Lion's Blood Page 8

  But it mattered not how the head of the Ulema, Bilalistan's spiritual government, might imitate their home. There was only one Lake A’zam, only one Abu Ali, to whom thousands owed fealty, and for whom three children lived and breathed. Only one Dar Kush.

  Chapter Ten

  With a brassy, blasting trumpet fare, a detachment of ten mounted soldiers arrived at the front gate, led by the imperial figure of Colonel Shaka kaSenzangakhona, usually referred to as Shaka Zulu. Inkosi, or hereditary chief, among the Zulu, Shaka was the most powerful non-Muslim in all New Djibouti, perhaps in all Bilalistan. Thousands of Zulu fighting men owed allegiance to the giant, and those impi battalions had proven themselves against the Apache, the Northmen, and in skirmishes with the west coast Chinese settlements.

  Shaka's deadly tactics and absolute battlefield discipline had earned his family impressive land grants in northern New Djibouti and Azania. There, with his younger brother Cetshwayo, Shaka ruled like a king. Mounted on a night-black Zulu stallion, the colonel was a sight to inspire awe: lean and muscular as a desert lion, cheeks prominent as an Abyssinian's but grooved with the vertical marks of his traditional Zulu scars. The arrival caused a ripple among the guests, especially the women, who whispered that Colonel Shaka actively sought a thanthu, a third wife to manage household affairs.

  Abu Ali strode to him, smile wide. "Colonel! Please, welcome to my humble abode. The blessings of Allah upon you."

  Shaka reined his horse and declined his head slightly. Regally, Abu Ali thought. This one has ambitions.

  "Sawubona," Shaka said in Zulu. "Have I leave to enter?"

  "With my whole heart," said Abu Ali. "Come. Refresh yourself."

  Shaka dismounted in full formal military coat and cloak. An ostrich feather angled from his triangular red cap, and a necklace of leopard teeth graced his neck. Not strictly military, of course, but who would challenge him? The man was an animal, and Abu Ali always felt just a breath of alarm on the back of his neck when the Zulu visited. A servant took the stallion. Shaka barely noticed the man, who bowed low, common sense or some primitive survival instinct preventing him from meeting the great man's eye. Shaka had slain more than one clumsy servant, flipping the riwâl blood tax disdainfully over his shoulder to fall beside the hapless and writhing transgressor.

  "I feared you would miss the festivities," said the Wakil.

  Another man approached from the direction of the castle. An unwary observer would have thought magic was at play, for in face and form he was nearly Abu Ali's image. But instead of the Wakil's djebba, this man wore the same military garb favored by Shaka, and had even more medals arrayed on his chest, including the coveted gold-and-purple Pharaoh's Crest, the highest honor a living officer could receive.

  This was Malik ibn Rashid al Kushi, the Wakil's brother, younger than he by only ten months. Malik, often called Al Nasab in honor of his battlefield prowess, was more warrior than statesman, and when he clenched his jaw or chewed, the pale angry line of an old dueling scar appeared just above the left jawbone.

  But for the absolute leanness of his waist and thickness of his forearms, he was Abu Ali's double. They had even married sisters, Kessie and Fatima, although the marriages had come years apart. When the Wakil looked at Malik, he felt himself gazing into a mirror reflecting another, simpler, perhaps better life. A warrior's life was better than a statesman's: steel might slay and scar, but it never lied.

  Malik held out his arm in sincere greeting. Volatile the Zulu certainly was, and Abu Ali did not entirely trust him, but any man who had witnessed him in battle knew Shaka to be a fierce and valuable ally. For the sake of the nation, Abu Ali kept his private feelings to himself.

  "Shaka," said Malik. "How goes the frontier?"

  Shaka gripped his old comrade's arm. "The Aztecs nip, we bite back."

  Malik's eyes narrowed, merry hell burning within. "They will learn."

  "Not too soon, I hope." Shaka grinned. "The game is good."

  Abu Ali called to his eldest son, who had maintained a respectful distance. "Ali!" he cried. "Come! Join us in the study."

  "Yes, Father," Ali answered, both grateful and obedient.

  A hawkish smile split Shaka's scarred and coal-dark face: "Ah. Young Ali!" He clasped hands with the boy, and the boy's fingers were swallowed in the gnarled fists. "Is the Empress's niece still in your household?"

  Ali coughed. "Yes, sir."

  Malik nudged him insinuatingly. "And it seems likely she shall remain, hey?"

  Even Abu Ali laughed at that, despite his son's evident embarrassment.

  "To unite Rashid al Kush with the royal house of Abyssinia is quite an accomplishment," Shaka said. "If certain matters ever come to a head . . ."

  "Certain matters which I fear are inevitable," Abu Ali said soberly.

  "Perhaps. If they do, such alliance will prove invaluable."

  "Allah be charitable," Malik said. "But never was an alliance forged more pleasurably, eh, boy? The Empress finds soul mates for her nieces and nephews, and we callused veterans speak of politics."

  Ali couldn't meet the older men's eyes, and they roared merrily at his discomfort.

  Abu Ali noted Kai and Elenya mousing around the discussion's edge. "Can we come?" Kai asked eagerly.

  Uncle Malik's fingers dug into Kai's tightly braided hair. "Your friends would miss you, young ones. Represent us at the party." And the men began to walk back to the house.

  Kai watched them leave. He just knew that they were going to have serious man talk, the kind his father rarely indulged in around him, and more than anything in the world he wanted to know what they were going to say. "Hail Kilal," Kai muttered. "Horse balls."

  Elenya balanced her little fists on her waist. "Ooh, Kai. I'm gonna tell . . .”

  "You do, and I'll tell him who stole the berbere," he said, referring to a pot of Kushi pepper gone mysteriously missing from the kitchen.

  "But I stole it for you," she sputtered.

  Kai's mind was already haring off in another direction. What might he do? Almost immediately, a plan came to mind. "Come on," he said. The two of them raced after the grown-ups.

  At the home of the Wakil, it was vital that three-storied Dar Kush be even more impressive inside than out. From the exterior, the countless hand-formed roof tiles, the intricately detailed stucco relief, the white dome of its Mosque, and the peaked height of its bell tower radiated wealth and power. But through the massive double wooden doors lay another world, one which eclipsed even the grandeur of the external edifice.

  There were times when even Abu Ali considered his home ostentatious, but if luxury was a burden of power, it was one onus Allah would hear no prayers to relieve.

  The surface of the central pool was like a rippling mirror: the Wakil could easily shave himself in its reflection. The walls, ceilings, and columns gracing the eight thousand square cubits of the ground level were worked in low-relief planes of finely molded, colored and textured plaster which caught the light and drew the eye ceaselessly from one wonder to another.

  The central atrium caught the sunlight so perfectly that even at dusk he sometimes paused to read the thousands of verses of Qur’anic poetry inscribed on the walls or contemplate the murals depicting the wonders of Paradise. The interior walls were also covered in paintings, sculptures, captured armaments, and maps. Shaka nodded in admiration as he passed this or that treasure, although his only comment was to wonder whether "polishing all these fine things mightn't tax even the fabled sword arm of Abu Ali."

  The Wakil chuckled politely, but mused that there had been a time, not so long before, that Shaka would not have made even so carefully veiled an insult. Although his brother Malik was the duelist, in matters of honor any free citizen had recourse to trial by sword or knife.

  Ali was oblivious to his father's discomfort, strutting the halls as if he personally had led the charges and sacked the cities, delighted to be in such august company. Malik was quick to notice his nephew's affectation, and h
is lips curled up in amusement.

  "So tell me," he said to Shaka. "Do you believe the Aztecs actually eat human flesh?"

  Ali flinched, but Shaka nodded gravely. "In ceremony, yes. The heart of an enemy for courage, or to give praise to their god."

  "Quetzalcoatl?" Ali inquired. "Is that the name of their demon god?"

  "The feathered serpent," said Abu Ali. "Yes."

  Shaka grunted. "These Aztecs fight like demons, and die like men."

  Malik let out a deep sigh of regret. "I envy you. One more campaign . . ."

  Shaka barked laughter and slapped his old friend on the back. "And another after that, and another after that, hey? Such games are the only fit practice for men like us, Malik. If there were no Aztecs, we'd have to fight each other, hey?" They laughed roundly, the kind of dark, guarded laughter that said: How right you are.

  The four warriors turned the corner and disappeared. For a moment the hall was clear, and then Kai and Elenya appeared, creeping down the corridor after them. They were the very soul of stealth. Outside the Wakil's study, Kai slid a rectangular metal insulation plate away from the wall, revealing a grille. These grilles were part of Dar Kush's central heating system, and the plate on the other side was usually open. Elenya nudged to get up next to him. They jostled each other, contending for position. Elenya put her lips next to his ear. "What are you doing? What are they going to say?"

  "They'll talk about the Aztecs," Kai whispered in return. "Quiet, or they'll hear."

  They peered into Abu Ali's study as their elders settled around a central table. The athenaeum was part trophy room and part library, crammed with scrolls, armor, and maps of past and present military campaigns. On the floor lay a lion skin, trophy of Abu Ali's first spear hunt with the Masai. Weapons from around the world were arrayed on the walls and above the double-wide fireplace: muskets, javelins, krisses, daggers, triple irons and bola knives. Schematics for armored boats and steam catapults decorated the walls, alongside captured flags from Vineland and Azteca.

  Although Kai knew his father considered him too bookish, Abu Ali's own study held thousands of volumes, including histories, tomes on strategy from China and India, and of course the fabled On Warfare by the Pharaoh himself. Kai had read it and been terribly surprised that instead of bloodthirsty exploits, Alexander had expounded at length on the value of administration and supply lines. Fascinating. Kai loved his father's study and treasured every minute he spent in it, wrapping himself in the memorabilia of the man he loved and admired most in all the world.

  When big brother Ali entered the room, one of the first things he did was glance over at the grate, and Kai knew they had been spotted. Ali said nothing to their father, but did seem to position himself in front of the grille each time bodies shifted in the room.

  At one point Ali moved away, and Kai got a clear view of the great map on the western wall. It delineated the territory of New Djibouti, which stretched from the Bay of Azteca all the way north to Wichita, so recently purchased from the eponymous tribe. North of Wichita was Azania and a no-man's-land of disputed territories, and further still was the Viking settlement of Vineland. A disputed strip ran north-south between New Djibouti and the aboriginal Nations. The western Nations were often at war with Azteca, but sometimes traded with them.

  To the east was New Alexandria, which held the capital of Bilalistan as well as being its major economic and manufacturing nerve center. Those four major provinces—New Djibouti, Wichita, Azania, and New Alexandria—were detailed closely: major settlements and towns were marked, as well as some of the larger personal holdings.

  Perched on the Wakil's main table was an intricately crafted three-dimensional map of all New Djibouti. Kai's angle from the grate was irritatingly obscure. He climbed a trophy case to a louvered shutter at the top of the wall, where he could look down on the display.

  There had been changes since last Kai examined the table model. Little red flags marked out vital points, or perhaps battle sites. Miniature Aztec horsemen were poised on the west side of the Chinaka River, Muslim and Zulu horsemen on the east.

  ":—you may well get your chance, Malik," Shaka was saying. "The Infidels have rattled their spears at the Shrine of the Fathers."

  Ali looked shaken. "They wouldn't dare!" The Shrine of the Fathers was one of the most sacred sites in all Bilalistan. There lay the bodies of the holy men who had first blessed this region over two hundred years ago. Pilgrims they were, seeking only to fulfill the dream of honored Bilal (Allah protect his name). "The sun will rise in the west," the great Abyssinian had declared upon his deathbed. "Seek to the west." The "sun" he spoke of was thought to be Islam itself, its new dawning symbolic of a chance to begin anew, without the divisive power struggles that had tainted the Prophet's teachings in his own land.

  The bravest, strongest, and luckiest of those who followed Bilal's instructions now held a land of unparalleled wealth and opportunity.

  Ali's disbelief still echoed in the room. Abu Ali rested his fists on the table map, glared down at it. "They would dare," he said. "The kufurin fear nothing but their Feathered Demon."

  Ali's face was tight with rage. "Allah grant me the honor to strike blows in His service."

  The model of the shrine was fist-size, out of proportion to the other map details. It was a two-storied mosque with a golden dome in the very center of its flat roof. The shrine was rather curiously set away from most of the other, marked-out settlements. Ali traced his finger around its periphery reverently.

  Malik watched his nephew with interest. "Tell me, Ali."

  "Yes, Uncle?"

  Kai could not see his uncle's face, but guessed that it was composed in the same kind of relaxed intensity that he wore when administering a lesson. Kai cringed at that thought. He both loved and feared his uncle, and in some ways was closer to him than to his own father, the august Abu Ali. Fathers, especially men of the Wakil's stature, sometimes had little attention for their younger sons, but Malik's weekly combat lessons were both intimate and awe-inspiring. It was Malik, not the Wakil, who had taught Kai to walk and ride. Malik ibn Rashid Al Kushi was New Djibouti's greatest sword master, a blooded warrior and accomplished duelist whose mere presence in a room sufficed to hush the voices of hard, dangerous men.

  "What actions," Malik asked in measured tone, "would you take in defense of the shrine?"

  Ali hesitated for a moment, perhaps knowing that the adults were watching and judging him. Kai glimpsed Shaka Zulu, and the challenging expression on his lean scarred face.

  For a long moment Ali seemed frozen. "Well . . . I, uh—"

  Then the cloud passed from him as inspiration struck. Ali began swapping bronze horse and cannon figurines about. "The Al'Amu is in a very defensible—"

  Kai's father snuffled. " 'Mosque Al'Amu' is an offensive term, Ali." Kai had to stifle a laugh. That was a slip on Ali's part. Al'Amu meant "a crazy place," and the mosque was certainly located in the middle of nowhere. Pilgrims traveled a thousand miles afoot to visit it. The pious called it the Shrine of the Fathers, but the labels "Crazy Mosque" or "Mosque Al'Amu" were probably in equal currency.

  "Sorry, Father," Ali said. "The shrine abuts a gully, and the front gates are thick. The plain before it is very vulnerable to rifle fire from the roof."

  Shaka nodded approval. "Good," he said. Shaka was not Muslim, did not believe in Allah, so his interest in the shrine was purely political. Whatever beliefs he did have he kept to himself. The Zulus were their own people and a force apart. They lived by themselves in their kraals, generally in northern New Djibouti or in Azania, where they had been granted large tracts of land, and served as a buffer between Bilalistan and the Northmen. Zulus tended to marry other Zulus, and voted in the Senate as a bloc. When it came to fighting, however, there were none better, and it was their lethal and indomitable skill in this arena that had secured them special privilege in both the old world and the new.

  Ali was warming to his task. Although he had never bee
n to war, he had studied his military texts faithfully. "A defending force in the mosque could hold off an army. I would order my men to create an outer perimeter, and bolster them with riflemen."

  Malik grunted approval, but Shaka was not satisfied. "Good, but passive.”

  "Passive?" Abu Ali said, curious.

  "Weak," Shaka said more bluntly. "My men are the hammer. The mosque is the anvil." He indicated the positions of each with chopping, stabbing motions of his hands. "I divide my forces, create a diversion, appear to send half my men away. When the enemy falls upon the walls of the mosque, we strike from the forest, trapping them, crushing them." He snatched up one of the Aztec horse models, his thick fingers squeezing. "We take no prisoners," he said. "We make them eat their own hearts."

  Shaka was shaking, something rhythmic and hungry working its way through his body. He danced up and down where he stood, and in a near frenzy swept his broad, thick hand down like a crashing wave, smashing the little Aztec soldiers from the board.

  The room was utterly silent. Kai held his breath. There was an intoxicating intensity to the man. For a moment Kai tried to imagine someone like Shaka bearing down on him, bloody spear raised on high . . . and felt a wave of nauseated horror sweep over him. Could anything or anyone stand before such a creature? Al-Muhaymin preserve him!

  Abu Ali, ever the statesman, made a placating gesture, turning his palms up to the ceiling. "Yes, well . . . let us hope it won't come to that, shall we?"

  Malik and Shaka exchanged glances. These men could hope no such thing. His uncle and the awful Shaka lived for war.

  Abu Ali rubbed his hands together smartly. "Well," he said. "We will have more time to speak of war, but later. Today is a day of celebration!"

  Shaka stared at Abu Ali as if he were a stranger, perhaps an enemy. Or was that just an illusion, just Kai's overactive imagination? Because in the next moment Shaka's energy had transformed, and he was expansive and friendly, a jolly bear, just another party guest. "Yes," he said. "Of course. I thirst! Lead me to food and drink. I carry half the road in my throat."