These Uloans were silent. No cries of “Retribution Time” resounded from their throats. There were no shouts of triumph, or hatred, or bloodlust. Only the shuffle of many moving feet could be heard above the crackle of flames and the cacophonic din of the battle raging behind them.
The group encountered only a few people along its route, along which they travelled purposefully, as if they were absolutely certain of where they were going, even though none of them had ever before been in Khambawe. The luckless few city-dwellers who caught sight of them were dispatched immediately. However, the Uloans involved in this offshoot of the invasion did not venture to seek out other Matile to slay. And the buildings they passed remained unscathed, for these Uloans carried no torches for purposes of either illumination or destruction. Yet despite the darkness of the smoke-shrouded sky, they travelled unerringly, slowed only by the ponderous pace of the jhumbis that accompanied them. It was as though some unseen guide were unerringly leading them to their goal.
Soon they left the burning city behind. The smoke in the sky dissipated, and the light of the Moon Stars and the lesser stars illuminated the route ahead of the invaders. They continued in a near-silence that was even more ominous than the loud war-cries of the comrades they left behind.
The houses they passed now were deserted. Once they learned of the Uloans’ attack, the inhabitants of Khambawe’s outskirts either rushed into the city to aid in its defense, or gathered their belongings and fled into the countryside. Most of those who stayed behind managed to avoid death by hiding in cellars, or groves of trees. The Uloans made no efforts to root them out. Only a few more were luckless enough to be seen and killed by the invaders.
After the Uloans passed, the survivors left their hiding-places and scattered, leaving no one to tell the tale of what they had witnessed. As it was, none of them knew the invaders’ destination.
The Uloans moved on, heeding the directions given to them by their unseen guide, who spoke in the voice of Jass Imbiah to the feathered huangi who led them. It pushed them forward, tramping through a field of flowers toward an immense, ancient edifice that had stood since the days before the destinies of the Matile and Uloans had diverged.
At the end of the field, the Uloans came to a halt. The voice that guided the huangi spoke a final time, ensuring that the invaders knew what they had to do. Once the voice was satisfied, it again urged the Uloans onward.
And as they moved forward, the Uloans continued to keep their “Retribution Time” chant in abeyance. They would shout it to the skies later, after they finished what they had been told to do: an act that would bring Retribution Time closer to its ultimate fulfillment ....
2
The old Gebbi Zimballa Palace had been erected during the reign of Emperor Dardar Birhi, the monarch who had begun Khambawe’s transition from a modest seaside fishing town to its eventual status as the Jewel City of the Matile Mala Empire. With the passage of centuries, its splendor had diminished, and the efforts of even the finest painters and stonemasons could not forestall its eventual decline. Long ago, the Emperors had moved their residence to the newer Gebbi Senafa, which was located closer to the city. Yet the people of Khambawe did not demolish the old building, out of respect for its importance to their history. They continued to maintain the edifice, although it was seldom visited by anyone other than scholars who made use of the library still located within its walls.
Now, in Khambawe’s time of peril, the Gebbi Zimballa had found another purpose to serve: refuge.
Inside the old palace, the Emperor and Issa tried to make themselves comfortable in the chamber that had been hastily prepared for them. According to the history woven into faded tapestries and preserved in leather-bound tomes that few other than the most dedicated historians had reason to peruse, the chamber had once served as the throne room of Emperor Dardar Birhi. When he was a child, Alemeyu had been an avid reader of those ancient volumes, and he remembered now that the territory Birhi had ruled was about the same size as his own diminished empire. The irony inherent in that similitude was not lost on Alemeyu.
Both the Emperor and Issa left their steaming cups of kef untouched on a golden tray. Food and drink were not their primary concerns now.
Still clad in the armor of Issuri, Alemeyu sat on a throne of granite worn smooth by many the generations of previous monarchs that had used it. The royal seat in the Gebbi Zimballa was far less imposing than the Lion Throne in its successor palace. The carvings on its back and sides were barely visible. They represented the triumphs of Khambawe’s earliest rulers over their rivals in other cities. Many years had passed since the last time an Emperor had sat on this throne. On its arms, Alemeyu could see traces of dust his retainers had left behind in their rush to make the long-disused chamber ready for him.
The Emperor had not reprimanded them for their neglect. This night was no time for formalities or protocol. He had already decided that he would not abandon the seat of his distant ancestors if Khambawe fell this night. In Birhi’s time, the Zimballa had been as much a fortress as it was a palace. And in this old
