Lion's Blood

by Steven Barnes

  "Father!" Elenya pouted, and shot a glare of pure hate at Kai. I am going to torture you for this. Slowly.

  I know, I know, Kai shrugged. Skin me and . . .

  Malik leaned toward Shaka. "A stroke of luck for Djidade Berhar," he said. "It was mate in seven."

  Shaka closed his eyes for a moment, his fierce lean face becoming surprisingly mild as he calculated. He shook his head. "Six, my friend."

  Djidade Berhar appeared somewhat mollified, but wasn't finished yet. "And the boy must be punished," he said.

  "Which boy?" Kai's father asked innocently.

  Berhar was so angry that Kai would not have been surprised to see small lightning bolts dancing above his head. Kai choked on his laughter. This time, he might be in real trouble.

  "We know who was responsible," Fodjour raged. "Who is always responsible?"

  Kai glanced at his father, whose moods he knew intimately. Abu Ali was clearly secretly amused, but protocol demanded that the miscreant be punished. He turned, seeking out Kai, who tried to duck behind the hedge, but to no avail. Spotted.

  Abu Ali strode toward him purposefully, stopping with big fists balled and set on his waist. He looked down at Kai, his face angry, but enough twinkle left in his eyes to tell Kai that neither death nor dismemberment was imminent. "Kai," he said sternly. "Did you do this thing?" A lie now would be a thousand times worse than the act itself, unforgivable.

  "Father," Kai began, "I—"

  And then suddenly, and utterly to Kai's surprise, the pale-haired servant boy stepped forward. Kai realized the boy had been watching everything, and there had been a certain animal shrewdness about his face.

  In a thick and clumsy accent, the boy said: "Ni." Me.

  So shocked was Kai that he temporarily lost the power of speech. Abu Ali, Djidade Berhar, Shaka, and the entire group of witnesses turned to look at the boy, whose pale face was flushed and trembling. He could not meet their eyes, and dropped his own to the ground.

  Malik was the first to speak. "No one spoke to you, walad."

  The boy managed to tilt his face up a bit. Just a fraction. "Ni . . . ya ‘mal."

  I do it.

  Shaka shrugged, grim laughter dancing in the dark eyes. "The little pigbelly says he did it."

  Djidade Berhar fumed. "He lies. I know it was . . ."

  Abu Ali turned back to his son. "Kai, did you do this?"

  "I was not near the horse when it bolted, Father."

  The Wakil's eyes narrowed as his father judged the comment, decided not to challenge it—praise Ar-Rahman the Merciful!—and turned to examine the young servant. The boy was barefoot and dressed in scruffy but well-mended pantaloons. He looked painfully thin. A half-healed bruise darkened his left cheek, and his hair had been chopped short, as if someone had simply hacked away at it with a saw. His eyes were very blue, and there was something about the bones in his cheeks, the long thinness of his arms, that said that he might grow tall.

  "I don't know this one," mused the Wakil.

  By now, the reliable Oko had arrived, dressed in a sparkling aqua djebba and leather sandals with silver buckles. Festival or not, the Ibo chief overseer always seemed to be overdressed. "One of the new batch, sir. Barely speaks the language."

  Abu Ali considered. "Harder to lie, then."

  Berhar strode forward and his arm blurred, the flat of his hand striking the boy's face hard enough to snap his head around and stagger him backwards. He strode forward for another blow, but the Wakil slipped between them. "I can punish my own servants, Djidade." The words were spoken in a host's conciliatory tones, but there was no mistaking the steel within. "Oko," he said. "See to it."

  Oko grabbed the boy and pulled him away toward the barn. There was a little general chatter and the adults began to drift away, the excitement concluded.

  Kai watched Oko dragging the scapegoat to justice, a tremor of guilt tickling at his stomach. It was only a servant, he told himself. Only a hinzîr-batn, a pigbelly. And yet . . .

  "Kai?" his father said.

  Kai's head snapped around. "Yes, sir?"

  The Wakil's eyes were narrow and unamused. "There will be more about this, later."

  Kai dropped his eyes to the ground. "Yes, Father." he said, and did not dare look up until he heard his father stride away.

  When he looked up, Uncle Malik and Ali were both following his father off toward the house. Ali winked at Kai as they passed.

  Feeling both shame and relief, Kai wandered, feigning aimlessness, in the general direction of the barn. When he was certain that no one was watching, he began to sprint.

  Chapter Twelve

  Three minutes' walk west of the castle, adjacent to the great field, stood a large building serving as barn and stable. Similar structures were scattered around Abu Ali's vast holdings, but this one housed the personal mounts of residents and guests.

  Peering around its corner, Kai watched as Oko took the boy to a short whipping post and in quick guttural phrases ordered him to grip the handholds. The boy seemed a bit dazed, confused, eyes searching out any potential means of escape. He took the position as ordered.

  The post was erected behind the barn, out of sight of either the main house or the guests. In one way it was a mercy, in another it seemed to increase the sense of isolation. In such a setting, anything might happen.

  Oko ripped the boy's shirt away with one ring-bedecked hand. Even from Kai's hiding space he could see that the servant's pale body was bony, and crossed with three or four partially healed whip scars.

  Next to the post were a choice of a leather bullwhip or a slender switch. Oko examined them, and then looked at the boy. "I know the young master, and the satranj business seemed his work." He wagged his head in sympathy. "How you got mixed up in it, I don't know, but we all follow orders here." The boy's eyes met his angrily, and Oko nodded with satisfaction. "You aren't afraid. Good."

  Oko took hold of the switch. "You've been a good boy, so I don't want to hurt you, but you have to learn your lesson."

  The stroke descended. The boy winced. Another stroke. The boy shuddered now: it had to hurt! Kai's own skin quivered in empathy.

  Another stroke. Oko's gemmed fingers glittered as he raised the switch again. Kai winced. This was enough: honor demanded that he take action. He strode forward from his hiding space. "Oko!"

  The overseer turned, and Kai noticed that he wasn't totally startled. It was quite possible the Ibo had expected an intercession of some kind. So be it.

  "Young sir?" A short bow.

  Kai drew himself up imperiously. "It was my game this scoundrel disrupted. I claim the honor of punishment."

  Oko's eyes narrowed a bit. "Sir?"

  Kai waved a hand in dismissal. "Go, now. I would do this alone."

  Oko examined them both. The man was a peacock, but no fool: he saw what was happening, and he managed the impressive feat of simultaneously frowning and smiling.

  "As you wish, sir," he said, and handed the switch to Kai, retiring from the scene.

  For a moment Kai brandished the switch threateningly. The slave boy still gripped the post, but he looked back over his shoulder at Kai, blue eyes meeting Kai's brown without a flinch.

  The contact lasted for a long moment, and then Kai smiled and lowered the switch. "All right." Kai sighed. "Come over here." At first the boy didn't move, and Kai was forced to pantomime his request. "Let go of the post," he urged. "I'm not going to hurt you."

  Slowly, the servant boy released his hold. Keeping his eyes on Kai as much as possible, he slipped his shirt back on. His hands trembled, and he thrust them beneath his armpits as if to steady them. He stared at Kai's hands, an unspoken question on his face.

  For a moment Kai didn't grasp the significance, and then he groaned as memory flooded back. "Oh, yes," he said. "Here." He handed the boy the promised candy. The servant snatched it greedily from his hands, gnawing at the hard crystal surface. Kai wrinkled his nose at the boy's smell: a sour sweat stench that suggested
he understood little of proper bathing. Why didn't they use oils, or even good honest soap?

  The yellow-hair watched Kai as he chewed, almost like an animal cornered in its lair. Almost. There was something else there, too, and Kai had a hard time putting a name to it. Some shrewdness, perhaps. It was just possible that this one had a brain.

  "You look awfully skinny," Kai said finally. "Why don't you come with me to the house?" He mimed taking a step toward the mansion, then turned back. The servant regarded him doubtfully. "Come on," Kai insisted. "Don't be scared."

  He gestured again, and finally the boy followed.

  In a servant's nook off the main kitchen, a banquet was spread out before the boys in a fan shape: cookies, sandwiches, sweet cakes, rolled pastries in the style of a dozen lands. Fruit salad laced with papayas, mangoes, pineapples, and bananas, iced with cellar-fresh packed snow and diced and served in a scooped-out melon rind.

  There was also leftover food from the main course, including a cane rat sate so tempting that the servant boy wolfed down four skewers in a row, barely stopping for breath.

  He crowded his mouth greedily and seemed to have completely forgotten the whipping, although he did cast a suspicious eye at Kai from time to time.

  The young master was enjoying himself too, but watched the servant lad as carefully as the boy watched him. They were about the same age, the same size. Watching the expressions of delight on the servant's face, Kai found himself smiling, shoveling handfuls himself, reveling in the boy's simple pleasure. Through some strange alchemy, the servant's enjoyment had become his own.

  "What's your name?" he asked. The boy just looked at him blankly. "Name?" he said again, and pointed to his own chest. "Kai," he said.

  The servant boy laughed, a few crumbs falling out of his mouth. "Aidan," he said.

  Aengus, the kitchen master, approached them carrying two enormous lamb-filled pastries. Aengus was as wide as he was tall, face as pale as the bleached flour he magically fashioned into the world's tastiest confections. He was both fat and muscular, with a huge flat face and bright, watchful eyes. He studied Aidan with disapproval as he rested the platters on the table. "Master Kai," he said deferentially. "Qalîl tawwâf, little ghosts like this should eat in the barn."

  Kai swallowed his mouth clear. "Are you questioning me, Aengus?"

  Aengus's answering smile was as mild as cream. "No, young sir. Of course not." And he carried away his pastries, grinning to himself.

  Aengus had enjoyed that exchange. The blacks could be terribly easy to manipulate. Just push them in one direction, and they would push back just where you wanted them, if you were careful.

  And Aengus was careful. The kitchen was his domain, and he was allowed to run it almost as he pleased. It was enormous, with three ovens and an ice cellar, but still barely enough to keep up with Dar Kush's household demands. At the moment it was crowded with servants who chattered and laughed as they ground and folded and cooked and served.

  Only one black face besides young Kai's was in the kitchen: Lamiya's formidable head woman, Bitta. A mute, Bitta had traveled from Abyssinia with the Empress's niece, taking over half the household management before anyone could blink. When Bitta appeared in the doorway she filled it, all broad hips and shaven, gray-stubbled pate, her Kushi-style shawl flowing across her strong shoulders and cinched at her thick, powerful waist. In her early fifties, she carried herself with that special gravity exclusive to women beyond childbearing years. The room fell silent whenever she appeared, and the servants tiptoed about like mice.

  She gestured rapidly. All within the circle of her influence were obliged to learn her hand signals. Is the punch ready yet?

  Aengus managed to bow without lowering his head. "Not quite, missy."

  She tossed her head. Put a fire under your ass, or I will.

  Aengus broke eye contact. "Yes, missy."

  Somewhat mollified, she left. One of the other servants—in fact, the boy Aidan's mother (what was her name? Deirdre. An attractive woman if she could ever learn to smile again)—brought him the punch bowl. Bawling orders to the others, Aengus filled the bowl from the steaming container on the sink and announced: "I trust none of you to carry this safely. Some things, a man must do himself." He set his hands on either side of the bowl and carried it through the door out toward the celebration.

  Just beyond the door was a small alcove, where Aengus could not be seen either from the kitchen or from the yard. There he set down the bowl. He glanced left and right, his expression first furtive, then excited. Aengus unbuttoned his pants-flap. Then, extracting his ample zakr, he gave a great sigh of relief, and began to urinate. With only the softest of gurgles, the golden stream flowed into the punch bowl.

  A satisfied smile creasing his face, Aengus fastened his pants, laced them up, and grunted. "Now," he said, "it is ready."

  As the evening wore on the last of the day's heat dissipated into darkness, but by torchlight and bonfire the celebration continued in full sway. A troop of acrobatic jugglers amused the children at the eastern edge of the house; to the west, in the fenced field, Malik, Shaka, and Abu Ali laughed mightily as several of the local townsfolk jousted on horseback, displaying more enthusiasm than skill. One after another the commoners spilled to the ground, staggering up or rolling quickly from the threat of horse's hooves.

  "Hah-hah!" Malik roared at one moderately impressive effort. "Well done."

  Aengus set up the punch bowl carefully on a small table, draping a cheesecloth over it to protect it from flies, making certain that the punch glasses were arranged in perfect order. For a time he stayed to watch the jousting.

  Finally, laughing and settling bets, Malik, Shaka, and the Wakil headed back to the refreshment table. Aengus stood by, beaming, as Malik and Shaka served themselves fragrant cups of hot punch. Shielding his eyes, Shaka sipped, his thick lips curling with satisfaction.

  "Ahh . . ."

  Malik slapped Aengus's shoulder. "Aengus!" he said jovially. "You must tell my cook how you do it. He tries to follow your recipe, but it. . . just never has that. . . that. . ." Malik floundered for words.

  "Mahsus jauhar? Special essence?"

  "Precisely!" said Shaka Zulu, and drained his cup.

  Aengus chuckled. "I will try to describe it more precisely next time. Wakil?" he called. "Have a drink, warm your bones!"

  Abu Ali turned back from the competition, beaming. "Thank you," he said, accepting the cup. "What a night, what a night."

  The three warriors enjoyed the gaming, as well as refreshing and pungent cups of Aengus's very special concoction, as the celebration wound on into the evening.

  Chapter Thirteen

  On a winding dirt road connecting the estate of Wakil Abu Ali with that of his brother Malik, a single horse-drawn cart trundled north in the late-morning sun.

  Kai and his footboy Aidan dangled their legs off the rear of the cart, enjoying the day as the horseman drove them on. Kai pointed to a gnarled and spreading oak. "Sajar," he said. "Tree."

  Aidan's eyes followed Kai's finger. "Tree," he repeated.

  Kai nodded approval. He pointed down at the tufts of green sprouting along the edges of the rutted road. "Hasis," he said.

  “Grass.”

  It was good. Kai was satisfied with the boy's intelligence. He had been right to befriend Aidan. A good footboy was a valuable thing, and Kai thought it possible that he might keep this one for years, perhaps eventually promoting him to head servant of his household. "Zarrab," he said, pointing to the twisting wooden rails stretching along the sides of the road.

  "Fence," Aidan said, and immediately looked at Kai for approval.

  "You're pretty smart," Kai said. "You'll get it."

  "Get it," Aidan repeated, and Kai spanked his palms together, delighted.

  Another half an hour brought them around a sweeping gentle curve to the castle of his uncle Malik. Of Moorish design, it wasn't as large as his father's, but it didn't need to be. Malik was wealthy, of c
ourse, but his wealth had also been granted from the government as a result of long and intense service. While there were dozens of servants to provide his every need, Malik and his wife, Fatima, had not yet been blessed with children.

  The cart crossed the castle's moat and pulled up in the circular courtyard, and Kai hopped down. The horseman said, "You have a good lesson, sir, I'll be here when you need me."

  "Thank you, Festus," he replied, and then indicated the gear in the back of the cart. "Bring those," he told Aidan.

  Aidan hesitated for only a moment, and then began to pull down the weapons and light armor piled in the back of the cart. It was quite an armful, and the boy bent and stumbled under the load. Kai almost pitied him, but stopped himself. If Aidan wanted the privilege of being a footboy, he would have to learn to handle the responsibilities as well.

  The castle door opened at their approach, Aidan balancing the gear in both arms.

  Fatima greeted them. She was a tiny thing, barely three cubits tall, the youngest sister of Kai's deceased mother, Kessie. Fatima was so perfectly proportioned that she might have been one of Elenya's porcelain dolls. Her skin was the color of burnished copper, and betrayed the slightest touch of the Egyptian stock that had long ago twined with her Hausa blood to create an exotic, irresistible beauty. She was quite young, barely eighteen, but Malik's first wife had died childless, and his adoration and indulgence of Fatima was legendary.

  Her smile was dazzling. "Young Kai," she said. "Here for your lesson?"

  "Yes, Fatima," he said. She bent and kissed his cheek. She smelled of flowers and honey and fresh baked bread, and he thought that, truly, Al-Musawwir, the Fashioner, had fashioned his beloved uncle a jewel in human form.

  "Well," she said, "he's just finishing up another. Your timing is excellent."

  She led them through the hallway, and Kai chuckled as Aidan's eyes seemed to swell from his head. The entire house was filled with the memoirs of a life spent in warfare. It seemed that every digit was filled with armor and weapons, maps and paintings of their warrior ancestors astride muscular, dark steeds.