by Martin Dukes
“Great,” said Will gloomily. “That sounds like a real adventure.” He looked back at the moons, one silvery and the other tinged blood red. “Which one goes in front? The big one or the small one?”
“Actaeon rides in front of Artemis, or so we are told.”
“So the small one goes in front of the big one,” said Will, regarding them thoughtfully. “That’s going to look like a ring then, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. It is termed an annular eclipse. Why are you looking like that?”
Will had swung round suddenly, his eyes focused on nothing in particular as a particular mental penny dropped. He slapped his own fat cheeks.
“We’ve been so thick!” he cried.
“What do you mean, thick?” asked the old astronomer testily. “I hope you don’t…”
“Listen,” said Will, snapping his fingers impatiently. “What shape did we see above the door of that tower back out in Tattash?”
“Concentric circles,” said Zoroaster, eyebrows beetling.
“It was an eclipse,” said Will, swinging the shutter to and fro in his agitation. “Can’t you see? It’s so obvious now. It was even called the Tower of the Moons, wasn’t it?”
“You’re right,” said Zoroaster, stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Of course you’re right.”
“So the eclipse has got something to do with them building that tower. It’s got to be,” said Will thinking furiously.
“Perhaps something terrible does happen at the time of the eclipse,” said Zoroaster. “Legends talk of freak tides and great winds. Do you remember the drawings we discovered in the basement room?”
Will nodded, thinking of the crude drawings he had seen there. They had appeared to show buildings in flames, with lines suggestive of winds in the sky above. But not just wind. The air around the little running figures had writhed with something else – worms.
“Hang on a minute,” he said, rubbing his hands together in front of him, thinking, thinking. “What if the eclipse pulls up some kind of huge wind out of the west, you know, where the great ironwood forests are that old Muhammed bin Salem was talking about? What if it picked up billions and billions of the little beasts and blew them all across the mountains and down over the desert to Zanjd and across the water to Zanzibar?”
He stopped, eyes wide, staring at Zoroaster. Zoroaster stared back. He nodded, swallowing hard.
“That tower was built as a refuge from the worm,” he said. “I see it now. You saw what happened to Muhammed’s eye. Imagine a worm storm, the air thick with them for hours.”
“Anyone caught outside would be killed,” said Will horrified.
“Every living thing,” said Zoroaster grimly. “And everything not made of stone or steel would be burned. There would be a firestorm the length and breadth of the realm.”
“We’ve got to get back to Zanzibar and warn the others,” said Will, reaching for his saddlebags. “Before it’s too late.”
The pattern of the darkling streets became familiar. She had trodden these ways before. Tanya stepped aside as a soil cart trundled past with its stinking load of human waste bound for the fields and the tannery yards to the north of the city. She wrinkled her nose. The first rush of panic was past now and her sense of imminent danger ebbed away, to be replaced by a steady ache of anxiety. What should she do? Where should she go? The obvious answer to these questions was Nusrat and Kashifah’s house. She was close now. She recognised one of the narrow alleys that led down from the palace hill. Little Suleiman had shown it to her in one of their many companionable wanderings around the city together.
When she arrived at the street door she found it standing open. Something was wrong. The porter was not where he should have been, sitting at his post inside. Tanya entered cautiously, passing through into the inner courtyard but stepping cautiously, keeping to the shadows. Distantly she could hear voices, one raised in protest, although she could make out no words. Something was definitely wrong. She was about to turn and retrace her steps when the door to the servants’ quarters opened and a pale face looked out. It was Nahla, Kashifah’s maid. Glancing around anxiously she hissed and beckoned for Tanya to come to her. After a moment’s hesitation Tanya slipped inside.
“The police are here,” Nahla whispered, pulling her close as soon as they stood in the corridor that led to the kitchen. “They are looking for you. It was madness for you to come here.”
Tanya, whose self-control had reached the end of its endurance, burst into tears. Nahla drew her to her and put her arms around the girl, as her small body was racked by great shivering sobs.
“Shhh!” said Nahla, rocking her to and fro.
“I didn’t know where else to go,” she said.
“Of course you didn’t,” said Nahla softly, stroking her hair. “We’ll put you out in the timber shed until they’ve gone. They already looked there.”
“They’ve got the others,” said Tanya miserably, as Nahla led her out through the kitchen. “What’s going to happen now?”
“I don’t know,” said Nahla, opening the door to the shed and ushering her inside. “You stay in here until the police go away. I’m sure they won’t be long.”
She shut the door and Tanya was plunged into inky darkness smelling of musty wood, unseen cobwebs catching at her face.
“Now what do we do?” asked Henry as the echoes of the jailer’s footsteps died away. It was pitch black, but as their eyes became accustomed to the dark a patch of the night sky could be made out, visible through a barred window. A cloud moved gradually aside to reveal a few faint stars.
“Search me,” said Alex with a shrug.
“Well, I’m guessing we’re not going to get to call our solicitor,” said Henry gloomily.
“Do you think they’ll torture us?” asked Kelly, a perceptible catch in her voice. She swallowed hard, groped for the wall and edged her way along it. “I don’t think I could stand that.”
“Shut up, Kelly,” Henry told her, although without real venom. “Let’s not even go there.”
There was a clatter as Alex blundered into something, something that went spinning away, crashed into something else and came to rest, the sound of its rocking gradually subsiding to nothing.
“What was that?” asked Kelly into the ensuing silence.
Alex groped at his feet.
“Bucket,” he said. “Wooden one. Yeugh! It stinks.”
“That’ll be the toilet then,” said Henry resignedly.
“If you think…” said Kelly, outraged. “If you think I’m going to…”
“We’ll whistle,” said Alex.
“We’ll look the other way, maybe,” said Henry with an invisible smirk.
“Oh… my… god!” said Kelly. “How long do you think they’re going to keep us here?”
“I don’t know,” said Alex distractedly. “I need to wash my hands. Is there a sink in here?”
Apart from the bucket the cell proved to be furnished only with a low wooden bed and a large jug. The bed had a thin mattress filled with straw. The jug contained water, but no one was quite thirsty enough to drink from it yet. They sat on the edge of the bed and waited for dawn to come.
“You should have killed him,” said Henry after a while. “That sailor. Then everything would be all fine and dandy, wouldn’t it? We wouldn’t be banged up in this…”
“You don’t really think he should have done that,” interrupted Kelly. “Do you? I mean, would you have done it?”
Henry shrugged, a poor response in the circumstances. He sighed, which worked better.
“I guess not. How can I tell, though? Unless I’m put in the same situation. I mean, don’t get me wrong…”
“I thought I was going to die,” said Alex in a small voice, the horror of those few moments trickling back through his mind. He was building up an impressive repertoire of such charming memories, but this one was definitely a keeper, whether he liked it or not. He shuddered. He felt suddenly cold. Shock, part of him
concluded. Kelly put her arm round him and pulled him close to her.
“It’s alright now,” she said, nuzzling his ear rather agreeably with her nose and mouth. “Something’ll turn up.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t die,” said Henry, sitting on the other side of him, thumping him hard on the arm. “So get over it.”
“Have you ever thought of working for Victim Support?” asked Kelly, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “What about the Samaritans? That’d get their caseload right down.”
“No, Henry’s right,” said Alex with a laugh. “Things could be a lot worse.”
“How could they?” asked Kelly after taking a moment to peer around her into the gloom.
“We could be dead,” said Henry. “Alex was ready for the chop if it hadn’t been for that Garek chap.”
“Yeah. What was going on there?” asked Kelly. “I thought you said he actually wanted to see you getting your head lopped off.”
“Maybe he’s not what you think,” suggested Henry. “Maybe he’s actually on our side. Have you thought of that?”
“No way,” said Alex, shaking his head adamantly. “He’s definitely one of the bad guys. I’m guessing he’s got his own plans for how he wants to part me from my noggin.”
“You’re right,” said Henry. “I suppose they need to check you out properly before popping your chump off. And then they’re meant to be some kind of religious order, aren’t they? I bet they need to get you in their temple, got up in some kind of snazzy robe. I bet they’ll want to do a lot of sermonising, sing a few hymns, take in a collection for the organ restoration fund before they do the dirty deed. You might even get to do a reading, if you’re lucky.”
“Huh, thanks for that,” said Alex, leaning against Kelly contentedly as she stroked his brow. “I wonder where Tanya’s got to, though.”
“I should think they’ll round her up pretty quick,” said Henry. “Where’s she going to go, anyway? I bet they’ll be waiting for her at our apartment and they’ll have people watching for her at Kashifah’s. No, I bet she’ll be joining us tomorrow.”
“I hope she’s alright,” said Kelly. “She’s only a kid.”
“It is as well you came when you did,” Nusrat told Tanya, when she had been released from her captivity in the timber shed. “If you had arrived a few minutes earlier they would surely have caught you.”
Tanya had been required to give Nusrat and Kashifah a detailed account of events in the Old Lantern. They sat together in the kitchen whilst Tanya drank milk and ate biscuits. It was the middle of the night and Tanya’s eyes felt tired and gritty. The hand that held her biscuit was trembling, she realised, and there was a congested feeling in her throat that meant that tears weren’t far away. She blinked angrily to drive them back.
“I think something bad’s going to happen to them,” she said, her voice sounding like someone else’s voice to her as she fought to control it. “Something really bad.”
She hung her head, a curtain of blond hair falling over her eyes, hiding the single hot tear that had slipped past her defences.
Kashifah exchanged anxious glances with Nusrat and put an arm around Tanya’s shoulders. “It’ll be alright,” she said, but there was no conviction in her voice.
“No, it won’t be alright,” Tanya wanted to say, but she didn’t trust herself to speak, so she bit her lip and nestled against the warmth of Kashifah.
“We must move her out of here,” said Nusrat, stroking her chin. “This place will surely be watched, come tomorrow. Perhaps it is already.”
“But where?” asked Kashifah. “Who do you imagine would take her? It would be madness.”
“Indeed.” Nusrat frowned and turned away, as if she hoped to find inspiration in the shelves of jars and boxes next to the door.
“I will take her, Ma’am,” said Nahla, whose presence in the corner had almost gone unnoticed these last few minutes. She was a servant, after all, in the habit of being self-effacing. “My aunt lives a few streets from here. She is an old woman, confused, infirm. I go to help her cook and wash, although she does not recognise me. The child can stay there for a while. My aunt may not even realise she is harbouring a fugitive. She barely leaves her room.”
“But what if your aunt is questioned by the police?” asked Kashifah, getting to her feet.
“Then I wish them joy of it, Ma’am,” said Nahla with a wry smile. “For I have yet to get a word of sense from her this last year.”
“Very well,” said Nusrat with a nod. “And we must get word to Jemail. He has contacts who can arrange a passage to Zanjd for her, should it become necessary.”
She exchanged glances with Kashifah, over the top of Tanya’s head. Kashifah sighed.
“They might yet be released,” she said.
“They might,” agreed Nusrat cautiously. “The Sultan’s moods are mercurial.”
The expression on her face, however, left no doubt that she considered this unlikely.
The grey light of dawn gradually picked out the main features of the cell that confined Alex, Kelly and Henry. The floor consisted of uneven flagstones, spattered here and there with stains that were best not investigated too closely. The walls were plastered, irregularly coated with ancient peeling paint and covered from floor to wall with scrawled or incised graffiti. Given that their translation devices worked only with speech, it was impossible to read these. Seen in the light the greying mattress on the bed proved to have a great many holes in it and to be alive with small insects that hopped, crawled or scurried industriously. The Outlanders had all slept on it, huddled together against the cold, but now it was quickly shoved underneath the bed.
“I’m itching all over,” complained Henry, scratching at his side. “I bet we’ve got lice or something. Wait ‘til I post my review on this place. Can you do less than one star?”
They pushed the bed over to the window so that Henry, who was tallest, could look out. Two rusted vertical bars made it impossible for him to do more than press his head up against them. He could see across to another wing of the palace, the sea beating up frothily against the base of its walls. A fresh sea breeze found its way into the cell now, carrying with it the distant cry of gulls. “We’re really high up,” he reported. “Even if we could get the bars out we could never get out this way.”
“It’s a pity we haven’t got any bed sheets,” said Kelly wistfully. “Then we could tie them together and use them as a rope to climb down. You know, like they do in stories.”
Henry turned to regard her pityingly.
“Why don’t you ask for some, Kelly?” he suggested scornfully. “Excuse me, Mr Jailer,” he said in a high, effeminate voice. “We’re actually going to be needing some nice sheets. I don’t know whether to go for flannelette or Egyptian cotton, what do you think? And we’re going to need about thirty, as it’s soooo chilly in here at night. No, I’m thinking flannelette. Definitely flannelette. Is that a draught? Does anyone else feel a draught?”
He stopped, conscious that Kelly and Alex were both glaring at him. “What?”
The sound of a key turning in the lock broke up this tableau. The door swung open with a stereotypical creak to reveal the jailer, a disappointingly ordinary man in neatly pressed clothes. Next to him stood a group of enormous guards and the Grand Vizier.
“I trust I find you well,” he said as the door slammed shut behind him.
“What do you want?” asked Alex bluntly. “You’ve got what you wanted, haven’t you? I suppose you’ve come to gloat.”
“I think you misjudge me,” said the Grand Vizier, sounding hurt. “You know I was as keen as you to prevent His Highness from carrying through his injudicious scheme. If he had only waited until tonight all would have been well. The tavern would have been entirely filled with my men, dressed as peasants, of course, but briefed to tell the Sultan exactly what he wanted to hear.”
He shrugged, spreading his hands wide. “Is it my fault that the Sultan is of an independent and impetuous
spirit? I did all that I could.”
“Yes, and all you were worried about was that there’d be a riot and the Sultan’d go and get himself killed, weren’t you, before you’d finished with him?”
“I’m sure I haven’t the first idea what you mean,” said the Grand Vizier regarding Alex coldly.
“Yes, you do,” said Henry, coming up at Alex’s shoulder. “You’re just using the Sultan as a puppet, until you can bump him off and put someone on the throne who you can, like, totally dominate. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“But you’re not ready yet, are you?” continued Alex. “That’s why you were so desperate to keep him safe. For now. Until you’ve finished with him. Then you’ll just bump him off when the fancy takes you. That’s right, isn’t it? Isn’t it?” he added, approaching the Grand Vizier in a manner that made his bodyguards move up menacingly on either side.
The Grand Vizier narrowed his eyes but did not flinch.
“Oh dear,” he said. “Such an uncharitable interpretation of my motives. What suspicious minds you have. But it does not matter. The Sultan does not love you anymore. So sad.” He placed a fat finger to his lips. “The end of a friendship is such a tragic thing, don’t you think? I wish I could protect you, I really do, but the Sultan seems dead set on having you all executed. I fear there is nothing I can do.”
“Go to hell!” spat Kelly. “You fat slimeball.”
Stony-faced, the Grand Vizier approached Kelly and grasped her by the chin, his fingers squeezing her lips.
“Such a lovely sweet mouth to say such ugly things,” he said, giving a sudden vicious tweak that split her upper lip.
Alex felt some thread of self-control snap inside him. With an incoherent roar of rage he threw himself at her tormentor. The guards easily intercepted him, throwing him bodily against the wall.
“Hurt him,” said the Grand Vizier simply, without taking his eyes off Kelly.
Two guards subjected Alex to a flurry of kicks and blows that left him groaning and curled up in a foetal position on the floor, bleeding from mouth and nostrils. Another guard placed a forearm against Henry’s throat and pressed him back against the wall, making it absolutely clear that there was no point in trying to intervene.
