“There is reason to all things. If life has seemed sometimes cruel, Allah has been merciful enough to allow me, from time to time, to glimpse His design.”
Sophia’s voice dropped. “The design that brought us all together?”
“Yes,” he said. “And Aidan. A more tangled web than any of us could have known.”
Sophia shook her head. Her black hair was shorter than he had last seen, and lay carelessly about her shoulders. Lack body or strength it might, but he still found it oddly attractive.
And so, he remembered, had other men, notably his uncle Malik. Because of her … because of the world they lived in, Kai had been forced to make a terrible decision. On the one hand, family and law and custom. On the other, honor and his immortal soul. Allah grant he never be forced to make such a choice again.
Sophia seemed almost to be reading his mind. “I am sorry for any pain you suffered because of me. Of us.”
“Allah does not give a man a load exceeding his strength, however heavy it may seem. It remains for each of us to find the way to bear it.”
“Kai,” she said, “if it is any consolation, Aidan and I could not love you more were you flesh and blood. Mean it may be, but any house of ours is your home.”
Kai searched her face, perhaps seeing reflected in her eyes a younger, less complicated man, one he missed terribly, one who might, for a few precious hours, now return to him.
Kai remembered:
The shadow of Malik’s castle clutched at them, every one. Kai, shamshir in hand, faced his fearsome uncle, the greatest swordsman in New Djibouti and, some said, all Bilalistan itself A bloodied Aidan, spent and exhausted in his futile effort to best Malik, had all but collapsed. “By right of arms,” said Kai, “by all that is holy, I say that this man and his family are under my protection.”
They could see that Malik had no wish to hurt Kai, but it seemed that all the threads of all their lives had spun out to lead them to this single, inexorable moment. Kai and Malik knelt in prayer, knowing that they would never meet again, this side of Sirat, the bridge to Paradise.
And then, the duel began. It was a fearsome explosion of steel and nerve, eye-baffling flurries of riposte and counterparty driving sparks from the blades. Still, despite the ferocity of engagement, it was obvious to all that these two men loved each other more than they loved their own lives.
And then he accessed yet another moment, his mind not quite spinning the memories out in temporal sequence, but seemingly more according to their relative emotional weight.
Kai held his dying uncle in his arms.
“I remember your first step,” Malik rasped. “Your father … your father … how proud …”
And then Malik sagged, his fierce spirit finally at rest. Kai wobbled upright, weak from loss of blood and emotional overwhelm. “By right of combat and inheritance, I declare myself lord of this manor. Is there one who would challenge me? Is there …”
Then, strength spent at last he fainted, and collapsed to the ground.
Sophia watched Kai carefully. Impossibly, she seemed to intuit where he had gone during that brief interlude. “Your home, Kai,” she repeated.
Kai gazed at her. Her shy response was an acknowledgment that a thread of something precious extended between them. “If my brother’s mate might be considered my sister, that would warm my heart.”
Sophia smiled, that mere curl of her lips an act of magic. “Oh, Kai. That was done long ago.” She stood. “Dance with me?”
Kai looked around, embarrassed. “That is not my people’s way.”
Aidan clapped his hand on Kai’s shoulder. The Irishman grinned. “You are among my people now. This is my home. The mistress of the house has asked you for a dance. Would you insult her?”
Mousetrapped, Kai stood. His men gawked at him as he did, but he merely scowled at them and offered Sophia his arm. A beautiful flame-haired fiddler struck a tune, and several of the freedmen began to dance.
The fiddler sang:
“My home used to be on a faraway shore …”
Clearly, this was a village favorite, because the mere beginning of the song drew a crowd, and several sang the refrain following the first line:
“Sit ye down laddie and tell us your tale …”
The fiddler seemed to grow more confident with that response, and bore down more seriously on her bow.
“I fear now forever I’ll see it no more.”
And the gathered answered:
Fresh hops and hemp truly make a good ale.
The fiddler went on, the crowd answering her calls in a ritual that went beyond the needs of a particular song, and gave Kai a brief glimpse of what life might have been like in their primitive Irish villages.
I serve under masters not cruel but not kind
Sit ye down laddie and tell us your tale.
Of my health and hardships they pay little mind
Fresh hops and hemp truly make a good ale….
Then all of them joined together in chorus:
Brown red or pale
Hearty and hale
Fresh hops and hemp truly make a good ale.
The melody was strong, but the rhythm seemed halting. Still, Sophia guided him, one small warm hand resting on his side, the other on his shoulder.
My family and kinsfolk are far, far from me
Sit ye down laddie and tell us your tale.
But I wish them good fortune wherever they be
Fresh hops and hemp truly make a good ale….
Again they sang the refrain, and he was surprised to find himself whispering the words as they did:
Brown red or pale
Hearty and hale
Fresh hops and hemp truly make a good ale.
Kai did not drink, had not tasted alcohol in four years. There had been a short time, earlier in his life, when he had hoisted a cup as eagerly as any tavern brawler, and could empathize with the thirst for the magical potion that salved the ills of both body and heart.
Dancing in this way was a completely new experience. For once in his life, Kai the master swordsman felt clumsy and clubfooted.
I miss my good children, I miss my fair wife
But I’ll make what I can of this poor servant’s life….
The world whirled around Kai, and he found himself able to relax a bit, just enough, to ask himself how he might have felt, how he might have dealt with the twin burdens of slavery and ignorance. As much as Allah might have blessed him by making him a member of a superior race, there had also to be blessings in being of European blood. Surely a merciful God would not completely abandon the children He had created from clay. Adam and Hawaa, whom Christians called “Eve,” were names that literally meant “black” and “brown” in Arabic. The first humans, created by His mighty hand had, therefore, been Africans.
But however far from Allah they might stand, these whey-skinned folk seemed of unbreakable spirit. And that was one of the blessings of submission, which all men must ultimately accept. Submission unto Allah, the one true God, submission unto His laws, and for some, submission to those whom Allah had created first and raised high.
One day I’ll be lucky, my freedom to win
Then I’ll roam through this country to find kith and kin.
As a free man I’ll wander far to the west sea.
And what service I do will be service to me….
And there was a fine dream. A fantasy of freedom and travel, placing the cares of the world at your back, seeking strange new horizons. This was a familiar reverie. Despite his riches and power, he had often indulged in it himself. Kai sometimes dreamed of climbing onto his horse and simply riding west, away from everything, into the Nations, there to find adventure, peace, or death. Everything that he had done in the last three years had been an attempt to postpone the very actions he now undertook, a full engagement with the responsibilities of Wakil. The responsibilities of the only surviving son of Abu Ali.
As a free man I’ll purchase a house
of my own
Made of good wood and good thatch and good stone….
Sophia’s hand was warm and soft on his back, and he closed his mind tightly, refused to let it wander to a time that those hands had been more intimate, more giving. The time when Sophia’s every secret had been his to command …
Or so he had imagined.
As a free man my days will be pleasure to keep
I’ll live my life gently and pass in my sleep….
A sentiment for a slave. There could be no freedom without responsibility. He hazarded that Aidan, now a leader of his people, had come to understand that. Kai depended upon that understanding, and cursed himself for that dependence. In a better world, it would be possible to accomplish great feats without placing those you love in jeopardy. But this was not that world. Perhaps, if he gambled well, he could help create such a place, a world of honor and faith, rather than one of wealth and power.
But I work a long day and I sleep a short night
So this mug full of beer is a comforting sight.
Pray talk with me friend while I finish this brew
With a few more like this I’ll be in a good stew….
Kai was uncomfortable with his men’s good-natured hooting, but Sophia’s smile was welcoming enough to thaw his reserve, and he fell beneath the music’s spell.
He felt his way into the rhythm, and the steps that Sophia used to wind her way through it, until finally the final refrain arrived and the tune itself came to its harmonious conclusion.
“Done!” said Kai, somewhat relieved. “And wondrously so.”
“Your people do not dance?” said Sophia. “But I have seen them!”
“Men do not dance with women,” he explained, “except their wives and fiancées.”
“Ah.” Her eyes twinkled. And others who are special, yes, Kai?
“But what a gift!” he cried, breaking eye contact. “And I have gifts for you as well. Makur!”
The tall, thin Makur led a pair of pack camels to them. Both blacks and freedmen crowded about as they unburdened the animals.
“Rifles, Aidan!” a villager exulted, tearing a crate open. “Two of ’em!”
“Unless Kai has changed,” said Aidan, “they are the best. Let me see!”
The freedman tossed Aidan a Benin breech-loader. Kai noted his friend’s effortless catch and smiled in approval. The Irishman’s coordination had always been superb, and now, for once, that would be of critical importance. Aidan examined the rifle with increasing relish, running his hands over the stocks fine dark grain, the barrel’s cool gray-black metal. “Yes!” Aidan crowed.
“It meets your approval?” Kai asked, already knowing the answer.
“Exceeds it by far.”
“Aidan!” a slave said eagerly, inspecting a keg half as tall as he. “Beer!”
Aidan hoisted an eyebrow. “This wouldn’t be…?”
“Hemp beer, yes,” Kai said. “And I seem to remember that you enjoyed hemp itself—or at least its fumes. There is leaf and seed in that bag.”
“We’ll make you an honorary Irishman yet,” Aidan said.
“I’m not certain I could survive the revels,” Kai said.
The other villagers gathered around the pack animals, distributing this copper pot and that bolt of spun silk, laughing and sharing almost as if the previous night’s horrors had never occurred at all.
With a new lightness in his step, Aidan led Kai around the crannog, pointing out the village’s myriad features.
“And how did you seal the logs?” Kai asked, peering closely at the fence.
“Clay—the lake banks have a good quality.”
“Do you remember Dar Kush’s brickworks?”
“Indeed. I worked there a month, once upon a time.”
“Mixing straw with your clay, and then baking, would produce an even stronger wall.”
Aidan nodded. “You’re right, I’m sure. None of my people know how to do this. If you would teach me, I would teach them, and we would make a brickworks.”
Kai grinned. “Sergeant Makur served an apprenticeship as a brickmaker. Lend me three of your smartest young men, and I’ll have Makur teach them.”
Thank you,” Aidan said sincerely, then brightened. “How is Babatunde?”
“Full of riddles as always.”
“Are you solving them?”
“All things in time,” said Kai. “They still hurt my head, though.”
The two friends laughed as they reminisced, catching up on all that had happened in the intervening months. Together they toured Aidan’s crannog, wrought in an attempt to bring his people safety and stability.
After Kai had much admired the efforts, they found a quiet corner, and Aidan pressed his old friend for answers.
“Kai … it is wonderful to see you,” he confessed. “And your timing is … well, almost miraculous. But I can’t believe that you rode all the way out here, bearing gifts, just to teach us how to make bricks or to dance with my wife.”
“Lovely though she is.”
“Lovely though she is. I know you better than that. What do you need of me?”
“So,” Kai said, more heavily now. “Are pleasantries concluded?”
Sophia had joined her husband. “I hope not.”
“Let us go somewhere more private. I have … something to tell you.”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Aidan’s home was twice as large as his old Ghost Town dwelling, but of much the same rectangular design. Kai and his hosts sat by the fire, enjoying the warmth of smoldering logs and companionship. As Sophia kept Mahon quiet and occupied, Kai finally began to speak his mind.
“This all concerns the Caliph’s household,” he said, after he had explained the nearness of war, and the risks for southern Bilalistan. “According to spies, the Caliph has a deciphering device used for secret messages with Egypt.”
“What?” said Aidan. “Please, shwei-shwei. Slow down.”
“Ciphering is like putting a message into another language. A cipher machine speaks that language.”
“A talking machine?” Sophia asked.
“Yes. If you write in Arabic, it speaks in some tongue none of us can understand. This one speaks hieroglyphs.”
“What?”
“Old Egyptian, but scrambled so that not even a scholar can read it. Information suggests it is almost certainly kept in the Caliph’s office, in his home, which is closely guarded. If we had it, it might be possible to read his messages and learn their plans. The question is: how to get to it?”
“Yes,” Sophia said. Although she seemed not to have been listening, her voice was decidedly suspicious. “How?”
“We believe that there is one weakness in the Caliph’s security,” said Kai.
“And that is?” asked Aidan.
“He enjoys his gambling. And his favorite game is the Arena. Fighting slaves.”
“I have heard of this,” Sophia said. “There were such arenas in Rome, I believe. The Egyptians enjoyed watching Romans break each other’s bones.”
“Such contests are rarely to the death,” said Kai. “But savage nonetheless. He hosts local tournaments, then feasts and whores the winners.”
Kai paused, and there was a world of significance in the hollow moment. “On his estate.”
Aidan’s face flattened. “I see.”
Kai continued rapidly. “My sources say that champions have considerable freedom of motion within the estate’s walls.”
“Considerable freedom.” Aidan seemed to bite at the words. He stood and began to pace. “And you think that such a person might well find and steal this … Egyptian talking machine?”
“Yes,” Kai said.
Sophia looked from her husband to Kai and down at her child before tilting her face back up again. “And what precisely has this to do with us?”
Instead of answering, Kai opened a leather pouch and withdrew a stiff, glossy sheet of paper. Likenesses of men and women glistened on the sheet, dresse
d in finery from a dozen nations and peoples. Aidan shook his head. “What manner of image is this?”
“It is called a light-painting, and it is the coming thing. Sunlight paints chemical images on the paper, using a focusing lens. I do not completely understand.”
Aidan shook his head in amazement. “This is incredible. So lifelike …” He scanned the faces. “But what has this … to do … with …”
And then he stopped dead, his eyes gone wide.
Kai could hear shouts and laughter from outside his old friend’s home, and was gladdened that his men had found welcome here, where it might have been entirely reasonable to encounter hostility. After all, what had these people to love about Africans?
He found the silence as Aidan stared actually soothing, like placid water between crashing waves.
Sophia broke the silence. “Aidan…?”
“Good Christ,” he whispered. “Where did you get this?”
“I was in a meeting in Radama, the capital. All the attendants had such images rendered. I found this one of interest, and arranged for the artist to make me a copy.”
Aidan’s fingers traced the face of a light-haired white woman who stood next to a black man in military uniform. The Irishman seemed lost. “So like my mother…,” he muttered.
“Aidan?” Sophia asked, growing alarmed.
“Hair?” Aidan said, ignoring Sophia’s prompt.
“Blonde, like yours. But redder.”
“Like strawberries,” he whispered. “When was this made?”
“A few weeks ago.”
Aidan pointed at the man beside her. “Who is he?”
“Admiral Amon bin Jeffar, one of the most powerful nobles in New Alexandria. A brilliant, wealthy man of good family.” Another pause. “I was told her name was Habiba. It means ‘sweetheart.’”
Aidan closed his eyes, fingers gripping at the wooden table. To his left, the fire crackled. “What else?”
“She has borne no children. They say she is Irish.”
“What else?” Aidan’s eyes were closed tightly, as if muscular contraction could protect him from emotional pain.
“It is said she came to his household about ten years ago, possibly from Eire. A ‘wild ghost’ they call her, meaning she was not born here. Since the death of his wife, Habiba has traveled extensively with the Admiral. Once, they say, even so far as the court of the Pharaoh.”
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