Shaka the Great (87 page)

Njikiza's return breaks the udibi's reverie, helps remind him why he's remained here, facing the dancers as if he and they are his adversaries …

Because they are, in a sense.

Remembering the surge, then the retreat … and Shaka.

Shaka!

The udibi meets Njikiza's gaze with raised eyebrows. Aware that many hungry eyes are on them, the Watcher's shrug is almost imperceptible.

The udibi turns back to face the rows of dancers … remembering the advance, the stamp, and the retreat as they leave Shaka sliding to the floor …

The assassin has to have been one of the dancers!

“Mhlangana?”

“No.”

“Are you sure, Ma?”

“No … Yes, as sure as I can be for now.” Moving closer to Ndlela: “And the King?”

“Still alive.”

“But … ?”

“Who can say? Mbuyazi tends to him now.”

“
Him?
”

“The King asked for him, apparently.”

“Perhaps it is for the best.”

Ndlela nods distractedly. If not Mhlangana, then who?

A depthless blur; wire-thin steel icicles shattering on the hardpacked dirt. Huts lose their shape in the gloom, seem to sag into mounds of waterlogged thatch. And the rain is falling sideways, a swarm of mosquitoes stinging your skin. You tilt your head, wipe your face. You tighten your grip on your iklwa, the wood burning your hand. (Where is your shield?) You move forward, toes pressing into the puddles. A softness underfoot. Your vision is blurred. You wipe your face once more. An instant of clarity, before the swarm surrounds you again.

Where are the sky-herders? Why do they not come to chase away this deluge that threatens the crops? What is wrong?

There is one …

Something is wrong …

An irritated sweep of your arm. A brushing away that, miraculously, reveals the body in front of the hut.

The body. A big man, lying on his side, his back to you.

There is one, blood of your blood …

You move forward, but knowing instinctively it's no use. He is dead, this man, so there's nothing you can do to save him.

And you see yourself drop to your knees.

A statue of mud slowly being eroded away by the rain.

And you watch yourself place your hand on the man's shoulder. A stiffness in the wet. Cool skin.

“See here?” says Fynn, pulling the Induna back to the present. “See?”

He pauses a moment as he notes how intently the warrior—this
man with the “frightfully forbidding” countenance and “murderous disposition”—is examining the wounds.

“Two of 'em, d'ye see?”

Two wounds, forming an L-shape.

“This chap, here, is the deepest.”

The Induna has noticed that already. The upper gash resembles a fish's mouth when it lies panting on the river bank. However, it's the other one that interests him more. Unlike the first, it's almost hidden by the band of dirt and blood and sweat which coats Shaka's side.

Wetting the tip of his finger, the Induna touches it against Shaka's flank, then examines it.

Watching him, Fynn continues, “I'd say that was the first wound. It caught his attention, you might say. He managed to turn away, but still too slowly to avoid the second strike. I'd say the weapon was one of those small spears you chaps use when you dance, and that's why I also say he was very, very lucky. Had it been one of those bastards you normally carry, he'd be dead now. As it is, it's going to be touch and go, but I reckon he's going to pull through. Well, he has to, hasn't he, or else I'm not getting out of here. Pulse is weak, but no vital organs were affected, and he's probably not lost much more blood than he would have done during a particularly enthusiastic phlebotomy. I saw you looking at his pallor, by the way, and I wouldn't worry too much about that either. They call it syncope, and it's much more unsettling if the patient has a fair skin. Looks like Hamlet's ghost. Or Hamlet after seeing the ghost. But of course you don't understand a blind word I'm saying, do you? And, for once, I'm relieved about that. Because as soon as my servants heard the words ‘Shaka' and ‘dying,' stout-hearted yeomen that they are, they vanished before you could say ‘Metternich,' leaving me hoping and praying I'd heard your big henchman wrong and it wasn't me and my medicine chest your King was calling for! As much as I respect and admire him—and you need have no bones on that score—I'd really rather not be the one entrusted with saving his life. But here I am, and God
knows what's keeping my bowels in check, because
I
don't. I rather think I know how Boney felt when he heard old Blucher had decided to come to the ball after all—and with nary an RSVP either. The cheek of some people. And the luck of others! So here I am, old boy, all present and correct. And, even though you can't understand a blind thing I'm saying, what say you we let the terrified Englishman clean up the nice king's wounds, and then attempt something of the seamstress's art, followed by a nice bandage and some fervent prayers, eh?”

He realizes the King's eyes are open, and watching him …

He's been lucky, very lucky. He was able to force his way into the front rank during the dance, then retreat several rows back amid the confusion that followed the stabbing. But now his luck runs out …

The udibi's gaze finds him—and he looks away too late. And, knowing he's looked away too late, he looks back—and sees how the udibi's gaze has moved on. He is already breathing a sigh of relief and is about to resume working his way toward the western entrance—a barely noticeable shuffle—when he sees it.

Sees the recognition form on the boy's face as his eyes seek out familiar features again.

Vala!

Who the udibi had seen when he met up with the Induna on the outskirts of the capital, and who had seemed familiar …

The udibi turns to Njikiza. Turns back to see Vala moving out of the hut.

“What is it?” says the Watcher.

Can't cause a panic! The udibi moves close up to Njikiza, says he knows who the assassin is—

“You mean that one who just—”

“Hsst!” says the boy. Yes, that one, but they do not want to cause
a stampede. “I'll follow him, you go tell the Induna, then come after me!”

Blundering through the dark, then stopping. Wait! Why is he running? He had nothing to do with this. Nothing whatsoever!

Biting back the laughter, for that's half the problem, right there.

First of all, no one will believe him.

Nothing to do with this? Who do you think we are—these izilwane the Bull Elephant loves teasing and leading astray and frightening and confusing? Cha, nothing to do with this? Better to tell us how Fudu the tortoise jumped over Ndlula the giraffe, for we'll believe that before we believe you had nothing to do with this.

The distant commotion had taken a while to rouse the maiden. Extricating herself from underneath him, she went to see why the sounds of revelry had changed into something else. When she heard what had happened, she rushed back and frantically tried to rouse the prince. That had taken some time, though, and then more time had been wasted in trying to comprehend the … well, the enormity of this event.

Finally he was up and dressed, and making his way to the big hut. He was still cursing her, refusing to believe her tear-drenched words, when he'd been knocked over by a figure racing through the night.

Then someone, obviously chasing the first man, had leapt over him. “You!” he'd shouted at him. “Stop!”

The second man had obeyed, turning round so that he could now see it was the Induna's udibi. “What is happening?” asked Dingane.

Recognition was clearly mutual, for the boy hesitated long enough to tell him that his brother the King had been stabbed, and he was going after the assassin.

Suddenly sober, Dingane had leapt to his feet, and started for
the big hut again before he stopped and asked himself what he thought he was doing.

Acting as though of their own volition, his feet turned him around, and had him heading roughly in the same direction the boy had taken.

Because who would ever believe him?

Who?

No one, that's who!

Wiping the sweat from his face; suddenly craving a torrent of beer. No one will believe him when he says he had nothing to do with this. And even those who know he is telling the truth will be just as eager to see him eat dirt.

After all, he'd had his chance, hadn't he? They—for he knows the crocodile wasn't acting alone, and he's fairly certain he knows who is behind him—gave him a chance to join them, didn't they? And if he didn't exactly say no, neither did he grovel in gratitude. Which means his loyalty will now be in doubt. Yet again!

And so Dingane runs. Yet again.