Nomvula

44. Monster

Asanda heard Ndoda's unmistakable whistle long before he showed up at her door. She looked up from her desk, and Khaya looked up from his seat on the window sill. 

"Sounds like trouble," Anket said, inspecting the pool of milkwater on the dais. The old man had convinced her to leave it open -- just in case.

"That can't be him," Khaya said. He set down both the whetstone and the spearhead in his hand when the whistle shrilled again. "Shadowless."

Asanda ignored her brother's casual curse as she went back to inspecting her table. Ndoda was back, so be it. He was the reason for this mess, for all this. She had spent the morning grinding poppy, apple seeds, and witchroot for a powder even white-alchemists considered unethical -- and for some reason, she couldn't get the taste of botanical spirits out of her mouth. Using a knife to push the three tea-paper pouches into a small citruswood box, Asanda tried to ignore Anket's disgusted sigh.

"Be careful with that," Anket said.

"I know what I'm doing."

"Not really -- you're guessing at chemistry. For all you know, you could have made anything from a light sedative disguised as a teabag to a death powder."

If worst comes to worst, then Ndlovu will at least be glad to discover that his death tastes of mint and citrus rind. He can tell Papa all about it in the afterlife.

Ndoda burst through the door without knocking, hard enough to make the doorframe rattle.

"Eh," said Khaya with one leg still swinging from the sill, "what's fouled your mood?"

 What little Asanda remembered of her father's features were in his wide nose and tall walk. She could see the hot blood under his dark skin, the twitch in his jaw from his teeth gnashing. He fixed Khaya with a look that could cow a charging elephant, but Khaya only laughed.

"Qaqamba really gave it to you then." He swung off the window sill and landed with a lightness of foot that went against his heavy frame. "Either that or you rode with your saddle lose."

"Khaya. Not now."

"Is that a bruise on your wrist?"

Ndoda's jaw twitched again, just as his left hand curled into a fist. "You're still a boy, so don't even think I won't--"

"Don't start on him," Asanda said to Ndoda. "If your fist is itchy, go take it out on that damn bastard we've been bending over backwards to keep you safe from. Elsewise shut up or greet properly."

Ndoda startled at her words. "What did you say to me?" He stepped up to the desk. 

Asanda's body told her to flee, not because she feared Ndoda, but because he was suddenly not her brother but a drunk old man charging at her with club in hand. She planted her trembling hands on the desk and bent over because her gut suddenly seemed too tight. A bead of sweat rolled off her nose and darkened a small spot on the desk between her hands.

"Breathe," Anket said. "That's Ndoda."

"Step away from my desk," Asanda said. She looked up. Her brother had a princely anger about him that refused to clear, so she straightened and struck at the middle child in him. "Get out, little brother. Go fix your rage and affront elsewhere. I'll call you back when it suits me."

A deep crease cleaved Ndoda's brow in two. "Don't ever speak to your king-in-waiting like--"

"And Bakhonto help me if I ever think you are unready for that title, I will have it ripped so fast from your hands your palm will bleed." Asanda slammed the cedarbox shut. "Test me, Ndoda. Do it."