In the Palace of the Khans

by Peter Dickinson

“He’s saying we may have to fight in the end, but we aren’t ready,” whispered Mizhael. “Got to play for time, protest and so on—send delegation to negotiate about the hostages, etcetera—meanwhile, got know more, find out who was behind the coup, paid for it—what the bastards intend to do next, how widely army supports them, etcetera … Ah, this is it. They must meet the Khanazhana—listen to what she says—forget that she’s a kid, a girl. Knew her father’s mind—saw him killed at her feet—watched his murderers from hiding-places—knew their names—got a lot to tell us … There’s two or three of the chieftains very old fashioned. Aren’t going to like that … Told you so …”

  Two of the chieftains were their feet with their right arms held out rigid in front of them. Doglu Baladzhin stopped speaking.

  “Points of order,” whispered Mizhael.

  Chief Baladzhin asked a question and looked along the line of chieftains. One of them half stood, but sat back down as the mutter rose to a rumble.

  “All of ’em want to take a look at her,” whispered Mizhael. “Doesn’t matter which side they’re on.”

  Doglu Baladzhin said a few more words and sat down. An attendant went to the corner beneath the gallery and spoke to someone there. The room waited in silence until Taeela came sedately in, unveiled, followed by Janey, and this time Rahdan, wearing a smart uniform with a purple shoulder sash.

  It was almost a repeat of last night’s entrance. The clapping began at once, and continued, louder and louder, as Chief Baladzhin went to meet her and lead her along the line of chieftains, introducing them in turn. They rose and bowed as she came, and she seemed to have something different to say to each of them. One of the hawks tried to patronise her, smiling as he might have done at a too-clever child. The chieftain on his left, near enough to hear her reply, suppressed a different sort of smile as she moved on.

  Finally Chief Baladzhin led her back to the centre of the semicircle, and signed to the chieftains to sit. She turned and faced the room, waited for silence, drew a breath and started to speak.

  “She wants to tell us how her father died,” whispered Mizhael. “She says …”

  The man next to them turned and frowned.

  “Don’t bother,” whispered Nigel. “I was there. I saw it happen.”

  In fact he barely needed the translation. Taeela told the story slowly, in a clear, level tone, and he lived it through as she spoke. Only near the end, when he could almost see her coming down the great stairs, her voice faltered for the first time. She paused, swallowed, drew breath and carried on as before. The shots. The President’s collapse. His final, desperate gesture to her to run, and it was over.

  Nobody spoke or moved until Taeela turned towards Nigel. As far as he could tell she hadn’t once glanced his way since she’d come in, but she knew where he was standing. Perhaps she’d picked him out through the gallery screen while the chieftains were speaking. She waved him over.

  “You’d better come too,” he whispered as he started towards her.

  He could feel the pressure of everyone’s attention, all those eyes on them as they crossed the room. Close up, he could see the strain in her face.

  “You wanted me for a witness, Lily-Jo said,” he muttered.

  “You remember what my father told me, Nigel?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Today I sacrifice my queen.”

  He stared at her, hearing the sadness in her voice and half-guessing what she meant.

  “Oh … Well … Good luck,” he managed.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Please tell him what I say, Mizhael.”

  “Right,…”

  The two of them moved aside to give everyone a clear view as she started to speak again, louder and slower, as though she was speaking to a much larger audience. Nigel forced himself to listen to Mizhael’s whisper.

  “She must avenge her father’s death—they’ll all go along with that, whichever side they’re on. But not by fighting a war, Dirzhaki against Dirzhaki. Her father told her again and again she mustn’t let that happen. He said if there is war the Russians and the Americans will make it an excuse to butt in. It’s the men who killed him she’s after, and the men who gave the orders, Adzhar Taerzha, Colonel Sesslizh, Colonel Madzhalid, Avron Dikhtar, men like that; and also the men who paid them.

  “She can’t do this alone. She needs help. So she makes the chieftains an offer. One day she must have a husband. She will choose him herself. No one will do it for her. Her father promised her this. He gave her the word of the Khan. Now she gives her word that she will choose her husband from the clan that gives her most help in avenging her father’s death. This is the word of the Khan. Let them all be witnesses.”

  There was a moment of astonished silence, and then the hubbub broke erupted. For a good five minutes the meeting was completely out of control. The chieftains and their supporters were on their feet and gathered round chief Baladzhin like footballers round the ref after a red card; and crowd trouble was brewing down at the other end of the room, faces vivid with anger and excitement and bewilderment.

  Nigel ignored the uproar, shutting it out, retreating into himself. He’d known all along that something like this was bound to happen. It had been inevitable from the moment her father died. She had as good as told him at Forghal, saying what she felt about the girls they had rescued at the peach orchard. When they had waved to each other across the courtyard before being taken to their separate quarters, they had been saying goodbye. The sadness in her voice had been for both of them, for their less-than-a-fortnight’s friendship that couldn’t be the same again. A few days ago he’d been a year or so older than she was, no real difference at all. Now she was years older than him.

  “Trouble, Nick?” said Mizhael.

  “Uh … Sorry,” he said. “I suppose I’d guessed she’d say something like that, only I didn’t realise it would be this big a deal.”

  “It’s huge! Not the vengeance thing. But a daughter of the Khan! I’ve got five Khanazhanas in my family tree, going back six hundred years. There’s been blood spilt over them, time and again, clan against clan, but she’s the first on offer getting on a century. Girls didn’t get much of a say, mind you. No nonsense about marrying for love. She’s got that bit right. Question is, will they wear this Word-of-the-Khan business? They don’t want their daughters getting ideas. Elder brother’s her guardian now, I guess, but he’s in Moscow, right, Russianised to the teeth, do what Moscow tells him. They won’t want that, either. Depends on you, I guess. Whether you can make it stick the old boy said what she says he did. And meant it.”

  “What happens?”

  “You make a statement. Then anyone who wants to can ask you questions, try to prove you’re lying. Doesn’t have to be anything important, provided it’s got something to do with your statement. One detail untrue, and your statement’s no good. In the old days you could challenge them to a fight to the death if they wouldn’t accept your answer, or have a champion do it for you, but I don’t guess it’ll come to that.”

  “Have I got to tell them my real name?”

  “Um. Tricky. Guess you’d better. Your name’s a mouthful for Dirzhaki. Just say it quick as you can, and maybe they won’t get it.”

  Slowly the clamour died down. The chieftains went back to their places. Taeela, still standing impassively where she’d been while the uproar raged round her, motioned to Nigel and Mizhael to join her. The three of them took their places in a row with Nigel in the middle, facing sideways across the room on Chief Baladzhin’s right, and waited for silence. Doglu Baladzhin tottered out from behind the chieftains. Somebody brought a chair so that he could stand facing them, resting his hands on the chair-back. Chief Baladzhin rose and made a brief pronouncement and sat down again.

  Doglu Baladzhin asked a question.

  “Your name?” said Mizhael.

  “Nigelridgwell,” he said, slurring the syllables.

  “You are an English boy? How is it that you are a wit
ness to the word of the Khan?”

  “My father’s living in Dara Dahn, negotiating on the Vamar dam project. I came out to visit him and my mother during the school holidays. When he met the President-Khan, the President-Khan asked …”

  Pausing now and then for Mizhael to translate, Nigel sketched in what had happened those first two mornings: playing chess with the President to see if he was good enough to teach Taeela the game, and managing to bring off a queen sacrifice against him; then starting to teach Taeela next morning; forking her knight and rook; Taeela wanting to keep the knight; him explaining why it was better to keep the rook, and that she mustn’t mind sacrificing pieces if it was worth while, even the queen sometimes; then setting up the position in his game against the President to show her, and the President coming in.

  He slowed down for the actual conversation leading up to the promise, repeating it word for word as far as he could …

  “‘You don’t choose,’” she said. “‘You ask me who I want to marry, and then I choose. Am I right?’”

  “He tried to get out of it, saying it was time for me to go home, but she wouldn’t let him. She wasn’t joking any more. Neither was he. They were both dead serious. He thought about it for a bit.

  “Then he said, ‘Yes, you’re right. I don’t sacrifice my queen, even if it means losing the game.’

  “‘Word of the Khan?’ she asked him.

  “He thought about it again and then he gave her his hand and she put her hands round it.

  “‘Word of the Khan, Taeela.’ he said

  “‘It is spoken, Khan,’ she said, and then she told me I was her witness.

  “That’s how it happened.”

  Mizhael translated.

  “That sounds pretty watertight,” he said as the mutterings ran round the room.

  Doglu Baladzhin held up his hand for silence, turned to the room and asked a question.

  “Anyone want to contest the statement?” muttered Mizhael. “Oh God! Bloody Zhiordzhio!”

  The shout had come from their left, behind the row of chieftains. Nigel turned and saw Zhiordzhio Baladzhin pushing his way through. He stalked forward and stationed himself beside old Doglu, directly facing Nigel. He was smiling, and his voice when he spoke wasn’t particularly aggressive, only a bit patronising. He looked at Doglu, who nodded to him to go ahead.

  Mizhael translated his questions.

  “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  “You played chess against the President-Khan. For how long?”

  “Oh, about forty minutes. Then a call came through for him and we had to stop.”

  “What advantage did he give you?”

  “He didn’t. He offered me a piece but I didn’t take it.”

  Zhiordzhio’s eyebrows went up. He stared at Nigel, then nodded.

  “What else was he doing while you played? Reading? Dictating?”

  “Just eating. He said he wanted to play seriously. He was really trying to beat me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “He was about to beat you when you were interrupted?”

  “No,” he said. “He’d got an attack building up. If I hadn’t spotted the queen sacrifice it’d have been a near thing, but I think I could have held it off.”

  Zhiordzhio swung abruptly away and spoke to the room in a bored, sneering voice.

  “The bastard,” said Mizhael. “He says you’re lying. What you’ve told us is just a childish fantasy. The President was a strong player. You’re a child. If he’d being playing seriously he’d have beaten you in twelve moves.”

  “Twelve moves! That’s stupid! Look, tell him I bet him a hundred dzhin he can’t beat me in twenty.”

  “Are you sure? He used to be pretty good.”

  “Yes.”

  “Make it three hundred. That’s a serious bet. I’ll stake you.”

  “OK … No, wait. I’m allowed to challenge him, right? Don’t worry. It’ll just be to a game of chess. If he beats me in twenty moves …”

  Mizhael grinned, and rubbed his hands together.

  “Right,” he said. “They’re going to love this.”

  He turned to the room and announced the first part of the challenge in a formal voice, waited for the gasp of astonishment and added the second part.

  A moment of startled silence, and then somebody laughed. Deep male voices boomed and bayed, Chief Baladzhin as loud as any. Zhiordzhio grabbed Doglu Baladzhin’s arm to protest, but Doglu cackled in his face. Nigel turned to Taeela. She nodded, unsmiling.

  “I threw in the bet,” said Mizhael. “He’ll lose a lot a face if he turns it down. What’s he up to now?”

  Zhiordzhio had given up on Doglu and taken his protest to Chief Baladzhin. The chieftains gathered round. Mizhael shifted across to listen.

  “You will beat him, Nigel?” said Taeela quietly.

  “Not a hope, if he’s as good as Mike says and if he keeps his cool. But I should be able to hold him off for twenty moves.”

  “You will beat him,” she repeated confidently.

  “Look, you can’t have everything. I’m not even going to try for it, or I mightn’t make twenty. You want to risk everything for that? Getting to twenty will be beating him, Taeela. Bet you that’s what your dad would’ve told you.”

  It wasn’t fair, but it did the trick. She nodded gravely and turned away.

  Slowly the room quietened. The chieftains went back to their places, Zhiordzhio Baladzhin stood aside, muttering irritably, Mizhael returned.

  “Couple of ’em wanted to postpone it till the serious stuff was finished,” he said. “Rest said let’s get it over. Won’t get anywhere till then. They’re taking bets on it already, which move he’ll get you on.”

  “We’ll need a referee. He’ll try and put me off or something.”

  It took about ten minutes to get set up. By then servants were going round with drinks and snacks. The table was in the middle of the room with a stool either side. Almost everybody gathered round to watch the game. Zhiordzhio had objected to Mizhael translating, saying he’d help Nigel, so a jolly-looking man with a thick Dirzhani-American accent was doing it instead. The referee was older, with a serious face and keen bright eyes. There’d been a bit of argy-bargy about how quickly they played. Zhiordzhio wanted ten seconds a move, saying he didn’t want to waste everyone’s time, but the referee had said that wasn’t fair and they’d settled for a minute.

  The referee hid a pawn in each fist. Zhiordzhio got to choose, because Nigel had issued the challenge. White, worse luck. He stared contemptuously at Nigel for several seconds then plonked himself down and without waiting for Nigel to sit banged out his queen’s pawn. Nigel did the same, but next move pushed his king’s pawn only one square, supporting the other one.

  “Stupid boy,” muttered Zhiordzhio in English, and took Nigel’s queen’s pawn. Nigel took back.

  “Stupid,” said Zhiordzhio.

  Before Nigel could protest the referee spoke to Zhiordzhio. He scowled, but didn’t do it again. He didn’t really need to. He was dismayingly good, and he kept his cool. He didn’t give Nigel any extra time to think, but moved almost at once, not rushing into an all-out onslaught but getting his pieces out, forcing another pawn exchange, opening up the position which Nigel was doing his best to keep closed, not giving him a chance to form a plan of his own, but keeping him busy countering each move, and steadily getting the upper hand.

  The attack came on the sixteenth move with a knight sacrifice. Nigel stared at the board for almost his full minute. Mate in three … In any ordinary game he’d have resigned. His queen was out of position after the knight sacrifice with no time to bring it back. He used it to take one of the three pawns guarding Zhiordzhio’s king. Check. Zhiordzhio could move the king out of check, but then the queen would check it again, and that would be two moves gone, so he was forced to use his king to take the queen. That brought it into the open.

  Seventeen.

  Nigel checked it
again with his second bishop. To capture that Zhiordzhio would have to take a knight out of his attack, so he retreated his king.

  Eighteen.

  Moving the bishop meant that Nigel could now bring it down onto his back rank, completely unprotected, a fragile barrier, an obstacle which it would take Zhiordzhio only a move to brush aside.

  So it was still mate in three. There were two moves left.

  Zhiordzhio used up his minute staring at the board and swept the pieces onto the floor.

  “You play like idiot!” he yelled. “How I play idiot? Five moves you been dead! Dead!”

  He jumped out of his seat, stamped on the pieces and lurched towards Nigel. The interpreter stuck out a leg and he fell sprawling. Nigel paid no attention. He stayed where he was, slumped forward on his stool, staring at the backs of his hands, shuddering with the release of tension.

  CHAPTER 18

  The stranger looked a year or two older than Nigel; skin brown with summer, pale blue eyes, strong dark brows, dark eyelashes and short black hair. Nigel closed his left eye and the stranger’s right eye closed.

  It was the eyebrows that made the most difference. The fine blond hairs that used almost to fade into the pale northern skin now boldly asserted themselves, seeming to change the shape of his head. You saw them, rather than the uncertain mouth and jaw-line.

  Yes, he thought. One day, perhaps … Though Dad would really mind. Mum too, probably.

  The barber, a skinny little man with a permanent shake in his hands, who had muttered quietly to himself in Dirzhani all the time he was fussing over his work, removed the mirror and looked at him anxiously.

  “That’s great!” said Nigel. “Thank you very much.”

  The barber produced a gratified smile, bowed and backed away.

  “Your own mother wouldn’t know you,” said Mizhael, who had come in a few minutes earlier, obviously bursting with news. “I’ll settle with this chap. Should’ve had three hundred dzhin to bring you. Zhiordzhio’s refusing to pay up. Says your last few moves don’t count, weren’t chess. Referee ruled in your favour but Zhiordzhio still won’t have it. Dad’s mad at him. I’ll give you the money, get it out of him later.”