Chapter Text
The steel-blue water of the Gulf of Mexico lapped at the sides of the Liberty , gulls and pelicans ducking and wheeling around the stern and bow of the steamer as their insistent cries for fish filled the warm spring air. Most of the other wealthy passengers had made their way to the bow to eagerly jostle each other for a glimpse of land ahead, of the port of Galveston, Texas, but the slight young woman in a sensible, deep plum traveling-gown and black hat who stood at the port-side was staring out into the expanse of water instead, as if her mind was a thousand miles away, while her gloved hands held fast to the rail.
“Miss Shuri Udaku?” asked a steward, approaching. “Your luggage has been readied for port.”
“Thank you, sir,” she replied, turning and folding her hands. He walked off, and the young lady lifted her chin, finally facing the distant shoreline of Galveston. If the steward had thought to look more closely at her gown or her ornaments— the buttons, the hat— he might have seen a faint, subtle diamond pattern repeated in thin, darker plum lines on the fabric, a weave so fine no machine to be found in America or Europe could make a thing of such quality. He might have noticed the peculiar shine to the ring on her right middle finger, over her gloves: it was a near-gunmetal gray that yet gleamed with an odd, bright purple glow in some lights and moments. But he did not notice: he had other passengers to attend, so he left the woman alone on the deck.
***
Shuri watched quietly as the shoreline of the barrier island drew nearer. Such an undeveloped country, this place. Her journey was very close to being at an end: first had been the journey by train from her home to Cape Town (unpleasant) and from there a steamer to London (took ages and was far less efficient than a good Wakandan ship would have been) and from there, another steamer, the Liberty , from Liverpool to New York— then after taking on more passengers, New York to, now, Galveston, Texas. She could see buildings on the shoreline of the long, slim island: red brick and white mortar, grey stone. It is like a little village outpost. They have not even worked out how to build higher than ten floors yet! It was quaint, though, this little town that termed itself such an international and cosmopolitan center. I could have made the journey in much less time with a good fast airship.
While she waited for the steamer to dock, she went over the instructions from Mama in her head. We have intercepted a rumor that there is isipho to be found somewhere in, perhaps, Central America, or the surrounding seas there. The American government must not find it or become aware of it: it seems a man calling himself Namor may know where it is.
She was quite excited to be sent on this mission. As head of the Design Group, and one of the top scientists in her country, Shuri was one of the foremost experts on isipho , the metal so rare to the outside world but so plentiful in Wakanda— the substance that was the foundation block upon which her whole culture had been built. Isipho meant “the gift”, and it had been a gift from Bast, ages and ages ago when the world was still young. Her mother, Ramonda, the Queen Mother of Wakanda, had been loath to send her, but had realized that sending a team of War Dogs to investigate would foster rumor within the country— isipho outside Wakanda? Unthinkable. Shuri easily remembered her earliest lessons. Bast gave us the gift, and we are the only ones who have it: this is proof that we are favored by the gods. Another nation possessing it— even a strain of it wild in the sea and unclaimed— that would destroy Wakanda’s very founding. Would nurse dissent. Confusion. No, better to send only Shuri.
After all, Wakanda was already cracking at the foundations.
Shuri looked out to the port city and tried not to think of her brother. I will succeed at this. I will. And I will make you proud, Mama.
***
Her first mission, after disembarking and completing paperwork and checks, was to find a place to stay: she found a room in a hotel that was close to the harbor, and after unpacking, she marched directly to the post office and inquired about a man called Namor who might be in the area. After that fruitless endeavor, she tried a few other places: hotels, cafes. All her questions came to naught. Shuri sighed as she walked on, wondering where to go next. Perhaps she might place a card in the window. She had to smile, that was an amusing thought.
Coming to the steps of an elaborately carved building, she rested a moment, glancing up at it. Oh, a church! She knew about churches; they had come with the debrief on American and European customs that she had needed to study before leaving. Wakanda did not have such a thing as churches— venerating Bast was done all the time, and people went to holy places, they did not build them or make them. This place was imposing, with its warm brown stone and arches, and seemed to be new: not a stain marked the outside of it yet. The doors were open, and a sign stated that all were welcome. Shuri felt a marked curiosity and got up, slipping inside.
She forgot to not stare. Stained glass windows lined the dark-paneled wood walls— statues of robed people stared down from every crevice, it seemed, and benches faced the front. Shuri quickly moved to the side and kept staring around at the paintings on the walls. Several people were in the benches at the very front of the vast interior, kneeling. She felt, despite the sign out front, that she might be intruding.
“Good afternoon,” said a man’s voice in low tones, and Shuri jumped, facing the speaker, who wore long white robes and a stole draped over his shoulders. “Are you here for mass? The next one begins in thirty minutes.”
She blinked rapidly. Priest, this is a priest. What could he mean by that? “Mass? A mass of— of what, sir?”
A smile broke out over his face. “Ah. I see. Never mind it. I am Father Joseph. You are new to Galveston, madam? You are welcome here at St. Patrick’s, of course, but you may find the Avenue L Missionary Baptist Church more to your comfort, if you are not Catholic.”
“I am not here to attend church,” she told him. “I am looking for someone, and I cannot find him.”
The priest nodded. “I see. A man? Are you in some kind of… trouble?”
“No, sir. I have been sent by someone else to find him. Perhaps you have heard of him? Nobody seems to be able to help me so far. His name is— I hear he goes by the name Namor.”
Father Joseph’s face stilled into quiet contemplation: it was not quite shock, but Shuri felt he might be quite skilled at controlling his feelings. “Do you see those two doors there, to the right of the altar?”
Shuri followed his finger. “I do.”
“Go into the right hand one and shut the door. I will be there presently.”
Well, that was promising. Shuri slipped over, around the back, and opened the right-hand door, finding a curtained, snug little room with a bench to sit on. She shut it behind her and sat in the dim light, noting the screen between her booth and the next one and the wood behind it. At last I am getting somewhere.
The wood piece slid back after a few minutes, and she jumped a little. “You seek a man called Namor, is that so?” asked Father Joseph.
“It is,” she said, wondering what the fuss was about.
“I am a priest, you understand,” he said. “I put no great stock in folk-tales or fairy-stories of the sort that delight children and silly fools. But that name…” He trailed off, as if finding his thoughts, and went on. “Are you familiar with the wreck of the San Esteban ?”
“I am not,” Shuri said, wondering what on earth this was about.
“I see. Then allow me to elaborate. The San Esteban was a Spanish carrack, a cargo ship carrying gold and silver sailing from Mexico to Cuba. In 1554, it was caught in a terrible hurricane with three of its fellows, and wrecked upon the islands here. There was only one survivor left to tell his tale. Three hundred dead, all told. History tells us this. Legends and folk-tales… tell us something different.”
“And what is that?” whispered Shuri, leaning closer to the screen.
Father Joseph’s voice dropped to a whisper. “That a man was seen flying out of the sea, in the hurricane that day, and that he tore open the sides of the ship with astonishing force and the strength of a thousand men. That he had pointed ears and a beard like the Devil, and that he summoned from the depths of the sea an army of the dead, blue with cold, who tore apart the carracks like child’s toys. This he did, and then vanished into the sea, and the one survivor of the wrecks, a priest, Brother Marcos, would not speak for years but to say: estaba sin compasión, sin ningún amor. ‘He was without compassion, he was without any love’. That was, then, what they called the man from the sea: Namor.”
A chill spread up Shuri’s arms. Ningún amor… Namor. “And you think the name was— passed on, then? That the Namor I am looking for is some… descendant? Or that he took his name from this legend?”
“I do not know, madam,” said Father Joseph. “All I know is that any man known by such a name… you would be wise to take care.”
“Your concern has been noted. Where can I find him?”
“Are you determined, then?”
“I am, sir.”
There was a sigh from the other side of the screen. “I am told a man by that name owns a ranch further into the mainland, between Houston and San Antonio: he comes to Galveston for business matters frequently. When he is here, he stays on the western part of the island, and does not do much socializing in the town. I would… not recommend seeking him there in the bayous. But on the rare occasion he is in the town, madam, he stays at the Cielo Azul Inn. Ask after him there. It is not hard to find from here: turn left out of the doors of the church, then walk down Avenue K for twenty-two blocks, and you will come upon it.”
“Thank you,” said Shuri, relieved and delighted. “You have been a great help, sir.”
“I urge caution, madam,” said the priest gently. “He is an intensely private man, by all accounts, and does not take well to intrusive questions. I would appreciate it if you spoke nothing of me in your account to him.”
“I will take it into regard. Thank you most kindly.” Shuri left the booth and hurried back to the front doors of the church, the evening sunlight washing her in shades of gold and rose— she must have been in there longer than she thought. The Cielo Azul Inn! She hurried off quickly, counting the blocks as she passed them. Only a day in this place and she was sure to find the man she had been sent after— Mama would be proud.
***
The sun was touching the horizon before Shuri made it to the inn. After ringing the bell, the landlady, a small, stout woman wearing a blouse and bright skirt, opened it. “Might I help you, young lady?” she asked kindly.
“Yes,” said Shuri, trying to ignore how sweaty she was. Even the afternoon breeze off the Gulf could not banish the heat, it seemed. Perhaps that was why she was so blunt: the temperature was making her short and sharp. “I am in search of a man who calls himself Namor. Is he here?”
The woman blinked and lifted her chin. She could not have been more than fifty, but her jet-black, grey-streaked hair tied up in a knot made her look quite severe. “You have the wrong address,” she said firmly.
“I am sure I do not,” said Shuri, more certain than ever she was on the right track.
The woman shook her head. “No, madam—”
Someone, some man in the back of the house, or perhaps in another room, called out something in a language Shuri did not understand. It was not Spanish; it was something else, musical and punctuated with glottal stops. The landlady swallowed and turned her head slightly, replying in the same lilting tongue, and got an answer from the speaker before turning and eyeing up Shuri— then her ring. She called something else out behind her, and got a short, quick answer, then stood aside, nodding at Shuri, who stepped into the foyer, feeling rather uneasy and unable to shake the thought that she, perhaps, should have called Mama before entering.
The lady of the house took her hat and led her to the back parlor. Shuri noted the colorfully woven textiles hanging on the walls— she forgot to notice anything else, however, because the man sitting in the chair in the corner of the room was standing as she entered, eyes focused wholly on her, and he was a sight that made her pause in her step, frozen as her eyes met his. Although at first glance he seemed ordinarily like any well-off man walking the streets of Galveston, something about him that she could not put her finger on made her stop and take notice of everything about him.
He was just a little over six feet tall, broad through shoulder and chest, his skin a rich, warm brown color and his eyes dark and piercing as winter stars below angular, long brows. Stubble, black and sparse, coated his jaw, and a coarse, short beard and mustache framed a stern mouth. Indoors, of course, he wore no hat, and the hair on his head was not so coarse-looking as his facial hair, but soft and thick, black and gently curling over the tips of his ears and his brow. He wore a white shirt, but in place of a tie, a beaded medallion hung at his throat, and the waistcoat over his shirt was a rich, deep peacock-blue color, a gold chain hanging from it. His trousers were of very fine make, a deep dark brown that was almost black, and Shuri noted a jacket of the same material flung over another chair’s arm, along with a broad-brimmed, black hat.
The man was drawing closer to her. She did not move as he examined her from head to toe with eyes that seemed to miss nothing, as he circled her, then stood back by his chair. She had an intense desire to hide her hands and the ring on her finger, but she did not. At last, he spoke. “You must be the princess.”
The air left her lungs. “I beg your pardon,” she said, shocked. She had been so careful to maintain her cover— surely—
“Do you deny it? No? Good.” His voice was warm, low, every syllable carefully picked out, the accent unfamiliar to Shuri’s ears. “It is a secret that, I expect, remains between you and the messenger who came to me with the news.”
“How did—”
“Shuri Udaku. An interesting choice of surname.” He leaned against the mantle of the fireplace, one corner of his mouth ticking up in a half-smile. “I believe in truth you are like me, yes? No surname? A princess does not need one: all know what family she belongs to.”
“I shall assume, then, that you are indeed the Namor I am searching for. How did your spy know I was a princess?” asked Shuri stiffly.
His eyes narrowed. “She is not a spy. She is one of my people. I have many whose duty it is to bring me news of the world when I am… occupied.” Namor’s mouth quirked up slightly. “You will kindly show more respect… Princess.”
Shuri bit the inside of her cheek. “I apologize,” she said tightly.
“That is better. As for how she knew you were royalty… well.” His eyes went to the ring on her finger: dull isipho, gleaming in the shape of a panther’s head. “That is a very interesting ring you wear. May I look at it?”
“You may not,” she said, almost frightened by the intensity of his gaze. “Do you know what it is made of?”
“I do, Princess. Although I am used to hearing it called máatan, and shining blue, not purple. I have no doubt you call it something else.”
He must have certainly seen it somewhere, then, in its raw form. “We call it isipho,” said Shuri, her emotions overwhelming her manners— as usual. “My country is hidden and safe from the outside world, but we have heard that it can be found elsewhere, and we have a great concern as to whether these rumors are true. This substance is of high, high value to all fields of science and technology, and it can be very unstable in large amounts. If you know of this metal, then you must tell me what you know.”
“Must?” said Namor, his eyes gleaming. “Must? Do you know who you are speaking to?”
“Do you know who you speak to?” she fired back, losing her temper. “I am Shuri of Wakanda, the greatest nation in the world, and if isipho exists outside Wakanda it must be found and gathered and protected from those that would do harm with it.”
“Such a magnanimous little princess,” he said coolly. “You assume that it is not already protected.”
“That is not possible. No other nation exists that can possibly—”
“Not possible? Do you believe a thing to be impossible simply because you were told it? Did you believe your homeland was the only place in all the world that possessed máatan?”
That startled her. “I— I did , but—”
“And yet, even after learning it does not, you still think, no, there can be no other nation in all the world that similarly protects its resources, hidden from the sight of the rest of the world.”
Was he saying there was another nation, undiscovered, somewhere? Curiosity battled her frustration. “I would very much like to see such a nation, if it exists.”
“No.”
She blinked. “No?” Did such a place not exist, then? What did he mean?
“No.” Namor turned and gave her a long look. “You hunt me down and demand things of me as if I am some common man without so much as a polite conversation beforehand. You demand to gather and protect a substance you believe I have knowledge of simply because it is something your people trust no one else with, while foolishly wearing that very substance on your person in public where anyone might steal it.” She hid her hands behind her back, chastised and uncomfortable. “Why should I trust you with anything I might know?”
“I have come a very long way, sir,” she tried. “My mother the Queen has charged me with this task, and I will not fail her.”
He raised an expressive eyebrow. “That is admirable loyalty in one so young, but not a reason for me to trust you.”
Shuri’s cheeks burned. She envisioned her laboratory at home, the walls painted in warm colors, the clean tables, the isipho- powered microscopes and gleaming tools. Calm, stay calm. A deep breath served to center her. “My people have kept themselves safe for millennia, protecting our resources. We could offer that same protection to anyone, in exchange for information.”
“And you have been bestowed such powers and rights to offer these things by your mother, the Queen, have you?”
Shame boiled in her throat. “No,” she admitted. Mama had never said to offer anyone sanctuary— the whole idea was anathema to Wakanda’s border policies, which were as much a part of what made Wakanda what it was as their founding myths, as the great city of Birnin Zana, as Bast’s gift. Surely an exception might be made… but without the council of elders and the consultation of the Queen, Shuri had no power at all to make that decision.
“Interesting.” Namor pushed off the mantle. “Your hands.” He extended his fingers, palms up.
“I beg your pardon?” she managed, shocked.
“I said, your hands. I want to look at them. Take off those gloves.”
Shuri knew that in America, to touch a stranger’s bare hand was something of a misstep— an intimacy. She was not given overmuch, as a rule, to displays of physical affection, but something in those deep eyes made her take off her ring, peel off her gloves, and thrust her hands at his. Namor caught the backs of them, turned them over, examined them from all angles. His skin was astonishingly warm and firm— calloused on the palms, at the base of his fingers, with short-cut nails that were clean despite their rough appearance. She held her breath, wondering what he was doing.
“I see. Soft hands. Elegant hands.” He dropped her hands after a moment. “A soft, spoiled, protected princess.”
“I am a scientist, sir,” she managed, appalled at his blunt approximation of her character. “I work in laboratories and in offices. I may not—not—” Belatedly, she realized she had no idea what it was he did: she had not asked. “I might not use my hands in such manual labor that it makes them hard, but I assure you, I work as hard as I am allowed, and I am not spoiled.”
Something glittered in his eyes. “You live behind protected walls and borders, away from the outside world and all its pains. Your people have never been subject to the horrors mine have been. You make assumptions based on your perceived place in this world, and position yourself as some protector. Tell me: what makes you any different than the Americans or Spanish or Portuguese who have come for three hundred years, trampling over land, in search of some treasure they feel entitled to possess— cities made of gold, or fountains that make a man young forever?”
“I have not brought an army to plunder anything,” said Shuri, who was beginning to lose her temper again at being compared to such—
“No,” he said softly. “But you may yet. I have seen it happen before.” The hair stood up on the back of her arms, and she stepped back a little: who was this man?
“The American government cannot be allowed to take possession of any isipho .”
“On that,” answered Namor, “we both agree, Princess.”
Fragile hope bloomed in her heart again. “So you will help me?”
He did not answer. Instead, he crossed to the table and picked something up, turning it over in his hands. Shuri did not want to offend by prying, so she remained where she was until Namor crossed back to her. “Open your hand,” he said shortly. She did, and he dropped a gold ingot into her hand. It was warm to the touch, and heavier than she expected, and very old— there were marks and scratches in the soft metal, pitted marks along the top and sides. “This is gold from the Ēxcān Tlahtōlōyān, the Triple Alliance of Tenochtitlan, Teztcoco, and Tlacopan; they who could not conquer the people of my father, though they were the greatest military power in all of Mexico. I have a hundred chests of it in my… home.”
Shuri did not know why the room suddenly felt so cold to her. “Where did you get so much of it?” she whispered, her nerveless fingers curling around the ingot.
Namor smiled, then; bright, like that of a child delighted at some secret naughtiness. “The Spanish stole it from its rightful owners. A pack of boats sailing for home laden with gold and silver; a fortuitous hurricane… I simply, ah, took it back. A gift of Chaac, perhaps. Who can say?”
The San Esteban. The room felt as if it was spinning. A man seen flying out of the ocean that day, with pointed ears and a beard… She had not seen his ears at all. His hair covered them. Shuri’s hands began to tremble a little. “You— you are that very man,” she managed. “The one who— who— it is said you possess an army of the dead—”
He scoffed and waved a hand. “You have been listening to fisherman’s tales, the folklore of old women. But in every story told, there is some truth, is there not? Take yours, for an example: a princess on a quest from her secret world to search out a powerful substance, sent alone, sent quietly— but the truth is deeper.” Shuri’s mouth dropped open, astonished beyond words as he continued to speak. “The truth is that your mother, the Queen, reigns in place of your brother, who has died untimely; that she fears the unrest of the people if they discover Wakanda is not the only nation to possess your isipho, that she also fears outside influence might topple the throne, so she has sent you on this errand. You. A young woman, hardly twenty-five if my judgment serves me correctly, a princess who has never set foot in a world built by grief and pain— a princess who has never learned what it is like to live in such a world. Who has never worked with her hands to earn her food, who cannot understand the sacrifice and danger and hardship such a life brings. How can I trust you with my people?”
“I studied much about the customs of this land and its history,” said Shuri, who was quite shocked, and feeling the flimsiness of her defense even as she said it. How does he know about T’Challa? How does he know about Wakanda?
“Reading a thing is not the same as living it,” he said shortly.
Her temper flared again. “You have chests of gold. You are wealthier than half this town. What sacrifice and hardship do you—”
Namor had crossed the floor in one stride and stood before her, eyes like coals. “I have been working with my hands on this land for longer than you have been alive,” he snapped. “All I earn goes to my people, and I am wealthy in more than gold and silver, little princess.”
“How did you know about my brother?” she whispered, inches from his face.
“As I said. I am rich in more than gold.” He stepped back, his eyes still burning, but his voice more controlled. “Go back to your country. Tell your mother that Wakanda need not worry that any isipho will fall into the hands of the Americans. Tell her it is protected already.”
“She will not be satisfied with such an answer,” Shuri said, appalled.
“That is her burden to shoulder, not mine,” Namor replied with that same wickedly mischievous smile from before and a nod, at which the landlady appeared and opened the door again. Shuri jumped, startled: she had forgotten that other people existed. “Good day, little princess. Mind your step on the way out. It would be unfortunate if you were to stumble.”
***
Shuri stormed back to her hotel in a flurry of anger: she was not used to feeling helpless, and did not care for the sensation one bit. Her thoughts tangled and wrapped up around each other like fishing lines: Namor had known about her brother, about her mother, about Wakanda’s inner workings and secrets, about Wakanda’s culture— and she had gone in knowing nothing like a fool, the worst sort, a joke of a diplomat, a mockery of an ambassador. Everything had gone wrong from the start, and she had a dreadful suspicion that it was probably her fault.
Her eyes stung. She wished she could do it all over again, but she could not; she could only keep walking. How dare he say that I am a soft-handed, spoiled princess! Her pride had been wounded— she wished she had thought to explain to him that every royal child had to learn the different trades of every tribe in Wakanda so that they could understand the lives of every man and woman, from a goat-herder to a farmer to a Design Group assistant to a miner; that they were taught self-sustainability and self-reliance; that they could survive in the bush alone for weeks if needed, that they were taught self-defense by the Dora Milaje, the finest fighters in the whole world. But she had not thought of it, and anyway, now that she considered it, it might not have even mattered to Namor if she had.
How can I trust you with my people?
The sky above was the faded, dusty blue of leftover sunset. A few clouds were still pink or purple, but the sun itself had sunk below the horizon, far to the west of the island. Shuri walked past lamplighters and people out for strolls in the humid dusk and found her hotel, then went straight up to her room, locking the door and sitting on the bed with a groan as she hailed her mother on her ring. The communication device glowed purple and projected a flat, two-dimensional image of Ramonda’s elegant face above Shuri’s hand. “Hello, Mama,” she said thickly, wishing she could cry.
“Oh, Shuri. What has happened?”
“Ah, well, I found Namor, but he will not allow me to see whatever isipho he possesses. It seems he is— he—” She took a breath and tried to put her thoughts in order. “I think he is at least three hundred years old, Mama. Or so he claims. I do not know. It was very— strange.”
“What do you mean?”
So Shuri explained all of it from the start: the priest, the story, the walk, the inn; Namor and what little of his story he had seen fit to tell her, ending with his rejection of help from a nation and a princess who did not understand the hardship he and his people had gone through, plus the assurance that whatever resources of isipho he had would be protected from the government of America— and any other that sought it. “I cannot even tell you how insulted I was,” she said heatedly.
“Ah, Shuri,” said Ramonda wearily. “You are young. He is very old, if you are right about his age, and with age comes pride.”
“If I proved to him— somehow— that I could work hard—”
“Shuri, no—”
“I am the only resource Wakanda has here,” she pointed out, not incorrectly. “If I could— I don’t know, secretly work alongside him, in whatever work it is that he does— and earn his trust and his respect, then reveal myself when all is over—”
“Shuri! You do not even know what work it is that he does?”
“No! I was— occupied! It cannot be so bad.” Shuri had a dim idea of something like a fishery, or something to do with railroads: what did Americans in Texas do for a living, anyway? “I know where he is, at any rate, and my luggage has a great deal of clothing that I can use to disguise myself, which, I may remind you, Mama, was your idea.”
“To find information! Not to run away to work on— on ships and railroads and— and in steel factories! Bast!”
“I’ve been on ships for the past two months,” said Shuri practically.
“It is out of the question. You must come home. I will send Nakia of the War Dogs in your place—”
Shuri bristled. “Nakia will have to do weeks and weeks of studying the customs and then take all that time to travel here and find Namor again, which will be impossible; he is not often in the same place.”
Ramonda looked torn. “We can drop her in a stealth ship and cut the time in half. Your underside shields are working beautifully, you know.”
“And when you drop her here, she will have to track down Namor again. America may be barely developed, Mama, but two women from across the ocean asking after the same man will be suspicious to anyone with half a brain.”
The look on Ramonda’s face fell away. “What do you intend to do, then?”
Shuri paced briefly, nibbling her lip. “I am going to follow him. Quietly. Dressed as— well, he knows my face and bearing as a young princess, so—” She went to her trunk and opened it, finding the clothing that had been selected for her. “Ah! Look. Trousers and a shirt and suspenders, and a hat and coat and men’s boots. See? I will dress as a boy and follow him from the inn, wherever he goes, and make myself useful in some— some providential way that I will think about as I go. That way you do not have to consult with the elders on putting more people on this mission, and I do not have to come home in disgrace.”
There was a long silence. “I do not like this plan,” said the Queen Mother of Wakanda tightly, “but you are right: it is the least complicated thing to do. Do you still have enough local currency?”
“Yes, a lot of gold dollars and those paper notes.” Privately, Shuri thought American currency bulky and ridiculous, but that was a conversation for a later date. “I can check out of the hotel tonight and go right back in a disguise.”
“As Nakia would tell you, get your cover story straight so that you do not falter. And take care of yourself, Shuri.”
“I will, Mama. I promise.”
“Good.” Ramonda saluted her and flickered away, and Shuri bent to her task of packing up all her things into one of the leather valises— something heavy thunked out of her pocket and onto the floor, and she realized with a shock that she was still in possession of the gold ingot that Namor had given to her. She picked it up and turned it over, examining it where she knelt.
Should I return it to him? Somehow, she had the idea that such an attempt would be rebuffed— or worse, cause further insult. He must have meant it as a gift. Careless with his wealth to a stranger… an ingot of gold was worth nearly twenty dollars, she knew— two weeks’ pay for an average man in this country. How wealthy must he truly be, if he so readily gave away gold? Her curiosity was burning her nearly alive: what did he work at? And why did he bother, if he was so rich? And who were his people? Where did they live? Where did he live, when he wasn’t in Galveston? And more importantly, was there some hidden nation somewhere in this hemisphere, similar to Wakanda in strength and rich in isipho?
All these questions and more whipped round her head madly as she changed her clothes and packed her valise with the men’s clothing: she washed her face and put on a scarf, then a hat. Her hair would be no obstacle to her disguise: she had cut it off when T’Challa died, and it was still growing out. Yes, she thought, looking critically at herself in the mirror. She could easily pass as some young, fresh-faced boy with her hat pulled low and if she looked a little sullen— like so— Shuri pulled her mouth into a stern frown. Her wide, high set cheekbones and defined jaw lent themselves well to her purpose. Nakia could not do this, she thought, with some satisfaction.
Then, she slipped out of the room, abandoning her other things, and taking only the valise: she had a long walk back to the inn, and the night was coming on fast.