The Black Tower

by Phlip Jose Farmer

  CHAPTER 6

  The Coral Palace

  The cry of the muezzin, familiar throughout the Middle East but eerily alien to the ear of the Englishman, came to Clive Folliot in his sleep. He was back in Madagascar, running through a nightmarish landscape of city streets and razor-sharp mountains, wave- washed beaches and steaming jungles.

  Something was after him, something whose breath was hot and moist and smelled of death, whose fangs snapped and whose claws clashed with every frantic step.

  Clive wanted to look back, to see what it was that pursued, but he knew that a single glance would spell disaster.

  He ran faster and faster, stumbled into a native bazaar, crashed into a rug merchant's display. He thrashed desperately, struggling to fight free before he was overtaken. But his every effort only enmeshed him more helplessly in the heavy cloth.

  He rolled over, his eyes open, prepared to see the face of death looming above him.

  Instead, he saw the face of the Arab youth who had admitted him and Sergeant Smythe to the consulate last night.

  The youth had a smooth complexion and huge, liquid eyes of a dark shade that approached purple. He was wearing a clean cotton robe that swept the floor. His bare toes protruded from beneath its hem.

  "Is sir all right?" he asked. His voice was soft and his quaintly imperfect English was pleasant to the ear.

  "I'm all right. All right," Clive stammered.

  "Shall sir take a cup of tea before rising? After rising, Honorable Sir John has invite sir to breakfast. Honorable Sir John has said, tell sir of breakfast is kippers and scones with marmalade. Shall sir take tea before rising?"

  Clive thanked the youth, accepting the consul's offer. Shortly, having shaved with borrowed instruments and clothed himself in a set of lightweight khakis of a vaguely military cut, Clive permitted himself to be led into the consul's presence.

  Kirk was seated at a dining table in a sunny chamber that might have been transported from some middle-class merchant's country house. When Clive entered the room, the consul set down his cup, stood, and offered his hand.

  "Good to see you cleaned up and dressed like an Englishman, Folliot! I daresay you were a sorry sight last night. Raining like cats and dogs, and there's this thunderous booming at the door, and there you are looking like a drowned rat! Well, you look a lot more human today, I shall say."

  "Have you seen—" Clive started to ask.

  "I say, sit yourself down, Folliot. Relax. You're not in London now. No need for the frantic pace. Things move more leisurely here in the tropics. You'd best get a knack for it or you'll never survive. Have some breakfast."

  He rang a bell and a servant appeared.

  "Take Major Folliot's order, Mahmoud. Bring the gentleman something to eat before he perishes." Clive ordered breakfast and the servant disappeared. "Lazy as the day is long, these natives," Kirk said. "Have to keep after 'em constantly or they do nothing but sleep all day and steal you blind at night."

  "Mahmoud, you said his name was?"

  "Mahmoud, Ali, Abdul, it doesn't matter, my dear

  Folliot. A native is a native. I say, haven't you been out from the Isles before?"

  "Just once, Sir John. To Madagascar."

  Kirk shuddered. "Horrid place. Zanzibar is bad enough, but there are worse places to go. Now, Major, what's this all about?"

  Clive got out his question this time. "I arrived in company with another Englishman. A Sergeant Horace Hamilton Smythe."

  "Sorry," Kirk said.

  "What do you mean, sir, sorry? We were together. It was Sergeant Smythe who made that—what did you call it?—thunderous booming. It was he who opened the lock in your outer fence. Where is he now, is what I wish to know."

  Kirk speared a noisette of lamb from his plate, dabbed it into a hillock of mint jelly, and popped it into his mouth. He chased it down with a draft of tea. "Sorry, Folliot. Never heard of the chap. Did wonder, though, how you got the gate open. We generally lock it up at night to keep the beggars off the grounds. Consulate's attractive prey for them, you know."

  He captured a small potato and sent it after the noisette. "Have to get after the staff over that. Can't have Abdul leaving the outer gate unlocked at night, half the city is made up of his cousins, they'll swarm like locusts if you let 'em."

  Clive persisted. "About Sergeant Smythe, Sir John."

  "Can't help. Can't help. Listen here, a poor chap like myself gets to feeling cut off, way out here. Have to show the flag, of course. Keep the natives in line, protect Her Majesty's interests and so forth. Every kind of wog in the book has his nose stuck into East Africa these days. Appalling, Folliot, just appalling. Not that I'm complaining, you understand. Duty, duty, duty."

  He buttered a scone and ate half of it in a bite. "But"—and he pointed his butter knife at Clive— "you've got to bring me up-to-date on the doings of the realm. What's happening in Parliament? What plays have opened in London? What's the gossip from Buckingham Palace? Prince Albert's been dead for long enough, you know. What's a young and lusty queen like Her Majesty to do, eh? Can't shut herself up in a nunnery for the rest of the natural span, if you know what I mean. Well, let's have it, Folliot, let's have it!"

  Miserably, Clive slogged through an interminable meal, filling in his host on what was new in England.

  At the end of the meal Kirk led Clive to his study. This was the consular office, complete with desk, official seal, and portrait of the queen.

  "Sir John," Clive said, "I do not understand your insistence that you know nothing of Sergeant Smythe. But since you refuse to budge on the subject, I will not persist. Instead, I will ask you to assist me in my mission."

  "And what is that, Folliot? An Englishman does not travel to this tropical sink without good reason."

  "I am seeking my brother, Neville."

  Kirk steepled his fingers beneath his chin. Clive estimated the consul's age at five-and-thirty years, a mere two years greater than his own, yet Sir John had the look and the air of one steeped in decades of cynicism and debauchery. Perhaps it was the result of life in Her Majesty's diplomatic service. Resident consulship in a place like Zanzibar would doubtlessly alter a man.

  "Neville Folliot was a good chap. Came through here last year, full of idealism."

  "I am attempting to follow his trail, Sir John."

  "Going to find the source of the Nile, old Neville said. Burton, Speke, Livingstone, Baker—he was going to outshine them all, outdo them all. Going to be the most famous of the explorers. Hah!"

  Sir John Kirk's laugh was unpleasant.

  "I told him to go back to England," the consul resumed. "Africa will devour you, I told him. Go back to those cool glades and those civil streets. Don't try to conquer Africa, Africa will conquer you."

  He nodded to emphasize his certainty.

  "He went anyway. I helped him to outfit his expedition. Took him down to the palace, introduced him to Seyyid. It all just whetted his appetite for Africa. I've seen it before, Folliot. Africa is like morphia, Folliot. Once you've seen it, you crave more. And each time you take more you only increase the craving. I'm as close as I can be, right here in Zanzibar. I'll never set foot on the mainland again, or I'm lost. Neville is lost, and if you go to Equatoria, you too shall be lost. Don't go, Folliot, I warn you!"

  "I am sorry, Sir John. My mind is made up. I cannot abandon the search for my brother, until I either bring him out of Africa safely, or at least learn his fate."

  Clive rose to his feet. He swept his hand across his chest in a gesture of finality. "I have spoken!" he announced.

  Kirk laughed. "Spare me the melodrama, old chap." He heaved a heavy sigh. "All right. I can't stop you and I shan't try. If you're determined to destroy yourself, I shall see to it that you do so with the proper equipment and under approved diplomatic seal."

  He called for a servant. While the native stood by, Kirk scribbled a note on a piece of his official stationery. He sent the native off to deliver the missive.
/>   "What was that about?" Clive asked, as soon as the servant had withdrawn.

  "That," the consul announced, "was a request to His Magnificence the Sultan Seyyid Majid ben Said, to be carried by hand to the royal palace, to be presented to the sultan quick-time. It should arrive in about an hour, and His Magnificence will clap his illustrious hands and grant the boon requested by Her Majesty's resident consul and the distinguished visitor Major Clive Folliot shall be presented at court this very day."

  John Kirk grinned. "So, old chap, we'd better see about getting you spruced up a bit. They're not too demanding in the way of court garb hereabouts. Fortunately. So let's get a move on."

  "Aren't you going to wait for the sultan's response?"

  Kirk grinned. "Don't be a goose, Folliot. These fellows know who's boss. If the Arabs or the blacks started to kick up their heels, we'd slap 'em down fast. Their headmen are smart enough to have that figured out, and they know that if they don't keep their chaps in line, we'd just dump 'em and get somebody else to take charge who'll do better."

  He got to his feet, brushed a crumb from his pale mustache, and tossed his napkin to the floor. "Come along, then, Folliot. We'll see a couple of sights on our way to the palace." He took Clive's elbow and steered him from the room.

  As they passed from the breakfast room the consul called back, "Abdullah! Ali! All of you boys, get in there and clean up. This house is turning into a pigsty!"

  There was a rush of bare feet as the servants converged on the room and began to clear.

  The horses lifted their heads at the approach of Kirk and Folliot. A servant boy held the bridle of each beast. There was a magnificent chestnut with a blaze of white on his forehead for the consul, a pleasant-natured dapple gray for his guest.

  John Kirk took the reins of his chestnut and vaulted into the saddle. The consul was garbed in a lightweight suit of white linen. As concession to the day he wore a pith helmet. His gloves, riding crop, and boots were of matching cordovan.

  Clive Folliot, still in borrowed raiment, paused to make the acquaintance of his gray, patting the horse's nose and speaking to it for a few minutes before climbing into the saddle.

  The consulate gates had swung open for the day, and the horses moved out at an easy walk.

  "You'll get along all right with old Seyyid," Kirk told Clive.

  "You mean he likes the British?"

  "Don't be a fool, Folliot. I mean he's got his own fish to fry, and he's quite willing to do what he can to keep us happy. He wants us on his side if he can have us, or at the very least he wants us to blink now and then at some of the things that go on in his little part of the world. And so long as that suits Her Majesty's interests, we're quite willing to do it."

  Clive shook his head. The storm of the previous night had cleared away, and the streets of Zanzibar, briefly converted to mud, were already well on their way back to their normal condition of hard-packed dirt and dust.

  They were approaching the bazaar, and a medley of odors assaulted Clive's nostrils. The streets were narrow and crowded with white-robed Arabs, black Africans, and merchants from India and Indonesia. Clive didn't see any identifiable Europeans.

  Beggars were everywhere. At first they crowded around the two Englishmen on their horses, but Kirk swatted a few outstretched hands with his riding crop and they fell away. Most of the traffic proceeded on foot, but there were a few donkey-drawn wagons, and an occasional spavined excuse for horseflesh.

  And camels!

  Clive had seen camels in Madagascar, but that had been years ago. He'd forgotten how large the beasts were, towering over the chestnut and the gray that he and Sir John Kirk rode.

  The city itself was built on hilly terrain, and their path wound up for a while, then back down. The odd, rolling pace of the camels surrounding the Englishmen's horses made Folliot feel as if he were back on board Empress Philippa. Proud Arabs rode some of the huge beasts, their robes hanging around them, cloths wound about their heads, their ornate, long-barreled rifles lying across their laps.

  And the smell of the beasts—there was no other like it! Clive found himself longing for the dean sea air he had breathed from the deck of the Empress. Which made him remember—

  "Sir John!"

  The consul faced around.

  "I must recover my gear from the Empress Philippa. There was some mix-up last night involving the harbormaster, but Captain Wingate will surely send my belongings ashore."

  "He will, will he?" Kirk laughed.

  The odor of horses and camels was now mixed with the spicy odors of outdoor cooking. Food vendors lined the narrow street, holding up samples of their wares to tempt the travelers. Metalworkers, potters, leathercrafters filled every opening.

  And yet another odor began to be mixed with the rest. It was a human odor, like and yet unlike the musky smell of the long-robed Arabs they moved among. It was an unpleasant, unhealthy odor.

  Clive wrinkled his nose.

  "Well, what about my chest? At least I can go down to the harbor and try to hire a felucca to sail out to Empress Philippa and get it for me."

  The roadway had risen once more, and John Kirk reined in.

  Clive Folliot brought his gray to a halt beside Kirk's chestnut.

  "You see that?" The consul raised one white-clad arm, held his riding crop in a cordovan-gloved hand. He pointed toward the harbor. There was no sign of Empress Philippa, but Kirk swung his arm around to the right, pointing in a northerly direction.

  A cloud of black smoke was barely visible over the ocean. Kirk asked, "Did your Captain Wingate tell you what his next destination was, Folliot?"

  Clive stammered, trying to remember.

  "Don't bother your head, old chap. He's gone, anyway. Halfway to Pemba, I should say. Probably swing over easterly from there, head on to India."

  "Yes," Clive managed to get out, "I think he did say something about India." He could feel his cheeks and ears reddening. He felt the complete fool.

  "Don't worry, old chap. We'll reoutfit you. You can pick up anything you need right here in Zanzibar, but actually, the more things you can pick up on the mainland, the easier a time you'll have of it, don't you see. Lot of bother, loading everything onto a dhow and having to ferry it over. Lot of bother, believe me!"

  "I should think that a complete expedition could be prepared in Zanzibar. Roll onto the mainland and simply keep going."

  Kirk shook his head. "Why make more work for yourself, my dear fellow? Gather all your equipage here, load it all, transfer it to the mainland, then unload it and reassemble everything and begin your real task. Wasteful, wasteful."

  "But can I get what I need on the mainland?"

  "You'd be surprised, Folliot. Several towns where you can resupply. It's become something of a local industry, don't you see, outfitting European explorers. Lot of Indian merchants, Arab traders, even some whites who've gone halfway native. Probably your best bet's Bagomoyo. Beastly miserable place, but convenient. You can get everything there, and I guarantee you'll be happy to move on once you're ready."

  For the first time since leaving Her Britannic Majesty's consulate, a cultivated area of grass had become visible. The street broadened and the beggars and merchants became fewer. Armed guardians wearing fezzes and vaguely military-appearing garments were in evidence.

  A tall fence of wrought iron loomed beside the road, surrounding a parklike area of trimmed lawn and obviously well-tended palm trees. In the center of the park a structure of white coral rose gracefully.

  The two riders drew nearer, and Clive could see the geometrical figures that dominated the architecture. Peaked alcoves, bartizaned roofs, pillars, and breezeways were magnificently constructed and meticulously tended.

  "The old Sultan Seyyid Said restored this palace," Kirk told Clive. "It was pretty run-down in the days before his reign. Or so the old-timers tell one. My predecessor, Atkins Hamerton, was here in Seyyid Said's time. A fine fellow, the old sultan was. Or so one hears. Hamerton was
on the verge of putting in for a return to England, you know, when the old sultan reached the end of his reign."

  He shook his head.

  An Arab guard came running from the gate of the palace. He looked at the two men and their horses, seized the reins of the chestnut and the gray, and led them toward the palace.

  In the moment that he stared up at Clive Folliot, the eyes of the English rider and of the Arab guard locked. They held for the flicker of an eyelash, and then the guard turned his head away.

  But that moment was long enough for Clive Folliot to recognize the Arab guard, who may indeed have been a guard, but was by no means an Arab.

  TWO

  THE SOURCES

  OF THE NILE

  CHAPTER 7

  The Dhow Azazel

  Hot tropical sun beat upon choppy tropical seas as the lateen-sailed dhow beat slowly out from Zanzibar's sweltering harbor.

  Clive Folliot squinted against the glare. Despite the shadowing brim of his pith helmet and the relative comfort of his khaki outfit, he was already drenched in perspiration. He patted himself nervously, making sure that he still possessed the royal patent furnished him by the sultan of Zanzibar.

  The patent called upon all who beheld it, within the sway of the Sultan Seyyid Majid ben Said, Anointed of Heaven, Most Favored of the All- Merciful, and so forth, and so forth, to give to the bearer, the Englishman Major Clive Folliot, a subject of Queen Victoria and favored friend and servant of the aforenamed sultan, et cetera, all courtesies and assistance in his mission, thereby earning the favor and gratitude of the Most Favored of the All- Compassionate, and so on.

  Once Clive passed beyond the narrow coastal strip that recognized—sometimes—the sway of the sultan of Zanzibar, the royal patent might carry no legal force, but John Kirk had suggested that other monarchs who reigned over the kingdoms of Equatoria would, possibly, render him a certain courtesy.