Page 37 of The Gilded Ones

Our first lesson for the day is in a small, plain wooden building that sits in the middle of the hill. The sun has only just begun to stretch itself in the sky, but it’s already hot when we enter. Karmoko Huon is sitting cross-legged on a reed mat, a pale-yellow half mask covering her from forehead to nose, waiting for us. This morning, she’s wearing a pretty blue robe embroidered with pink flowers, and her hair is held up by an ornately jewelled comb. A pair of heavily armed jatu stand behind her, arms folded menacingly.

“Find your seats, neophytes,” she says in her soft, calm voice, pointing at the reed mats that have been laid out in two orderly rows.

Britta and I look at each other, then quickly do as we’re told, dipping a knee in greeting to her before hurrying to the mats at the very back, along with the twins, Katya, and Belcalis. As I settle into a kneel, I’m dimly aware of Gazal glowering at us from the shadows, where a few other novices have taken their seats. There are about five or six of them, but Gazal and Jeneba are the only ones I recognize.

Karmoko Huon claps her hands. “Welcome to your first combat class, neophytes,” she says. “I am Karmoko Huon, and I will teach you to use your body as a weapon. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintances.” She bows formally to us.

We all look at her, unsure of how to reply to this new greeting.

“Bow to the karmoko!” Gazal barks.

When we quickly try to comply, fumbling in our attempt, Karmoko Huon holds up her hand. “I think, Gazal,” she says, amused, “we have to demonstrate first.” She turns to us. “Like this,” she says, touching her head to the floor. “This is how you greet your karmokos when you are on the mat. Now you try.”

We quickly replicate the bow.

Karmoko Huon’s mouth quirks. “Good. Not perfect, but good.”

We turn to each other, relieved. “At least we didna completely disgrace ourselves,” Britta whispers to me out the corner of her mouth.

I suddenly wonder whether the recruits are having the same troubles we are. Not likely.

A memory of Keita’s sword-calloused hands rises, and I shiver it away, turn back to Karmoko Huon as she gracefully rises. “Now, then,” she says decisively. “In order to engage in combat, you must first know your forms. Forms are battle stances – each one a tiny part of the dance you will soon become intimately familiar with. The dance of death.”

My eyes narrow. How is a dance going to help us fight deathshrieks?

On the other side of me, Adwapa scoffs under her breath, “Dance of death. She’s going to get us killed, this one.”

A hairpin slams into the wall behind her, something pinned underneath it. A piece of flesh, golden blood still dripping from it. Adwapa turns, sees it, and her eyes widen with shock.

“My ear!” she gasps, holding her left ear. The top half of it is gone.

Karmoko Huon smiles mildly, rearranging the portion of her hair that’s now fallen from the rest of her pins. For the first time, there’s a look of steel in her gaze, the power hidden behind that ornamental exterior. She calmly stretches out her hand towards Adwapa. “I seem to have lost my hairpin, neophyte. Can you fetch it for me?”

Clutching her bleeding ear, Adwapa slowly retrieves the pin, then, trembling, hands it to Karmoko Huon. The karmoko smiles gratefully and dismisses her with a nod. Once Adwapa’s returned to her seat, Karmoko Huon turns to the rest of the class. “Shall we continue?”

“Yes, Karmoko,” we quickly say, still in shock.

Karmoko Huon nods, rises. “I shall now demonstrate the first form.”

She plants her feet apart and shifts her weight so it’s concentrated on her lower body. When she spreads her arms in a graceful but precise movement, her expression stern, something inside me trembles. Karmoko Huon reminds me of White Hands: pretty on the outside, deadly on the inside.

“In the Immovable Earth form, you are centred, at your most powerful,” she says. “You are in the perfect position to attack, or evade.” She demonstrates quickly, her movements precise but fluid. “I will show you.”

She beckons to the larger of the two jatu behind her – a hulking beast of a man – then bows formally when he approaches. He quickly bows as well.

He launches into an attack, and we all watch, rapt. How will the karmoko handle this head-on attack? To my surprise, Karmoko Huon flips him on his back before he can even touch her, then twists his wrist to an odd and painful angle.

“Yield! I yield!” the jatu cries out, his eyes bulging from the pain.

The karmoko tuts, but her eyes are as cold as icicles. “First lesson, neophytes: alaki do not yield. You conquer or you die. For an alaki – for any warrior – death should be a familiar friend, an old partner you greet before you step onto the battlefield. Do not fear it, do not shy from it. Embrace it, tame it to your will. That is why we always say ‘We who are dead salute you’ to our commanders before we ride off into battle.”

A strange, uneasy feeling builds inside my gut. Death should be a familiar friend… I can barely fathom the concept.

Karmoko Huon finally releases the jatu’s hand and bows to him again. “My thanks for your aid,” she says sweetly. The burly man gives a pained nod, then limps off, wincing.

By now, we’re all quiet, tense. Karmoko Huon turns to us. “Do you know why I chose to demonstrate that move with him, neophytes?” she asks.

We shake our heads slowly.

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