-------------------------------------------- [u][b]Mid August: Hargeisa, Somalia[/b][/u] -------------------------------------------- Azima's room was austere, its walls bare, its furniture plain wood. The only colors were the rug, the pillows on her bed, the clothing laid out on a wooden stool, and her handmaids. They were clothed head to toe in red so only their ink black faces stuck out. The two of them said nothing, since their grasp on Somali was tenuous. They went about their work as if she weren't there, as if she were a statue of a piece of furniture to be decorated, covering her in rich embroidered fabric, the scarf around her head almost translucent She didn't want to be here. Sometimes, she wished she'd been raised her father's daughter, saved from the discomfort of her unnatural life pretending to be an equal among men. Then days would come like this where she got her wish, and she felt the absence of the things she loved about that unnatural life. She longed for the independence, and to be distant from her father, the Emir Hassan al-Himyari. She was certain she was an ugly girl. The handmaids put rings on her fingers, and a golden circlet around her head, but that seemed to make it worse. She was skinny, stringy, scars on her face that were barely visible, but visible enough. Somehow being so dressed up made her feel worse about her appearance, so much that she wondered if this was any worse than going out naked. At least in that case her unfortunate features would be competing for attention, rather than the few that were highlighted and tragically contrasted with the rich clothing she wore now. "Pray for me." she said softly to the handmaids. They said nothing. She heard the buzz of an engine, soft and coming from outside. She went out, into the brown halls, the two black handmaidens following behind her. Outside she heard a lute being played. Her father was in the courtyard, entertaining a tall man in a black robe. The man wore a red turban with jewels on it, and had a close cut salt and pepper beard. She knew who he was as soon as she saw him. "Ah, Taysir, here is my daughter!" Hassan said, motioning to Azima. She smiled politely. "This is the son of Hassan I have heard!?" Taysir bin Faisal said, his eyes growing wide and his smile animated as if he'd just been offered the privilege to eat sweets off her naked tummy. "Am I what you look for in a boy?" she replied. There was a brief pause. Hassan's face didn't flinch, but Taysir looked at her inquisitively for a long moment. Then he laughed. "She has a mouth on her too! Yes! I don't feel I am talking to a girl, no, you are like talking to a man. I don't mean to offend." "The Sultan of Muscat cannot offend so long as he is in my house." Hassan said. "Well I am your servant. I can offend though. But you are so hospitable, I am your servant." Taysir said. He pulled a flask from his robe and took a swig. Azima's eyes met Hassan's for just a moment. "Taysir has agreed." Hassan told his daughter. "Oh?" she sounded. She was really surprised. So quick? "Well, it is not difficult to agree, I want to see things happen in my lifetime." Taysir started, "And the Emperor of the Abyssinians is a weak man, isn't he? I have heard things. The American thing? Eh. He is a fool. Though I am surprised he hasn't caught you yet. You are amassing an army and your Emperor hasn't even wagged his finger?" "They know." Hassan said simply, "I am certain of it." "If they know, why would they not do anything?" Taysir sat down and plucked a fig from a bowl presented to him by a young male servant in harem pants. "They have the weapons. And war has its uses, doesn't it?" "I would have out with it. But that is why he is a bad Emperor, isn't it?" Airplanes flew over. There were three of them in V formation. Fighters. The desert sun reflected off their hulls. On their wings were the crossed swords of Oman. "That is what they don't expect!" Taysir said. Azima noticed they were bi-planes, their engines sounding old and choked. "I am surprised those old things still fly." "Why would they not?" Taysir looked hurt. "I know the Ethiopians have better. I saw them in Mogadishu." "I have more." "I hope." "That mine are older are no matter I think." Taysir said, "It is the heart. That is what matters. Is there heart in Ethiopia? Under this Emperor? The believers will fight with us. And I have seen the people you've trained. I am told you have trained with the Dervish? Hassan showed me his warriors jumping from horseback onto moving automobiles. That is a feat! We have all the heart!" "Is a good campaign ever started by disregarding your enemy?" Azima asked simply. "Well, they have their abilities of course, but I do not think their abilities are fatal for us." Azima sat down. Her handmaids flanked her likes guards. "I know this thing is inevitable, but could it not be delayed until a better moment." "This thing will not be tomorrow, but we cannot wait for too long. Desta is aware of what we are doing. You know how many Shotel we have caught. He has plans. I don't know what they are..." "Perhaps he plans to let you undo yourself." she said, "He won't have to sit up for it." Taysir inspected her for a long moment. "Your daughter does have a mouth on her, Hassan." "She strategizes." Hassan said. "This is what I taught her to do. She is right. We should not underestimate Desta. But being aware our enemy is capable is no reason to put everything off. We have made our own plans. It was inevitable that our enemy would be more than a pile of manure waiting for us to burn it. What happens next is we test our plans against theirs. That is inevitable. That is every war in history."