by Martin Dukes
“Alex,” said Tanya, clutching at his shirt as he passed her. Her small face was pale in the shadows.
“Not now, Tanya,” he blurted, stepping aside.
“You mustn’t be angry,” she said anxiously.
“Who’s angry?” he snapped.
“You seem a little out of sorts today, if I may say so,” commented the Sultan the next day when they were sharing a mid-morning snack together. “Does something trouble you? Did you not sleep well?”
All sorts of things were troubling Alex, and lack of sleep was only one of them. He had, in fact, barely slept at all. He was still wide awake when the others came in and made themselves ready for bed. The last thing he needed just then was conversation of any kind so he feigned sleep, even when Henry whispered, “You alright, mate?” before rolling into his own bed. No lamps were lit. He heard Kelly and Tanya go to their room, a few moments of murmured speech and then silence. The long night began. Much of it he spent in the string factory, that place on the fringes of his dreams where he hoped to encounter Malcolm. No such luck. With all his heart he wished that Malcolm would reappear and whisk them all away from this place. Zanzibar, with all its sunshine and colour and familiar smells and faces, was suddenly drained of all its savour, leaving only the bitter dregs in his mouth. He paced amongst the whirring machines in vain but there was no sign of the errant angel. “I… want… to… go… home!” he shouted to the distant rafters, where strip lights stirred dustily at the ends of long cables. “Do you hear me, Malcolm? I… want… to… go… home!” In truth, Alex had never felt so miserable in his life. He wished that all this had never happened, that he had never fallen into Intersticia, never met Kelly and Will and Tanya, and that life had continued as ever with its simple, comfortable and ordinary pattern. He shifted restlessly from one side of his bed to the other, watching with vague interest as moonlight through the shutters traced a pattern of lines on the floor, lines that shifted and lengthened as the night grew old. He had thought that he had meant something to Kelly; it was that which drove such a chill splinter of ice through his heart. There was a sense of betrayal, too. How wrong he had been to think that there had been anything of value between them. He hardly knew her at all, this kohl-eye Arab princess that Kelly had become. And he had considered her his girlfriend. Huh!
“Alex?” the Sultan said, turning to face him.
“Hmm. Oh, sorry,” said Alex blushing a little. “I was miles away there. I’m just feeling a bit tired, actually.”
“I hope you are not afflicted by the same ailment that has brought Hassan low. He has a high fever, I am told. It could not have come at a worse time. It may be that we must appoint someone to command the fleet.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Alex, wondering whether the Sultan’s mother’s hand might be detected in this sudden illness. It would certainly not be beyond her to have the poor man poisoned to advance the cause of her own candidate.
“So much to do,” said the Sultan with a slow exhalation of breath. “And so few hours remain to us now. Nor can we in all conscience set aside the ordinary business of state, although it fills me with despondency.”
He reached across his desk and drew a pile of papers towards him.
“Diplomatic appointments,” he said while leafing through them. “The Sultan of Oman wishes us to imprison his ambassador and hold him pending investigation. He proposes to send a ship for him next month. His brother has plotted against the Sultan, it appears. And then there’s the Shah of Persia. A new diplomatic mission is to be sent tomorrow – a ship awaits, but the ambassador’s assistant has been injured in a street brawl, of all things, and we need to find a replacement straight away.”
An idea began to form in the forefront of Alex’s mind.
“Persia, did you say?” he said, a certain vengeful excitement gathering within his breast.
“Indeed.”
“And I guess you’re looking for a suitable well-bred young man with a keen interest in Persia to replace him?”
“I am open to suggestions. But the Shah’s ship awaits in the harbour. They would need to leave at very short notice indeed.”
“Uh huh,” said Alex with grim satisfaction. “No problem with that. I think I have a name for you.”
Alex did not return to his quarters that night and he had left for his day at the Sultan’s side whilst the others still slept. Nor did he wish to return. The council of war he was required to attend lasted long into the night, and when the meeting was concluded a bed was made up for him in the Sultan’s apartments. This suited Alex fine. He had no wish to see Kelly for now, no wish to confront her with what he had seen. This was moral cowardice, part of him argued, but it was easier to pretend that he knew nothing, easier to avoid confrontation. The Sultan had been persuaded to dispatch Jemail to Persia on the morning tide and his command could not be disobeyed. It had not been hard to arrange. The Sultan had perhaps sensed an ulterior motive but had not probed too deeply. Jemail was, in truth, a good choice for the mission. Alex reflected with satisfaction on the consternation his love-struck rival must have felt upon reading the Sultan’s orders. Would he even have had time to see Kelly before his abrupt departure? He preferred not to dwell on such a meeting. It had been hard to concentrate on military matters when the fierce pleasure of his masterstroke continued to tingle within him. And then there was Henry and Tanya. They must have known that Kelly was drifting away from him, but they had said nothing. It would be awkward to talk to them about the matter now. But that bridge must be crossed tomorrow and he must face Kelly, too. Perhaps things would be different now that Jemail had been removed from the scene. Perhaps.
“You did this, didn’t you?” demanded Kelly, pale-faced with fury, her fists clenched before her. “You had Jemail sent away. You were jealous, weren’t you? So you had him sent away.”
This was, of course, a perfectly accurate assessment of the situation but Alex, who had only just that moment walked through the door of their apartment, recoiled in feigned horror.
“What are you talking about?” he asked. “Are you crazy? Jealous of what?”
Henry and Tanya stood awkwardly by the window, Tanya wringing her hands, Henry toying with an apple.
“You know exactly what you were jealous of. You were jealous of me and Jemail. You found out about it and you thought you’d ruin it for me because you’ve got the power to do it.”
“I’m sure I haven’t the first idea what you’re on about,” said Alex, arms spread wide and appealing to Tanya and Henry for support. His heart was hammering within his breast and he was possessed by a ferocious exultation at the sight of Kelly’s tear-streaked face. ‘Cheat on me, would you?’ were the words that passed across the forefront of his mind, like the script of a movie. ‘Yeah, this is what happens. Suck on this, baby. Hah!’
“You liar!” she screamed, stamping her foot. “You liar! I hate you!”
With this she turned on her heel and ran to her room, slamming the door behind her with a mighty crash that drew Zulfiqar’s frightened face from around the door to the kitchen. An uneasy silence ensued, broken only by the sounds of Kelly’s muffled sobs. Henry, Tanya and Alex regarded each other uncertainly.
“Hmm. Nice work, bro,” said Henry at last.
After a while, Tanya went into Kelly, who was lying face down on her bed and weeping into her pillow. Tanya stroked her hair and shoulders but could think of nothing to say.
“I hate him,” said Kelly at last in a small voice. “How could he do this to me?”
“You’ll be okay, Kell,” said Tanya soothingly. “He’ll come back. Jemail’ll come back. He’ll write, probably.”
“And how long do you suppose a letter will take to get here from Persia?” Kelly asked with a sniff, wiping her eye and smearing make-up across her face.
“He was hurt, that’s why he did it,” said Tanya, glancing over her shoulder as though she thought Alex could hear her.
“Well, he could just have come and told me ab
out it,” said Kelly hotly. “Couldn’t he? That would be the grown up thing to do.”
Tanya’s gaze could not meet the sudden fierce intensity of Kelly’s. She looked down, studying her hand on the edge of the sheet.
“You’ve changed, you know, Kell,” she said.
“We’ve all changed, Tanya,” sighed Kelly. “And I was liking the way things were going.”
“Hmmm,” said Tanya. There were various things she wanted to say but the words would not come and she felt a sense of helplessness and loss. She ran her finger along Kelly’s cheek instead, and then buried her head in the comforting warmth of her shoulder and her hair.
“What am I going to do now, Henry?” asked Alex. The passionate heat of his anger had turned to cold, bitter ashes in his heart and a great sense of lethargy overwhelmed him. He sat down on the edge of his bed, running his hands through his hair as regrets began to gnaw at the edges of his resolution.
“I don’t know, mate,” said Henry with a shrug. “Women, eh?”
The whole of Henry’s views on the matter seemed neatly encapsulated in this simple statement. This was it. There was no more to come. He smiled, a smile of disarming simplicity with a touch of world-weariness thrown in.
“Come on. Let’s go and have a bit of a knock with the others. It’ll take your mind off things.”
“I don’t want to play cricket,” said Alex irritably.
“Yes, you do,” Henry assured him, and Alex was powerless to resist. Sighing, he took the bat thrust at him and followed Henry to the door.
When they returned, with the night already well advanced, it was to find that Tanya and Kelly had gone. So were all their things. Zulfiqar, clearly hugely embarrassed by the whole situation, explained that they had gone to stay with Kashifah. Nor did it appear that they were coming back.
“So that’s it,” said Alex despondently, throwing his bat into a corner with a dull clatter.
“What do you mean?” asked Henry, shrugging off his jacket.
“It just like the end of everything,” said Alex gloomily. “We were all together, you know, just the five us against the whole world. Outlanders. And now it’ll never be the same again.”
“Will’s coming back, I guess,” said Henry. “I don’t know about the others.”
“I know, I know. But it’s just… all wrong,” he finished with a frustrated wave of his arm. “Everything’s going wrong. We’re off to war, for God’s sake, next week. We could be killed or maimed or anything! It’s mad! The whole thing’s mad!”
“I know what you’re saying,” said Henry with a frown. “But I’m sure it’ll all work out. Malcolm could still pop us all out of here and call it a result. We’re all still alive.”
“We are for now,” said Alex grimly.
Chapter Eleven
The next day a ship arrived from the distant land of Tabor, in the frozen north. It was a vessel of distinctly foreign appearance, being largely square rigged and having three masts. It was evidently much battered during its long journey – brasswork dulled, paintwork cracked and peeling. A great many people gathered on the harbour wharfs to watch its cargo unloaded and its crew go about their business. It was observed that these were pale-skinned people like the five travellers who now dwelt in the Sultan’s palace. The captain and his officers wore strange foreign clothing and their hair was cropped short. Their cargo was said to include firearms of a new and powerful type that might prove of interest to the Sultan and his military advisors.
“What do you think of that?” said the Sultan cheerfully, as he and Alex made their way down to the warehouses by the harbour where the firearms were to be demonstrated. “Suddenly we are awash with milkskins. It seems that your arrival was very much the thin end of the wedge.” He gave Alex a friendly punch on the arm to show that he meant no offence by this. “And already they are asking after you.”
“What do you mean, asking after me?” asked Alex, suddenly alarmed.
“Well, they didn’t ask after you specifically,” said the Sultan as they descended a steep flight of stairs between two massive stores buildings. “Not exactly. They wondered if any pale-skinned travellers like themselves had come this way, that’s all.”
“Oh, right,” said Alex, his mind working furiously.
Malcolm had assured him that they were ‘safe’ here in this world, that the place was under observation and that no visitors from Elysium could enter undetected. So could this be merely a coincidence? Perhaps. Nevertheless, he was troubled by a nagging doubt as the Sultan and his party passed through tall double doors into the long warehouse where foreign traders were often received.
The open space inside was large, full of echoes and the smell of the spices that were the foundation of Zanzibar’s prosperity. It was gloomy after the brilliant sunshine outside and it was a few moments before Alex’s eyes could adjust. When they did so, it was to find a mixed group of Zanzibaris and traders clustered around a row of long boxes on the floor. One of these had had its lid removed and a Zanzibari customs official was inspecting one of the rifles that it contained. The group broke apart, bowed, fell silent and generally looked respectful as the Sultan approached.
“Greetings, gentlemen,” he said when the traders had been introduced. “I trust you have already been welcomed to our country, but I should like to extend that courtesy to you myself, for trade is the lifeblood of nations, is it not?” He beamed about him like a little ray of sunshine, rubbing his hands together. “Now, I am told that you have interesting items to show us.”
The captain of the trading vessel, a man introduced as Garek, stepped forward and said a few words about how honoured he felt to have been greeted by the Sultan himself. He laid it on thick about how the lustre of the Sultan’s reputation shone in even the furthest corners of the world. The Sultan looked suitably chuffed to hear it. Garek was a very large man, in his early fifties, with a receding hairline and a neatly trimmed grey beard. He was dressed in a blue jacket with a high collar and gold braid around cuffs and lapels. Baggy grey trousers and knee-length boots folded over at the top completed the ensemble. He looked convincingly like pictures of nineteenth century European seafarers Alex had seen in books. Garek’s officers, kitted out in similar fashion, eyed Alex with unconcealed interest as their captain completed the formalities. Garek himself turned to Alex and smiled, a frank, friendly smile, as the Sultan introduced him. His eyes, however, were like shards of grey ice and Alex was not deceived. He felt a powerful urge to edge out of sight behind the Sultan’s shoulder but heard himself replying politely to Garek’s greeting.
“Alex, Alex, Alex,” said the trader, stroking his beard and regarding Alex with interest. “That is a familiar name, although in truth it is not one I have often encountered. Where can I have heard it before?”
“I’ve no idea,” said Alex shortly. “Look, have you got stuff to show us or what?”
This was somewhat ungracious and Alex sensed that the Sultan was looking at him disapprovingly, which only increased his sense of alarm. There was something very wrong about these traders, and Alex felt suddenly terribly vulnerable.
“My companion is eager to inspect your wares,” said the Sultan in a tone that might be interpreted as apologetic. He directed a sidelong wondering glance at Alex as Garek picked up a rifle from the nearest of the cases.
, and this mechanism here...” he indicated the breech, “… permits the weapon to be loaded at the end closest to the user, a feature of the greatest utility. The barrel itself has a number of spiral grooves on the inside that impart a rapid spin to the flying bullet, thus carrying it to its target with unerring accuracy.”
He went on to demonstrate the bullet, the shape of which astonished the Zanzibaris but seemed ordinary enough to Alex, and the percussion caps that ignited the gunpowder in the breech, propelling the bullet on its way. A small crowd of the Sultan’s fascinated military men gathered to watch the firing of this weapon in the yard outside the warehouse, where a target had been set
up. The rifle was fired three times, each time striking the target squarely. It was observed that anyone firing a musket from this range would be hard pressed to hit the wall behind it. The weapon was quick to load too, and an acquisitive glint was already kindled in the Sultan’s eye by the time Garek offered him the chance to fire one.
“It is not the weapon for a gentleman, sure,” said Garek smoothly. “But there are occasions when a gentleman may have recourse to such an engine of destruction; when engaged in siege operations, perhaps, and when the enemy may not be brought to close quarters.”
“Indeed,” said the Sultan, taking careful aim. He fired and hit the target, causing a perceptible relaxation in tension amongst his audience and amongst the traders in particular.
“Impressive,” he said. “Perhaps you would care to reload it for me. I can see that such a weapon might find a place in my forces. Perhaps you would care to join us for dinner, where we may discuss such matters in more agreeable circumstances.”
Alex, whose spirits had been cast down still further by this invitation, was momentarily too distracted to realise that Garek was talking to him.
