‘Yes,’ said Omar’s uncle, and he heaved a great sigh. ‘What a sadness he could not be with us now. How proud he would have been to see his son sitting at my side.’ He beat his fist on the table, so hard that glasses jumped and tinkled. ‘Why did it have to happen? Why? Why has everyone I cared for been taken from me, why? Answer me, Faisal – am I not the worst-treated of men by providence? And yet, have I not always done what’s best for my country and my God, without regard to my own selfish aims?’
‘Yes, Great Leader. You have indeed,’ said the Secretary soothingly. There was an odd little sparkle in his eyes.
‘But I am the chosen one of providence,’ said the tyrant, quietly and dangerously. ‘Is that not so, Faisal?’
‘It is indeed, sir,’ said the Secretary. His tongue flickered snake-like in and out of his thin lips, nervously. Riveted by the sight of his uncle’s tantrum, not knowing where to look or what to do, Omar tried to keep a bland expression.
‘Bah! Faisal! You are a bore! You only ever repeat yourself. If I want a recording I can buy a better-looking one than you.’ The dictator of Mesomia turned to his startled nephew. ‘What do you think, Omar?’
Taken by surprise, Omar could only gasp, ‘Er … I’m not sure …’
‘You’re not sure! Then however much you look like Ali, you aren’t like Ali at all. He was always sure – sure of everything. Good at everything. I loved him oh so dearly. And then …’ He fell silent, morosely staring at his wine-glass. Then, emptying it once more, he shouted, ‘And take all this debris off the table! I want the magic show in the theatre! Now!’
He stumbled to his feet, pushed back his chair so hard it crashed onto the floor, then stalked out, Omar and the Secretary perforce scurrying at his heels. Omar’s head was spinning. How would he ever be able to keep up with his uncle’s moods?
The theatre was just that: a real theatre, built in the tyrant’s inner sanctum. As well as novels and poetry, Haroun al-Alakah had written a few plays set in the grand old days of Babniria – featuring emperors who looked and sounded suspiciously like himself – and he enjoyed nothing better than to watch the country’s best actors performing them. Omar had heard that the plays were very bad, very long and very tedious – but who on earth would ever dare to tell their author that? No, like his novels and poetry, they appeared in bookshops and theatres all over the country, adorned with the most fulsome praise from all the country’s leading critics. Haroun al-Alakah was very proud of them; proud, too, that the University of Madinatu es Salam had bestowed on him their highest literary honour, the Doctorate of Finest Letters. On TV shows, he talked about his literary success at great length. He, who had grown up as a poor shepherd boy, was now the leading light of Mesomian literature! Wasn’t providence wonderful indeed?
Now, the leading light of Mesomian literature flung himself down sulkily in one of the great purple velvet armchairs of the theatre.
‘What do you think you’re doing? Get those fools to start the show at once,’ he rapped at the Secretary, who bowed and left. Seeing that Omar was still hovering, he shouted, ‘And sit yourself down, boy. You make me feel nauseous, hovering nervously like a sick hawk.’
Omar promptly sat down. His uncle said sharply, ‘Haven’t you got anything to say for yourself? Speak to me, boy, instead of opening and shutting your mouth like a goldfish!’
Omar blinked and said uncertainly, ‘Er … sir … I am looking forward to the show.’
‘You are? Then you’re a fool as well as a dull stick. I am bored with it. These magicians need their ideas changed. Perhaps I’ll recommend them for a spell in the Black Prison. That should smarten up their ideas a little.’
Before Omar could reply, his uncle spoke again. His tone had changed.
‘Oh, Omar! I am glad you are here. It is lonely. Everyone I cared for is gone or has betrayed me. All I have is that snake of a Faisal, and the self-servers around him, and those brutes of guards. Ah, me!’ He grasped Omar’s hand. Shining with tears, his black-marble eyes now looked more like the black opal in the centre of the seeing ball in Omar’s room. ‘Omar – you won’t leave me or betray me, will you?’
‘No – no, Uncle,’ stammered Omar, touched despite himself.
His uncle’s gaze flicked over him.
‘I will make something of you, boy. I will make you into my real heir. You know, I was younger than you when I had to prove my mettle for the first time. I killed a thief, Omar, a thief who had been coming in the night to steal our sheep. He was much bigger than me but I had a strong arm, and a sure heart, and a sharp knife. I cut his throat and left him dying in the dust. He was a neighbour of ours – about my age – I had played with him often enough. Ali – my brother, your father – he did not want me to kill him, he wanted me only to trap him, catch him and bring him to trial in the town. But I knew he would only escape. I knew that once a thief, always a thief. I knew it had to be done.’ He paused, and put a hand on Omar’s shoulder. ‘I know the stories that are told of me in the bazaars and the alleys. They say I have a lust for blood, that I feed on it. They are fools. I do only what has to be done. If I really had a blood lust I would not be fit to rule. I would not have lasted long. I care only about Mesomia, Omar. Do you understand me?’
Omar’s throat was dry. He could not take his eyes off his uncle’s face.
‘Yes, sir.’
He did not know what to think, in truth. He felt utterly confused. But his uncle’s eyes drew him; they were magnetic, brilliant, full of hidden depths.
‘Good,’ said his uncle, and he laughed, in a rather unamused sort of way. ‘You are a mouse, my dear Omar, and I am setting myself to turn you into a cat. I have accomplished more miracles than that, many times over. Ah! Here are the lazy fools,’ he went on, as the Secretary opened the door and a troupe of extraordinary people came rushing into the room.
There were six men and two women. Both women were very beautiful indeed. One, with long black curly hair down to her waist, and big green eyes in a honey-coloured face, was dressed in the sheer gauzy veil, graceful tunic and wide trousers of a northern Alhindi woman, all in shades of gold. The other, whose straight blonde hair framed a very pale face in which shone two ice-blue eyes, was clothed in a pale-blue flowing robe and a white fur cape. There was a glittering crown on her head, in the shape of ice crystals, and her feet were shod in what looked like glass shoes. Omar had never seen anything like her before; he thought she must come from the furthest, coldest, most northern corner of the world, for she looked like a creature of ice and snow. As to the men, three of them were Mesomians, or at least from the peninsula of Al Aksara, for they wore the costume of desert nomads, all white. The other three were a motley lot: a big brown-haired man from the northern mountains, in bright jacket, cummerbund and wide trousers, with a fur hat on his head; a Radenteng man with a long black pigtail and richly embroidered robe; and an Akamenian magician from Parsari with a long forked grey beard, a black turban in which glittered a diamond big as a fist, and a robe embroidered with stars and moons.
‘Your Excellency,’ said this man, who appeared to be the leader of the troupe, ‘forgive our lateness. We are desolated to be the cause of the least anxiety or irritation in you.’ He bowed deeply, and the others followed his example.
‘You old fire-worshipper, Basrel,’ said Omar’s uncle, ‘you needn’t think you can mollify me so easily with your honeyed Parsarian words. I hope you’ve got a better show than last time. That one’s wearing thin. I’m thinking of letting you see the walls of the Black Prison.’
‘Your Excellency,’ purred the Alhindi woman, coming closer to the tyrant, ‘we have devised a most special show for you.’ Her eyes flicked towards Omar, giving him a cool appraisal. ‘It is in honour of your heir coming, sir.’
‘Ha!’ The tyrant beckoned her. ‘Come sit by me, Mira. And you too, Ingrid. Come, my doves.’ He patted the seats next to him. ‘Let me look at you.’ As they sat by him, preening and smiling at him, he pawed at them. ‘You ar
e more beautiful than ever. How do you do it? I know, don’t tell me, magic spells!’
The women tinkled merrily. Omar caught the look the Secretary gave Basrel then – a look of disgust, contempt and amusement mixed. But all the man said was, ‘Great Leader, shall I tell the stagehands to draw the curtains, so that the show may begin?’
‘Of course, Faisal, you dried-up old stick,’ said Haroun al-Alakah, laughing drunkenly and nuzzling at Mira’s and Ingrid’s necks in turn. ‘My doves are going to give me a good show, aren’t they?’
‘Oh yes, Your Excellency,’ said Ingrid in an extraordinary guttural accent, one Omar had never heard before. She stroked the tyrant’s face with a languid pale hand whose fingernails were painted as icy blue as her eyes, setting off the diamonds that twinkled on her fingers. ‘It will be one such as you have dreamt of, and your heir,’ she added coyly, giving Omar a long glance from under her eyelashes. He was horribly embarrassed by the whole performance, not knowing where to look, yet at the same time feeling rather hot under his fine clothes, for the girls were really very beautiful indeed, and they smelt so sweet … so sweet! It made him feel light-headed.
Mercifully, then, both girls were dismissed by his uncle. They made their way up to the stage with the rest of the troupe. The lights were dimmed and the performance began. And what a performance it was! Omar, who had only ever seen village magicians and fairground sword-swallowers, was astonished and enthralled.
There were conjuring tricks and levitations; disappearances and tricks with mirrors; animals appearing on stage, and a rope trick; fire-swallowing and sword-juggling. Each magician seemed an expert in one particular thing – Mira and Ingrid, Omar was interested to see, worked together on disappearing tricks and levitation. But even these, marvellous as they were, paled before the centrepiece, in which the Akamenian sorcerer Basrel stood on a darkened stage and, his voice strangely altered, called on the sun and moon and stars to dance before them. And there, to Omar’s awe, seemed to appear exactly those heavenly bodies, dancing in stately procession in front of them, and ending with a most beautiful flourish in which the flag of Mesomia was reproduced in glittering detail, with the moon and stars at the corner, and the sun bathing it all in gold, just as in the real thing. It was astonishingly lovely.
When it ended, Omar’s uncle called out in a hoarse, cheerful voice, ‘You have surpassed yourselves, my friends! Well done! Faisal, you are to grant them each another estate and two diamonds apiece – with a ruby each for the girls as well.’
The lights came on. The magicians were all on stage, bowing deeply and smiling. Basrel clicked a finger in the air and instantly, a shower of red roses fell into the tyrant’s lap. Another click and a white dove fluttered down from the ceiling and landed on Omar’s shoulder. He gave a startled yell. Everyone laughed, including the tyrant, who was now in thoroughly good humour.
‘Basrel, it seems Omar thinks to look a gift dove in the mouth,’ he said, spluttering. Basrel nodded.
‘Oh, Your Excellency,’ he intoned, ‘perhaps he is more of a hawk?’
He was about to click his fingers when Omar – alarmed at the thought of another bird, and a hawk at that, landing on his shoulder with sharp claws – shouted, ‘Oh, no, please, sir! A dove will do very well.’
That set everyone off again in great peals of laughter. At that moment, there was a knock on the door.
Omar’s uncle said, between gasps of merriment, ‘Tell them to go away, Faisal. My friends and I, we are going to have a party!’
The Secretary nodded and slipped off to the door. He hadn’t been laughing, Omar saw – more smirking. Omar thought, confusedly: there is something odd here, my uncle is much nicer than I thought – though terribly moody – and the Secretary, though he’s Uncle’s closest associate, seems almost to despise him.
The Secretary came back. He whispered something in the tyrant’s ear. The man stiffened. Then a faint smile came over his face.
‘Omar! Omar! They have found the girl.’
‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ said Omar, a little uncertainly, for he remembered what Latifa had said about the tyrant. She was definitely no supporter of his. What would she think about being brought to this place?
‘Now we will have a real party, eh, Omar?’ His uncle’s voice was jocular, friendly, yet something troubled Omar.
He said, ‘Sir, she is quite shy … I think she –’
‘Nonsense!’ roared his uncle. ‘Faisal, tell them to bring her in at once. I want to thank her personally.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the Secretary, and his cold flat gaze rested on Omar. There was amusement in the flat eyes, and the tongue flickered in and out as the man licked his lips. All at once, Omar felt horribly afraid. He looked around him – at the plush theatre, at the magicians standing smiling onstage, at his uncle, whose shiny black eyes glittered more than ever – and he thought, suddenly, of the ambush, and the dark tunnels, and of how terrified he’d been to even come here. Anguish filled his mouth with bitterness, but before he could cry out, the door opened and Latifa came in.
Eight
She was between two big burly guards. Or rather, she was held up between them. Her hands were tied behind her back. Her eyes were half-closed – one was blackened and swollen. Her lips were bleeding, her scarf had been torn off and her hair hung limply down her back. She could hardly walk. Her bare feet – cut, bleeding – dragged along the ground. The cat, Ketta, was nowhere to be seen.
Omar gave a horrified cry and sprang towards her.
‘Latifa! What’s happened to you?’
She looked sadly at him out of her one good eye.
‘Why did you tell them about me?’
A sharp pain gripped his throat.
‘But I thought … I thought …’ He swung round to his uncle. ‘Uncle Haroun, please …’
His uncle smiled faintly.
‘So she’s named Latifa, your little saviour, is she? Latifa – it is a name from the marshes. You are a Marshlander, girl?’
She looked at him, defiantly.
‘My mother was a Marshlander. My father came from this city. You cannot hurt either of them. They are both dead. And I have no brothers or sisters or any living relatives. The Marshland village my mother came from has been drained and deserted. I am completely alone in the world.’
A cruel smile played over the tyrant’s face.
‘Alone in the world? How touching, you little marsh viper. Well, it’ll be easy to stamp out the last remnant of your accursed line, then.’
‘No! No! No!’ Omar shouted.
His uncle frowned. He made a gesture at the magicians.
‘Go, all of you. Except for you, Basrel.’
They vanished as promptly as if in one of their own conjuring tricks, leaving behind a distinctly unhappy-looking Basrel. The tyrant got up and came towards Latifa and Omar.
‘Child,’ he said, quietly, addressing the girl, ‘tell Omar, Latifa – tell him if your people, the Marshlanders, have ever been my friends.’
‘Friends of a tyrant and sorcerer like you?’ she spat. ‘Never!’
The tyrant laughed softly. ‘We’ll see if your spirit carries you where you are going, marsh-witch. But I will give you one chance to redeem yourself, since you saved my nephew’s life: where are the traitors hiding?’
‘Call them by their right name. They are the Shadow Walkers.’
There was a gasp. Omar saw that the guards and Basrel had gone very pale.
The tyrant said, ‘There are none by that name. They are all dead.’
‘Then their ghosts have avenged them,’ said the girl. She shot a look at Omar. There was a pity in her eyes that Omar found unbearable.
He said, in a kind of strangled croak, ‘They were there! I saw them. She had nothing to do with them. Let her go! She is a heroine. You said so yourself, Uncle.’
‘And you believed me,’ said his uncle. ‘You are indeed as big a fool as your father.’
Omar shrieked, ‘Uncle, I beg
of you! You said you would reward her.’
The Secretary tittered. ‘And so he shall,’ he remarked.
Black rage and hatred rose up in Omar then.
‘Please, Uncle Haroun,’ he said, trying hard to keep his voice steady, ‘I do not know what poison the Secretary has poured into your ear, but it is all falsehood. Latifa was not in league with the Shadow Walkers. She had nothing to do with them. She saved me from certain death. Uncle Haroun, I am your heir. You say I am to be your son. Please, grant me this – do not hurt her, do not kill her. Please, let her go. Or heaven itself will damn you for a foul deed!’
Everyone gasped. The tyrant had gone very still. He turned his gaze to Omar; and for the first time, Omar felt the full force of those black-marble eyes, and knew, with absolute, horrible certainty, that the heart that beat in his uncle’s chest was just as stony. He could not help taking a step back.
‘You are frightened of me, Omar,’ said his uncle, very gently. ‘Yet you have spoken your heart to me. That is a brave thing to do.’ The black-marble eyes stared unblinkingly into Omar’s face. ‘And because of that, I will grant your wish. The girl will not be hurt, or killed. And I will let her go.’
Omar felt his whole body flame with light.
He said, weakly, ‘Uncle, I thank –’
‘However,’ said his uncle, going on as if Omar hadn’t spoken, ‘I know that she is in league with the traitors. I know, because I know many things, and because your own words about her before, Omar, made me understand what she was. I could smell her on you; I have developed a very good sense of smell.’ His nostrils flared and the terrified Omar, unable to tear away his gaze, or move a muscle, thought he saw twin fires appear in his uncle’s eyes, like the horrid cold flames of Jehannem. ‘I understood she was from the marshes and not a minute must be lost in capturing her. No, I will not hurt her or kill her, and I will let her go … Basrel!’
‘Yes, Your Excellency?’ quavered the Akamenian.
‘I want you to perform the Spell of Darkness,’ said the tyrant.
The Tyrant's Nephew Page 4
