Safe wasn’t the first word I’d use to describe the rickety house and its grumpy Caretaker.

  “I really shouldn’t say more without your Caretaker’s permission,” he added.

  I heard the firm note in his tone this time and sought some way to continue talking about whatever it was that went on here. “Five Peoples. I don’t think I like the Komandi but the others seem nice.”

  “No one likes the Komandis,” he agreed. “Though most people hate the Tili worse.” Something dark passed through his gaze. Just as quickly, it was gone.

  “Your people are nice,” I said. “And I love your hats.”

  He chuckled. “So do we. Some men have more hats than horses and decorate them with priceless gems.”

  There were moments when I thought for sure I’d discover without a doubt this place was supernatural. Just as confusing were those when these people seemed so normal, it was ridiculous to assume someone else’s customs were supernatural because they were foreign to me.

  Of course, watching the Tili turn colors when they went from the sunlight outside the house to the shadows of the interior defied normal in every sense. Maybe it was denial that made me choose what to ignore about the weird operation the Caretaker was running or maybe, I wanted to keep distance between me and this world, or any world, for fear of being hurt again.

  But I was curious, too, and constantly at war with myself over which would win: my need to understand what was happening around me or my fear of getting hurt if I grew attached to anyone or any place. It was too easy for bad things to happen.

  “Your people seem too nice to have issues with anyone,” I mused. “But I can see the Komandi and Tili being pains in the ass.”

  “Very true. Their two tribes are closely related. They are allies and have been since long before the Discovery… ah, for a long time.” He smiled. “My people allied with the Woli and Bikitomani and the two factions have been pretty much at war for a while or were, until we developed a common enemy. We’re not eager allies for sure.”

  I was imagining gang turf wars, which happened occasionally in the City. But I couldn’t understand what they were fighting over. Cacti? Desert? Carey was talking around something again. This much I knew.

  “Ready?” he lifted a tray.

  I nodded and picked up one.

  We walked together into the second room with the nicer peoples to deliver the rest of the trays and were greeted by a few smiles from those closest to the door.

  “Hey, Prisoner,” another friendly golden-eyed cowboy said. This one was much older than Carey, possibly in his fifties.

  “Hey,” I answered and set down the tray. I handed him a cup of tea. “What’s going on?”

  “The usual. You gonna tell us how the Caretaker caught you today?”

  This drew a few amused glances.

  “Nope,” I replied.

  “Ah. We could use some laughter.”

  “Sorry.” I straightened. “You need anything else?”

  “We’re good. Thanks.”

  I left and went back to the kitchen and the pantry in the corner packed with trays and other food and dishes. With some anxiety, I realized I was walking into the lions’ den next. Carey had stopped to chat with a few other men in cowboy hats and a warrior woman. I waited for a moment then decided I valued my sleep more than his help.

  In and out then to bed, I told myself. I carried a tray to the room where Teyan was. It was more crowded and resembled what I imagined a frat house looked like. Smelly men gathered around telling stories and drinking something out of flasks. While the people in the other room were tense, those in here seemed like they were having a reunion with long lost family members. They were loud, too, and I hesitated at the entrance.

  Several of them had dragged necklaces heavy with coins, gems, and other strange charms out of satchels and were telling animated stories to those nearby. I watched them, more puzzled by the men in this room than any of the other gangs. Occasionally, one storyteller pointed to one of the trinkets on the chain and began another story while those around him either laughed or listened intently.

  The trinkets looked like junk to me. And every man had charms that were different than anyone else’s. None of them were uniform, which left me at a loss as to what exactly they were or how they could be of interest to others.

  “Rough crowd,” Carey said, pausing beside me with a tray of tea.

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  “The charms on their chains are all symbols for something. They’re swapping stories about the contracts, friendships, marriages, agreements, or whatever it may be that each symbol represents. Each is basically an alliance or negotiation of some sort.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “The Tili and Komandi have no written language and their dealings with others outside the tribes are part of a complicated system of honor and loyalty. Watch that one there.” He nudged me and looked towards two men – a Tili and Komandi – near the door.

  The Tili handed the Komandi a penny similar to the one Teyan gave me. The Komandi accepted it, held it up to the light, grinned and bowed his head. Then handed it back. The Tili smiled in return and pocketed the penny.

  “You see?” Carey asked. “They just agreed on something.”

  “How in hell did you figure that out?”

  “Think of the charm as a token of mutual agreement. The Tili hands the promise of loyalty and friendship to the Komandi. Usually, the token is of great value to the giver, a sign of respect. The Komandi acknowledges the value and gift. If he wishes the alliance to be two ways, then he returns the item of great value to the man it belongs to. If he isn’t interested, he keeps it, which means if the Tili wants his help or support or anything from him, the Tili will have to pay for it rather than rely upon their friendship.”

  As he spoke, my jaw went slack. I’d spent the past month offended by Teyan only to discover I’d misread his intention completely. “But … what if he kept it? Is it … bad?”

  “No. It’s the receiver’s choice. Either way, the giver must respect the decision. The giver is obligated to help the receiver, as symbolized by the token, but the receiver isn’t obligated to help the giver,” Carey explained. “Sometimes, powerful men collect the charms and boast about their ability to call upon all these people. It’s a one way alliance.”

  “Oh.” I could think of nothing else to say. And suddenly, I felt really, really bad about Teyan, even if he wasn’t bothered by the idea I hadn’t given the token back.

  “Complicated, isn’t it? Every one of those tokens is a friendship or agreement, a record of sorts.”

  I looked at the charms on the necklace belonging to the man closest to us anew. “How do they remember everything?”

  Carey shrugged. “One of the advantages of having no written history. They’re used to oral storytelling in place of the internet and are known for having terrific memories.”

  “And none of them speak English,” I said, gaze on Teyan. I wished I was able to tell him I hadn’t meant to imply I didn’t want to be his friend. Except … well, I kind of didn’t want to be anyone’s friend. I didn’t feel stable enough to have friends, and what happened when someone found out my past?

  “You don’t want them to,” Carey’s voice grew quieter. “These two clans … you want to stay away from them. Genocide, child murdering, and you don’t want to know what they do to their prisoners.” His eyes were sad, his look dark. “They’re monsters in every way. Some people said they should be banned from the neutral zones because of the atrocities they’ve committed.”

  My pulse quickened. I had kind of suspected the worst about them, given their roughneck appearances and how they greeted anyone not in their clan.

  “But they’ll respect you so long as you’re under the Caretaker’s protection,” Carey added. “Just keep in mind you don’t want to piss off one of them. They have charms for their enemies, too, and looooong memories.”

  I wanted to enter the sitting room even less after his information. I glanced at Teyan then away quickly.

  It was probably a good thing I didn’t know their customs before keeping the penny and knife, though I didn’t really understand why Teyan wanted to be my friend, either, unless it was out of gratitude for attempting to help him when he was injured.

  I trailed Carey into the room, tense and ready to flee at the first sign of danger. He was little less at ease, which worried me. With a tight smile, Carey set down the tray of tea and began passing out the cups and saucers to the savages in the parlor. Several eyed him, but most appeared more interested in exchanging stories with the others. Unlike the three clans in the adjacent room, the Tili and Komandi mixed and mingled with no distinction between them aside from their clothing.

  I kept my focus on the tea. I was beginning to feel like I knew nothing of the world outside of New York. How many places were there like this in the world? Did other people know about them? Counting down each cup, I lifted the last and passed it off to one of the savages when it happened.

  The Komandi beside the Tili I was serving smacked my ass hard enough to scare the shit out of me, and I reacted the way I’d been taught in self-defense training.

  I punched him. Hard.

  The Komandi was knocked back. He caught himself against the back of the couch and straightened, staring at me in surprise. The whole room fell into silence.

  “Oh, god!” I gasped, staring down at him in horror. Carey’s reminder not to piss anyone off pounded into my brain. My chest was too tight to breathe. If he didn’t kill me, I was going to have an epic panic attack. Carey had gone as still as the rest of them, no doubt out of surprise as well.

  Someone behind me spoke.

  Two men laughed in response. Then three. Then more.

  His shock wearing off, the muscular Komandi with his face painted in front of me touched his nose and drew his hand away to display blood. He held it up and spoke. Rather than sentence me to death, he started to smile.

  The men around us laughed.

  “Gianna ...”

  I blinked not expecting to hear my name in the middle of their gibberish tongue, and glanced over to the speaker. Teyan was smiling like the others. He’d been the one to say my name and appeared to be telling a story before he addressed me.

  “He … he says next time hit him harder or he’ll think it’s foreplay,” Carey whispered.

  The man before me spoke again, this time resting a hand on his heart and bowing his head.

  “And he says he didn’t mean to dishonor you. He didn’t know you weren’t interested.” Carey translated.

  Why would I be? The thought fled. I was still on the verge of a breakdown, not quite believing the man wasn’t going to kill me where I stood after all Carey said about the savages.

  “It’s okay,” I managed. “I hope I didn’t hurt him.”

  Carey translated, and several more men burst into laughter.

  “You can only hurt me by denying me your beauty,” replied the Komandi with the broken nose via Carey.

  What the hell did I say to that?

  The Komandi took my wrist and placed it at his throat.

  “He says next time you punch a man, punch him in the throat instead. It hurts more,” Carey said and joined me.

  “Um, thanks,” I replied.

  The Komandi released me. Carey nudged me away, for which I was grateful. I was frozen in place. Taking my arm, Carey escorted me out to the hallway. The hand I’d used to punch was shaking, and I was distantly aware of it hurting but too close to a panic attack to register how bad.

  “You got lucky,” Carey said. “They must be drunk to have such good senses of humor.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I pulled free from him. “If you need anything, let me know.” I spoke the words over my shoulder as I fled upstairs to my room. I closed the door and hunkered down, my back against it in case the Komandi changed his mind and decided to kill me.

  Sweating, trembling, panting, I let the mild attack take me and waited until the worst was over before I regained control of myself. Breathing deep and steady, I gradually unwound from the ball I was in and sat up with a grimace. My hand ached, along with the rest of my body.

  I crawled into bed and pulled the covers over my head, still afraid the Komandi meant to track me down and kill me. As I drifted to sleep, I went over what Carey had told me about the savages, especially their weird custom of linking stories and agreements to random pieces of crap.

  As horrible as Carey made them out to be, I still felt bad about Teyan.

  Chapter Seven

  “Can you cook?” Carey asked me the next day.

  I let the axe handle rest on my shoulder. Chest heaving from effort, I squinted at him. He stood a few feet away, observing. In a tank top and leggings, I was soaked through with sweat from hacking at the tree trunks in the hundred-and-ten degree afternoon sun. “Why?”

  “The Caretaker was up all night. She made breakfast but is too exhausted to cook dinner. I can’t cook anything at all. My visitors end up with pizza and bagels.”

  I snorted. “My grandparents on both sides are Italian. I spent the weekends with my grandma. Yeah, I can cook,” I said. “Will it get me out of tree chopping duty?”

  “Today. Why are you chopping trees anyway?”

  “Because the Caretaker hates me.” I straightened from my stance and started toward the shed. “How many visitors is she expecting for dinner?”

  “Same number as last night. Thirty three, plus us three,” he replied and followed.

  “That’s a lot of food.”

  “We can order pizza.”

  “No way. I’m sick of frying my ass off in the sun.” Putting my equipment away, I closed the shed and joined him on the porch. “Any requests?”

  “Anything. I never complain when someone takes pity enough to cook for me.”

  I smiled. Carey was a nice guy and a much needed friendly face to the Caretaker family. Entering the air-conditioned kitchen, I sighed and drank a bottle of chilled water as I considered the contents of the pantry. The Caretaker really did make everything from scratch; she had nothing readymade at all, just an abundance of raw material. The pantry was the size of my bathroom and much of its contents bulk sized.

  Pulling out my phone, I checked my email to see if I still had my favorite of my grandmother’s recipes. Pleased to see it there, I tucked the phone away.

  “Definitely beats chopping wood,” I said and began gathering the items I’d need.

  I spent four hours in the kitchen, working up another sweat over the oven and stovetop. Cooking reminded me of all the weekends I spent with my grandparents and of life before the incident. It made me happy, and time passed quickly. I made handmade pasta and spent twenty minutes in my garden to pluck the best vegetables for the filling. Once the chopped veggies were flavored, soft and fragrant, I tucked spoon-fulls into small pockets and then placed the large raviolis in the oven to bake. The sauce was a little harder. My grandmother swore a good sauce took at least a day to cook and a ham bone or two. I didn’t have the time or pork bones, so I made red sauce with sausage in the largest pot I could find then shoved it in the deep freezer while the raviolis cooked. I was hoping a quick chill would help it thicken for when I reheated it.

  Salad with vinaigrette and steamed vegetables were quick, easy sides. And then there was dessert. I used my mother’s red velvet cake recipe to create sheet cakes large enough to feed close to forty people.

  People began arriving before I’d finished. Carey was quick to answer the door and situate people in the parlors and office according to what clan they were in, leaving me to work the meal issue. Rather than a buffet, I created separate dinner plates for everyone, partially to keep people out of the kitchen, and out of my way, and partially because … well, we didn’t eat off paper plates for dinner. My mother had few rules, but this was one she had gotten from her parents and refused to bend on. Dinner was a sacred time for family, never to be rushed or cheated of importance by paper plates.

  I missed her. I never knew how much I loved our dinners together until I was sentenced to eating alone in my room every night here.

  When everything was ready, I prepared the individual plates and Carey delivered them. We were a good team, and neither of us got a break until everyone had dinner. Carey joined me in the kitchen where we ate our own servings quickly, before the others were ready for the cake I’d just frosted.

  “This is amazing,” he said and devoured his raviolis faster than anyone I’d ever seen.

  “What is amazing?”

  We both turned to see the Caretaker, appearing as critical as ever, in the doorway.

  “Her cooking,” he replied.

  “You should know not to encourage her,” she snapped to Carey.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carey replied, trying not to smile.

  “I trained him. You wouldn’t know it, given how lazy he’s gotten.” The Caretaker complained.

  Carey grinned.

  “Trained him?” I echoed. I got her a plate of food, more so she wouldn’t yell than because I wanted to.

  “Caretakers are apprenticed for about a year or two before going out to their own assignments. The Caretaker has had nearly forty apprentices,” Carey explained. “The art of keeping peace under one’s roof is not a simple matter.”

  “You say too much. As always,” the Caretaker complained. “Girl, cake.”

  I obeyed. It was impossible, even for her, to find fault in my grandma or mother’s recipe.

  “Speaking of cake …” Carey set down his plate. “Time to serve up some sweet stuff to the others!”

  I nodded and began cutting pieces and placing them on dessert plates. Carey carried them out and brought back the dirty dinner plates to pile them beside the sink. It was then I realized the flaw in my plan to have dinner on real plates: I’d have to wash them all. The kitchen was too ancient to have a dishwasher.

  Always something around here.

  “You did well,” the Caretaker allowed as she finished her last ravioli.

  It was the first nice thing she’d ever said to me. I rejoiced inside, not expecting her praise to cause such a reaction. Outside, I simply nodded, unwilling to let her know she had some sort of hold on my emotions.

 

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