Page 22 of The Gilded Ones

I shake my head. “I don’t know.”

I’m so unnerved by the sight of all those boys, it’s some moments before I notice the platforms. Ten in number, they thrust, solid and imposing, high into the air above us, stairs trailing up either side. Officials sit in eight of them, yellow robes spread out, scrolls and ink pots at their fingertips. The centre two, however, are occupied by jatu commanders, both tall and dark and wearing war masks. My eyes are immediately drawn to the commander on the left. It’s not just his hair, which is braided in an intricate style and daubed with bright red clay, but his stature, which is smaller than the other’s and more graceful despite its muscularity.

He seems almost…female, but that can’t be possible. Women are not allowed to be jatu commanders.

“Straighten the line!” the guard beside us calls, startling me out of my gawking.

As he pushes the girl in front of me forward, an angry shout suddenly echoes through the hall. “Get your filthy hands off me!”

It comes from the end of the hall, where a tall, thin girl is struggling against a group of transporters, at least four of them. She pushes so fiercely, a few go flying into the wall. I rub my eyes, blinking again and again to make sure I’m seeing what I’m seeing. She shook the transporters away like they were fleas. I’ve never seen that done before, not even by a man. Is this the alaki strength White Hands told us about, the one that sometimes allowed me to rip apart the fur blankets as I slept?

When she grabs a sword from one of the transporters and brandishes it threateningly, a few of the jatu run over, spears raised. Within moments, they’re circling, sharpened spear tips inches from the girl’s throat.

“Let her go!”

Everyone turns, as do I, towards this sudden and powerful command. It comes from the tall, well-muscled boy now emerging from the line, each of his steps slow, deliberate as he walks towards the proud girl. “She is a soldier in the war against the deathshrieks,” he declares in the clipped and clearly articulated manner of someone more used to speaking Hemairan than Oteran. “And soldiers have rights.”

Rights? The word circles in my mind, shimmering and unbelievable. Rights are the domain of men and boys – not women, and certainly not alaki. Even so, the word blossoms, like a distant hope I’m afraid to even touch.

“Is that not so, Captain Kelechi?” The boy glances at the taller commander.

To my surprise, the commander nods. “Indeed, Recruit Keita,” he replies. “Everyone here has rights, although there are some that would stretch them to the bounds of common decency.” He turns a disapproving eye towards the proud girl, who spits on the floor in disgust.

Making an irritated sound in his throat, the commander motions the boy – Keita – forward. “Inform her of her rights as a new member of the emperor’s army, Recruit Keita.”

“Yes, sir.”

Keita walks towards the proud girl, removing his helmet and war mask as he goes. I’m startled to discover he’s dark like me – well, darker – although his hair is so closely cropped as to make him look bald, and his eyes are golden and sharp as a hawk’s. He’s about sixteen or so, but there’s a hardness to his eyes, an experience that speaks of a deeper maturity.

Who is Keita, that he knows the commander so well?

His armour seems different from that of the other jatu, more ornate. Father once told me that each jatu’s armour is inscribed with Hemairan symbols celebrating battles long ago fought, victories won. Keita’s has several more symbols than any jatu armour I’ve ever seen, and an emblem of a snarling orrillion adorns each shoulder.

Perhaps it is an heirloom passed down to him by a father or uncle. The aristocracy have several such items. Either way, it marks him as something more than the jatu surrounding him. Richer, undoubtedly. He must be one of the Hemairan nobles I’ve always heard so much about. It would explain his relationship with the commander, as well as why he feels so comfortable speaking out of turn.

Mistrust lines the girl’s proud, refined features as he approaches.

“Come no closer!” she snarls, her dusky-brown skin flushed with anger. “I will listen to no more of your lies! Soldiers in the emperor’s army? Absolution? Lies – all lies! You just want our blood on this floor, so you can sell it, you worthless bastards!” She jabs her sword towards him.

Keita lifts his hands in an appeasing gesture. “It is the truth. You are free to do as you like,” he says. He glances to the rest of us. “You are all free to do as you like. If you wish to leave now, you may do so.”

Whispers rise into the air, uncertain but hopeful. Beside me, Britta shifts. “Do ye think it’s real, wha he says?”

For one brief, glittering moment, I allow myself to believe in Keita, allow myself to believe in his words. Then I remember Ionas, remember how he thrust that sword into my belly only hours after telling me how I pretty I was.

Tension clenches my body again.

Keita will be no different when the time comes. No matter what he does now, he will show his true colours soon enough. They all do.

“No,” I say, shaking my head.

I watch with jaded eyes as the other jatu turn to the commanders in protest. “But, Captain Kelechi—” one jatu gasps.

“Surely you will not let this stand!” another pleads.

The taller commander lifts his hand for silence. “Recruit Keita is correct,” he booms. “Either the alaki want to be here or they don’t. An unwilling soldier is a useless one. You’re all free to leave if you desire, but remember that you are impure, and the world outside will only ever see that. Not to mention deathshrieks will come hunting for you wherever you hide.” He nods and the jatu reluctantly open the door, following his command.

I watch all this, tense, as does Britta.

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