by Martin Dukes
“Well, it’s the only one we’ve got,” said Kelly. “What do you think?”
Alex shrugged.
“What about Will?” he asked suddenly.
“That’s all he can say,” grumbled Henry, and then, doing a mocking imitation of Alex’s voice, “What about Will? He’ll be cross with us if we go without him, won’t he?”
“I really don’t think we can leave it any longer,” said Kelly seriously. “Maybe we’ll come across Will over in Zanjd. He’s pretty much got to come through Canopus. He might be there now.”
“Kelly’s right,” said Henry, flicking his apricot stone over his shoulder. “We need out of here.”
There was a silence as all of them stared earnestly at Alex. He pursed his lips.
“I don’t like it,” he said.
“It’s no use waiting for Malcolm anymore,” said Henry. “You’re going to get us killed.”
“Okay, okay,” said Alex resignedly. He turned to Jemail. “How long do you think it’ll take to get us fixed up with a passage to Zanjd?”
“A few days, perhaps,” said Jemail, looking first at Alex and then at Kelly. “I know a good Captain, a trustworthy man, a friend of my family for many years. He should be back from Zanjd by tomorrow’s evening tide.”
“I’d be glad if you’d have a word, then,” said Alex. “We’d all be glad. But I want to wait another week, to see if Will comes back.” He glanced round at all the Outlanders. “You know what might happen if this goes wrong? The Sultan’ll be royally browned off. We could…er...” He drew a finger across his throat.
“I know,” said Kelly, swallowing hard. “But I don’t think we have any other choice.”
“I don’t like the moons,” said Tanya looking out of the window. “They’re too close together.”
“An ill portent,” agreed Jemail. “But for whom do they portend?”
The Sultan declared a national holiday to celebrate what he described as “the deliverance of the state from evil.” Most understood this to mean the murder of his mother, so there was a certain queasiness about drinking toasts and dancing in the streets on this basis. Nevertheless, a day off work was a day off work and the Sultan had provided for a distribution of free bread to the poor, so the lower classes, at least, were cautiously in favour. The same could not be said for the nobles, who were very well aware that they harboured a dangerously unpredictable monster in their midst. There was no bunting in their houses and a brooding uncertainty hung over the palace like a cloud. By now rumour alone was sufficient for Murad’s police to swoop on those unfortunates whose names had come to their attention. A malicious whisper might be enough to cause the destruction of a neighbour or a rival. These circumstances brought about the death of trust and the ruin of many relationships founded on family values or in long established friendships. There was a sense of a gathering crisis, of tension building inexorably towards some dreadful and unknowable climax.
The Sultan was seemingly unaware of the fear that had settled over his palace. He was, however, very much aware that there were plots to assassinate him, thanks to the constant stream of poison poured into his willing ear by Murad and the Grand Vizier. And yet, for much of the time, he seemed to feel that he was the darling of the populace, the saviour of his nation. This view was reinforced by another constant stream, this one of praise and flattery poured into his ear by those who wished to win his favour or simply to secure their survival. In the manner of dictators and megalomaniacs since time immemorial he began to accept proposals that streets should be named after him. There was even talk of a gigantic statue to stand by the harbour, although the religious authorities were naturally appalled by the idea. The Sultan was keen to find out for himself how much his people loved him.
“Do you know what I have it in mind to do?” he asked one afternoon, when a Council meeting was drawing to a close. Alex, together with the Grand Vizier and half a dozen councillors, sat at a long table whilst the Sultan paced the length of the hall, stroking his chin and looking pensive. The Councillors exchanged glances warily. If their Sultan had announced his intention to marry a mermaid or conquer the moons, it would not have surprised them overmuch.
“I know not,” prompted Hussain after a while, when the Sultan stopped pacing and regarded them quizzically, one elegant eyebrow raised. “Pray, tell us.”
“Ha!” said the Sultan, clapping his hands together. “I wish to gauge the opinion of the common man in the street. Do you think me unaware that all I hear is flattery and honeyed words from those who fear me?”
It was hard to answer this question, so there was a certain amount of shifting uneasily in seats amongst the Council and the clearing of throats.
“It is true, Alex, is it not?” asked the Sultan, suddenly directing his piercing gaze upon him. Alex felt himself blush.
“Yeah, I guess,” he said. “People don’t want to upset you.”
“Because they love you,” added Hussain with a critical glance at Alex.
“Indeed,” said the Sultan, clasping his hands together and turning away from them. “But I wish to hear my people speak the truth that is in their hearts. Which is why...” he turned suddenly upon them, his face lit by a seraphic smile. “Which is why I shall walk amongst them incognito. I shall disguise myself as a common man and sit with them in the taverns and listen to them speak. It will be such fun. Alex shall come with me. What do you think? Is this not genius? I shall hear for myself how much my people love me, and they will never know that their Sultan has shared their company and their tables.”
There was a strained silence as the horrified Councillors gave this insane scheme their consideration.
“Are you sure this is wise?” asked old Fawwaz, the Foreign Minister, at last.
The Sultan did not answer him; he only glared at the poor man, unblinking until the Grand Vizier came to the rescue.
“It is a scheme of stunning originality,” he said. “And we shall, of course, assist you in bringing it about. Would tomorrow night be too early, do you suppose?”
The anger faded from the Sultan’s eyes and he stroked his chin once more, where a struggling beard was beginning to emerge.
“Of course. The sooner, the better.”
“There is an inn by the harbour wall, The Old Lantern I believe it is called, the perfect place for such an adventure.”
“Indeed,” said the Sultan, grinning broadly once more. “It will be such fun!”
Alex doubted this greatly. Hussain evidently doubted it too, because he plucked at Alex’s shoulder as he was about to re-join Zulfiqar in the entrance foyer. The Sultan was tied up in conversation with two of his officials, but the Grand Vizier cast a cautious eye over his shoulder before turning to Alex.
“A word in your ear, if I may,” he said, looking more agitated than Alex had ever seen him. “Step over here a moment, if you would.”
He steered Alex into the space between two of the large columns that supported the porch and, Alex noted, a couple of Hussain’s attendants blocked access to anyone with a mind to listen in. Alex felt his pulse rate edge up a couple of notches, although he didn’t feel particularly more endangered than usual.
“Yeah…?” he said cautiously.
“I am not enamoured of the Sultan’s plan,” Hussain told him, stroking several of his chins abstractedly.
“Huh?”
“The Sultan’s plan, as expressed a few minutes ago, is utterly foolish,” said Hussain irritably. “And is likely to result in his death… and yours, if permitted to proceed as he desires,” he added. “He has no conception of his true reputation amongst the people. If his identity were to be discovered, I fear he would be lynched.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking,” Alex told him. “It’s a crazy idea, isn’t it?”
“It is,” agreed Hussain. “But it is the Sultan’s scheme and one that he seems quite set upon.”
“So what are we going to do?” asked Alex, round-eyed with alarm.
“You are going to do nothing, except accompany his Highness as required. I shall see to it that the tavern in question is entirely filled with those who will say what he expects to hear. I tell you this because it is best that such foolish whims are indulged under controlled conditions. You will go along with this, do you hear me?”
Alex shrugged, feeling once more the helpless pawn of circumstances. “Yeah, of course.”
He was going to ask what exactly was going on with Hussain and the Sultan, but a knowing look in the Grand Vizier’s eyes persuaded him otherwise. It was absolutely clear who was pulling the strings now. With Shaquira gone the Grand Vizier was very much top dog. For now the Sultan was part of his plans. He was a tool to be directed to the destruction of Hussain’s enemies. But one day he might become too unpredictable to control, a dangerous liability, and then his days were numbered. This knowledge established itself in Alex’s understanding, even as Hussain stood back to let him past.
“Be careful, Alex,” he said. “These are dangerous times.”
Dangerous indeed, and Alex was talking to one of the chief dangers. He nodded and strode out from between the columns to find himself face to face with Garek and Shirman. Frying pans and fires came briefly into Alex’s mind.
“Good afternoon, Alex,” said Garek, favouring him with a slight bow from the waist. Shirman merely regarded him with cold interest, as though he were some small but vaguely interesting dead creature he had found in his path. “I trust your meeting was productive. We were just passing, Mr Shirman and I. Our paths have not crossed in recent days. I trust you are keeping well. You know that your wellbeing is something in which I have a particular interest.”
His mouth bent itself into the shape of a smile, but his eyes held only the same forensic interest as his companion. Alex felt that he was being in some way scanned, that Garek’s eyes were boring deep beneath his skin.
“Excuse me,” he said hurriedly, pushing past to where Zulfiqar was waiting, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.
“Until next time then,” he heard Garek say behind him, in a mocking tone that drew a harsh laugh from Shirman.
“Relax,” Henry told him when he returned to their apartment. “It sounds like the GV’s got a handle on it anyway. He’s got a brain the size of a planet that one, hasn’t he?”
“He has,” agreed Alex, pulling his boots off. “And he’s all heart too, isn’t he? A big cuddly old sweetie with a soft centre just oozing compassion. He’d off us as soon as look at us, I’m telling you. Seriously.”
“You worry too much,” Henry told him, trying a few practice strokes with his bat. “Tanya and Kelly’re coming back later, aren’t they? That’s a result, isn’t it? Come on, lighten up. And get those socks picked up. You’re supposed to be putting a few balls my way.”
Alex picked up the balled socks he was meant to be bowling at Henry and frowned.
“If the GV decides the Sultan’s more trouble than he’s worth, he’s going to squash him like a bug,” he said. “Then we’re dead meat. All of us.”
“I know, Alex,” said Henry in the tone appropriate for humouring four year olds. “I know because you keep on banging on about it like a broken record. Is not good friend Jemail purchasing first class flights for us even as we speak? Is our exit strategy not falling into place, like a… well-oiled machine or something? Hmmm?”
“I don’t believe you,” said Alex shaking his head. “Is there something wrong with you? Haven’t two of your friends here been rounded up, tortured and murdered this last week? Am I missing something? Are you too stupid to be scared?”
“Not stupid, Alex,” said Henry, poking Alex in the chest with his bat. “But not wallowing in despair and wringing my hands like an old woman, either.” He sighed, setting down the bat on the end of his bed. “Okay, let’s look at this logically. If the GV’s going to bugsplat his nibs he’s going to have to have someone suitable lined up to replace him, isn’t he? The GV can’t be Sultan, can he? He’s the third son of a plasterer, or something like that, from what I’ve heard. A Sultan’s got to have blue blood running through his noble veins, hasn’t he? So what are we looking for here? Someone the GV can mould like putty, someone from one of the noble families. Seems to me we’ve got…”
Henry reeled off a list of names, numbering them on his fingers.
“Now out of all of those, I reckon there’s only one who ticks all the GV’s boxes and he’s off with the Emir of Punt, isn’t he, trying to get an army together.”
“You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?” said Alex, impressed despite himself.
“I have,” said Henry with a smug smile. “I really have. So I’d say things are pretty much under control for now, so long as the GV keeps a grip.”
“Now that,” said Alex grimly, “is the question.”
It was a question that seemed likely to be answered in spectacular style when Alex was awoken later that night by the Sultan himself. Kelly and Tanya had moved back in with a great deal more luggage than they had left with, and it had taken some time to find space for everything and get them re-established in their own room. Tanya was clearly delighted to be back, but Kelly seemed somewhat distant and Alex had found it hard to make conversation with her. The others had stayed up to play cards, but Alex had retired early to bed, pleading a headache. And now the Sultan of Zanzibar was leaning over him, oil lamp in hand, beaming gleefully all over his face like the little boy he still was at heart, albeit a spoiled and dangerous little boy with a wicked temper and an elastic conscience.
“Come, Alex,” he whispered. “You are to accompany me on an adventure.”
“Really? Oh gooood,” muttered Alex, sitting up groggily in bed. Why didn’t these tidings bring joy to his heart? The sight of four of the Sultan’s burlier bodyguards lined up behind him didn’t help to bring cheer to the occasion, either. Two of them, a couple of enormous stony-faced twins Alex had privately christened the ‘Chuckle Brothers’, came forward to loom over him like a great black cliff and one of them threw a bundle of garments onto his bed.
“See, I have brought for you the sort of clothes the common people wear,” said the Sultan. “Quickly, put them on. And look at me – am I not fine?”
He did a bit of a twirl whilst Alex groped amongst the garments. “What do you think? Do I make a convincing peasant? I find the undergarments are disagreeably coarse against the skin, but there is something rather engaging in the drabness of the ensemble, wouldn’t you agree?”
The clothes Alex was obliged to pull on had evidently belonged to a much larger man and one with a personal hygiene issue of monstrous proportions. He gagged as he pulled the smock over his head and stood gasping for breath as he fastened the belt around his waist. The trousers proved to be comically loose fitting, but fortunately a drawstring meant that they were in no danger of falling down. The same could not be said of the crotch, which swayed baggily at the level of his knees.
“There you are,” said the Sultan, clapping his hands in admiration. “What a picture of ordinariness you present, veritably a prince amongst paupers. And now we shall venture forth into the bosom of my people.”
Alex had been wondering what his friends were up to during the period of his robing. This question was answered for him when he emerged blinking into the brightly lit living room. A couple of the bodyguards stood by whilst Kelly, Henry and Tanya sat waiting on a rug, evidently under instructions to shut up and stay put. Tanya’s face was a picture of pale concern. Henry offered him a wan smile. Kelly had the decency to look mildly anxious, or so Alex told himself as the Sultan whisked him past and towards the front door of their apartment.
“You must spare me your friend,” he told them apologetically. “But Alex and I have an adventure to begin. We shall see you later. I do not doubt that we shall have a merry tale to tell.”
“I can hardly wait,” murmured Alex over his shoulder, with a helpless glance as he was urged out into the dark passage beyond.
Those c
itizens of Zanzibar dwelling in the harbour area were no strangers to late-night drinking, and the Old Lantern Inn proved to be packed with the Sultan’s subjects. The ceiling was low and smoke-blackened, and a dense fug of the smoke that kept it that way caught at Alex’s throat and eyes as he followed the Sultan to an empty bench at a table close to the door. The flickering yellow glow of oil lamps picked out the faces of sailors, merchants, dock workers and artisans representing a variety of harbour-side trades. The noise and heat were tremendous. Servants squeezed through the press with trays bearing flagons of ale or wine. Alex was struck by the ugliness of many of the clients, even the prostitutes, whose wares were very much in evidence. A great many pipes were being smoked, and there was a great deal of facial hair to be seen, not least amongst the men. After a moment to take all this in, the Sultan strode forward towards one of the few vacant tables, Alex and the bodyguards following in his wake. A bearded man, evidently much the worse for drink, lurched into the Sultan as he passed, causing the Chuckle Brothers to step forward meaningfully. The Sultan raised a hand to warn them off.
“You see, they show me no deference,” observed the Sultan with interest to Alex, speaking ostentatiously behind his hand. “It is indeed a curious sensation to have a subject press himself against me.”
He pulled out a chair for himself and another for Alex, whilst his guards seated themselves at the next table, having first roughly pushed an elderly gentleman out of the way. The Sultan smiled about him benevolently, elbows on the rough table top before him.
“I suppose we should order drinks,” he said, bringing out a purse filled with gold coins.
“I should put that lot away, unless you want to buy the whole place,” said Alex urgently, covering the glinting gold with his sleeve before anyone should notice. “If you haven’t got anything smaller you may want to borrow a bit of loose change off your guards here.” Alex found that the palms of his hands were sweaty and the oppressive heat was only partly responsible.
