Nomvula

55. Warmaker

"I'll tell you this," Qaqamba said, turning half a grapefruit inside out. A breeze carried the smell of dew from the lawn onto the patio, and her nose crinkled. "Your grandmother hated me."

Nomvula chuckled. "Greatma didn't know how to hate."

"Hate is the wrong word." Ma scraped gristle off a thigh bone with her penknife. "She mistrusted you. Papa wasn't the healthiest man, but if he missed a training session with you he would be in a mood all day."

"Lucky him," Nomvula said. "When I missed a session, I was beaten."

Qaqamba sucked on the pink flesh of the grapefruit, the juices dripping onto her otherwise empty plate. "And how often did you miss a session?"

"Twice. The first time I slept in, then you whipped me so hard I had to miss the next one."

"And now you're the earliest riser I know. But not the best student."

Nomvula ticked off her fingers. "In the time I trained under you, I disarmed you twice, cut you three times, and knocked you off your feet once. Who holds a better record than that?"

"Six... let's call them victories, over eight years. Your skill was never in doubt, Nomvula, or your ironskin." Qaqamba tapped her temple with a gnarled finger. "But this got you every time."

Because she had promised herself a pleasant morning, Nomvula kept her good humour. "I'd hardly call myself hot-headed."

"Not hot-headed," Ma said. "Stubborn."

"Too stubborn to give ground in a fight," Qaqamba said, "even when it meant throwing me off balance. Your boy's like that too. Just look where his stubbornness got us."

"I told Ndoda he should have been smarter with how he got his revenge on Lifa. Unless you think I should have advised him to forgive the whole matter."

Qaqamba made a face of pure disgust. "Adders don't forgive and briars don't let go. But children, hmm. Children follow lifetime examples, not advice in hindsight."

Nomvula nibbled on a thick slice of bread fried in butter. Someone who had only just met her old mentor might have been offended, but she had not gotten to her place in life without the naked words of a few people who had lived longer than her. But where exactly was she? A ruler of land? She had been born to a chief, although one who ruled a patch even smaller than the Hundred Hills, and not even a tenth as rich. A peacemaker? Dumani had shown her how brittle that cup was.

The lessons she had taken from the Sunlands had no place in a pacifist's heart, or so that seedling of doubt told her. Those same lessons had made her children resilient, resourceful, and committed to their passions. But where were they now? Nomvula swallowed and flicked the rest of her toast back onto her plate.

"Relax," Ma said. "The sun hasn't even cleared the horizon yet. So long as Ndoda's gotten them across the Wayfarer by end of dawn, they'll be safe."

"I'm not worried about them." Ndlovu's true strength is in his spirit, and nothing corrodes a spirit like a broken oath. "Mostly."

"Dumani?"

Nomvula nodded.

"So what if he's due to be released today?" Qaqamba said. "He's been stewing in the holding cell for days, half-starved and dehydrated. Feed him a big meal full of salt and fat and he'll be so sick Ndoda will knock him over with a click of his tongue."

"The point of the Elephant Plains mission was to avoid all conflict," Ma said.

"For today."

Both elder women turned to Nomvula. She felt their gazes on her cheek, her own was on the misted river.