You know!” Demane looked from Kaffalah to the merchant. “
Jukiere
. Big tooth, like lion, but only eat pork pork and . . .
we
pork.”
The merchant frowned. “Speak sense, man. Who can understand what you are trying to say?”
Demane said, “Cumalo! What is their word for
jukiere
?”
“Jook-toothed tiger.” Cumalo’s Merqerim was excellent. “They are big cats and prey only on boar and people—they don’t care which. Want a fresh kill
every
night, too.”
“Jook-toothed tiger? The wizard cats? Do you mean the demons with teeth like this?” The merchant held an index finger curling down at either side of his mouth like outsized fangs. Briefly, he gave them a look of suspended disbelief, as one does when ready to laugh, provided the punchline proves good, and quickly forthcoming. Then the merchant became angry. “An old bush legend. Mere superstitious nonsense! There is no such thing as a
jook-toothed tiger
.”
Ah, but there was. We, humanity, have our predators too, sir: and bred to the purpose. When the oceans swallowed the island, and the gods wicked and kind returned to heaven in their Towers, they left behind many children, powers that were benign and wrong, both. Among the worst were the wizard cats. The jukiere are clawed like lions, with teeth more terrible; as strong as bears, but wasteful and capricious killers, like polecats. And I’ve not yet spoken of their mastery of maleficia . . . in his own tongue, yes, Demane could have said all this and more. The best he could do in Merqerim, however: “Jooker, them . . . bad.
Bad
animal.” He turned in frustration to Cumalo. “Will you please tell this fool that a
bush legend
ate up seven men from his caravan!”
Cumalo answered in Merqerim. “Maybe he’s right, Sorcerer. I never heard of any jook-toothed tiger over here, this side of the continent.”
The merchant had done with such folly. From already a few steps away: “Kaffalah!” He snapped his fingers as for a dog.
No mistaking the rapport went both ways. With surreptitious glances they’d made free of each other’s person, and yet some strange reticence held as well: at least on one side. Kaffalah looked between Demane and Cumalo as if to suss out whether he came third where only two were wanted. Then, reluctantly, he said,
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