Author's note: This story is one of a series, but they can be read in any order.
* * *
'When are you going to make something of yourself?' If Neshet never heard those words again, it would be too soon.
It was good work she did, painting the pots her mother made so they'd sell for more. She pulled her weight, and when the time came, she'd take over the whole workshop. But her mother had once again made it clear that was not enough.
Out here, she felt better. The packed sand road that wound from the family workshop to the town of Anshabat could have fit five chariots side by side, but right now, there was only Neshet. Without walls, trees or even milestones to get in the way, Neshet's feelings spread out in the bleak, beautiful expanse of the desert, and the wind carried her worries away.
In town, brimming baskets of grain and barley drifted from shop to shop, with muscular men hobbling underneath them. The smells of camel, spice and perfume mingled, and hundreds of voices blended together unintelligibly. Here a pair of policewomen stood sagely at an intersection, watching for thieves while a police dog slept on the ground between them. There a handsome man hawked some useless luxury, his employer watching with satisfaction as customers gathered. Over there, a cat sat haughtily on a sack of flour as if it owned it.
And up ahead stood a soldier. Not a town guard, but a stern-looking woman sweating in bronze armor and with a spear and tall shield crossed on her back: the exact outfit Neshet's sister had worn on the day she left to fight the barbarians.
The soldier noticed Neshet's attention. "You there," she said, "Are you tough?"
"Yes." And it was true. Neshet always had been the first to wake up in the morning, the last to tire out and the last to complain about heat and hunger.
"Are there any warriors in your family?"
"Yes. My sister, Amamusa."
The woman's eyes widened. "Amamusa has a sister? Why haven't you joined too?" she threw out her hands. "We'd love another one!"
"I..." Neshet almost backpedaled, then thought back to her mother's constant demands for grandchildren. "I want to join. I want to go fight the sea people."
"We don't need more for them," said the woman, putting her hands on her hips. "Haven't you heard? We're going into
the jungle. It's good work. Blazing new ground for the empire, putting up outposts and pushing back the frontier. You get armed, you get fed and you get the glory."
"Did you say 'frontier?'"
"The southern jungle. Do you think you can take the moisture?"
On the frontier, there would be no pressure to marry. She could work hard and be something more than a deadbeat daughter. "Yes," said Neshet. "Yes, I can." She put some force into her voice. "Count me in!"
* * *
When Neshet faced the jungle, words failed her.
They had rushed her through a month of training in municipal law and mass battlefield tactics, both of which Neshet doubted she would need in the jungle. Then they had sat her down to teach her to read and write, only to find that she already knew, so here she was, facing a great mass of green.
Trees grew wherever they could fit and in some places where they couldn't, roots wrapping over each other with moss, ferns and mushrooms growing out of logs that looked like they had fallen only minutes ago.
Neshet had only seen her first mushroom a week ago, on the riverboat trip down into the jungle. In that time, she had seen more life in every foot of riverbank than there was over miles of desert. And already, she had developed the reflex of slapping her skin wherever she felt a tickle; the mosquitos had been bad enough back home, but here they were a divine curse.
"Here we are," said Ferena, the veteran who led their five-woman group. "Home sweet home. Welcome to Darmayet."
It wasn't much to look at. A dozen houses, none fancier than the simple hut Neshet had grown up in, lay in a grid connected by crude stone-tile walkways, with a solitary watchtower rising an unimpressive two stories from the ground, not getting above the tree canopy. The only thing that didn't look cramped and overused was the open-air armory, where spears, shields, spikes, machetes and even crossbows hung polished and ready.
Neshet had been told to expect a governor, and the woman who stepped out to meet them had to be her. Her makeup, her upper-class shoulder-length hair and the silver-trimmed dress all looked the part of the youngest daughter of an official family. The only thing that looked out of place was the fact that she was coming to meet the newcomers herself.
"Ferena," said the governor, facing the veteran. "I was told to expect your group. You may leave your supplies in the north house, the one with the broken lantern. Then get a shovel and find Captain Meeshahat. We are digging a drainage ditch to the pit downhill." She looked at the others. "That goes for all of you."
"Yes, Governor Mananat," said Ferena. "It's an unexpected pleasure to speak to you, face to face."
"You think speaking to grunts is beneath the dignity of a governor?"
"No, Governor, I-"
"You should. Because I am a governor in name only." She grew a capricious smile. "Here, I am governor, mayor, captain, sergeant, soldier and laborer, all rolled into one. But if this colony grows, I'll be a real governor." She pressed a finger into Ferena's shoulder. "Help me get there, and I'll make you a general." On that, she turned away.
Quickly, Ferena regained herself. "You heard her, ladies. The north house."
As promised, a broken lantern hung at the entrance to the northern house, and a map and shovels waited inside. What Neshet had not expected to see was a man, remarkably broad and muscular, sharp-featured, prim and fit, but with facial hair that flew in the face of prevailing fashion back home. More strangely, his skin was tan. Not the deep, rich, dark brown that characterized Neshet's people, but a light tan.
"You," said Ferena, "Can I find Captain Meeshahat?"
"Yes, ma'am," said the man, in a smooth but guttural accent. "She is just a stone's throw downhill." He pointed out a north-facing window. "You can't miss her."
"Thank you." Snatching a papyrus map from a carved-flat boulder, Ferena took a shovel and marched for the door. Neshet followed, but hesitated and looked back at the man.
"You're surprised to see a man here?" he said good-naturedly. "Or surprised to see a foreigner?"
"Erm... both."
"Then I'll explain it to you." He picked up a shovel. "While we work."
On the northern hillside, at the bottom of a half-finished runnel, heavy peat soil gave way under the effort of a few dozen women, half of whom turned out to be men on closer inspection. "I can't believe it," said Neshet, as she half-heartedly sank her shovel into the soggy dirt. "How many men are in this colony?"
"Fifteen men from your land, mostly criminals who chose this over slaving away in the sand pits," said the man. "And eighteen others. More than thirty men in all, and this one is named Zameed. Have you ever heard of the city of Izaz?"
"You mean the city of Isos? I thought it was only a myth."
"It's pronounced 'Izaz,' and it is very real." Sorrow passed over his bold features. "If you're a woman, it's a glorious city of light and safety. If you're a man, it's a prison." He smiled. "When my parents died, my sister inherited the right to marry me off, and she was about to give me to a woman I had never met, just so she might get closer to the woman who could raise her station in life. It was a game I couldn't win. So I refused to play." He chuckled. "So I climbed over the city walls and ran sixty miles through the wilderness. I do nothing by half measure."
"Wait, your sister could just decide who you could marry? You couldn't refuse?"
"Sure I could, by running away." He smiled. "But I know what you mean. No, not in Izaz."
The conversation died.
Hours passed, the daylight shrank into night, and finally the work gang was called off. Neshet fell into her bedroll, and her head had barely hit the pillow when she was asleep.
"Hey," said a high, harsh male voice. "Get up, girl. Come on."
Neshet's eyes reluctantly opened, and she found herself looking at a sandal.
"Come on, get up." The voice's accent was so heavy that Neshet almost failed to understand. Then the foot gave up on words and prodded her roughly.
Peering up, she saw a thin blond man glaring down at her over a pair of folded arms. He looked barely out of his teen years—even younger than her.
To Neshet's embarrassment, his kilt did nothing to conceal his penis from her angle. Flaccid, it looked horribly shriveled, even unhealthy, with only his reassuringly full balls underneath to make it look normal.
"Hey!" he stepped back. "Quit looking, you piece of shit!" He turned away in a huff. "Emja buzizi, mazreal ba-ajmen."
"What?" Neshet sat up. "What's wrong with you?"
"That was Izazi," said the thin man over his shoulder. "Get used to it. The natives in the jungle all use it, though they mangle it."
"I mean before that. I'm sorry I saw up your kilt. I didn't mean to." She rubbed her left temple. "But you stood right over me. And you kicked me."
The thin man folded his arms and slumped against the doorsill, his face wrinkled with misery. "It's not your fault," he muttered. "It's something else."
"What is it, then? What did I do?"
"It wasn't you," he repeated. He glanced around, making sure the few women still in the room were asleep. "The governor let us live here instead of in the wilds. She said if ten of the fourteen of us became consorts, we could all stay. Now that more women are showing up, she's changing the deal. We all have to open our legs, or we're out."
"Fourteen of you ran away from Izaz at once?"
"There were a lot more than fourteen, sister." He sighed bitterly. "But when we found Darmayet, it was down to us. A few survivors trickle in every month or so, but... I don't want to talk about it." He extended a hand, palm out. "My name is Vot. Shall we call a truce?"
Neshet pressed her hand onto his, completing the gesture. "Truce," she said. "My name is Neshet. And it was nice talking to you."
Vot glared for a minute, then seemed to realize that she meant it. Wide-eyed, he turned away.
