Aidan and Nessa had taken up temporary residence in the old tuath. “So…,” she said. “This is where you spent your youth?” The previous night, she had been too tired and stressed to do much save collapse onto the bed. For the last hours the siblings had dusted and straightened, trying to turn a house into a home. As Nessa tidied she rested her hands here, her eyes there, almost as if in so doing she was making mystic connection with her long-lost mother.
“It was home for many years, yes.”
“I had no better,” she said. “No, you did well.”
“It can’t compare to the lodgings you left.”
She paused, adjusting her apron strings. “You are here,” she said. “And that makes it home.”
Conair poked his head in through the door. “Master’s here,” he said.
“Wish me luck,” said Aidan.
She touched his cheek. “And more.”
Aidan left. Nessa looked at these simple surroundings, and, safe from even her brother’s eyes, began to shake.
“Walk with me?” asked Kai.
“Gladly,” Aidan replied. “How have things progressed?”
“Blessedly. And now we come to matters of reward.”
“I have what I was promised.”
“That was not an answer.”
“There was not a question.”
“Hah! Implied only. Well then—what do you think is the proper reward for a man who has rendered service such as yours?”
“I have thought of this,” said Aidan. “Hoped you would come to me with such a query.”
“And have you an answer?”
Aidan collected himself and then spoke. Tell me, Kai, how often does your military regiment drill?”
“Djibouti Pride? Generally three times a year,” he said. “Why?”
“And it is my understanding that some members travel, so that they participate in training even less frequently. Is that correct?”
“Yes, but …”
“And that as Wakil you can give commissions to men who have given service to the state or nation?”
Kai’s eyes widened. “Aidan!”
The Irishman drew his shoulders back. “I wish to be a member of your regiment, even if the lowliest among them.”
“Aidan,” said Kai sadly, “that cannot be done.”
“Can it not? I hear it is thus in Africa. In Egypt, slaves are soldiers. Officers. Generals. Some have risen high.”
“True. But custom here forbids this. Mamluks can win freedom, but that is the end of it.”
“Custom is made by men of power,” said Aidan. “You are such a man.”
“Aidan … why do you want this impossible thing?”
“I saw the village I built nearly destroyed because the black citizens of the nearest township knew they could kill us, and we would have little recourse to law. We live in an unincorporated territory.”
“I’ve extended protection to you….”
“And for that I am humbly grateful. But if I was a soldier, a real soldier, not a mamluk, I would have all the rights of a citizen.”
“But you’ve already been guaranteed those rights!”
Aidan laughed bitterly. “It is not your fault, Kai. There is no way you could be expected to understand. The government gave out hundreds of those emancipation documents. But paper does not equal privilege. That mob could have burned my entire village to the ground, buried us in shallow graves, and there would hardly have been an investigation. Freedom means being able to kill a man who harms your family—”
“Aidan, the law—”
“As you would, Kai. As your brother and father did. There is only one way to have real freedom: to be strong enough to take it. And there is only one way for me to do that: to be a part of something larger than myself. To earn the right of comradeship with men of strength and honor, until those who would harm me are afraid to act. I could organize my people into a militia, prepared to defend Bilalistan … or our own walls. We would have access to weaponry and training. If my service is honorable my son would inherit my billet. It is a path to honor and freedom. Real freedom.”
Kai shook his head. “Aidan …”
“You, above all, know that real freedom is not given. Nor can it be provided by a protector. It must be purchased at the edge of a sword. Give me the right to wield that sword, in the service of this country. Make this country my own. That is the boon I ask.” He paused. “If you could do this thing for me, I would serve you faithfully, all my days.”
Kai paused, the automatic refusal frozen on his tongue. He more closely examined the man he had known half his life. He had the odd sense that for the first time in years he was really seeing Aidan. Had his friend really changed so? Certainly something had changed. “It is so important to you?”
“Put yourself in my place, Kai. Tell me you would not want the same. You spoke of the path of a holy warrior. Perhaps I cannot embrace that. But let me be at least a man, capable of defending his family and home. Allow my courage and strength and will to take me where it will, regardless of my color. You will never regret it.”
“No,” Kai replied. “I don’t believe I would. Let me think on this, Aidan. Will you trust me to do what I think best here?”
“I trust you with my life … and my family’s.”
Kai peered more deeply into Aidan’s eyes, then clapped his shoulder, sighed, and walked away.
PART V
The Abyss
“Why,” said the student at last, “can we not see Allah? Is he so far away?”
“What separates man from God,” said the teacher, “is but a thin partition. God is infinitely close to man, but man is very far from God indeed.”
“How can this be?” asked the student.
“The entrance to heaven is obscured by a mountain,” said the teacher, “which Man must remove with his own hands. He digs and digs, but the mountain remains.”
“Then there is no hope?”
“If he digs in the name of Allah, one day the mountain will vanish.”
“How can this be?” asked the student.
The teacher smiled. “It was never there at all.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-NINE
The choral house rose like a crown with a golden dome in the center. This was its opening night, an occasion that had achieved a dominant position on every social calendar in southern New Djibouti.
The luminaries were out in force, dressed to display their wealth and social position. The estate of Dar Kush was no exception: Kai, Babatunde, Lamiya, and Nandi were all in attendance, accompanied by Kebwe, Makur, and Fodjour. The Wakil had also purchased a row up high in the back for twenty of his orphans, who were dressed in sparkling-clean cotton shirts, dresses, and breeches.
Accompanied by a roar of applause from the audience, Governor Pili approached down the aisle, accompanied by his wife Pili Hamam and two hulking bodyguards.
“Your Excellency,” said Kai.
“Wakil,” came the curt return.
The Governor and his wife walked past them without the courtesy of another word.
“Their Excellencies seem in a poor mood this evening,” Nandi said.
“And will be in a worse one still once we have had our discussion.” Kai clucked. “I hope he enjoys the music—it is likely to be his last real entertainment for quite some time. I fear I have fallen out of favor.”
“Like the seasons,” Nandi said, “life turns in cycles.”
“At some future point Governor Pili will need you,” Lamiya said. “Then, all will be forgiven.”
“As you trust the Empress will forgive you.”
“Yes,” she said. “Precisely.”
“At times, you have a pessimistic view of human nature,” Fodjour said.
“I have associated with Kai and his jolly barbarians for far too long,” she replied.
They took their seats in the domed amphitheater. The attendants were tough, wiry, kilted men, with the strong brows and shaven heads typical of the Kiku
yu. One of them handed Babatunde a program. He looked at the man’s fingers, and frowned.
Those fingers were strong. Square. Callused. And what did that bulge beneath his shirt conceal?
“Babatunde…?” Kai asked, puzzled by his teacher’s curious expression.
“Nothing,” the Sufi said. “I thought I had seen that man before.” He settled back into his seat. “Let us enjoy.”
“The program seems promising,” said Lamiya.
Babatunde nodded. It was not uncommon for men to carry blades. Pushing aside thoughts of a knife and those strangely tempered hands, he slipped effortlessly into teacher mode. “There are many ways to interpret the Pharaoh’s myth,” he said. The use of the term Pharaoh with a special emphasis was always understood to refer to the Great Pharaoh, not the ambitious toad currently squatting on the Egyptian throne. “So many phases to his legend. This collection of works is unique, allowing a variety of composers to speak to us. As boy, student, young warrior-prince, conqueror, ecstatic, king, philosopher, husband, father, architect of a military empire lasting two thousand years … Alexander played so many roles that no one composer could serve them al!”
After an introductory piece lasting half an hour and displaying a wide and rousing variety of tempos and melodies, the orchestra retreated. After a brief intermission, the Zulu chorale took the stage, and Nandi’s interest increased considerably, virtually radiating pride as the clean-limbed young men and women took the stage.
They numbered three dozen, all younger than sixteen summers, not yet obliged to their mandatory military service, serving their people now by promoting their culture.
Accompanying them were a dozen musicians on a variety of woodwinds, stringed, and membraned instruments. The traditional instruments that formed half of the assembly had been gathered from all over Africa: an agwara trumpet, an enanga East African zither, a mizmar Egyptian folk oboe, even the one-stringed Ugandan rigurigi fiddle.
The conductor was a grave, hollow-faced man in his fifties, with triple scars emblazoned upon each cheek. He bowed to the audience, then turned his back to face his pupils, raised his arms, and began.
The songs formed a story, the story part of a triptych detailing the history of the Zulu migration to Bilalistan.
The most moving section told the story of the legendary Fraternal War, a great battle between two sons, each of whom had been promised the throne by a dying King. This was a story of special significance: it was the tale of Nandi’s grandfather.
The sons had loved each other in childhood, and now deeply regretted the death and destruction that might come to their followers if they continued down the path of war.
As was Zulu custom, the two armies stood on opposite sides of a river, the rushing waters symbolizing the tides of fate, and sang to each other of their courage and unmatched skill in battle. They spoke of sexual prowess, and cruelty, and mercy.
As the songs peaked, Kai glanced at Nandi. Tears sparkled on her beautiful cheeks. The singing swelled in intensity as it became clear that there was no way to avert the coming disaster.
The interplay of voices and instruments was a wondrous thing indeed. After another brief intermission the saga continued, but now al sant. This agreed with Kai, for in the past hour he had come to prefer the purer strains of the Zulu voice. It called to something in him, something deep and almost frozen by convention and duty: the call of life itself, strong and pure, devoid of politics. There was something in the voices that went far beyond mere bravado or braggadocio. We fight to prove who is superior. Then one shall follow the other, as it has always been. But we need not kill each other. Our mothers need not weep, our sweethearts mourn. Listen to the tales of our greatness, tremble before us. Lay your weapons, not your lives, down. Then we can be as one people.
He squeezed Nandi’s hand, and together, they watched and listened.
The evening progressed, until finally the Zulus relinquished the stage. The curtain closed, and the gaslights glowed more brightly for ten minutes, during which patrons stood and stretched.
When the lights died back down, the curtains opened, and in the middle of the stage stood a concert-sized lelit samäy. A slender woman of indeterminate age took her place at the bench. It was obvious from the very first feathery trills that her skills were complete. The membrane’s echoing tones rang from roof and walls and heart until the audience was moving together with the rhythms, smacking their hands against their legs appreciatively.
During one of the great musical swells, a deep bass note reverberated through the walls, shook Kai’s bones … and then continued to roll on, the chandelier overhead trembling with the echo.
At first Kai thought that this was the most stupendous musicianship he had ever witnessed, then some older, deeper part of himself whispered that this was no musical note. No entertainment. This was threat. A second rumble followed. On the circular stage, the musician ceased her play. The choral house quieted as the patrons grew apprehensive.
The hall went silent. Some stood, panicked. Kai’s hand went to his shamshir. This was Ruh Riyȃh, his father’s battle sword. The incident on the bridge had made him far too nervous to carry the lighter, inferior ceremonial blade, regardless of the occasion. “What in nine hells was that?” he asked, not truly requiring an answer.
“Kai—?” said Lamiya. By now, more of the audience was standing than sitting. Behind her came a clamor of fearful voices, panicked questions, and the cries of children. Mamma, is this a part of the show?
“It seems to me,” muttered Kai, “that our northern cousins are no longer satisfied with a blockade.”
Not two hundred cubits away, a shell exploded against the armory’s red walls. Brick and masonry rained into the streets, and sparks leapt up from the wooden frame.
Despite the constant drizzle, a blaze erupted in the ruins. Distantly, the first alarms of the Djiboutan fire company howled into the night.
Amid the wall hangings and sculptures lining the corridors of the choral house, Omar and his Hashassin clustered. Those of appropriately dark skin and African birth were still garbed as guards and ushers. The actual staff had been dealt with hours before, through accomplices infiltrated into the management. Those who cooperated had been allowed to retain life and health, if not freedom. This was neither mercy nor squeamishness: it was good policy for Omar’s enemies to know that surrender was not an automatic death sentence.
Despite their intense training and preparation, anxiety chewed at them all as Omar awaited a signal.
“When, Sayyid?”
“Soon,” said Omar. “For now, we wait. All things come to those who wait.”
He had not long to wait. As if in psychic communication with Omar, only a few dozen cubits away a group of his men were planting a shaped explosive charge against the choral house’s western wall.
Miles to the north, at the side of Lake A’zam, Aidan and Nessa shared food with Chifi and the Dahomy. His stew bowl brimmed with Yemeser-Wote, swimming with split lentils and onions thickened with teff, hot enough to raise sweat on the brow of a Kalahari native. The air was tangy with its spices: clove and ber-ber pepper.
Yala and Ganne peered toward the south, eyes narrowed.
“What is that?” asked Chifi. “Another storm?”
Yala cocked her head. “That? Cannon fire.”
“The battle has begun,” said Chifi, fear and eagerness warring in her voice.
Several of Chifi s workers came running. “Ma’am! We have to move, and now!”
“How is the Tortoise provisioned?” Chifi asked.
Sallah Mubutu spat on the dock. “The fore and aft guns are ready, and have a full supply. The engines are ready. The only problem is that half of our crew is off duty.”
Chifi seemed conflicted. “The ones we do have—can they man their stations?”
“We can launch with a minimal crew—but we need four hands with the water buckets in case of fire, and … we need you.”
“Me?” Chifi seemed gen
uinely stunned at the thought.
“Only you know the engine well enough to captain her.” Sallah said. “If it isn’t you, it’s no one.”
Clearly, Chifi was torn—both frightened and excited by the possibility.
“I need four people I can trust,” she said. “Kai trusts you, Yala, and so do I. Choose two of your women.”
She turned to Aidan. “Aidan—everything you have done until now has been in balance. You fought at the Mosque for your wife and child. You went to New Alexandria in exchange for your sister’s freedom. Some say you wish to fight for this country, as a free man. This is your chance.”
Aidan looked at Nessa, who clung to him. For a moment it seemed he gazed into a mirror. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, searching for words that eluded him. Before he could collect his thoughts, she spoke.
“Aidan,” she said. “Bin Jeffar says that in every life there are a handful of moments that define us.”
He snorted. “Bin Jeffar again.”
“Listen to me,” she said, gripping his shoulders with her thin, strong fingers. “It doesn’t matter where truth comes from. Only that it’s true.” He raised his face to look at her. “You told me you feel wasted as a fisherman. That you found yourself at the mosque. Is that the truth?”
He nodded.
“Then go.” Her blue eyes, eyes that had been dry for so many years, were wet once again. “And what a treasure you are,” she said, pride and fear mingled. She kissed his cheek, and then hugged him. “Go,” she said again. “And then come back.”
CHAPTER EIGHTY
Omar Pavlavi’s men had mixed the fire paste and scurried for cover beneath the shattered wall of offices farther north. There, hidden by shadows and brick, there was barely time for a twenty-count before the street thundered with the force of the detonation.
Inside the opera house, an entire wall burst into flame, smoke, and brick fragments. The reaction within was immediate chaos as smoke gushed into the hall like water through a shattered dike.
“We’ve been hit!” someone yelled. “Evacuate!”
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