Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  Laughing and talking, they left the room. Kai scrambled down from his perch and grabbed Elenya by the shoulder, pulling her into a cubbyhole behind a display case for armor. The men passed without seeing them—

  Except for Ali, who cast them a single backwards glance, wagging his forefinger mockingly.

  Kai stuck out his tongue in reply, and as soon as they were around the corner, took Elenya's hand and headed into the recently vacated room.

  Elenya couldn't bring herself to cross the threshold. "Kai . . ." she said nervously. "We shouldn't be here."

  But Kai wasn't listening to her. He was staring at the board, studying it. So intense was his concentration that he barely noticed when she tiptoed up behind him.

  "Kai . . ." she finally said, fascinated. "What would you do?"

  He spoke dreamily. "Call up a thousand balloons, and drop fire on them from the sky!" His voice arced up, in his mind the sky filled with flying carpets, far beyond the reach of Aztec spears and arrows. Infidels milled in confusion as death rained from above. Elenya clapped her hands delightedly.

  "Whoosh!" he cried, and imagined a fireball splashing atop a hapless Aztec soldier. "Whoosh! Whoosh!"

  Chapter Eleven

  White clouds shrouded the full moon, casting a diffused light upon the celebration. The merriment had died down a bit, and most of the three hundred dignitaries had seated themselves at the long, low banquet tables erected in preparation for the evening meal. Eight hundred commoners sat on linen squares, each large enough to accommodate an entire family. Servants in gloves and aprons as pale as their skin attended to all needs and wants, serving steaming portions of chicken wot and Kenyan samosas, Moroccan lamb tandine with pears and spiced vegetables simmered in ghee.

  Kai always loved these fancy dinners, the servants buzzing around them like smiling bees. At times like this, everything seemed right to him, all in the world in its place, by Allah's design. There were unfamiliar servants at this party: a new clutch had arrived only three months ago and were only now integrated into the household staff. He spied a new woman and boy who looked to be mother and son, the woman red-haired, the boy's yellow as the sun. The woman's smile was shy if tired, but the boy seemed less happy.

  Why? Kai wondered. It had to be fun to work in the kitchen. Kai wished he could spend time there, stealing grits and slices of bobotie meat loaf, sharing song with the others. A servant's life was good, an easier, simpler one than that demanded of the noble class, full of obligations and choices. Many times Kai wished that he had nothing to concern him but following simple instructions and honorable labor. The servants were lucky.

  The red-hair served him a beautifully rendered chicken doro alicha, a dish said to be a favorite of the Empress herself. Presented on an edible plate of injera teff bread, doro alicha was an utterly succulent collation of berbere spice, clarified butter, eggs, lime, and onions. "Yes, fine," he murmured, and bowed shallowly in dismissal. The red-hair backed hurriedly away.

  He ran his hands over the tableware, the plates, the napkins. Everything was in its place. Still, he had little appetite and a pale mood, and knew precisely why:

  Next to Kai sat his brother, Ali, and across from Ali was Ali's betrothed, Lamiya Mesgana.

  The Empress herself had declared Lamiya his brother's soul mate, his feqer nӓfs. On a day prophesized by the Empress, when both had achieved their majority and the stars were properly aligned, the two would wed.

  Of fifteen summers, Lamiya was small compared to most noblewomen, but sweetly proportioned as women of the Afar tended to be. Her folk hailed from the shores of Lake Abbe on the edge of the Abyssinian province of Djibouti. Her grandfather, now wealthy in land and shipping, had once been a herdsman, and that good sturdy bone and blood helped make her what she was.

  Her dark eyes were luminous, her hair dressed in the Afar fashion that turned a coiffure into living artwork. For this celebration her maids had braided and beaded her hair into a complexity that would have baffled a mathematician.

  Her nose was slightly pointed, her ears small and perfect. Beneath her partial veil she seemed always on the verge of a smile. She had the Afar habit of leaning her head forward slightly, in shyness perhaps, but perhaps also because it allowed her to present her very best profile to the world.

  No, that was wrong. Lamiya had no lesser angle, no perspective from which she was less than a jewel. It was all Kai could do to find appetite to eat in her presence, to remember how to bite meat from bone, or loosen his throat sufficiently to swallow.

  Lamiya. Light of the World, indeed.

  A servant whose colorless hair was bound back from her face ladled rice onto his plate. Kai accumulated a respectable mound before raising a hand in acknowledgment. She continued on another half-motion, then seemed flustered and tried to scoop some back up.

  "Gafar," she said in a thick and clumsy accent. "Pardon."

  Kai could only shake his head, trying not to become irritated. The stupidity of new servants never ceased to amaze him. He was surprised they had ever been able to survive on their own.

  The Wakil stood and raised his cup. “To my children. And to Lamiya Mesgana, of Abyssinia's Sultânî-y Dar, the Royal House. In the two years you have lived among us you have become like a daughter to me . . . and it will be a proud day when you are closer still."

  She glanced at Ali, then lowered her eyes to the table, the slightest of mysterious smiles curling her lips. "Thank you, Wakil," she said modestly.

  Kai felt his own face heat. Oh, to win but one such glance!

  The men at table pounded fists and knives, cheering the couple.

  The Empress had dreamed a dream of love, a vision of Lamiya and Ali as soul mates, joined before birth and for all eternity. So it was proclaimed, and so it would be.

  But for all the talk of feqer nӓfs the Wakil had implied to Kai that it was curious that the Empress's more than thirty nieces and nephews had all obeyed her dreams, and that all had married into wealth and power. It would be crass to suggest that political necessity wore the mask of true love, but Abu Ali had winked and suggested that Kai would profit by a careful study of history in the matter of royal weddings.

  A political union it might be, but that hardly detracted from its obvious joys. Kai raised his glass of nectar high and managed a smile, but it was impossible for him not to think, She reminds me of Mother. Why is Ali always the lucky one?

  Pony snorting, the knight swept down from his corner, bringing swift and certain death to the hapless Mamluk. Blood spattered the Mamluk's face and he dropped to his knees, fluid dripping from his scalp.

  Then he dipped his fingers in it, licked them, and loped grinning off the satranj board, escorted by the referees.

  The onlookers cheered.

  Here on the manicured lawn fronting the main house, a great canvas satranj board, thirty-two cubits to the side, had been rolled down, that the house of the Wakil and that of his honorable neighbor Djidade Berhar might once again contest for highest prize. Pieces were played by young servants and children of the guests, each wearing a badge to proclaim his role: Sultan, Sultana, Vizier, Mamluk, and Castle. All were afoot except the Knights, who rode ponies specially bred for live-action satranj.

  Djidade Berhar's estate shared Lake A’zam with Dar Kush, and although larger in land area was not so wealthy in minerals or plowable acreage. And Djidade Berhar, of course, had not nearly so much influence with the Senate as the Wakil, who had been appointed by the Caliph himself. But the corpulent Djidade was perhaps the second wealthiest man in New Djibouti. He also fancied himself a satranj wizard, and had once traveled to Alexandria to challenge the Pharaoh's champion.

  More fascinating to the observers was the fact that representing Dar Kush was none other than Kai's sister, Elenya. She was a recognized prodigy in the game, the third-ranked junior player in all Bilalistan. Elenya had first beaten her own father at the age of six, and tutors from India's Mogul Court had declared her a future world contender. Still, she wa
s young enough to wipe greasy fingers on the loose sleeves of her Moroccan caftan and lick her mint abltij stick while Djidade Berhar fretted and fumed over his next move.

  Kai wore a red hemp robe, as befitted his position as a Mamluk, a slave-soldier of the lowest rank. Mamluks could move only a single square at a time, and only straight forward unless capturing. Kai felt absurdly vulnerable, certain to be wantonly slain. And it was disgusting to be controlled by a little sister, be she genius or dolt.

  Lose a Mamluk to gain a Sultan was ancient and irritating wisdom. It made his death as certain as the next sunrise. But if by some miracle he did survive, if Elenya, in her infinite mercy, would move him safely down his file to the last row, he could be promoted to the level of any piece on the board except Sultan. Usually a player who successfully advanced her Mamluk chose promotion to Sultana or Knight, the Sultana being the most deadly, the Knight capable of unpredictable movement.

  If that happened he could swoop down the board, swinging the cow bladders filled with cherry syrup that ended an enemy piece's "life." That fate had befallen Kai last year, and he purely loathed it. With a dab of luck, vengeance might be his.

  "Ah!" Ali was saying from the sidelines. "The Knight! Beware!"

  The Knight was portrayed, with gusto, by Djidade Berhar's son, Fodjour. Fodjour was as plump as his father, an earnest but not brilliant student, an exceptional bowman but only mediocre on horseback. He and Kai had been rivals since they had learned to walk.

  Fodjour's father leaned back in his enormous rattan armchair. Despite the cooling night breezes, droplets of sweat collected in the dark folds of his neck. Two slave girls fanned him with silken paddles.

  "What say you now, Elenya? Your move." Berhar's gaze went to the dual-faced, freestanding satranj clock imported all the way from Benin. Taller than Elenya, it was all flesh-toned ebony, glass, brass, and spring steel, handcrafted by the greatest clock makers in the world. It cost more than some sharelanders earned in a year.

  Every eye shifted to the little girl, all but swallowed by her chair's plush cushions. She examined the board, tongue nicking at her candy, and narrowed her eyes and mouth. 'These things take time, sir," she said in a mock adult voice. "I have the clock."

  Kai watched Elenya's eyes. He knew that contemplative expression well. She was taking in the entire board, thinking moves ahead in a way he had never been able to manage. Kai felt a single drop of nervous perspiration roll down his neck and wend its way under his robes.

  From the corner of his eye he watched Fodjour and his pony. The Knight was just one jump away. If Elenya didn't move Kai, Fodjour's father might well choose to pick him off. It would give Berhar a very slight advantage in manpower, without compromising his position. Elenya, on the other hand, could choose to further develop her own attack, at the slight expense of one humiliated older brother.

  Fodjour leaned forward and whispered: "I'm gonna killlll you." He hefted his hand, in which rested a heavy bag of cherry syrup. Kai sighed. It was going to be a long game.

  Or worse yet, a short one.

  He had all but resigned himself to his fate when, scanning the crowd, Kai realized Lamiya was watching him.

  She smiled, which only made everything worse. This would be the third time she had seen him played, and every time he had died like a pigbelly. He smiled tentatively at her. Lamiya wiggled her fingers in greeting, made a sad face beneath her veil, and then turned and giggled to her maids.

  Kai's ears burned. This was simply too much. It was more than any boy could take. Even if he caught a whipping, something had to be done, and quickly. He had planned for this eventuality but come to doubt his own resolve. No more.

  Another red-garbed pawn stood beside Fodjour. This boy was a skinny thing, golden-haired and freckled, pale as a ghost and a little sunburned. One of the new ones. Kai thought that he had seen him once or twice over the last month. He was standing stock-still, playing his Mamluk role with desperate stolidity. Kai calculated distances and probabilities, thinking hard.

  Elenya finally made her decision. "Sultan's Vizier takes Mamluk," she said.

  The Vizier was personified by one of Abu Ali's younger guards. Experienced warriors almost never participated in such games, but the unblooded ones found the simulated combat amusing. The Vizier slid down the file in his lethal diagonal, thumping a white pawn with a pouch of cherry syrup. "Blood" flew in all directions, and the servant boy fell to the ground, thrashing and bucking piteously before being led away.

  The "dead" Mamluks, all Kai's age or younger, were being fed hot punch and cake over to the side, stuffing their pale faces. The new "corpse" was cheered by his fellows as he joined them.

  Kai's sense of humiliation increased. Why was he only a Mamluk? Why couldn't he have been at least a Knight? True, some of the other landowners had children on the board, but he was the oldest of the black Mamluks, and in his own mind, old enough for higher rank. This was terrible.

  His remaining reticence dissolved. It was unfair. Never bow your head to injustice, boy, his father had often said. While he doubted Abu Ali intended for that philosophy to be applied to a game of satranj, Kai was determined to be guided by paternal wisdom.

  "Pssst!" he hissed to the yellow-hair in the square adjacent to Fodjour. When there was no response, he tried again. "Psst!" The lad was staring straight forward. Perhaps he did not hear. Poor hearing as well as slow of wit? Why oh why had Allah made such creatures? To be servants, he supposed.

  "Psst!" At last the boy glanced at Kai from the corner of his eye. "Boy! I want you to do something!"

  The boy didn't respond. Kai was about to give up in exasperation, when it occurred to him that perhaps the lad wasn't entirely dim. Perhaps he didn't speak the language. "B'tekhe Araby shway? Do you speak even a little Arabic?" he asked.

  Again, no answer. Kai gestured to his lips. Do you speak Arabic? he mimed, to no effect. He glanced up at Fodjour. Luckily, the boy wasn't paying any attention. Nor, so far, were any of the spectators.

  This time, the slave boy shook his head a negative. He didn't understand. Well, maybe he would understand this. Kai reached into his robes and extracted a piece of candy. It was hard rock candy, a big crystal of sugar, hard and sweet enough to last half the day.

  The boy's eyes fairly bugged out when he saw it, and he licked his lips. "Candy," Kai whispered seductively. "Sweet. You help me?"

  He mimed sucking on the chunk of candy. The servant boy's eyes gleamed. He nodded eagerly, as if he hadn't had such a treat in all his life. Kai wanted to turn somersaults with pleasure. Revenge! He reached his left hand into his pocket and extracted the square of folded paper containing that which Elenya had stolen for him earlier.

  Kai gave a quick glance at his sister and Djidade Berhar. Berhar's clock was running down. He had a habit of waiting until the very last moment to make his own moves, in an attempt to rattle his opponent. A worthless stratagem against someone like his sister, who existed in a separate world while playing. Nonetheless, it aided Kai's cause.

  Pointing subtly toward the pony's nose, he twice mimed a throwing gesture. "Understand?" he whispered.

  Again, the servant boy bobbed his head up and down. Kai passed him the berbere pepper, and made the connection just in time to yank his hand back before the grinning Fodjour turned back to him, drawing his finger across his own throat like a knife.

  Not this time, Fodjour . . .

  But Kai kept his thoughts to himself and lowered his head as if abjectly depressed.

  Finally, Djidade Berhar spoke. "Knight takes Mamluk!" he announced grandly, as if no one could have anticipated that. Fodjour eagerly touched up his pony, but had to pass the blond boy to reach Kai. In the moment the pony's muzzle approached the boy most closely, the servant's hand made a swift jerking movement.

  Kai held his breath, eager to see the results of his little experiment. It was even more spectacular than he could have hoped. Fodjour's pony snorted irritably and made a great, blubbery sneeze, blowing mucu
s and slobber everywhere. It reared up as if trying to throw its suddenly terrified rider, then bolted.

  Chaos erupted across the game board. Adults watching the game laughed uproariously as the children scrambled in all directions, diving out of the way of the panicked pony.

  Fodjour's eyes were huge. "Whoa! Whoa!"

  Spectators might have considered it low comedy, but Kai was running for his life, the servant boy scrambling just behind him. Heart pounding, he glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the pony was almost upon them. Kai threw his arm around the servant's shoulders, hurling them both to the ground.

  As it had been trained, the pony jumped the boys, but landed sharp and clumsily, just in front of a hedge marking the game board's western edge. Fodjour went rump-over-shoulders over the bushes, landing with a thump on the far side.

  Kai rose to hands and knees, dizzied but also exhilarated by the sheer energy and turmoil he had unleashed. Next to him, the servant boy was watching the action as well, wearing a grin of wonderment that Kai knew had to mirror his own.

  Djidade Berhar lumbered to the rescue. "Fodjour!" he called to his son. "Are you killed?"

  That was the question on every tongue as they converged on the far side of the hedge. Fodjour sat up dazedly from a pile of leaves and small branches one of the gardeners had swept together in a pile. "I don't think so . . .

  Kai sidled up to the scene and was standing just behind Shaka Zulu as the colonel arrived with Uncle Malik. Shaka leaned over to his old compatriot and whispered: "No fall kills a boy with such a backside. My troops could eat a month on such a rump."

  Malik's scarred face creased with silent mirth, but he said nothing.

  Djidade Berhar stormed. "This is outrageous!" he screamed. "I demand a forfeit."

  The Wakil held up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. "Agreed, my friend."