The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  Basrel swallowed. ‘Your Excellency, it is a dangerous –’

  ‘Shut up, fire-worshipper. Do it, or I will burn you at the stake, as you deserve.’

  The Akamenian’s forehead was beaded with sweat. He bowed, unsteadily. ‘Of course, Your Excellency. I will do it.’

  ‘Omar, you stay here. The rest of you, get out,’ said the tyrant. Nobody argued. Without a word, without looking behind them, the guards and the Secretary fled.

  Omar said, ‘Uncle, what –’

  ‘Shut up,’ said his uncle. ‘Shut up, you fool.’

  Omar looked at Latifa. He wished he could die. He murmured, ‘Forgive me … forgive me …’

  She turned her head away.

  ‘See, even she despises you. You are a poor, weak thing,’ said his uncle harshly. ‘But you are mine. You will see what I am capable of, and then you will understand. I will make you do so. Now, Basrel! Begin!’

  As the Akamenian lifted his arms high, chanting, Omar looked wildly around, trying to think of something to do. Instinctively, he groped for his father’s prayer beads, which he’d put in his pocket – and suddenly, something flashed into his head. Watching his uncle carefully – he was absorbed by Basrel’s chanting, his eyelids half-closed – Omar took the beads out of his pocket, enclosing them in his clenched fist. Sidling a little closer to Latifa, he tried to attract her eye, but she resolutely refused to look at him.

  The room began to grow dark, unnaturally dark. Omar could smell something, a ghastly smell made up of something sweet and something that clogged at the throat: the smell of death. He thought, a ghoul, he’s calling a ghoul, he’s calling up a ghoul to separate her soul from her body. She’ll become a thing, a senseless, fleshy machine, a kind of zombie, a member of the horrid tribe of the living dead. His heart beat wildly. He must stop this. He must!

  The chant rose in an eerie wail. Something stirred in the darkness. A ghostly form – red eyes – swivelling towards Latifa … He must save her!

  In the horrid, stinking darkness, Omar grabbed at Latifa’s hand. It was clammy, cold, limp. He pushed the beads into her nerveless hand, closing her fingers over them, hoping and praying she wouldn’t let go. The darkness thickened and thickened, and the smell grew more and more horrible till his senses were reeling from it. Then he heard the most terrible sound he’d ever heard in his life, an inhuman high shriek that made Omar’s hair stand on end and his scalp turn to ice. His head swam with darkness, his throat heaved with nausea, his ears rang with terror, and all at once, everything went black and he fell into a dead faint.

  Omar surfaced, gasping. The Secretary’s bespectacled face came into focus. He said, ‘Oh, you’re awake. Good.’

  Omar looked wildly around him. He was back in his room, lying on the bed. He struggled up.

  ‘Where … what …’

  ‘You must have gone to sleep,’ said the Secretary.

  Images jarred in Omar’s mind.

  He said, ‘No … no … Latifa … the theatre … the Spell of Darkness … the ghoul …’

  ‘Bless me, you must have had a nightmare.’ The Secretary bustled around, straightening books, games, the coverlet on the bed. ‘Now, I know it can be stressful, being here for the first time, but you really must not be so nervous, you know. Your uncle isn’t a monster. Or do you believe the bazaar gossip?’

  Omar’s head whirled. He was sure he’d seen … heard … felt … And he was sure the Secretary was lying.

  ‘The ambush …’ he began.

  ‘Why, yes. That was a nasty experience, wasn’t it? Fortunately, I managed to pull you out of the car. And let me tell you, Omar, those bandits responsible for it have already been dealt with.’

  Omar gave him a baffled, panicky look.

  ‘I don’t understand.’ He put a hand to his head. ‘I seem to remember …’

  ‘Shock,’ said the Secretary. He pointed to the crystal ball in the corner. ‘Why don’t you speak to your uncle, Omar? He will be able to reassure you.’

  Omar felt completely confused. He could remember the ambush clearly, the terror of it; but what had happened afterwards? He seemed to remember something – a girl, darkness – but try as he might, he could not focus on the images. Had it really happened, or had he been dreaming?

  The Secretary was bustling him towards the ball.

  ‘Come on, Omar. Put your hand on the ball – yes, like that.’

  As soon as Omar’s fingertips touched the crystal, his uncle’s face appeared in it. He was smiling.

  ‘Are you feeling better, Omar?’

  ‘Uncle, I want to know …’

  Looking into his uncle’s eyes, Omar felt his words dry up. It wasn’t true, any of it. He’d really had a nightmare, just as the Secretary had said.

  ‘Look at me, Omar,’ said his uncle, in soothing tones. ‘Oh dear me, yes, you look very tired and rundown. Perhaps we’d better just have dinner sent up to your room on a tray.’

  ‘I thought …’ Into Omar’s mind, just for an instant, flashed a picture of a table laden with food. Then it was gone. He murmured, ‘I don’t think I feel hungry, Uncle. I just feel … I feel so tired. And … and anxious.’

  ‘Omar,’ said his uncle, ‘you do just as I say. You don’t worry any more. Nothing bad can get you here, not even nightmares. Look at me – I will wipe it completely from your mind. You won’t remember any of it, not even shreds of it.’

  Omar found his eyes drawn to his uncle’s face. He couldn’t help looking into those glittering black eyes.

  ‘Don’t worry, now, Omar,’ said his uncle. ‘Relax, dear boy. All will be well.’

  Omar could feel the last shreds of the ugly images disappearing. Slowly, he could feel his mind uncreasing, like an ironed sheet. He could feel peace coming into his body.

  ‘Go and lie down now, Omar,’ said his uncle. ‘Rest. Sleep. In the morning you will wake refreshed, and the anxiety will have quite gone. And if you are ever afraid again – if ever something troubles you – come to the ball. Speak to me. I will always be there for you, Omar. Remember that. Always.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle, I will remember,’ said Omar drowsily, and he left the ball and went to lie down on his bed, feeling more relaxed than he had ever felt in his life before. He didn’t even notice the Secretary leaving the room, or hear the sound of the key as it turned in the lock.

  Nine

  Something was hurting him. It was like lots of red-hot needles were being thrust into his skin. He woke with a yelp.

  The room was bathed in moonlight. It fell in stripes on the floor, on the shelves, on his bed, turning everything into a strange silver world. And sitting on the bed, very close to his chest, watching him intently out of emerald-green eyes, was a little white cat. It miaowed sharply, then suddenly lashed out with one elegant little paw at his exposed hand.

  ‘Ow!’ yelled Omar, jerking his hand back. The cat regarded him thoughtfully.

  ‘Where did you come from? How did you get in?’ Omar said. The cat blinked her jewel eyes.

  Omar sat up. He looked at the window, but it was shut. He put out a wary hand towards the cat. She made no move to attack him again.

  ‘You’re a pretty thing,’ he said, as he touched her soft fur. ‘What’s your name?’

  And suddenly, shockingly, into his head came a voice – a purring little voice – that whispered, ‘Have you forgotten already? I am Ketta.’

  ‘Ketta?’ he echoed, withdrawing his hand and staring wonderingly at the cat. But she said nothing. He shook his head to clear it. Had he imagined that she’d spoken to him? He touched her again, but nothing happened.

  He said, ‘Heaven preserve us, I imagined for a moment that a cat could talk,’ only to nearly jump out of his skin from fright when the voice snapped, ‘Heaven preserve us, I thought humans could remember more than goldfish can!’

  Omar stared at the cat. The cat stared back. Something began to stir, deep in his memory.

  He said, ‘What are you trying to tell me?’
>
  The cat arched her back and miaowed reproachfully. She flicked her tail. Omar said, ‘I have to touch you when I speak to you? Is that it?’

  He put a gentle finger on her back and repeated the question, and the answer came back, very sharply indeed, ‘Of course. Am I to be landed with a complete fool? My poor girl, then!’

  Omar felt his ears burning.

  ‘Who do you mean?’

  ‘Latifa,’ came the answer.

  ‘Latifa,’ repeated Omar, puzzled. There was something about that name that was familiar, but he couldn’t for the moment place it. His head felt thick and heavy, thoughts struggling to form.

  ‘Latifa of the marshes, who risked her life for you. Latifa, my dear girl who now lies in enchanted sleep and cannot be woken unless you help her. And she must be woken within three days or her soul will be lost.’

  ‘I cannot – Ow!’ shouted Omar as the cat sprang and landed on his shoulder, razor-sharp claws digging into him.

  ‘You listen, human boy,’ growled the cat’s voice in his head. ‘And you listen good. It is partly your doing that my Latifa lies insensible as stone in this very palace. Partly your doing – and mine too, for I should not have left her side to go hunting. We are both responsible. Yet somehow the full Spell of Darkness did not work on her, so her soul has not been permanently separated from her body. But it wanders without being able to find a way back to her body, and within three days it will be so far away we will never be able to call it back.’

  ‘Oh, dear God,’ whispered Omar as the cat’s words began to claw away the webs of forgetfulness that had been woven in his brain. ‘Latifa – the Spell of Darkness – the magicians – my uncle …’

  He broke off, gulping. His eyes shot to the crystal ball in the corner. It glowed on its stand, the black opal within focused on him like the pupil of a malevolent eye.

  He whispered, ‘Ketta, how can I rescue her?’

  The cat’s voice said, less sharply, ‘There is nothing either of us can do for her here.’

  Things were coming back. He could feel the memories reconnecting. Rage and hatred and fear and pity swirled in him.

  He said, hoarsely, ‘Please, I must do something. I must! I think – I think the prayer beads I gave her – my father’s – they might perhaps have stopped the spell from working completely. But what must I do now? What can I do?’

  ‘You will have to leave this place,’ said the cat. ‘We will have to travel to the northern mountains, where a plant called nablaylee grows – that is the only antidote known to the Spell of Darkness. But nablaylee grows in the territory of the fiercest of the werewolf clans, who have never been fond of strangers. To get there and back alive we will have to go first to the marshes and get a flying carpet to take us there in safety.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Omar, rather dazed.

  ‘There is no time to be lost. We will have to leave tonight – at once,’ said the cat. ‘If you stay any longer, tomorrow morning they will work on your memory again, and soon you will not be able to recover it, ever.’

  Omar gasped. Keeping an eye on the ball, which seemed to him to be glowing more and more, he whispered, ‘Then we must leave at once, as you say.’ He got up and went to the door. When he tried the handle, though, it wouldn’t budge. He’d been locked in.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said the cat. ‘We’ll get out the way I got in.’

  Omar looked at the window. ‘No,’ said the cat. ‘That’s locked, too.’

  ‘Then …’ Omar looked around the room.

  The cat said, ‘The fireplace, of course. It is unguarded by any of their anti-Jinn spells. The only one in the entire inner core of the palace to be so. Somebody slipped up there.’

  ‘You are a Jinn?’ said Omar, in sudden fright.

  ‘Yes, so what? Haven’t you ever met one of us before?’

  ‘No, but sometimes, out of the corner of my eye, I’ve caught glimpses of creatures … I didn’t know a cat could be a Jinn, though.’

  ‘Well, we can take any shape we please, in the human world. A cat’s a useful shape. One can wriggle in just about anywhere. Now, Omar, get dressed – inconspicuous clothes, I think. Not those smart ones. Yes, jeans. A plain shirt. No jewellery. On second thoughts, take a couple of watches: that platinum and diamond one; and that gold and emerald one. They might be useful as barter.’ The cat hopped off his shoulder and waited, swishing her tail. When Omar had finished dressing she sprung back up and said, ‘Now, over to the fireplace. Put your right hand on that topmost tile – that’s it. Close your eyes, don’t look at me. I must concentrate, I haven’t done this in a very long time.’

  Omar screwed his eyes tight shut. He could feel the cat’s soft weight on his shoulder. It seemed to be getting heavier, hotter. His body tingled from top to toe. He tried not to think of the crystal ball, shining behind him. There was a humming sound. It was getting louder. He was sure it was coming from the ball.

  ‘Hurry!’ he cried, and the cat yelled back, ‘Stop it! Don’t talk to me, don’t look at me, or the spell will fail!’

  The humming grew louder and louder, turning into a roar now, like an aeroplane engine starting up. All at once, Omar felt the oddest sensation – his body stretching, elongating, pulled like a twist of gum or elastic, up, up, up! There was a popping sound, and suddenly he felt light as air. His eyes flew open. He looked down at himself. He could see his body, but could not feel it at all, except where the cat’s claws dug into his shoulder. He tried to speak, but could not.

  He couldn’t see his room any more, just a thick swirl of air, white as cloud, muffling everything, as if he were wrapped in damp cotton wool. He should have felt panic, but instead felt only awe and wonder. It was like flying. Like swimming. Weightless, he floated, unable to see where he’d been or where he was going, and it felt good.

  Then there was a great jarring, and a terrifying screaming. He felt his body again, painfully. The cloud cleared, the feeling of wellbeing lifted – and to his horror and embarrassment, he found he had landed wrong way round on the back of a furiously braying donkey, which had been dozing in the courtyard of an inn.

  The cat had jumped off his shoulder. He caught sight of her unconcernedly washing her face a short distance away, leaving him to the tender mercies of the donkey’s owner, who, sleeping under his cart, had awoken at the sound of the donkey’s braying. What with his shouts and blows, and the donkey’s braying and kicking, Omar thought his last hour had come. Finally, after much pain and struggling, he managed to extricate himself from the donkey and its owner without being kicked or beaten or yelled at to death. He fled out of the inn courtyard and into the street, with the donkey’s owner still throwing insults after him, and a crowd beginning to gather.

  At last, he stopped to draw breath – and saw the cat, sitting on a post, staring at him.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ said Omar, furious, panting and dishevelled. The cat just lifted a paw, delicately, and miaowed. Omar sighed. He trudged over to her, picked her up, gently, and put her on his shoulder. ‘Please keep your claws sheathed,’ he told her. ‘They hurt, you know.’

  ‘Bah, you’re a ninny,’ said the cat coolly.

  ‘Where do we go now?’ said Omar, grinding his teeth.

  ‘To the marshes, of course,’ said the cat.

  ‘But how?’

  ‘It’s only three or four hours away by bus. No, don’t look at me – I can’t transport you there in the same way we got out of the palace. It’s much too far. Besides, don’t you realise how much effort that took?’ She flicked at one ear. ‘Why, this ear is almost deaf as a result.’

  ‘But I don’t have any money.’

  ‘Then we will have to hitch a ride on one,’ said the cat. ‘I suggest you go to the bus station and hide in one of the buses that are waiting there. That’s what my Latifa would do, use her wits.’

  ‘But she’s used to …’ Omar began, before thinking better of it.

  ‘Come on, follow me,’ said the cat with a little
sigh, and jumping off his shoulder she gave a proud flick of her tail and stalked off gracefully down the street.

  Ten

  The long-distance buses were rowed up at the bus station. A few had their engines running and queues of weary-looking people lined up beside them. Omar followed Ketta to the last bus but one – a rather ramshackle-looking affair painted green and white and yellow, with a big all-seeing eye, like a ship’s, painted on the front. It had ‘Amara’ written at the front – the name of the biggest southern city, on the edge of the marshes. A sharp-eyed man in a leather cap was taking people’s fares; Omar’s heart sank at the thought of trying to trick him into letting him on without paying.

  As if she’d been reading his mind, the cat jumped back on his shoulder. ‘Listen good. I’ll give you half a minute. Take the chance as soon as it comes.’ She leapt off again and weaved her way to the front of the queue. Omar watched anxiously. What was she planning to do?

  Suddenly, there was a shriek from a woman right at the front of the queue – a fashionably dressed young woman with a coil of honey-coloured hair.

  ‘A rat! A rat!’ she shouted. In her panic, she fell back, into the arms of a man waiting behind her. Well, he was with his wife, who lost no time in shrieking in her turn, and belabouring him with her bag. Soon, the whole queue was a seething, shouting mass, and the man in the leather cap had left his place at the door of the bus and was yelling at his passengers to stop it at once. Omar took the chance. He slipped through the crowd, and through the open door of the bus while the conductor’s back was turned. He slid into a seat at the rear of the bus, taking care to hide behind the back of the seat in front of him until the passengers sorted themselves out and came on in an orderly line again.

  ‘Well done,’ said the cat. She was swishing between his legs.

  ‘Well done yourself,’ whispered Omar.

  ‘Easy enough to scare up a rat, especially around there,’ said the cat casually, and jumping up into his arms, she began to wash her face.