Shaka the Great (86 page)

The Watcher has clearly misheard the King. Shaka's inyangas must be summoned instead. Njikiza shrugs, calls for more torches. At least the prime minister has retained the presence of mind to keep hold of the weapon used to stab Shaka. If taken back by the attacker, the blood on the blade could be used in a ritual to finish off what an unsteady hand and a last-minute lapse in courage have failed to get right the first time. In the hands of Shaka's inyangas, however, it can be used to create a muthi that will speed up the King's recovery. He doesn't know why Shaka has called for Mbuyazi, though, and doesn't care that Mbopa is giving instructions to one of the Fasimbas to go and fetch the King's
inyangas, for his main concern is making the King comfortable, and keeping him safe until someone can end this nightmare.

After waking up Fynn, and Frederick his interpreter, and ensuring that the latter has apprised the White Man of the seriousness of the situation, the Induna makes for Mnkabayi's hut.

The udibi stands, panting, in the flickering light provided by the torches around Shaka's throne. If he looks down he'll see the bloodstains. But he won't do that, because it'll be a reminder that this is really happening.

Mnkabayi tells the Induna and Ndlela to go on ahead. She will rouse her servants and send them to fetch the other counselors. And Pampata … someone needs to tell her, too. The Induna is about to suggest that Mnkabayi needs protection as there could be more than one assassin abroad but, before he can say anything, Ndlela pulls him out of the hut, insisting they must hurry to attend Shaka.

Shaka's lips are moving, and he seems to be trying to say something again. Njikiza glances up at Mbopa, wondering why the prime minister is just standing there, for he should be here crouching by the King's side. This situation is not something Njikiza is comfortable with. In fact, he's terrified.

“Yes, Majesty?” he says leaning forward.

Shaka grins. “They were more like horns. I thought of them as stones but they were more like horns, flattened horns.”

Mhlangana raises his hands as though that will ward off Mnkabayi's anger. This was not of his doing, please. She must believe him! The
queen doesn't need much convincing, however, because, for all his swagger, Mhlangana isn't capable of initiating a deed like this. Very well, she says, he is to wait here until she has sent her servants on their errands, before getting himself safely to one of his more trustworthy concubines. Let that be where a messenger finds him. The prince nods eagerly, and Mnkabayi leaves the hut. Roused by all the commotion, her servants are awaiting her instructions—and her reassurances. Is it true the King has been attacked?

Even though he'd rather be facing a thousand spears than crouching here, holding Shaka's hand, Njikiza has to fight off a momentary urge to resist, even lash out, when Mbuyazi nervously tries to ease him aside. But this is the one the King himself called for, so hastily Njikiza stands up. He tells the warriors clutching firebrands to move closer.

Fynn has his medicine chest already open, but Frederick … he's lost Frederick. Fynn glances around, seeing only knees, and then Shaka's face. The interpreter has held back, too afraid to enter the cordon of Fasimbas along with the Englishman. Fynn's just about to call for him, when the Induna crouches by his side.

Somehow Fynn makes it understood that he'd like someone to fetch him some Sweet Innocence. When the Induna makes to rise, though, the White Man grabs his forearm. He'd rather have the Induna beside him. He points to Mbopa, and the Induna nods. He tells Mbopa what Mbuyazi wants—and to hurry up!

“Thanks,” mutters Fynn. “Give him summat to do, as he doesn't look like he'll be much use.”

But, while the prime minister looks around as though wondering who's speaking to him, it's Ndlela who calls for the liquor.

“And if rum and other spirits will work, why not your concoction, eh?”

Fynn twists his head so as to examine the wounds in Shaka's side. By now a double circle of flames surrounds the King. The warriors with the firebrands want to be howling at the sky, pounding the dirt, pounding themselves, spewing their shock and horror
into the darkness—but their discipline holds. They obey their orders, remain where they are, providing the light Fynn needs. But they can't smother their grief, and all have glistening cheeks as the tears flow unchecked.

Keeping his eyes on Fynn's fingers, hovering around the wounds, the Induna takes a deep breath and wonders if it's possible to, somehow, blow strength into the White Man, the way one blows strength into a fire.

“Yes, why not,” says the trader, speaking just to keep himself calm, and not caring if no one in earshot can understand a damn thing he says.

“Should work. Should help to keep the wound clean,” says Fynn, selecting a short, slender object that seems to be made of silver. The Induna has to fight back the urge to snatch it away from the trader, because it looks sharp and lethal.

“Not this,” continues Fynn, mistaking the Induna's glare for curiosity, and holding up the instrument. “Spirits are good for cleaning wounds, don't ye know.”

Trust him
.

“Another good thing, no clothes. See, that's what gets 'em,” says Fynn, hearing again one of the doctors he worked for as a lad; hearing old Maynard's voice clear as a bell. Either a charlatan or ahead of his time, depending on which of his colleagues you were eavesdropping on. “It's the fragment of dirty clothing that the ball takes into the wound that causes the problems. And one would presume the same applies to knife wounds.”

Trust him
, the Induna tells himself.

“Makes sense, the blade driving the dirty cloth deep into the old organism. Not here, though, fortunately.”

You have to trust him. The King does
. Watching Fynn at work, washing the wound in Sweet Innocence.
Not that you have much choice in the matter
.

But then again neither has Shaka.

An anxious glance at the King's face. Even in the orange light of the torches, the Induna can see how pale he's become, and his
breathing is shallow. He has to look long and hard before he detects a flutter in his chest.

Ndlela's eyes drift away from Fynn's ministrations toward the spear in Mbopa's hand.
Can it really be?
he wonders.
After all this … ?

After all this, the King is brought down by a toy spear—or, rather, the kind of ostentatious ornament a wealthy father would present to his eldest son when the latter is called up.

A whisper in his ear. It seems Mnkabayi would speak with him. After one more glance at the King, Ndlela turns and eases his way out, between the torches.