Sajani Tails

      He was true to his word. First thing the next morning, he handed her twelve gold and added with a smile, “Be sure to spend it all in one place. Piecemeal armor is much more likely to pull at your fur, as you’ve informed me innumerable times before. I have business elsewhere in the city and would rather have my eyes poked out than go shopping for armor with you again.”

      “It wasn’t that bad,” she said defensively.

      “You’re far too picky about such things, my dear. The poor shopkeeper was almost justified…”

      “How dare he?”

      “Yes, how dare indeed. I did say almost justified.”

      They parted ways before either of them remembered too much.

      The first shop she wanted to enter had a “No wolfmen” sign outside it. She was tempted to enter and make a convincing argument not only on the basis of her gender, but her battle prowess as well, but decided it wasn’t worth the effort for a place that wouldn’t be able to fit her armor properly anyway.

      A few doors down was a shop that said laughably, “No huemen”. The counter was being worked by a very young vykati boy with black fur and gray markings. He couldn’t have been more than eight years old. “Noble lady!” he shouted to her as he climbed up and over the counter, “you come for Saheeba’s wares?” His common speech was terrible and he smelled of…dates?

      She answered in Vykati, trying to make it easier on him. “I’ve come for some leather armor.”

      “Good, good.” He answered again in common. Grabbing a chair, he pushed it up over to her and climbed on, pulling a dull pink tape measure from the pocket of a rather smart looking vest he was wearing. He took a pad of paper and a pencil from another pocket and dropped those on the chair.

      “You have color preference?” he asked. He began taking measurements and writing them on his pad. He worked very fast for someone so young, constantly jumping off and on his chair.

      Giving up on speaking Vykati, she answered, “Yes. Black with rust red highlights to match my fur.”

      “Fine ladies always have color preference. Look very nice on you. Good call.” He wasn’t hesitant at all about grabbing whatever he needed to measure, but he was modest about it.

      “Thank you.”

      “You measure your own bust, my lady.” He said shyly, handing her the measuring tape. “Not proper for little Bashim to do it.”

      She laughed at the cute request. She wouldn’t have thought twice of an adult male, let alone a small boy, taking the measurement so long as he was respectful about it, but she carefully put the tape around her chest and held it to the side for him to read.

      He wrote down the measurement and took the measuring tape back. With an adorable over-exaggerated jump, he leapt from the chair and started for a door near the back. “I get Nana Saheeba now.” He closed the door behind him and Sajani could hear a hushed conversation starting up behind it. A moment later, an elderly vykati matron came out, presumably it was Saheeba. The little boy was leading her by the hand and it took a moment for Sajani to realize that the woman couldn’t see very well at all. Her eyes were clouded.

      “Here she is, Nana.” Bashim said. “She looks like the noble lady in your picture of Mr. Benayle.” That startled Sajani slightly.

      “No, little one,” the old woman responded, “Malita died years ago. She’d not be needing armor, anyway.” She lifted her face towards Sajani, who didn’t know what to say about the reference to her mother. “It’ll take me two days, my lady, and cost eight gold.”

      “Eight gold? That’s a very fair price, mother wolf.” She’d expected at least ten based on the quality of the tailored items in the shop and fitted items, like they assumed she wanted, usually ran a little more.

      “Then why sound so hesitant?” the old woman asked, sounding surprisingly enough, slightly aggressive.

      “No hesitation, mother wolf, none at all,” she added hastily.

      “You were hoping for it sooner? When I was younger I could have it to you in a couple of hours, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as well sewn.”

      “That’s fine, mother wolf, really. Eight gold is a very fair price,” she said again.

      The older vykati then grabbed her by the hand and pressed her right cheek to hers. “Then it’s a deal,” she said. “Come back in two days. Any time after noon.”

      Sajani just stood there for a moment, still stunned by the reference to her mother. “You have a picture of Malita and Benayle?” she managed to ask.

      “Lots of vykati keep pictures of them, lady. You sound like you’re from the Vharkil Mountains, how could you not know that?”

      “But together?”

      “Oh, just something that some romantic artist put together I’m sure.”

      It was true that many vykati kept pictures of her mother. The fact that this old woman kept one wasn’t so unusual really. Her mother had died during a border skirmish with Rhidayar. She’d been charged with protecting a small outpost, more of just an old chapel really. When word that a division of enemy troops were sighted a day’s march from her position, it’s said that she addressed her soldiers right away and laid her sword in the dirt between them. She then told them the news, that it’d be one hundred against five thousand. “I’ve been charged with defending this ground,” she told them, according to the journal of one of those who served with her. “But you’re only charged with serving the vykati people and defending them. You can do that here or you can meet up with our advancing forces and do it closer to home. Re-enforcements have been requested, but they won’t arrive for five days at the soonest. If we lose this outpost, the enemy will continue to march unchecked into the farmlands to our south.

      “There’s no cowardice in refusing to face these odds. There’s no hope for us, only hope that we can slow the advance long enough to protect our people. Here I stand. This I will defend. Cross by my sword and add yours to the line only if you’re willing to die for your country.”

      All crossed that line. None survived, but the action cost the enemy nearly half of its numbers and prevented them from marching much further into vykati lands. The phrase, “This I will defend” or “Kra’la al’ark” in Vykati, was now the national motto of Vharkylia. The language of the wolf people attached a possessive to most words, so in the most literal sense it meant, “This (ours), defend (mine).” The phrase lost a lot of emotive power in translation.

      Sajani had been only ten when that happened. Benayle later granted her commission without question. She’d been the youngest colonel the pack had ever seen, but no one outwardly questioned it. Too many knew her mother, and all knew of her.

      At some point Saheeba must have sent Bashim to get the painting. The old wolf was holding it out for her now, but her vision was too poor to notice the single tear forming at Sajani’s eye. “The cannons of Altaza can still be heard, lady,” Saheeba was saying.

      “It’s beautiful.” Sajani told her. It did look just like her mother, although perhaps a little taller. Benayle looked younger than he did now of course. The artist had depicted the vykati leader as helping Malita to her feet, a blue rose clasped in her hand. It was captioned as the old woman had said, “The Cannons of Altaza.”

      “I lost my son and his wife there,” Saheeba said quietly.

      “I’m sorry, mother wolf,” Sajani said truthfully.

      “I best be getting to work though, lady,” she answered. “That was long ago. I’ll have your armor ready in two days. Don’t worry.”

      “Thank you,” Sajani said as she left.

      As she was almost out of earshot, she heard Bashim say, “She look just like picture, nana.”

      She’d thought it’d be difficult to find Simon but should’ve realized that the city wasn’t large enough to hide him—few would’ve been. She came across him a few blocks away, putting on a street show performing minor acts of arcane magic and major acts of sleight of hand. He tipped his hat to her and called out her name. He wouldn’t dare, she thought to herself, embarrass me the way he used to. She was wrong.

            “Here comes my lovely assistant now…” he was saying.