Chapter 34

Salah Bin Mohammed pondered the situation. This Haroun upstart was an apostate of the worst sort, professing his submission to Islam but ignoring the guidance of the clerics. Worse, he appeared to be entering into an alliance with the Great Satan, and had even dispatched one of the animal-people to be his ambassador to them. And somehow, his minions had discovered two of their safe-houses and confiscated the weapons hidden in them. <Not all of the pieces are in place, but we shall have to act now. Allah will help us.>

He summoned his lieutenants. “We begin tomorrow at noon. Send the bombers out to disrupt the response of Haroun's men, and converge on the Palace by these routes, as we have planned. Fahd? Your group will attack the Americans in their embassy. Go now, and prepare for the assault. Allahu akbar!” The others echoed his words and left to make the final arrangements.

* * * *

Mahmoud seethed as he left the audience chamber. <Again the Americans interfere. Prince Haroun has great power, but he has not yet truly become part of the House of Peace. And the Americans tempt him with their wealth, and their libertine ways.> He outwardly ignored the animal-form servant he passed in the hallway, though inwardly he snarled. <And he has yet to dismiss those creatures from his service. No good will come of this, I fear.>

* * * *

Rajiya was used to being ignored by Mahmoud. It was routine for servants, after all. Those who were powerful did not need to take note of those who were not, and that human was one of the new ones – better to be ignored by them than to put up with the usual hatred they showed when they thought that the Prince would not notice. She nodded to the guards outside the audience chamber, and one of them opened the door for her. She entered with the tray, and carried it to the side table where it was usually placed. The Prince noticed her arrival, and smiled at his guest. “And here it is now.”

Rajiya whisked off the covers, curtsied, and began to retreat. The usual routine was interrupted by the guest, who spoke to her with the same accent to his Arabic that Rick did. “Thank you. It smells delicious. Give the chefs my compliments.”

The fennec started at being addressed. She brought her ears up sharply, looking past him at her Prince, who fortunately seemed amused. The man seemed to expect an answer, and she fought down her panic and curtsied again. “I... You are most gracious, noble lord. It shall be as you say.” She scurried out as the man turned back to his conversation with the Prince, getting out of the chamber and halfway down the hall before she had to lean against the wall to recover her bearings.

* * * *

Haroun shook his head at this interlude. “Another of your customs, Ambassador? To notice servants?”

Knight smiled. “Courtesy to everyone costs nothing, and earns loyalty from those to whom it is given when you do not need to.”

Haroun spread his hands out in a non-commital gesture. “I think you scared the poor girl. She's not used to being addressed. At least not when nothing is wrong.”

Knight nodded. “As you say.” <Though she did not flinch badly. This tells me something good about -you-, Prince Haroun.> “Now, bearing in mind that I am not a military specialist, let me give you the basics of the weapons these rebels are likely to be carrying...”

* * * *

Rajiya smiled as the Sergeant came by her father's shop again, and padded out to greet him, bringing his usual coffee and lunch special. “Couscous and these shish-kebab things you told us of today, Rick. May I join you?”

Foster waved to an empty chair. “It would be my pleasure, Rajiya. How is business?”

“Still good for us, but not for everyone. The Palace Quarter is isolated. The new ones do not understand us, and they resent the Prince's ways, I fear. They appreciate that he receives respect from the other princes of the world, which their former rulers did not, but at the same time they resent that he is not of their religion. Even the ones at the Palace mostly dislike our kind, and the other commons are worse. Those of the newcomers who became like us are crowding this part of the city, but half of them... they have a sickness of the soul. This prophet of theirs teaches them to hate what they have become.”

“This is not a good thing. Some of them probaby feel dishonored by the Change.” He held up his hands as Rajiya bristled. “Not I, of course! Nor do my countrymen. But Muslims may see it thus. The danger is that they may then seek to redeem their supposed dishonor by becoming martyrs to their cause. They have done this in the recent past, before you all woke up. One of them would detonate a bomb...? explosives...?” He paused at the femme's puzzled expression, and realized that even in Arabic, the words were modern, concepts undreamed of when she went to sleep all those centuries ago. “Think of it as magical lightning or fire. But one of them would set it off in a crowd and kill many of those who were deemed to be their enemies at the cost of his own life.”

Rajiya was horrified by the idea. “You must tell this to Karim! Everyone must be warned of this insanity!”

Foster nodded. “I will. I was hoping he would be here this afternoon. But in the meantime, tell everyone who will listen. The more people who watch for them, the less likely it is that they will succeed.”

Rajiya nodded in turn. “I will.” She sat back, nibbling at her own food, and then changed the subject. “I believe I may have met your lord yesterday.”

Foster twitched his ears. “My lord...? Oh! The Ambassador?”

“I believe it was him, yes. He has the same accent that you do. Is he not your lord?”

“Not in the usual sense. He is my superior, but we do not have lords.”

Rajiya gave him a wide-eyed look at this, but did not comment further. “He seems a kind man. He thanked me for bringing lunch to the Prince and him, and told me to thank the cooks as well.”

Foster nodded. “He makes a habit of that. Easy to approach, and he always shows appreciation for a job well done. I've worked for much less friendly people.”

“And this is normal where you are from? The powerful noticing their inferiors?”

Foster grinned. “They are only powerful because they know what they are doing. And many of them started out as commoners themselves. The Ambassador's father was much like yours. A baker. But his son had ambition and ability, and rose to be among the minor ranks of the powerful – and if he does well in his role here, he could well rise to greater heights than this.”

“And the Prince respects him? Though he is of common blood?”

“You saw them together. What do you think?”

“He carries himself like a lord. But then...” She grinned, shyly. “So do you. Are you not a second son yourself?”

Foster chuckled. “Second child, but eldest son. My sister's a doctor. My father's a farmer, and my younger brother wants to keep up the family tradition, so he'll probably inherit the farm when Dad retires.”

Rajiya looked puzzled again. “But he owns the land himself? He is not a peasant?”

Foster smiled. “He does. We don't have peasants, any more than we have lords. No one is bound to the land. I--” He turned, sensing an unfriendly gaze from the street.

The man standing there in the crowd was something he'd seen before, though not in person. Fanatic hatred in his eyes, and his clothing was bulky around a multitude of small cylinders. “Death to all infidels! Allahu akbar!” Foster was still trying to bring his pistol to bear when the man pushed the switch he was holding in his hand.

* * * *

Marlowe didn't notice the noise of the approaching riot as quickly as Foster might have, but he did well enough for an unchanged human. Quickly borrowed binoculars showed the leaders of the crowd in more detail, including the AK-47 rifles they carried. He yelled down from the parapet of the Embassy to the guards at the entrance. “Get the gate closed! We've got trouble.” He handed the binoculars back to the lookout and headed for the stairs. He knocked on Cabell's door in passing, with a yell of “Game's on!” and the pair of them arrived at Knight's office together.

The Ambassador looked up as they entered. “It's started, Gunny?”

Marlowe nodded. “Looks like it, sir. Everyone's got live ammo issued, and the gates are closed. Water's not a problem, and we've got food for two weeks, though the menu won't be much fun if we actually go that long. No perishables for that long, of course.”

Cabell chuckled. “Three weeks, actually. We got a batch of MRE's in yesterday.”

Knight grinned. “And the reinforcements are due in a week. I think we can hold out that long. Get Barnett up here. We may have to deal with magic, after all; jihadis have been hypocritical before. Gunny, get back up to the parapet and take command.”

Marlowe nodded. “On it.” He ran back out as Cabell sat down.

“So, what do you think?”

Cabell shrugged. “You saw the stuff we passed on to Haroun. Couple hundred fanatics, with possible backing from the moderns; against whatever Haroun's got. You think they'll attack the sleepers?”

“Wouldn't surprise me. Are we all accounted for?”

“All except Foster, sir. He went out to maintain contact with his local friends. With a little luck, he'll be fine.”

“As long as they don't seriously attack the Palace Quarter before they've dealt with the real opposition. But pointless massacres seem to be one of their favorite games.”

* * * *

Foster reached for his pistol, but he knew he would never get it out before it was too late. Time stretched out, the second and a half of the fanatic's cry lasting for endless minutes while his body responded as if he was moving through wet cement... and then his pistol was up, centered on the man, who was standing dumbfounded in the street as the crowd turned to look at him. He stared at the fennecs, hatred warring with utter perplexity on his face as he stabbed the button again and again.

He barked a yipping vulpine laugh as the realization dawned. <Thank you, God, for incompetent enemies! He tried to use an electrical trigger!> The fanatic finally realized his bomb was not going to go off, and instead reached for the knife he was carrying, drawing it from its sheath and charging the American. “Death to the minions of the Great Sa--”

Pistols, unlike bombs, do not require electricity. Two forty-five caliber bullets aimed at his center of mass permanently interrupted his shouting. Foster sighed, shaking his head as he brought his ears up from where he'd flattened them before pulling the trigger. Rajiya had her hands over her ears, obviously in pain from the unexpected noise that had erupted beside her. “Sorry about that.” He turned to Hakim, who was still stunned at what had just happened. “Get everyone inside for now. Can Farid take me to see Hetman Karim?”

Hakim shook his head. “He will stay inside with his mother. I will take you myself.”

Rajiya shook her head. “We will -all- go. The Sergeant will protect us.”

Foster re-flattened his ears. “I will do my best, but you must help. Even ears like ours cannot see in all directions, and our enemies will have weapons like mine. Let us hurry, before they realize that their bombs have failed.”