The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  It was also true that the Shadow Walkers had ambushed the car he, Omar, was travelling in with the Secretary and the bodyguards … So what if they had also engineered Sayid’s fatal accident? His cousin had been a vicious, cruel man who roamed the streets at night looking for women to kidnap, and men to beat up and pistol-whip and sometimes shoot dead. Everyone in Mesomia hated him, except for his own father. Even his mother had lived in fear of him; and it was rumoured that he had poisoned her. She had died of a sudden illness that was altogether too suspicious, people said. Sayid was more vulnerable than his father, because of the fact he was so restless and went out so often. So maybe the Shadow Walkers …

  ‘Omar!’ His uncle’s voice jerked him out of his thoughts.

  He said, ‘Yes, Uncle?’

  ‘I want you to give a good impression to my people. So I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you. I will introduce you. I will do all the speaking. You must stand behind me, at my right shoulder. You must look straight ahead, into the camera, and smile. Not like an idiot, mind! And you must only say these words: “I am ready to serve my country.” Leave the rest to me.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ said Omar obediently. Unbidden, an image rose up into his mind of the people he had met along the way – of the al Kutroobs, Layla and Brother Yussuf – catching a glimpse of him on TV, parroting his uncle’s words. They would know then for sure that he was their enemy.

  There was nothing he could do about that. And besides, Omar’s greater concern was whether Ketta would find Latifa. But then, he thought suddenly, if she does, they’ll forget all about me. Ketta will know how to work the carpet. She and Latifa will fly away from here, never to return except perhaps with a victorious rebel army. I will be left here, my uncle’s nephew and heir, and when the rebels come – if they are victorious – then I will be butchered, along with everyone else. And if they’re not victorious, then when my uncle finally dies, I will probably be killed by the Secretary long before I have a chance to take over …

  His uncle was still talking, but Omar paid little attention. At least I brought Latifa’s soul back into her body, he thought bleakly. Ketta will know what to do from now on; she’ll know how to complete the counter-spell. My life, my real life, will be over; but at least Latifa will be saved, and my debt to her repaid.

  The TV studio was within the grounds of the palace, for security reasons. The room into which they were ushered was decorated like a very smart office, with an ebony-inlaid desk, a soft carpet, glass shelving on which reposed multiple copies of the tyrant’s books, and a vast oil portrait of the tyrant himself, dressed as a shepherd, looking up to heaven. Several people were bustling around in there, packing up microphones and other equipment. The arrival of Omar and his uncle seemed to throw them into a flat panic. When they discovered what the tyrant wanted, they raced around restoring the equipment, and a young man with a little moustache and an anxious smile took Omar off to a dressing-room. The uniform had just been delivered. Omar scrambled out of his clothes and put it on, while the young man fussed around him, pinning up trouser legs, straightening shoulders, and so on.

  Silently, Omar looked at himself in the mirror. It was a uniform obviously meant for a broader and taller boy than he himself was, and he thought he looked like a clown in it. It was a silly thing anyway – hardly a soldier’s uniform, more like something out of a film or a play: pure white, with gold and red braid and shiny buttons. There was a matching heavily braided cap with a bright crescent moon on it.

  The young man said, ‘It looks very fine on you, sir.’

  ‘It does not,’ said Omar crossly. Then seeing the young man’s fright, he added, gently, ‘But then, it was never meant for me.’

  ‘No, sir.’ The young man plucked nervously at the jacket. ‘Sir, I didn’t have much time to get it to fit properly – I –’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ said Omar. ‘It looks just as it should.’ A great pity washed over him as he saw the man’s quivering lip. ‘Don’t worry,’ he repeated. ‘I’ll tell my uncle I wanted it just this way. I’ll tell him I forced you.’

  The young man stared at him. Then he lowered his gaze.

  He bobbed his head and said, ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  Dear God, Omar thought, it’s always going to be like this. They’ll all hate and fear me. No-one’s ever going to trust or like me, ever again. Tears of self-pity began to well up in his eyes, but he managed to blink them away. As coolly as he could, he said to the young man, ‘Okay. I’d better not keep my uncle waiting.’

  All through that long, dull session of filming, which his uncle constantly interrupted, forcing the crew to record the same boring harangue again and again, Omar did just as his uncle asked. He’d made very little comment about the fit of Omar’s uniform, only observing that he’d have a while to go before he approached Sayid’s manliness. It was perfectly obvious he thought that as Omar was his choice for heir, no matter what his unfitness for the role no-one would dare to question it. Which of course was most likely the truth, at least while the tyrant was still alive.

  Twenty-two

  After the filming, Omar had to endure a long lunch in the inner quarters with his uncle and the Secretary. Fortunately, they mostly let him sit in silence and eat, while they discussed what they saw as their marvellous success in the TV studio. Omar didn’t listen. He longed to go and see Mira and Ingrid and find out if they knew any more about what had happened to Latifa. She must have successfully escaped, for there was no mention at all made of anyone seen fleeing the palace; and neither his uncle nor the Secretary seemed to even have an inkling that anything might have happened. They must indeed think Omar was thoroughly meek, cowed and weak. But Omar didn’t even have the heart to feel indignant about that.

  After lunch, he excused himself on the basis that he felt very tired and still rather dizzy. He didn’t miss their looks of indulgent contempt. But he didn’t care. He crawled off to his room and lay on his bed, trying to think.

  His uncle had told him that the room had been blocked off against any Jinns entering. In front of the chimney opening, a couple of magic blue plates had been hung. The word ‘adhubilah’ painted on them would prove an obstacle to any Jinn. Ketta had said that might happen.

  Would she still meet him at midnight in the guards’ courtyard, where presumably she might still enter – or would she be long gone, with Latifa? He could not bear to think that would be so, but he had to be realistic. In their place, what would he do? Yes, quite right, he’d go, taking his loved ones with him. They were the ones who mattered, not anyone else.

  There was a quiet knock on his door. He sat bolt upright.

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘It’s me, Mira.’

  He jumped up and went to open the door. ‘Oh, I’m so glad to see you! What happened? Is she all right? What are we going to do now?’

  The questions had burst out of him without him really thinking about it. Mira looked at him, shook her head smilingly, and slipped in. She closed the door behind her and locked it from the inside.

  She whispered, ‘She’s gone. Vanished into thin air … as if a Jinn spirited her away.’ She looked brightly at Omar. ‘That’ll be your mutual friend, I suppose. The last anyone saw of Latifa was not far from the Carpet Bazaar.’

  Omar sighed deeply. Mira looked curiously at him.

  ‘You spoke of a carpet before,’ she said. ‘What did you mean?’

  ‘A flying carpet,’ said Omar. ‘Ketta was with me when I hid it in an alleyway behind the Carpet Bazaar. They’ll have taken it and flown away on it.’

  She opened her eyes wide.

  ‘You don’t mean to say a real flying carpet!’

  ‘It was made by a Carpet Enchantress, yes,’ said Omar tiredly. He felt both happy – that the girl had got away safely – and crushed – by the thought that he’d never see her again, or escape himself.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ said Mira, excited. She was about to say more when the crystal ball
began to hum, and the black opal at the centre to revolve. She put a finger to her lips, whispered, ‘Go over and talk. Don’t worry,’ and ducked off behind the curtains.

  Omar stared at the ball, buzzing and humming on its stand. He hated the sight of it. He hated the idea of coming close to it, and his uncle trying to see into his soul. He was terribly afraid of being brainwashed again.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said his uncle’s voice as Omar peered into the ball. The black opal revolved and suddenly, there was his uncle’s face, flushed with drink and joviality.

  ‘Good afternoon, Uncle,’ Omar replied.

  ‘Are you feeling better, my boy?’

  ‘Better, thank you,’ said Omar. His uncle’s eyes were not fixed on him in an intense black glare like last time, but were shiny and a little befuddled.

  ‘That’s good. You are dear to me, Omar my heir, and becoming dearer every day. Never forget that you have been chosen, Omar.’

  ‘No, Uncle.’

  ‘Is there anything you want, Omar? Anything you’d like to have? Just say, and it shall be yours.’

  Omar felt very uncomfortable, and bitterly sad.

  ‘Thank you, Uncle. I … I’d like to speak to my mother and my sister, if I may. I miss them.’

  ‘It is a good thing for a boy to respect and honour his female relatives,’ said his uncle pompously, ‘but he should also realise he is to be a man, as they are women, and therefore he is the one in charge. You may speak to your mother and sister, Omar. Just do not mention what has happened, they will be frightened. And you know how unreasonable women can be.’

  Omar didn’t say anything to that. He didn’t know what to say.

  His uncle went on, quite unperturbed, ‘Make your phone call, then. In an hour from now you will come and meet me in the small audience chamber. I may have an interesting surprise for you, all going according to plan.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Omar weakly.

  ‘Don’t you want to ask me what it is, boy?’

  ‘It’s a surprise, Uncle,’ said Omar, a little waspishly. ‘I don’t want to spoil it.’

  The tyrant laughed heartily. Omar could see the gold teeth flashing in the back of his mouth. ‘So you have a touch of spirit, after all. Good, good. I was beginning to think you were nothing but a spineless worm. And that would be tedious indeed.’

  Omar said nothing. His uncle sighed.

  ‘Off you go and speak to your mother and sister, Omar. Remember me to them. Tell them that they can come and see you – but not just yet. You are to be a man now, Omar. You can’t be just son or brother any more, but the child of destiny, the anointed leader of Mesomia, one day.’

  ‘Yes, Uncle,’ said Omar. The opal stopped flashing, the face of his uncle disappeared, and the ball stopped humming on its stand and went back to its usual quiet stillness. Mira emerged from behind the curtains.

  ‘A surprise, eh?’ she said. ‘Take care, Omar. Your uncle’s idea of surprises is not like everyone else’s.’

  ‘I know that,’ said Omar, sulkily.

  ‘Do you, Omar? Do you know anything very much about this man who is your uncle, this man they call The Vampire?’

  ‘I know enough,’ said Omar, even more sulkily.

  ‘Do you know how old he was when he killed his first man?’

  ‘He told me,’ said Omar. ‘He was my age. I heard that story already.’

  ‘Do you know that the youth he killed was his own friend and neighbour?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Do you know what else they say, Omar bin Ali?’ She paused. ‘Have you ever wondered how your father died?’

  Omar could feel the blood draining from his face. ‘I know how my father died – he died in an aeroplane crash.’

  ‘True enough. But have you ever wondered why the plane crashed?’

  He stared at her, silent.

  She went on, ‘There was a bolt, a very important bolt, that had sheared right through. It was said to be metal fatigue, but there were other possibilities …’

  ‘Sabotage,’ whispered Omar.

  ‘Precisely.’

  ‘But you’re not suggesting that my uncle … I know he loved my father … and what possible cause could he have for …’

  ‘Your uncle’s idea of love is not like everyone else’s, Omar. He loves, as he calls it, just so long as that person does just as he wants them to.’

  ‘But … I don’t understand …’

  ‘Your father, Ali, was a good man and a hero. He helped to repel the troops of the Emperor of Parsari back in the old days, when King Amin still ruled this land. Then he became a judge – and a very good and just one. He had no ambitions to lead the country, but he was loved by many people and they wanted the King to appoint him as Prime Minister. Your uncle had secret ambitions that way himself. Not just to be Prime Minister, but to overthrow the King. He managed to manipulate many in the Army to stage a coup against the King. As you know, the King was killed, and his family had to flee.

  ‘Your uncle took charge then, claiming he was saving the country. He put all those who’d publicly supported the coup to death, so no-one could speak of his part in it. Your father did not know your uncle was involved in the coup until much later. And what he learnt horrified him. He was determined that your uncle would never lead the country, after what he’d done. He would prepare a case against him. But your uncle found out. And so, he arranged for a little accident.’

  Omar whispered, ‘I’ve never heard … my mother … she never said …’

  ‘She hasn’t dared to say. Her life and yours depended on silence. Besides,’ said Mira airily, ‘I’ve told you, it’s only what they say. There is no real proof of it. All I know is, after your father died in that convenient crash your uncle became absolute ruler of Mesomia. And there were no more judges brave enough to challenge him.’

  Omar thought of the picture he’d seen on his first day here of his father and his uncle, standing together in brotherly pose, smiling.

  He said, ‘It could all be made up. It might just be spiteful gossip.’ Even as he said them, the words made him feel sick.

  Mira shook her head. ‘Take care, Omar, you really are in grave danger of becoming a spineless worm.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Omar. ‘Leave me alone!’ Shaking her head again, she walked to the door. She paused. ‘You said to Ingrid and me before, how could we just take from your uncle, and not even be grateful? Well, think of this, Omar – is it better to be using him like that, or to let him use you? We may have been entertaining him with silly tricks and scraps of magic – but you’re his heir. And at least he has done nothing to any of us magicians, except bore us with his demands. But you – you are getting blood money. Blood money, Omar. Think of it.’ Without waiting for an answer, she unlocked the door and went out, slamming it behind her.

  Omar stood there for an instant, unable to move. His head ached with cold, his throat was thick. Then, shaking a little, he crossed over to the telephone. He dialled his mother’s number, and waited. His mother’s old maid, Sara, greeted him with delight and told him at great length how his mother and sister were pining for him. He could just picture the old lady in her black clothes, shouting into the telephone because she thought the sound of a normal voice would never carry so far. He could see the room behind her, the quiet cosiness of the library, the branches of trees waving outside the window. He could imagine himself curled up in a chair, reading; or going out into the garden to work happily with the gardeners. It had been a kind of paradise for him. And yet now … Now …

  He knew his mother had moved to that place not long after his father died. He knew that his uncle had bought it for her and her small son and the unborn baby in her belly. If what Mira said was true, then his father’s blood tainted the only place where Omar had been happy.

  Sara went to get his mother. Omar stood gripping the receiver, trying to take a similar grip on himself. He must not frighten or distress his mother. He must consider her first. But he could hardly
bear to think that she might have known the truth, and still accepted his uncle’s support. How could she? Stop, he told himself harshly. Mira might just have been making it up. She was hardly a reliable sort. In fact, she was a mischief-maker. Take care, Omar, take care. She may even be trying to trap you in some way. How can you trust her?

  Yet she and Ingrid had made the mixture that freed Latifa from her spell. It wasn’t their fault it had been incomplete, but his. They had helped him, there was no doubt. Helped him at a certain amount of risk to themselves. So there was no reason why Mira would …

  ‘My darling Omar!’ His mother’s soft voice came on the line. ‘I’m so happy to hear from you. I’ve been thinking so much about you.’

  Omar croaked, ‘Good afternoon, Mother.’

  ‘Are you all right, darling? Has everything … is everything all right?’

  Omar hesitated. He longed to talk straight to her, but he knew the phone was tapped. His uncle might even be listening in directly. So he said, ‘All is well, Mother. I’ve been learning many things.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re well?’ said his mother anxiously. ‘Your voice sounds a little odd.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ snapped Omar. ‘Tired, don’t you see?’

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘I’m sorry. I know it must be very …’

  ‘Mother, you don’t know.’ A pause, then he went on, gently, ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. Mother, I’ve been thinking a bit. I’ve been thinking of my father. There are a few photographs of my father and my uncle together here. Very fine photographs they are, too.’