by Martin Dukes
“Aah! So you fear we may imperil our subterfuge?” asked the Sultan with a chuckle.
“Huh?”
“That we may give ourselves away.”
“Yes, it’s imperilled alright,” said Alex, glancing around to see if anyone was giving them funny looks. “And if I may give you another word of advice I wouldn’t go asking for their finest Nubian wine, either.”
“Indeed. You are right. We must proceed carefully. Ale it shall be.”
Ale was ordered, duly delivered and the Sultan settled down to observe his people. If he had been hoping that the glory of his reign would be the main topic of conversation, he was to be disappointed. People at the neighbouring table were discussing cockfighting and the price of sailcloth. The Sultan began to drum his fingers on the table-top. There was no way of telling the time, but it felt late. Alex’s eyes stung from the smoke. He felt a gathering sense of loneliness and vulnerability, even in the midst of this convivial crowd of humanity. Sitting next to a homicidal lunatic didn’t do anything for his peace of mind.
“You look a little tired,” Alex told the Sultan. “If you don’t mind me saying so, maybe we should call it a night.”
“But the night is yet young,” objected the Sultan. “And I have never felt more alive.” He took a deep swig from his mug of ale, sighed a deep and ostentatious sigh of satisfaction and wiped the froth from his upper lip with his sleeve. “Let us engage our neighbours in friendly conversation, with these mariners and their young lady, indeed.”
Sitting at the next table were two ruddy-faced sailors and a lady who might have been a prostitute, to judge from the manner of her make-up and dress, although it had to be presumed she was operating at the bargain basement end of the market.
“Greetings, fellows,” said the Sultan, tapping the fatter of the two sailors on the shoulder before Alex could object. “I trust your voyage was a successful one. They say the Sultan’s brave navy has swept the pirates from the high seas.”
“Do they? Do they indeed? I don’t know who says that, but they’re a damn fool if they do,” said the sailor, turning to face them. His complexion looked like it had been violently sandpapered and then basted in turkey fat. His eyes were not in close agreement with each other, so it was hard to see exactly where he was looking. Drink might have had something to do with this, but it probably wasn’t the whole story. The man went on to say how the pirates were still rampant to the north and the Sultan’s navy was manned by useless knaves and scoundrels.
“The Sultan might beg to differ with you on that point,” said the Sultan peevishly, whilst Alex mentally buried his head in his hands. He felt like someone tied to rail tracks who feels the first rumble of an approaching train. In this case it proved to be an express, so suddenly did the crisis break.
“Pah, stuff the Sultan! You know what I’d like to do with the Sultan?” continued the sailor, oblivious to his danger.
He went on to mention a number of things he’d like to do that struck Alex as hurtful, harmful and potentially unsanitary. Several things happened next, and in a very short space of time. The Sultan leapt to his feet, casting back his hood to reveal himself. There was a clatter as his chair fell over.
“Traitor!” screamed the Sultan, his eyes blazing. “Seize this man!”
The Chuckle Brothers lurched forward and took hold of the unfortunate sailor, even as the other revellers fell back, leaving him to his fate. “It’s the Sultan!” could be heard on various lips before a tense silence settled over the room. One or two of the warier occupants could be heard slipping out of the back door, but most were content to wait upon events, regarding the Sultan, his party and their cowering victim with horrified fascination.
“I meant no offence,” pleaded the sailor rather improbably, squirming in the grip of the Chuckle Brothers.
“You lie!” spat the Sultan. “Your mouth condemns you as a foul traitor. You know the penalty for treason.” He looked up to regard the dimly lit semi-circle of watching faces, the faces of his people. They knew. Community service it was not. “For I am your Sultan,” he continued. “The strong arm of the law. Observe, all of you. See how we deal with traitors.”
He drew his sword, hidden beneath his voluminous cloak, with a metallic swish and brandished it, shimmering sickly yellow in the lamp light. The Chuckle Brothers twisted the sailor’s arms violently upwards behind him so that he yelped, plunged forward and his neck was thrust suddenly out before the Sultan. The blade flew up, reaching the top of its curve.
“Stop!” cried Alex.
“What are we going to do?” asked Tanya as soon as Alex had departed their apartment with the Sultan and his party.
“He’ll be fine,” said Henry, gathering together the cards they had been playing with. “He’s the Sultan’s best bud.”
“You heard what he was talking about earlier,” said Kelly getting to her feet. “He was on about the Sultan wanting to go off down to the harbour and do some crazy stuff. He said that the GV had got a handle on it.”
“Yeah, so what’s the problem, then?” shrugged Henry.
“He said it was going to be tomorrow night,” said Tanya, eyes wide. “That’s what he said.”
“Soooo?”
“So maybe the GV’s not on the case tonight,” said Kelly earnestly. “Did you see Alex’s face as he went out? Something’s up.”
“So what do you care, anyway?” demanded Henry, throwing down the cards.
“So what do you care?” retorted Kelly, giving him a bit of a shove. “You’re supposed to be his friend. What are you going to do about it?”
Henry bit his lip.
“Okaaay. Let’s go down there after them and take a look.”
“I know where they’ve gone,” said Tanya, eyes shining. “It’s a big tavern by the old lighthouse.”
The Sultan brought the blade down slowly, turning to regard Alex curiously, some of the moment’s fury draining from his features but his eyes remaining as cold as a snake’s. He licked his lips, swallowed and said, in a low voice, “What?” He might as well have added, “This had better be good,” because this unspoken statement was implied in every tense line of face and body.
“He’s just an ignorant peasant,” Alex tried desperately. “He knows no better. Surely he deserves a trial at least.” He was all too conscious that this was cutting no ice whatsoever.
“I am the sword of justice,” hissed the Sultan, and there was a glint in his eyes Alex had never seen before. There was no friendship there. “I am judge and executioner.”
“But you could be merciful,” said Alex, meeting the terrified eye of the condemned. “You could show you’re bigger than that.”
For a moment the Sultan seemed to think about this, and then he thrust the sword hilt at Alex.
“You kill him.”
“What?!” Alex felt the blood drain from his cheeks, the moisture from his mouth. He swallowed.
“You… kill… him!” said the Sultan more loudly, his face a rigid mask of hostility. He shook the sword, pushing it at Alex’s chest. There was an edgy silence as Alex considered his options. There were no options. He could not – would not – do it, whatever the consequences.
“No,” he heard himself gasp, and then more clearly. “I will not.”
The decision made, he felt himself relax a little, even though his legs continued to tremble beneath him.
“You will,” growled the Sultan, pressing his face close to Alex’s.
“No.” Alex shook his head resolutely.
“Then you will die too,” said the Sultan coldly. “By these words you have become my foe. Your friendship is dead to me. Now you die too.”
“Ha!” yelped Alex, for reasons that weren’t clear to him then or ever, but which rising panic and confusion certainly contributed to.
“So you laugh in the face of death,” said the Sultan. “And death will claim you now.” His face jerked up to command his remaining two bodyguards. “Take him!”
Alex suddenly found himself with a better appreciation of the sailor’s predicament, arms bent up behind him, head thrust forward. He closed his eyes and felt a sudden wave of terror wash over him. The swift passage of the sword through the air breathed cold on his cheek as it rose once more to the zenith of its deadly arc. So this was the end. He gasped and closed his eyes tight shut.
“No!” Another barked voice of command, ringing loud in the hushed room.
“What?!” the Sultan’s voice was almost petulant now as the sword paused in its flight and he turned to face this intruder. The voice was a familiar one – Garek’s.
The tone of Garek’s voice moved like lightning from command to supplication. Out of the corner of his eye Alex could see Garek and Shirman, Garek kneeling before the Sultan, his hands clasped before him.
“Spare this young man, I beseech you,” he pleaded. “Three great stars are in alignment tonight. It would be a terrible omen to slay the white worm.”
Alex exhaled slowly and opened his eyes. He found that he had wet himself. This bothered him more than it ought to have done under the circumstances. The Chuckle Brothers eased off on his arms so that he was able to straighten up a little. They had taken their cue from the Sultan’s face, in which a variety of emotions were to be seen, with confusion and uncertainty gradually driving out rage and frustration.
“This is so?” asked the Sultan. “How do you know this?” His sword came down gradually.
Garek shot a glance at Alex which indicated a pleasing anxiety on his behalf. Then he turned to the Sultan, rising to his feet.
“It is so, Your Highness. My people call this night the “dreamslayer” alignment. It is taboo to throw back in the face of the heavens the dreams that they sent you.”
The Sultan bit his lip, looking first at Alex and then at Garek. His resolve to shed Alex’s blood was ebbing away fast and his sword point twitched at the level of Alex’s ear now. There was a minor disturbance by the door and then Kelly’s voice rang out, raised in shock.
“Alex!”
Alex turned his head as much as he was able, to see Kelly, Henry and Tanya standing at the edge of a group of people by the door. Kelly’s eyes were wide with horror, her hands clasped over her mouth. Tanya tucked into her side, burying her face in her clothing. Henry swallowed hard, uncharacteristically lost for words. Suddenly it was all action in the Old Lantern as soldiers began pushing through the crowd, led by the Grand Vizier himself. The Sultan let his sword arm drop and rolled his eyes upwards.
“What, you too?”
“I trust all is well, Your Highness?” enquired the Grand Vizier, looking anxiously around at the various groups of captives, bodyguards and traders. Garek stepped back a little, taking Shirman with him. It appeared that his intervention had spared Alex’s life – for now.
“It is not well,” snapped the Sultan, gesturing with his sword. “Not well at all. I am surrounded by traitors. He pointed at Alex. “This… this viper in my bosom has stabbed me in the back most foully,” he said, mixing his metaphors in a manner that would have amused Alex had he not had other preoccupations. “If it were not for an unlucky alignment in the heavens I should certainly have slain him where he stood. I ask one thing of my friends and one thing only – loyalty… and obedience. I shall not utter his foul name again, as he could not give back the generosity I have shown him, the trust I have placed in him. And yet the stars protect him.”
“They do?” asked the Grand Vizier cautiously, meeting Garek’s eye.
“The stars are most particular on the matter,” said Garek evenly.
“I see,” said the Grand Vizier with a slow nod.
“But perhaps they will align themselves more favourably tomorrow,” said the Sultan, appearing to notice Kelly, Henry and Tanya for the first time. “See, more cursed milkskins come to plague me.”
There was a perceptible drawing back of the crowd at this proclamation, as people sought to distance themselves from the objects of the Sultan’s disapproval. Soldiers, anticipating arrests, began to make their way towards the Outlanders.
“The alignment remains valid for seven nights,” said Garek, building on success.
“Perhaps a proper trial should be conducted,” suggested the Grand Vizier, cocking his head on one side. “So that the milkskin’s crimes can be properly investigated. Who knows what other felonious activities might come to light?” He grinned nastily at Alex. “I have tried to warn you that they are not to be trusted, that their loyalty is in question, that they plot treachery against you.”
“And you were right,” said the Sultan, his face flushing suddenly. “I should have listened. Arrest all the milkskins. I shall deal with them another day. But this one dies now!”
The sailor might have been forgiven for thinking that the Sultan’s wrath had moved elsewhere. It came rushing back with a vengeance now as the Sultan raised his sword and with one swift blow struck off his head. Suddenly, all was chaos in the tavern. Blood spurted. People screamed and lurched violently away from the dread tableau. Tables and chairs were overturned. Dozens stumbled, tripped and fell. Soldiers converged on Kelly and Henry.
“Run, Tanya!” screamed Kelly, as a huge sergeant pinioned her arms by her side and lifted her bodily from the floor, legs kicking wildly. Henry found himself thrown to the floor, turned on his face, wrists bound swiftly behind him. Tanya, after a moment’s hesitation, turned and ran, slipping through the closing door and pelting headlong along the dark streets as fast as her legs would carry her. She wept, she gasped. Her lungs ached but she didn’t stop running until the streets were narrow and empty, the star-spangled sky no more than a snaking banner between the looming warehouses and tenements on either side.
Chapter Fourteen
Will and Zoroaster might have returned to Zanzibar a great deal earlier had it not been for Zoroaster’s leg. The old man had been bitten by a blood-sucking crane fly on the road north of Canopus. Since he irritably refused to have anyone look at it, or to pay to have it treated, the bite on his ankle swiftly became inflamed and swollen, the infection spreading until it looked as though he were wearing a purple flesh wellington boot. At last there was no alternative but to take refuge in a roadside tavern and here, in an upstairs room, Will and Zoroaster spent the best part of two weeks. For most of this time Zoroaster was in a high fever. A local doctor was summoned to his bedside, when Zoroaster was too ill to refuse any longer. He expressed the view that it was too late, that nothing could be done. Will knew better – Zoroaster was too stubborn and cussed to die, clinging to life with a grim tenacity that impressed the tavern keeper, who every day expected to be required to call for the undertaker. Will was impressed too, although he never despaired of his mentor pulling through. Several days were spent in mopping the ancient astronomer’s fevered brow, helping him to the privy when capable and cleaning him up when not, a task that nothing in his life so far had prepared him for. Other than looking after Zoroaster, there was nothing much to do. The tavern keeper’s wife proved to be an excellent cook, however, and Zoroaster’s purse, now that Will had charge of it, proved to be unexpectedly full. Will had lost a great deal of weight in recent weeks, but tedium, inactivity and a regime of four full meals a day did much to restore his figure to its previous bulk. As the helpless Zoroaster and his purse shed weight, so Will filled out remarkably until his skin had recovered the wholesome tautness of previous times and his cheeks were once more plump and rosy.
“We need to get moving,” Zoroaster told him towards the end of their stay.
His fever had broken a few days previously, but he remained very feeble and confined to bed for most of the day.
“When you’re ready,” Will told him, patting his gnarled old hand where it lay on the grubby coverlet. “You’re still too weak to move.”
“The swelling’s gone down, hasn’t it?”
“Yes, that’s a lot better but you need to build yourself up,” Will told him, building himself up from a plate of cakes on the table bes
ide him.
“Are they supposed to be for me?” asked the old man with a meaningful lift of the chin.
“Do you want one? They’re rather good,” said Will through a full mouth.
“No.” Zoroaster’s brows knitted together in a way that suggested more an unspoken desire for Will not to have any more. “Look, if we don’t move soon…”
“What?”
Zoroaster had a number of concerns. Running out of money was one of them. Will becoming so grossly obese they’d have to break the walls of the tavern down to get him out was another. The chief one, however, was the one Zoroaster indicated with a meaningful gesture at the window. It was night and the two moons shone brightly through the half-closed shutters, painting the floor with an irregular array of narrow stripes.
“The eclipse is coming,” he grunted. “When the eclipse comes I want to be back in Zanzibar to observe it. I’d look like a damn fool here, a hundred miles from my telescopes, when every other astronomer in the world’s got his eyes glued to it, wouldn’t I?”
The moons were definitely approaching closer together each night. Will opened up the shutters to get a better look. It was a clear night with a little low cloud barring the eastern horizon. The sea was over there somewhere, and beyond that Zanzibar. Will sniffed and pushed his glasses further up his nose. It would be good to be back there. He had no particular regrets about Henry’s absence, but he certainly missed Alex, Kelly and Tanya.
“When’s it going to happen then?” he asked, turning back to Zoroaster. “The eclipse, I mean?”
“What’s the date?” asked Zoroaster lifting himself up on one elbow.
Will told him. Zoroaster frowned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“We’ve got four days then,” he said. “You’re going to have to get me on a horse, even if you have to strap me to it.”
