Worm Winds of Zanzibar (The Alex Trueman Chronicles Book 2)

by Martin Dukes

  “These guys are eyeballing me all the time,” she grumbled to Alex when they stopped for a drink at midday. “It’s freakin’ me out. You’d think they’d never seen a girl before.”

  “I should get used to it,” said Alex grimly. “I’ve got a feeling women are a bit less in your face around here than they are at home, if you know what I mean.”

  “We are making good time, master,” said Tariq, coming up at Alex’s side. “I think Mumtaz is getting to like you.”

  Alex doubted this, but he nodded nevertheless. Tariq took a long pull at a leather water flask, swilling water around his mouth and letting a great deal of it flood into his beard. He offered the flask to Henry, who had had nothing to say since his last tumble and was looking ominously sullen. Eyeing the flask unenthusiastically, Henry shook his head, thoughts about oral hygiene doubtless crossing his mind.

  “The land falls away from here on,” Tariq explained, gesturing ahead through the screen of date palms that was shading them from the searing heat of the midday sun. “There are villages and orchards, green lands watered by the river that flows from yonder mountains.”

  Alex could see no mountains in the direction indicated, but a darker smudge amongst the heat haze in the west might have been their foothills.

  “’You okay, Henry?” asked Alex as his friend picked another thorn out of his knee and considered it bleakly.

  “Oh yes, everything’s just fine and dandy,” he said. “I’ll be glad when this lousy nag’s finished killing me and I can get on with being dead.”

  “Ah,” said Alex, forcing a grin. “Chin up! By sunset, we’ll be entertained in royal style by his imperial lordship. Soft beds, quality rations, you know…” he waved his hand airily. “That kind of thing… royal, like.”

  “Yeahhhh,” said Henry with a deep sigh and a shrug of the shoulders that suggested a degree of scepticism.

  “Come on, mate!” said Alex, slapping him on the shoulder encouragingly.

  “Shut up,” said Henry, but without conviction.

  By dusk, Henry’s mood had lightened. He and his horse had arrived at a kind of sullen truce, and whilst Henry still had little control over its precise direction, several hours had passed since last it had succeeded in shrugging him off. He almost felt as though he might survive the journey. A sea breeze carried with it a hint of salt in the air and they rode along lanes between fields and orchards of lemons and peaches. Villagers came out of their houses to cheer as the column passed by, children to gawp from doorways or to run along shouting gleefully besides the jingling warriors whose spear points glinted red, dipped in the rays of the sinking sun. As the rim of the sun shrank beneath the western horizon, the walls of Canopus rose before them. With its tall towers, and banners fluttering in the evening breeze, it almost looked picturesque, but then as they approached the city gates it became apparent that what had looked from a distance like little dark blobs was actually a grisly row of severed heads, impaled on spikes above the parapet.

  “Nice touch,” observed Henry grimly. “The local tourist board are going to struggle to put a positive spin on that little lot.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” said Alex with a wry smile. “Visitors will soon be aware that the people of Canopus take a firm line on law and order.”

  Canopus proved to be a busy seaport, with narrow streets of shops and warehouses leading down to the harbour that was clearly the focus of the town’s activity and the chief source of its wealth. Various ships of exotic Arab appearance were tied up alongside the docks or stood at anchor offshore. Firelight glinted red at the top of a tall tower at one end of the harbour as someone stoked up what was presumably a lighthouse. Lights were already glinting on the dark waters as the Sultan’s column rode amongst cheering crowds to a large building by the waterside. Many of the slaves freed by the Sultan’s raid had been natives of this place, and the news of their liberation had spread quickly. It seemed that Jalil was riding high in the polls just now. His name resounded from the narrow streets as they passed through the little square in front of what was evidently his royal palace and in through gates guarded by another set of grim, bearded warriors.

  “Wow! He’s quite the hero just now!” observed Henry as flower petals fluttered from an upstairs window, thrown by an elderly crone and two small girls.

  The Sultan beamed about him magnanimously, waving regally as the column passed through into a broad courtyard with a fountain at its centre.

  “We shall pass the night here in my humble house,” Jalil told them, gesturing at an edifice that was anything but humble. “And tomorrow, God and the winds permitting, we shall cross to Zanzibar, where I can offer you accommodation befitting your status.”

  Later, after dinner, the three travellers assembled in Alex and Henry’s room. There had been moves to place Kelly in the women’s quarters at the rear of the palace, but Tariq had quickly scotched this, once it became apparent that Kelly was going nowhere without her friends. A dangerous glint in her eye and the stubborn set of her jaw made this quite clear to the palace staff. Instead she was provided with a small room next to the boys’. The maid, sent along by Tariq to help her to undress, was summarily dismissed.

  “I can take care of that very well myself,” she told them, waving a hand away from her sleeve.

  “And we need to get in touch with Malcolm,” she said to Alex after having slammed the door on the retreating maid. “We really do.”

  She crossed to join Alex, who was leaning on the balustrade of a balcony that offered fine views over gardens to the harbour and the sea beyond. A pleasantly cool sea breeze ruffled her hair as she turned to regard Alex seriously. “Don’t we?”

  “Easily said,” said Henry from behind, where he was sitting on the edge of his bed eating fruit from the large basket that had been provided for them.

  Alex shrugged.

  “He said he’d be in touch.”

  “Well he hasn’t, has he?” she pointed out.

  “What do you want me to do about it?” asked Alex a little irritably. “Don’t you think I would if I could? It’s not like I can phone him. It’s not like he’s in my contacts or anything. It’s not like there’s any signal round here. It’s not like we’re even in the right century, for God’s sake.”

  He pulled out his phone and studied it ruefully.

  “Battery’s nearly dead, anyway.”

  “Well I don’t know how long I can stand roughing it like this,” said Henry, taking a bite from a peach and slumping back amongst a pile of embroidered cushions. Juice trickled from the corners of his mouth, which he wiped away with the corner of a silk sheet.

  “Things could be worse,” agreed Alex, turning to indicate the luxurious apartment behind them. “I mean, it looks like his nibs is going to look after us. We could be slaves still, couldn’t we?”

  “I suppose,” conceded Kelly. “But I want out of here. I want to go home. I could really, really do with a shower. I just want things to be… you know… normal.”

  Alex nodded and put an arm around her shoulder. For a moment it was like embracing a block of wood, but after a while she relaxed and leaned into him. He wondered if things could ever really be normal again. Even when he hadn’t been able to remember anything at all about Intersticia he had hardly felt ‘normal’ at school any more. How could he ever return to the world of lessons and homework, tea with his mum and the crowded little bedroom that represented ‘normality’? It was as though his horizons were larger now, as though his bizarre experiences had changed him in a way that could never be undone. Perhaps there was no going back. Kelly nestled against him in a way that implied that she sensed this too. They kissed.

  “Oh, Jesus,” sighed Henry behind them.

  Chapter Four

  The wind proved favourable for a crossing to Zanzibar the next morning. It seemed crazy to the three travellers that anything as trivial as the direction of the wind could interfere with anyone’s travel plans, but the cheery faces of the mariners on bo
ard the Sultan’s ship told a different story. The Sultan was well-pleased and the crew of his flagship could bask in the reflected warmth of his mood. He was pleased too that Alex had diplomatically asked that Omar’s head should be added to those that made such a splendid show above the city gate.

  “It’s a sort of dhow, I think,” said Henry, referring to the ship as they crossed the gangplank from the dockside. “It’s got big triangular sails, you see – when they’re unfurled, anyway.”

  The ship, of a type that was called a batil, according to Tariq, was easily the largest one in the harbour. It had lots of carved and gilded detail around the prow and around the windows in its stern. The crew were busy making ready to set sail as the travellers came on board, following Tariq amongst the piles of sacks, crates of chickens and other assorted cargo on the dockside. A group of sailors were heaving corded bundles into the open hold.

  “Let us find you a place on the stern deck,” said Tariq, exchanging greetings with what might have been a senior crewman. “My master has ordained it.”

  “No cabin then?” asked Henry, glancing around him at the scene of purposeful activity.

  Tariq laughed. “The crossing will take no more than a few hours. This is a fighting ship, not a pleasure vessel, and there is no accommodation for travellers below decks. Unless you wish to sit amongst my master’s baggage in the hold, you must walk the decks.

  There was a brisk breeze out at sea and the ship pitched alarmingly amongst green, glassy mountains of waves that came surging alongside. Foam was whipped from their crests and dashed across steep slanting decks. Henry, having found horsemanship somewhat challenging, rose splendidly to the occasion. It seemed that he had done a little blue water sailing with his uncle, down in Falmouth. Now he strode around confidently, exchanging witty banter with the crew, shading his eyes to peer ahead at the green smudge on the horizon that they were told represented the coast of Zanzibar. On the other hand, Kelly’s face had assumed a deathly pallor tinged with green, and she clung, white knuckled, to a stanchion as the deck heaved beneath her and her stomach within. Alex, having been inadvertently splashed with a little of her vomit, struggled to contain the contents of his own stomach. He tried to focus his attention on the seabirds that wheeled and swooped in the vessel’s wake, on the rippling pennants at the mast heads or the tight thrumming of halyards against masts.

  “I hate you,” Kelly told him between heaves. “You know that, don’t you?”

  It seemed unreasonable to blame Alex for the sea conditions, but reason was clearly taking the backseat to sentiment here.

  “Is that me or Alex?” asked Henry cheerily.

  “Both,” moaned Kelly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “A passage to Zanzibar,” said Henry, regarding the distant horizon wistfully. “Sounds rather grand, doesn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you think so,” said the Sultan with a broad grin, appearing suddenly at their side. He took a hold of a shroud to support himself and cast a sympathetic eye over Kelly.

  “Are you unwell, my dear?” he asked. “Do you find that the motion of the vessel disagrees with you?”

  Kelly could manage only a sullen nod by way of reply, and a wave of the hand that might be interpreted as an apology.

  Jalil laughed, showing a row of even white teeth, and slapped Alex on the shoulder in a way that came dangerously close to unleashing the contents of his own stomach.

  “We Zanzibarians are born to the sea,” he said. “Our life blood is the trade that passes through this narrow strait, bringing with it all the riches of the world: gold and slaves from the interior, exotic spices from the Far East, fine fabrics and ceramics from the north. The whole world brings their wealth to our doorstep.” He laughed again, before adding meaningfully. “And a little bit of it sticks.”

  He pointed out to starboard to where two smaller vessels kept pace with them, tall triangular sails brilliant white in the morning sunlight.

  “My navy rules the narrow seas. No pirate dares to sail within a hundred miles of Zanzibar. And with security comes prosperity, do you see? Pirates whisper my name with dread – I strung up dozens last year. Their bleached bones swing in gibbets all along the coast. Traders toast my name in a thousand feasts as they celebrate the completion of a successful voyage. The wharfs of Zanzibar are thronged with those plump ships with their bulging holds. The gold comes pouring into our coffers like a river, God be praised.”

  The Sultan’s eyes gleamed and he clapped his hands at the thought.

  “Come, does not a bracing wind such as this stimulate the appetite? Would you dine with me in my cabin?”

  The prospect of having to turn down the Sultan’s invitation swam alarmingly into sight, but fortunately Kelly’s next retching fit distracted his attention momentarily. A glance at Alex’s waxen features perhaps confirmed that the invitation was untimely.

  “Never mind, I can see you are indisposed,” he said. “But certainly we shall dine tonight, after I have shown you the modest amenities of my humble home.”

  “I’d have had a bite to eat with him,” said Henry peevishly after the Sultan’s retreating back. “Trust you guys to go and ruin things with your selfish puking.”

  In Zanzibar city the Sultan’s humble abode was a vast palace, sprawling across a low terraced hill to the north of the harbour. There were reception halls, baths and luxurious suites of high ceilinged rooms set amongst beautiful gardens, with shady arbours and beds of exotic blooms gathered from around the globe. It appeared that Jalil’s father had been a keen gardener. A large staff of gardeners were numbered amongst the many servants on hand to see to the needs of the Sultan and his court. The travellers soon found themselves established in a suite of rooms on the eastern side of the city, with high windows opening onto terraced gardens descending to the prosperous suburbs beyond the palace wall.

  Now that the Sultan was back in residence, Tariq was required to wait upon him in his far from modest quarters on the western side, where his throne room overlooked the harbour that was the source of Zanzibar’s wealth. Tariq’s son, Zulfiqar, was delegated to look after them and to carry messages between the party and the Sultan. Zulfiqar was a tall, rather talkative young man with the beginnings of a beard and a pleasant, open manner. His willingness to chat and to offer his own opinions set him apart from the other servants, an attitude that might have earned him a beating from some of the nobles of the court had his father not been known to be the Sultan’s oldest and most loyal retainer. Alex and the others soon came to like him.

  “His Excellency is holding court tomorrow,” he told them. “So I doubt he will summon you to his presence. It would weary you, no doubt, to see all those subjects presenting their petitions and speechifying for hour after hour.” He laughed, turning as he closed velvet curtains to shut out the purpling dusk landscape beyond their windows. “It seems that you stand high in his favour. Is it true that you fell from heaven into the battlefield like great white worms and terrified his enemies as he smote them?”

  “Is that what they’re saying?” asked Kelly, glancing with interest at a pile of beautiful silk saris that had been placed for her to change into. “I’m not sure they’re me,” she said, picking up a splendid red one and holding it to her front. “I guess I could give it go, though.”

  “It wasn’t exactly like that,” explained Alex. “We were captives of the slavers. I fell off one’s horse when he got killed, and I pretty much landed at the Sultan’s feet.”

  “Well, he seems to like you anyway,” said Zulfiqar with a grin. “My father says he has plans for you.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” asked Henry, pulling off his trainers on the edge of his bed. “I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

  “Good for now,” said Zulfiqar with a wide white grin. “Later, who knows? It is God’s to know.”

  This fatalism struck Alex as dangerously complacent, but he didn’t say so as Zulfiqar held up a soft white shirt with baggy
sleeves.

  “This one is good,” he said. “Or do you prefer the pink one?”

  “Go with the pink,” suggested Henry, looking at a pair of pointy jewelled slippers. “You’re in touch with your feminine side.”

  “We must have you splendid as princes,” said Zulfiqar, clapping his hands. “The blue? Alright, the blue it shall be. But the waistcoat shall be this one, yes? The embroidery is so exquisite, is it not? All shall admire you at the Sultan’s feast.”

  There had hardly been a moment to sit down since their arrival in Zanzibar. The Sultan had swept them into his palace with every indication of delight and led them from room to room, pointing out the delicate fretwork carvings, the tile work in the central hall that had taken thirty skilled craftsmen three years to complete, the elaborate sweep of white marble staircase that led to the women’s quarters on the upper floor and had been brought piece by piece from a maharajah’s palace in distant India. It seemed that every chamber had its own story of costly artistic endeavour to tell.

  “Wow!” said Alex, and “Awesome!” and “Brilliant!” and various other expressions of approval, until his stock of such things was pretty much used up and he was conscious of beginning to sound repetitive.

  At length their host had let them go, with much gratitude for their indulgence and many apologies for wearying them with the trifling details of his humble abode. And within an hour or two they were to be dining with him. It seemed that the Sultan was possessed of positively superhuman energy. Henry, whose own energy levels were dangerously low, lay back on his bed and groaned.

  “Can’t we just order in a pizza?” he grumbled. “I’m not fit for public display. An early night would suit me fine, that and a nice movie, maybe.”

  “An early night would never do,” said Zulfiqar, clucking disapprovingly. “This is your moment. You must charm, you must entertain, you must be admired. Who knows when the Sultan will tire of you?”