The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  Nobody noticed that the bus had an extra passenger – or two, if you counted Ketta. To Omar’s relief, the conductor did not come on the bus, and the driver, a morose man in big glasses and nomad’s robes, did not appear to look at anything but the road in front of his headlights. The passengers settled down to sleep. It was dark, as the moon had set. But soon it would be dawn. The bus chugged sedately along the potholed highway, gently eating up the distance between the marshes and the capital.

  Omar thought he could never sleep. He was too excited and nervous. But he would close his gritty eyes awhile, just to give them some rest. Ketta drowsed on his lap.

  When he opened his eyes again it was dawn and all the bus was stirring. Some of the passengers were eating breakfasts packed in baskets, and the smell of hard-boiled eggs and semolina honey cakes made Omar’s stomach rumble. How hungry he was! He looked longingly at his neighbour’s tasty little spread, but the man took no notice and stolidly ate his way through everything.

  The bus jerked to a stop. The driver called out, ‘Mydannar Junction! Mydannar Junction!’

  ‘That’s us,’ said the cat, waking up suddenly. Omar shot a glance out of the window. It looked like they were in the middle of nowhere. The road wound its way through tall reeds, and there was not a settlement to be seen.

  ‘Get up, hurry up!’ said the cat. Omar nearly fell over his neighbour’s breakfast as he struggled up. The only other passenger leaving the bus was a shaven-headed young man dressed in the brown robes and hood of a Nashranee monk. He carried a rather incongruous white suitcase with labels from foreign countries stuck all over it.

  The three of them – Omar, the cat and the monk – stood in the dusty road and watched the bus disappear. A light wind sighed in the reeds around them, but otherwise it was eerily quiet. Then the monk said, ‘What brings a stranger to Mydannar?’ His voice was sharp, and his eyes were hard and suspicious.

  ‘I …’ Omar had no idea what to say. He felt the cat’s claws dig into his calf. ‘Ow!’

  He bent down and picked her up.

  ‘I … have come to … to see Miss Layla, the Carpet Enchantress.’ A Carpet Enchantress, he thought, amazed. Are there really any left in Mesomia? I thought their guild had been outlawed. But of course, in the inaccessible marshlands such forbidden trades might still exist …

  The young monk stared at him. He looked more suspicious than ever. ‘Miss Layla? Why, she’s my cousin. How did you hear of her? Where are you from?’

  ‘For a man of God,’ said Omar, following Ketta’s prompting, ‘you don’t give people the benefit of the doubt. Do I look like a spy to you?’

  ‘Who knows who looks like a spy these days?’ snapped the young man. He stopped as Ketta jumped off Omar’s shoulder and came weaving and purring around his legs. ‘She’s a beautiful little cat,’ he said, bending down to tickle her ears. Then his eyes widened.

  ‘Lord preserve us! The cat can talk! What’s that you say? Oh, you’re a Jinn. And he’s to be trusted, is he? You say he helped an orphaned marsh-girl, back in the city. Why? What’s his name? Where’s he from?’

  Omar tried hard not to let his emotions show. Of course the cat could not reveal his identity – who, apart from her and Latifa, could ever trust the tyrant’s nephew?

  He said, ‘I live with my widowed mother in Sadana province and my name is Ahmed bin Ali.’ Well, Ahmed was the name of his mother’s brother, and Ali really had been his father. ‘My friend, Latifa, she is from the marshes, or her mother was, and she is in great danger. I have heard the Carpet Enchantresses could help us.’

  The monk looked at Omar, then down at the cat. He smiled – his face was quite transformed.

  ‘Forgive me. I have lost the habit of trust. Well, Ahmed bin Ali, my name is Yussuf, Brother Yussuf. I am from a monastery in Madinatu es Salam, but I am originally from the marshes. I was given leave to visit my family, for my mother is very ill. She is being cared for by my cousin.’ He gestured into the reeds by the side of the road. ‘Come, follow me. The way to Mydannar is not easy to find, for a stranger.’

  Inside the reeds, it was like another world. They were so tall they closed instantly above Omar’s head; and at his feet, the ground quaked and jellied a little. As they went further in, the ground grew swampier and swampier, till soon, it was more water than dirt. Omar could feel his sneakers getting wetter and wetter. Brother Yussuf picked his way delicately through the reeds, following some unseen path, and Omar, with Ketta on his shoulder, followed him closely but much more clumsily. There was a rustle in the reeds and Omar was sure he saw a snake slither out from cover and swim away. He stuck even more closely to Yussuf after that.

  Eventually the young monk stopped.

  He said, ‘Take hold of the end of the cord around my robe and don’t let go. We have come to the Flying Bridge.’

  ‘They had abruptly come to the end of the reeds, and there before them was a vast sheet of water-slicked black mud that heaved and shook and gurgled as though it were alive. On its far shore, Omar could see the thatched roofs of a village. Spanning the distance high above the bog was a single-file bridge made of reeds plaited together, that swung light as thistledown – and looked about as solid. The railings were made of rope. The bridge was anchored, at one end, by heavy iron spikes set deep into the reed-swamp; the other end could scarcely be seen.

  Omar gulped. He hated heights. And he hated the look of that bog. Brother Yussuf said, smiling a little, ‘Are you sure you want to go over? The Flying Bridge is our guard against unkind strangers. If you harbour treachery in your heart – if you are a friend of the tyrant – it will topple you into the death-mire. That bog has been known to swallow entire regiments in its time. Not even their bones were ever found again.’

  ‘I told you I was no spy,’ said Omar indignantly, though his heart quailed. Would the bridge know him for the tyrant’s nephew and destroy him? ‘My steps will be firm on your bridge. Lead on, Brother. Ketta and I will follow.’

  Ketta said, ‘You’d better hang on tight. I do not want to get my feet wet.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ said Omar, taking his first step onto the bridge. It was better than he’d thought. He took another step, then another, and suddenly shouted in alarm, grabbing for the rope railing, as the bridge swayed under his feet, and the horrible mud heaved and slid and quaked. Brother Yussuf stopped.

  ‘For God’s sake,’ he said crossly, ‘calm down!’

  ‘Up you get,’ said Ketta in his ear. ‘Don’t look down.’

  Easier said than done. He struggled back upright, and tried to watch his feet only, and the cord of Yussuf’s robe. The cat kept whispering encouragement in his ear. ‘Only a little way to go …’ When the bridge swayed again, Omar tried his hardest not to panic, but his stomach, uncomfortably empty before, felt bloated with a bitter liquid, sloshing around.

  Now they were in the middle, and all around, the black abyss of mud stretched. He thought, with a shudder, no wonder my uncle has never quite managed to subdue the Marshlanders here. Some of the marshes further south had been drained and their inhabitants exiled to the four winds, but Mydannar had kept ferociously to itself.

  And if it was true about the Flying Bridge pitching traitors or secret agents into the sucking bog, and not just a story, even more reason for The Vampire’s troops to avoid the place. He crept along the frail bridge, keeping a close eye on Yussuf’s back, feeling Ketta’s presence on his shoulder like a comfort, and tried not to think about the black bog, and the bridge’s reputation. He might not be a friend of the tyrant but he was of his blood, after all. What would Yussuf say, if he knew?

  ‘Courage,’ came Ketta’s whisper. ‘Your heart is pure. Your blood does not condemn you, for you cannot help what family you were born into. Think of Latifa. She trusted you. Trust yourself!’

  And so they went on, step by step, inch by inch. The bog ended and now the bridge swung over a lagoon. In the middle of a lagoon was a village. The bridge ended there. The village was rin
ged by a wall of plaited reeds, and above the wall could be seen houses on stilts. Their thickly woven reed walls were decorated with bright patterns of blue and green and white, and their yellow thatched roofs glistened in the sun. Flocks of birds hovered over the lagoon, paddled on the water and strutted on the village wall.

  ‘How beautiful it is,’ said Omar.

  Brother Yussuf smiled proudly. ‘The most beautiful village in Mesomia,’ he said. ‘And the freest. This is Mydannar, Ahmed. Come, I will take you to my cousin.’

  The village gate was guarded, or rather lounged against, by a couple of peculiar-looking men with protuberant eyes, like a frog’s. Like a frog’s limbs, too, were their long, gangling arms and legs, and their webbed feet and hands. They seemed to know Brother Yussuf, for they opened the gate at once, with only a mildly curious glance at Omar: obviously the very fact he was with Yussuf was enough.

  As they walked into the village, the monk said, ‘Whenever I come back, I feel as though I can breathe again. Sometimes it requires all my faith and my courage to travel in the wasteland that has been made of the rest of our poor country. The only other place where freedom is still possible is in the far north, in werewolf country – and that’s a harsh and bleak place. This is the loveliest place God has given us.’

  There was a great longing in his voice. Omar said, ‘If I came from here, I should never leave it, not for anything.’

  ‘Oh, Ahmed,’ said Yussuf sadly, ‘where would our country be, then?’

  ‘Just the same as it’s ever been,’ said Omar. ‘Only, you’d be living in your home and not in Madinatu, which has been blighted by The Vampire.’

  ‘You call him The Vampire, but he’s just a man,’ said Yussuf. ‘One day, he’ll die, like all men, and then –’

  ‘Then another will take over,’ said Omar bitterly. Not me, he thought. I’ll be disposed of. It’ll be the Secretary who takes my place.

  ‘We must not lose hope,’ said the young monk. ‘And that is my task in the world. I come from a place where hope and laughter still exist; it is my sacred duty to pass them on to those who live in darkness and despair. Oh, Ahmed! If you only knew …’

  Omar looked at Yussuf’s thin, bright face. He suddenly felt very tired and, oddly, older than the monk. He wondered what Yussuf would say if he knew all that Omar knew; if he’d seen what he’d seen; if he knew what his uncle was really like. Just a man? No, The Vampire fully deserved his nickname. He had sucked all joy and love and life from his own people. He was, indeed, gorged on other people’s blood.

  They had come to a market square. Like the rest of the village, it was bright, neat, cheerful. Stalls were selling everything from food – fish, vegetables, honey cakes, sherbet – to bales of cloth, to jewellery, to charming blue and white pottery. There was a chattering crowd bustling around buying and selling. There was a great variety of people, including some rather lovely-looking girls whose bronze hair, pinned up under light veils, had a greenish sheen, and whose nails were long and pointed.

  Ketta said, ‘Don’t look at them, they are Suloowa, lake-maidens – dangerous they are to unwary young men. Don’t think all the Marshlanders are your friends. They hate the tyrant, it is true, but the people of the marshes have always lived according to their own ways, and those ways can be hazardous for the uninitiated. Remember what we have come for.’

  Shivering, but fascinated, Omar did his best not to look at the girls. He’d heard of lake-maidens before; it was said they seduced young men and dragged them down to their underwater lairs, drowning them, of course.

  Ketta whispered, ‘And that one, over there, that’s a marsh pirate, the most ruthless of all thieves … you wouldn’t want to know how he got that jewellery he’s selling … and there, see, that creature, he’s a marsh-lighter … lures unwary travellers to their deaths in the bog.’

  The monk had not told him of those things! But after all, this was a place where the harsh laws of outside did not reach, for good or ill. Freedom had more than one face. He would have to be careful. Unlike Yussuf, this was not his home.

  They had made their way across the square and into an alleyway that led off it, lined with more stalls. The monk hurried down it, then turned into another street and stopped at a door.

  ‘Here we are, Ahmed!’

  He pushed opened the door and stepped through, followed by Omar, with Ketta on his shoulder.

  Beyond was a long, dark passageway, not really what Omar had expected at all.

  Yussuf strode through it, shouting, ‘Layla! Layla! It is I, Yussuf, and I bring you a customer from Sadana.’

  ‘Yussuf! I wasn’t expecting you home so soon.’

  A warm light flared on. Omar saw a girl holding a glass lamp, which lit her face – a handsome face, full of character and determination, framed by shoulder-length brown hair. She looked Omar up and down.

  ‘My carpets don’t come cheap.’

  Omar blushed. Before he could speak, Yussuf said, peaceably, ‘Let him come and have a look, Layla. Ahmed’s all right. And he has a Jinn with him, in cat form. Such a one wouldn’t travel with him if he was unimportant.’

  Omar said, miserably, ‘I’m trying to get help for a friend. I was told –’

  ‘Very well,’ said Layla. ‘You can tell me later. We’ve got another visitor, Yussuf.’ There was a meaningful gleam in her eye. ‘A rather unexpected visitor. But someone we’d hoped for.’

  Yussuf’s thin face was full of light.

  ‘You don’t mean … Oh, Layla! Where is he?’

  ‘In my workroom,’ said Layla. ‘Oh, come on, Yussuf. He’s been asking after you.’

  They’ve forgotten all about me, thought Omar, rather dispiritedly, as the cousins hurried off together.

  Ketta said, ‘What are you waiting for? Follow them!’

  ‘I don’t think they want me to.’

  ‘Don’t worry about what they want and don’t want. We came here to get a carpet. And we will get one, by hook or by crook. Light save us, Omar! Why can’t you have a bit more gumption? Why do I have to tell you everything?’

  ‘Oh, be quiet,’ said Omar, goaded beyond endurance. ‘It’s pick, pick, pick with you all the time. I’m tired of your constant –’

  ‘So that’s the way it is!’ broke in the cat wrathfully. And she jumped off his shoulder and stalked off down the passageway, leaving Omar by himself.

  Eleven

  For a moment, Omar was tempted to stay where he was, just to spite Ketta. But it was really too stupid; and besides, he was stung by the Jinn’s scorn. He’d show her he did have gumption!

  He set off down the passageway, up some stairs, down another passageway, and then up another set of stairs. He could hear voices up there – Layla’s and Yussuf’s, and one he didn’t know, a man’s voice, deep, dark, velvety. He went in the direction of the voices, and came to the Carpet Enchantress’s workshop.

  It was a bright, airy room, with windows on to the lagoon. On a large loom was a half-made carpet; smaller carpets were stacked up on shelves. Bits of bright wool littered the floor, and two delicate filigree cages held pairs of lovely red birds.

  Layla and Yussuf were over by the loom, talking to a man whose back was to Omar. And Ketta was weaving around the same man’s legs. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with chestnut-coloured hair curling from under a green turban; and he was dressed in the costume of a northerner, in an embroidered jacket, tunic held by a cummerbund, and baggy trousers. As Omar hesitated, the man turned and saw him. He had an unusually handsome face, with long-lashed amber eyes, a long curling moustache of the same chestnut as his hair, a straight nose, and thin, curved lips. His hair had one startling white lock in it.

  ‘So, you are Ketta’s friend? She’s been telling me about you.’ The man spoke perfect Aksaran, yet with a faint northern intonation. ‘She tells me you are also bound for the Kirtis Mountains. Perhaps we can travel together?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Omar, both pleased – especially at the looks of astonished respect
Layla and Yussuf turned on him then – and baffled. ‘Um – that is, I’m sure we can.’

  ‘Let me introduce myself. My name is Gur Thalab al Kutroob,’ said the man. Omar’s eyes widened. ‘You are from a werewolf clan, sir?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ said Layla. ‘He is a werewolf prince, from the Kirtis Mountains. Son of a great Arga, who was foully murdered by The Vampire.’

  ‘Oh, my,’ said Omar, respectfully, a little scared. ‘I have heard a great deal about your people, Sir Gur Thalab.’

  ‘No sirs for me,’ said the werewolf lord, and he smiled, showing sharp, even white teeth. ‘And not all of my people are worthy of being heard from; I myself waited a very long time till I finally gathered the strength to do what I must do.’

  ‘But you had been hideously tortured, and imprisoned,’ said Layla. ‘They nearly drove you insane.’ She turned to Omar. ‘Gur Thalab was a leader of the resistance against the tyrant,’ she said. ‘When his father was murdered he fled here into exile and lived amongst us for several years. He even worked with my mother for a while. I remember him from when I was a little girl … And then, on a trip out of the Marshlands, he was betrayed, ambushed and imprisoned. He was tortured so badly he nearly died, but managed to escape, and fled to Ameerat.’

  ‘Where I spent too many years in a haze of drugs and madness and bitterness,’ said Gur Thalab heavily. ‘I was useless for so long.’

  ‘Oh, you do deprecate yourself too much, Gur Thalab,’ said Layla. ‘You read my carpet as it should be read, and you are here now.’

  ‘You can thank others for that too, Miss Layla,’ said Gur Thalab. ‘You can thank a kind boy from Ameerat for that – Khaled – and a sad girl from Parsari – Soheila – and a very great red-headed Jinn by the name of Kareen Amar, who found your carpet in a distant marketplace, oh Enchantress. Without them, I would not be here, but sunk into endless night, a defeated refugee whose shame was slowly eating him alive.’