| |
“Mugguth’s balls!” Athir cursed, unable to believe he could have been so inattentive, yet still be alive.
Not forgetting to snatch up his dice, the Ship’s Rat sprinted out the talla-beit’s doorway. Behind him, several of the patrons exchanged sly smirks and knowing glances. Others merely shrugged. Within moments, all of them had returned to their cups of talla.
Outside, the sun was close to setting and shadows spanned the narrow street in front of the talla-beit. Looking both ways, Athir quickly spotted the fleeing thief. As Athir charged after him, Matile men and women dodged from his path, then shook their heads at the foreigner’s audacity – or, more likely, ignorance. They knew who the Fidi was chasing, and they would never have done the same themselves, unless they no longer cared about living.
The thief cut around a corner. Athir slowed and pulled out the slim, keen-edged dagger that was the only weapon he needed. Then he peered around the corner. He saw a long alley with an end that was swallowed in shadows. Of the cut-purse, there was no sign.
Cautiously, Athir eased into the alley. He knew it was foolhardy to pursue a potential foe into unfamiliar territory. But the pouch contained his hard-earned winnings for the day. Of course, the coins it contained were not all that he had. He had other loot stashed elsewhere. Still, to have had the pouch taken from him so easily galled Athir’s pride as a master of the thieves’ trade.
He took another few steps forward, peering intently into the shadows, still seeing nothing. Then his instincts warned him – too late. He heard a soft rustle of clothing behind him. And the point of something sharp prodded into his back.
In front of him, the Matile thief glided noiselessly from a space between two buildings in the alley – a space Athir had not been able to detect in the semi-darkness. The thief came closer. Athir’s purse dangled from one of the Matile’s hand. In the other was a spiked, mace-like weapon unlike any Athir had seen before.
Behind him, the sharp point prodded Athir again, deeply enough to cut through his clothing and draw blood from his skin. Athir got the message. He opened his hand and let his dagger drop to the ground. The sound it made as it landed was the only thing he could hear in the alley, the entrance of which seemed to have suddenly receded a vast distance from the nearby street.
As his eyes became accustomed to the half-light of the alley, Athir recognized the thief. It was the young man whose money he had won in the talla-beit. Beneath the braids that hung over his brow, the Matile’s eyes gleamed with a feral light. Gone was the resentment Athir had seen in them in the talla-beit. He realized now that had been only an act; what was in this youth’s eyes now was something to be dreaded far more than mere anger over losing a few coins.
Athir was also beginning to suspect what this young man truly was, and he was becoming very afraid. When the thief spoke, he confirmed Athir’s suspicions – and his fear, which was beginning to crawl in his stomach.
“You, Fidi,” the Matile said. “Why you try to be tsotsi? Only tsotsi can be tsotsi. Heard?”
Other figures emerged from the shadows in the alley. They appeared as if by magic from spaces Athir would never have noticed even if the alley had been bathed in bright sunlight.
Say something – anything! Athir told himself.
“Uh, hey, I’m sorry, friend,” Athir managed. “I didn’t know this was your territory. Why don’t you just keep the pouch? I’ll take my business elsewhere, and I won’t make this mistake again. Does that sound all right to you?”
The tsotsi tossed the pouch toward Athir. Reflexively, he reached out and caught it. Then he gave the tsotsi a quizzical look, even as the others gathered behind him. They were all young, but they were as hard-looking a lot as Athir had ever encountered.
“Don’ want your gold, Fidi,” the tsotsi said. “You be what we want.”
“Me?” Athir asked, more afraid than ever.
Rather than reply, the tsotsi bent down and picked up Athir’s dagger. He held it in one hand and compared it to the fearsome weapon in his other hand.
“This your teeth?” the tsotsi demanded, looking from the dagger to Athir and back again.
“I – I guess so,” Athir said, trying to fathom the tsotsi’s meaning.
The tsotsi laughed.
“That ain’t hardly no teeth,” he said.
Then he held up his tirss.
“This be teeth,” he said proudly. “Heard?”
“Uh, yeah, heard,” Athir said, reckoning that was what the tsotsi wanted him to say.
He waited a moment, then asked a question to which he didn’t really want to know the answer.
“You going to kill me, tsotsi?”
“Don’ know yet,” the tsotsi said. “Jass Mofo decide. He the one want you. We gon’ take you to him now.”
The tsotsi stuck Athir’s dagger in the belt that held the loop into which he then placed his tirss. Then he made a gesture.
Immediately, the sharp point was removed from Athir’s back. At the same time, something was thrown over his head, cutting off his vision. Then the point poked him again, and he understood its message: get moving.
He began to walk.
I’m still alive, he thought, as he had on numerous similar occasions. But this time, he wondered if the Ship’s Rat’s luck had finally run out.