Yet their faith in Almovaar remained unshaken. And they were prepared to pass that faith – and its concomitant power and blessings – on to the Matile.
The Almovaads and the Matile sat on the ground in a wide circle that surrounded Kyroun and Gebrem. The two spiritual leaders were also seated. Gebrem’s abi lay in front of them on the sward of clipped grass that stretched away like a dark-green lagoon.
“Almovaar will aid us this night,” Kyroun said.
His comments were addressed to the Matile, not the Believers, who already knew what their Seer was going to say and do.
“But you must help me to summon him,” Kyroun continued. “And to do that you must vow, for now hereafter, to serve Almovaar alone, and no other god or goddess of any kind.”
“Be it so,” the Almovaads said in unison.
Kyroun turned deferentially to Gebrem.
“The choice is yours,” the Seer said. “And there is not much time left to make your decision.”
From her place in the circle, Tiyana looked at her father. She knew him well enough to see what the others could not: his anguish; his deep humiliation. Gebrem had wielded most of the scant ashuma that remained to the Matile, and done so with all his faith in the Jagasti and the Empire, and to the best of his not-inconsiderable ability. And now even that tantalizing remnant of the power of ashuma was gone, as if it had never existed, as if it had never enabled the Matile to rule half a continent and sail across the world, as if the Matile were no better than the Thabas who lurked in their hills to the south ....
Now Khambawe, the Jewel City, was about to be incinerated.
Tiyana caught Gebrem’s eye. Her father returned her searching gaze for a long moment, communicating a great deal to her without any necessity for words. Then he looked away.
“Be it so,” Gebrem said quietly, echoing the words of the Believers, to whom he had now committed himself and the Amiyas.
Tiyana winced inwardly. She knew how much it cost her father to say those words. And she knew how much it cost her and the other Amiyas, for Gebrem was speaking for all of them as well as himself. He had previously discussed the matter with the Vessels, and they had all agreed that the Fidis’ god should be given the opportunity to save the Matile.
Kyroun gave Gebrem a slight bow of acknowledgement.
Then he said: “Now we begin.”
2
The masks in the Beit Amiya did not remain in their places for long. Dark, furtive figures scuttled from the shadows that dominated the main chamber. Quick hands seized the Jagastis’ masks and stuffed them unceremoniously into sacks.
Kalisha glanced at the other shamashas who, like her, were fronting for tsotsi sets. Once it became clear that the Beit Amiya had been abandoned, the clandestine tsotsis had met and decided to partition the plunder the Vessels had left behind as though it no longer had any value to them. It had value to the tsotsis, though. Kalisha’s sack was loaded with fine chains of silver and gold, as well as jewels pried loose from their mountings.
And now, the mask of Nama-kwah was hers. It rested in the sack on top of the rest of her booty.
She looked up into the face of the goddess’s idol, half-hidden in darkness. Then she glared at a bigger, older female tsotsi whose covetous stare indicated that she might consider breaking the pact the thieves had reached. Already, avarice was undermining that agreement, and the tsotsis were beginning to dispute the ultimate distribution of their loot.
With one hand, Kalisha clutched her sack to her chest. With the other, she reached into her waistcloth and pulled out her dagger. The other tsotsi decided she could be satisfied with the contents of her own sack after all. Kalisha was small, but she had long since established herself as a deadly foe who could not be intimidated; a person whose dagger was quick to strike and quick to draw blood.
After her would-be foe retreated, Kalisha looked left and right to determine whether there were any others who thought they could rob her of what she had rightfully filched. There were none. Still on her guard, Kalisha quickly made her way out of the building.
As she left the Beit Amiya for the last time, the young tsotsi smiled in anticipation of what Jass Mofo’s reaction would be when she emptied her sack at his feet, especially when he saw the Mask of Nama-kwah. And this time, she would chew the khat he was certain to offer her.
3
Jass Eshana swung into the saddle of his quagga. Dozens of other Matile soldiers also mounted up, the quaggas’ hooves stamping against the street as the animals snorted and neighed in anticipation. The Dejezmek hefted the lance he carried, and was reassured by its weight and balance. The long, heavy weapon he and the others would carry held his last, desperate hope to break the back of the Uloans’ invasion.
Ordinarily, he would never have considered using cavalry in a street battle. The narrow confines of the city’s streets worked against the effective use of mounted troops. But this conflict had been far beyond the ordinary since the moment the Uloans and their jhumbis had swarmed onto Khambawe’s docks. The battle was going badly for the city’s defenders. Defeat appeared imminent. Even so, a new, unexpected change in tactics could well turn the tide in the Matiles’ favor.
Eshana had assembled his hastily gathered force in a wide square normally used as a produce market. Here, the quaggas would have ample room to maneuver while the Dejezmek worked out the final details of his battle plan. When the Uloans reached the market, a surprise would be waiting for them.
Saddles creaked and harnesses jingled as the last defenders of Khambawe awaited Eshana’s order to attack. Firelight glinted from the steel tips of their lances and pooled in the wide eyes of their steeds. Hands reached out
