by Stuart Hill
The effect it had on Sharley was extraordinary. Tears ran down his cheeks as a terrible sense of homesickness crushed him under a merciless weight. But at the same time he was filled with a childlike happiness and couldn’t help grinning and giggling. He thought he must be going mad, perhaps finally driven to insanity by heatstroke, but then all such thoughts fled from his mind as the surrounding heat haze slowly moulded and shaped itself into a semblance of transparent human forms.
He found himself gazing on a group of twenty or so beautiful young women, all modestly draped in flowing robes. He gasped aloud and stared about wildly, but still nobody else in the caravan seemed to have noticed anything amiss.
“Do not be afraid, Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, we mean neither yourself nor your cause any harm,” said one of the beautiful women who moved a little ahead of the group, keeping perfect pace with his camel. “We have been sent to guard you and your mission from the dangers of the desert.”
Sharley’s mouth hung open, but he shut it with a snap when it suddenly occurred to him to ask, “Who are you? And if you have been sent, then who did the sending?”
“We are the Blessed Women, and it is our appointed task to protect you during your journeys within our lands.”
Sharley’s eyes widened. So these were the famous Blessed Women – the ones who had appeared to Maggie when he was ill. But they still hadn’t told him who’d sent them, or why, so he asked again. The woman gave him a smile of such gentle peace, he seemed to fill with the knowledge that there was no need to know such things, and that if he cared to search his mind he would probably find he already knew the answer anyway.
“Be not concerned, Charlemagne. Only know that for as long as you dwell within the borders of the Desert Kingdom, no harm will come to you.” The woman’s gentle smile broadened, and she added, “Know also that at the time of your greatest need, the love you feel for another will call our power across the seas, even to the northernmost limits of the lands, and all will be made well.”
Sharley was overwhelmed with such a sense of deep and pure emotion, he covered his face and wept.
But when he looked up again, the Blessed Women had disappeared, and the caravan was jogging along as though nothing had happened. He wiped his eyes and mulled over what had happened, but try as he might, his bewilderment refused to become scepticism, and eventually he shrugged and smiled to himself. He could only adopt the attitude of the Desert People themselves, and accept all that had happened as the “will of the One”.
He began to look about himself again, and as he allowed the harsh reality of the desert to reassert itself, the strange visitation he’d experienced began to take on the quality of a dream.
As the day wore on he noticed that the sandy track they’d been following had slowly, almost imperceptibly, become flagstones, edged with what looked like marble. Perhaps the track had all been made of stones and they’d simply emerged here from beneath the desert dunes. But the fact that the paving was clear of sand now meant that someone, or more likely a group of someones, must actually sweep it regularly. An amazing thought, especially as they were still miles from the city.
That night when they made camp, Sharley questioned Al-Khatib about palace etiquette. He already knew that if any rules of social nicety were broken no allowances were made, even for foreigners. Al-Khatib’s instruction calmed most of Sharley’s fears, although he did think prostrating oneself before the Sultan was a little excessive. Even the Polypontian Emperor only asked you to bend one knee and declare your staggering inferiority when you came into his presence. But every Royal Court had its little ways, and at least Crown Prince Mekhmet sounded a little more human. To greet him, you were only expected to fall to your knees and bend your head. With the problems of polite behaviour and etiquette dealt with, all he had to worry about now was the very real possibility of his complete and utter failure as an ambassador!
The caravan was expected to arrive in the capital by noon the next day, provided they set out early enough. So everyone, including drovers, camel boys, merchants and warrior guards – apart from those on watch – bedded down for the night as soon as the evening meal was finished. Sharley lay in his tent looking out of the open flap at the stars arcing over the deeply black, moonless sky. Slowly, his eyelids closed on his worries . . . and the distant sound of singing voices wove a pattern of peace over the sleeping camp.
In the middle of the following day, some of the drovers suddenly sent up a cry. Al-Khatib drew his camel alongside Sharley’s and pointed towards a city far away on the horizon. “We are almost there, Your Highness. Behold Haifolex, the ‘jewel of the Desert’.We should be entering the Golden Gates in a few hours, and then your embassy can truly begin.”
Sharley’s stomach lurched and rolled enormously, and he was almost sick with nerves. He fought to control himself, thinking that depositing his breakfast in the sands would hardly be the best of omens for his mission.
As the day wore on, the distant cityscape became more substantial and solid, and Sharley became more and more miserable as he gazed at its towering walls. It was worse than going to see the tooth doctor, but for once he thought he might actually prefer the agony of that particular gentleman’s surgery than having to face the Sultan in the Royal Palace of the Desert People!
Eventually, the main gate came into view, glinting and glittering in the sunlight as though it was made of metal. As they drew closer, Sharley realised that the gates and their surrounding frame were indeed sheathed in what looked like highly polished brass.
“Behold, the Golden Gates!” Al-Khatib boomed beside him, making him jump.
“Golden! You mean they’re actually made of—”
“Yes, the finest cedar wood encased in pure gold.”
Sharley’s mouth gaped, until a particularly fat bluebottle flew into it and he gagged. “But that would have cost . . . would have cost—”
“A kingdom’s income for an entire year.”
“What an incredible waste of money,” Sharley blurted out, before he could stop himself.
Al-Khatib looked at him sharply. “So thought and said many others, before the Sultan of the day removed their heads from their shoulders. But that was in less enlightened times. Nonetheless, I advise My Young Lord to keep such thoughts to himself while we enjoy the hospitality of the present ruler.”
Sharley blushed deep crimson, and nodded in silence. He really must learn to think first, and speak a long time afterwards.
They were now close enough to the walls to see that they were made of finely dressed stone, rising to truly dizzying heights and topped with battlements that were faced with blue-glazed bricks. This beautiful extravagance was extended to the entire fabric of the gatehouse and its surrounds. The Desert Kingdom must have been fabulously wealthy at one time and could probably have afforded a large and brilliantly equipped army. Little wonder that Scipio Bellorum had decided to strike at its wealth rather than its military strength.
The Golden Gates stood wide open as a constant stream of traffic headed into the city. “We have been fated to arrive in Haifolex on market day when the bazaar is at its most busy,” said Al-Khatib with a philosophical lift of his shoulders. “Which is fortunate for the mercantile aspect of our journey, but not for our diplomatic mission.”
“Will it delay our audience with the Sultan?” asked Sharley.
“Perhaps,” Al-Khatib replied. “But that may work to our advantage.” He went on to explain. “In a society whose economy is under siege, those who can alleviate the problem will always be treated like kings; therefore the Sultan must entertain the merchants lavishly and flatter their abilities above their true worth. But Crown Prince Mekhmet is proud, and he will not join his father at these banquets. So it is, then, that he is available to those who know how to reach him.”
“What’s he like?” Sharley asked, deeply curious about the man whose name had been an invocation of power, brought out like an incantation by his g
uide throughout their journey.
“What’s he like?” Al-Khatib repeated, in a tone that suggested this was the strangest of questions to ask about a member of the Royal Family. “He . . . he’s the desert storm, he’s the raging sun at midday . . . he’s the great hope of our—”
“Yes, yes,” Sharley interrupted impatiently. “But what’s he like? How tall is he? What does he like doing in his free time? What are his interests? Is he funny?”
“Funny?” Al-Khatib roared in amazement.
“Yes, does he like a laugh? Is he good-tempered? Is he . . . nice?”
The older man looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. “Well . . . I believe His Majesty enjoys riding, and he trains constantly with the Weapons Master—”
“Of course he does,” said Sharley impatiently. “But you’re not telling me anything about him. Look, let me make it easier. How tall is he?”
“I suppose a little taller than yourself. Just a little.”
“Small, then,” said Sharley, amazed that this man with a name of power wasn’t a giant. “And is he good-tempered?”
“He has the perfect temperament for one of the Lords of Men: he is quick to anger, but even quicker to forgive. Yea, he is eager to teach us the error of our ways.”
Sharley thought he sounded just like Cressida: pompous, arrogant and bossy. He could only hope that he also had his sister’s saving graces: kindness, compassion and a genuine concern for other people and their needs. “And how old is he?”
“The same age as yourself.”
“What?” Sharley almost fell off his camel. “The same age as me! I thought he was a man!”
“And so he is by the tenets of our society, but not yet a fully grown man.”
“The same age as me?” Sharley repeated incredulously.
“Yes. Though, to be precise, exactly a week younger,” said Al-Khatib, who clearly had unknown sources of information.
“A week younger!”
“My Lord is beginning to sound like one of the talking birds of Arifica; perhaps it would be wise for him to close his mouth before a swarm of flies decides to use it as a latrine.”
“Yes, but he’s only a boy . . . just like me!”
“I would say rather that both yourself and Crown Prince Mekhmet are young men, on the very threshold of manhood.”
A commotion at the head of the caravan distracted Al-Khatib, and he rode off to sort out an argument that had broken out between a camel driver and the owner of a large cart.
Sharley had a lot to think about. He was amazed that Prince Mekhmet was only his own age, but thoughts on that would have to wait. It had become impossible to do anything other than concentrate on making sure his camel didn’t trample anyone or crash into the dozens of carts being funnelled towards the city. He couldn’t guess where all the traffic had come from, but the road was packed, and the closer they got to the gates, the more congested it became.
The caravan’s armed guard now came into its own and cleared a path through the traffic. Camels and people were unceremoniously shoved aside by the fierce warriors, and Al-Khatib smiled and waved courteously as curses and screams of outrage arose from the crowds. Sharley tried to look as though he had nothing to do with the caravan, but no one was fooled and he was able to add some very colourful phrases to his growing vocabulary.
But he soon forgot to be embarrassed as he passed through the Golden Gates and the city opened up before him. It was like walking into an exotic forest. Everywhere there were trees and plants of every description, towering into the sky or growing in raised beds and huge pots. Fragrant gardens punctuated the rows of beautiful marble-built houses at regular intervals, the trees casting deep pools of shade over the streets and waving gently in a magically cool breeze.
If heaven could exist on earth it would surely look like this, Sharley thought to himself, but just then a group of ragged people shuffled into view, led by a man in a turban. Al-Khatib told Sharley the man was a sort of priest who had dedicated his life to looking after the beggars, who were all victims of a terrible wasting disease. Sharley noticed that the crowds gave the beggars a wide berth and even the caravan’s warrior guards waited quietly until they’d passed.
“It is the will of the One,” said Al-Khatib sadly. “We are as children before His mighty power and cannot even begin to understand His designs and plans.”
Sharley nodded, but before he could say anything, a bugle call blasted into the air and the market-day crowds scuttled to the side of the road as a troop of horses thundered down towards them. Sharley was fascinated. These were the first examples of the almost legendary cavalry of the Desert Kingdom he’d seen since arriving in the country, and he wasn’t disappointed. All the troopers were men. They wore close-fitting shirts of mail that shimmered in the sunlight, on their heads were steel helmets with a spike at the top, and they carried curved swords and round shields. But it was the horses that held his attention. They were small and light-boned, almost like deer, yet they all looked as fit and as fierce as miniature dragons. Sharley didn’t doubt for a moment that they were superbly trained warhorses, despite being tiny compared to the animals of his mother’s cavalry.
Al-Khatib bowed in his saddle as the cavalry drew rein and halted before them. “We are honoured indeed,” he whispered. “The palace has sent an escort for us.”
Sharley’s stomach rolled uncomfortably again. He’d expected at least a few hours to prepare before he was called into the Sultan’s presence. He was travel-stained and hot, and probably smelt worse than the camels, and yet he was about to be whisked away to the palace.
The Commander of the cavalry had the face of a vicious hawk, and his eyes glittered like the steel of his mail coat as he stared at them. “Where is the Prince of the northern lands who seeks audience with His Dreadful Mightiness the Sultan?”
Something told Sharley not to undersell himself before this fierce warrior, and with a flourish he removed his headdress and glared down at the cavalry from the height of his camel. “I am Prince Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-inthe-Arm Lindenshield, Regent to the Exiles, and offspring of the mighty Queen who defeated the Polypontian Empire and General Scipio Bellorum. Who asks my name and what is his business?”
The Commander’s face stiffened at the sight of Sharley’s flaming red hair and green eyes, but he quickly recovered and salaamed. “Greetings, Your Majesty. I am Commander Hussein. It is my duty to escort you to the palace, where my master awaits you.”
Sharley nodded coldly, and said, “I will be accompanied by my friend Al-Khatib. His presence amuses me.”
The Commander salaamed again. “It is well. Al-Khatib is known at the palace.”
The caravan was left to make its own way to its quarters while the cavalry escort turned about, and Sharley and Al-Khatib drew in their camels behind them. The older man caught his eye and grinned. “So, I amuse you, do I?” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry about that,” Sharley answered, blushing slightly. “I thought it best to appear . . . snotty.”
Al-Khatib leaned across and patted his hand. “You did very well. Commander Hussein is hard to impress, but you soon put him in his place.”
With the cavalry escort the journey to the palace passed quickly. The city seemed to flash by in a blur of faces, buildings, streets and wide graceful parks. But when they reached the bazaar even the cavalry was forced to slow to a brisk trot. Never had Sharley seen so many people crammed together in one place; he was amazed and a little unnerved. His own problems paled into insignificance in the face of this crush of humanity. Why should the Sultan agree to help him when his own people had so many needs to meet?
But then Al-Khatib pointed ahead at another huge defensive wall, where soldiers were slowly patrolling all along the parapet. They’d reached the perimeter of the palace complex. Sharley mentally squared his shoulders; if his problems were of no more significance than anyone else’s, then neither were they any less important. He would present his case to the
Sultan and place his trust with the gods. He could do no more than that. He immediately felt better, then almost instantly was swamped again by nerves. He didn’t have butterflies so much as great muscular eagles flapping around in his stomach.
But there wasn’t time to contemplate his fears. Within seconds, they were clattering through a long entrance tunnel, and reined to a halt in a courtyard where grooms came running to take their camels. Commander Hussein dismounted, but the rest of the escort turned about and galloped off.
“You will be so good as to wait here while I inform my master of your presence,” he said, salaaming deeply. He then turned, and crossed the courtyard to disappear through a doorway.
“It is as I hoped,” said Al-Khatib. “We are to be brought into the presence of the Crown Prince Mekhmet. We may not see the Sultan himself for some time.”
“And that’s good?” asked Sharley.
“Indeed, yes. The Crown Prince is the very vitality and energy of the land. If you make a favourable impression on him, then it’s almost guaranteed that the Sultan will also give his support.”
Sharley couldn’t help thinking that he’d have about as much chance of influencing his mother’s views on policy as he’d have beating a housecarle in a straight fight. But obviously things were different for Prince Mekhmet. Better to just bide his time and see what happened. Who knows, perhaps he wouldn’t fall flat on his face or break nervous wind in a quiet moment. He might just get it right and make a valuable ally of the Prince – though privately he thought it unlikely he would change the habits of a lifetime.
He was just beginning to wallow in self-pity and pessimism when Commander Hussein returned with an immensely tall figure in what looked like a fire of brilliantly coloured silks. Both men salaamed deeply. Sharley nodded, and Al-Khatib returned the bow.
“May I introduce the Chief Eunuch of the Crown Prince’s Household,” said the Commander. “He will take charge of you now and escort you into the Presence.”