The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  And she turned tail and melted into the shadows, her whiteness soon lost from view. Omar was on his own.

  He had a dry catch in his throat, and his heart banged away in his chest. The pain of Ketta’s scratches made him feel rather dizzy. He must draw on every scrap of courage he had to do what he must do. He must lie as he’d never lied in his life before; he must look into his uncle’s stony eyes with a gaze that was just as blank. And he must hide the jar of nablaylee, somewhere where they wouldn’t look. He couldn’t hide it here, with the carpet. Maybe in his pockets? In his shoes? No, they might look in there. He swallowed. There was only one place they were unlikely to look – in his underpants!

  Gingerly, he stowed the jar away. It felt uncomfortable, but it was the only thing he could think of to do. Oh, Ketta, he thought as he began to walk away, I wish you were here. I wish you could tell me what to say. I wish you could give me the strength to decide what to do.

  Dear God in Heaven, what sort of poor, cowardly thing I am, he thought as he staggered through the early-morning streets, earning himself some curious and rather frightened glances. Nobody stopped him though, or asked him any questions, or offered any help. Everyone, after the first glance, pretended they hadn’t seen him. That’s what it had come to these days, in this city. It was best to mind your own business.

  He came round a corner and ran smack bang into an army patrol.

  Without stopping to think, he cried out, ‘Help me, help me, I was attacked by devils.’

  They were on him at once, guns cocked, all around him.

  Their leader snapped, ‘Who are you? What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m a member of the palace household. I was on an errand for the Secretary when I was set upon by masked devils. They would have torn me to shreds if I had not managed to get away.’

  The soldiers looked at each other.

  Omar cried, ‘Please, dear sons of the Fatherland, help me! Escort me safely back to the palace. Let me have my wounds seen to. You will be well rewarded for this.’

  ‘But –’ began the young troop leader. Omar cut in, finding fluency in his desperation.

  ‘If you do not, you will be punished. I am kin to the Secretary and he does not see insults to his family in a very good light.’ He had chosen this lie because he thought they would not believe the truth, that he was The Vampire’s nephew. Everyone knew the Secretary had a large and greedy family whom he had installed near the palace. They threw their weight around and had helped themselves, on The Vampire’s say-so, to a great many confiscated homes and estates throughout the city. It was said that if they went to a restaurant and liked the food there, they would simply call the owner and tell him they were going to offer him a deal: that he must give them the business and become their employee. Many restaurant and coffee-shop owners had closed their doors rather than wait for the Secretary’s family to steal their businesses from them.

  The young soldier flushed under his tan. He said, ‘Come with us,’ and they jog-trotted Omar back to the palace, a couple of soldiers on either side of him. By the time they got there, Omar was almost fainting. Supported by the soldiers, he managed to stagger into the guards’ courtyard, where he collapsed.

  He came to a while later. He’d been taken inside, into the palace’s medical clinic, and his wounds washed and bandaged. His torn shirt was nowhere to be seen, but he was still wearing his jeans and underpants. He could feel the jar there, nestled against his thighs. Lifting his head from the pillow that had been put under it, Omar saw the Secretary sitting in a chair, watching him. He smiled weakly.

  ‘Oh, I’m so glad I’m safe again.’

  ‘And I am glad to see you safe, Omar.’ The Secretary’s mouth smiled, but his eyes were cold as ice. ‘We were very worried about you.’

  ‘The Shadow Walkers,’ whispered Omar. ‘They took me. They … they were going to kill me, I think. But I escaped.’

  ‘I see,’ said the Secretary.

  ‘They … they’re much stronger than we hoped,’ said Omar, trying to sound as frightened as possible. ‘And they’re utterly ruthless. I must speak to my uncle. I must warn him.’

  ‘Of course,’ said the Secretary. He steepled his fingers and looked at Omar. ‘Our dear Leader was very worried about you. He thought you had been spirited away by a demon.’

  Omar managed to utter, ‘Well, they are demons, in a manner of speaking. Not immortal, of course, but as cruel and ruthless as demons.’

  ‘True enough,’ observed the Secretary.

  Pressing home his advantage, Omar went on, ‘They have been slowly preparing for this. Now they are ready to rejoin the werewolf clans. I do not think they meant me to hear that.’

  The Secretary gave a low whistle. ‘That is so. We have just heard from Gorg in Kirtis that the al Kutroob traitors are on the move. Gorg captured some of them. They won’t talk … but they’ll be made to.’ He looked at Omar, and his expression now was free of all doubt. ‘Your uncle will want to hear what you have to say. I will inform him at once.’ Turning to the door, he paused and added, ‘Why did you not tell the soldiers who you really were?’

  ‘I thought they wouldn’t believe me,’ said Omar. ‘And I know you have a great many kinsmen, sir. It would be more likely, to them.’

  ‘Good thinking,’ said the Secretary, his face relaxing into a real smile. ‘We might make a worthwhile man of you yet.’ And he went out.

  Left alone, Omar breathed a small sigh of relief. Only a small sigh, because though he had foxed the Secretary, there was still his uncle to trick. He must not count his chickens, not yet. He must think through his story so it rang absolutely true.

  As he lay there waiting, refining his story, his thoughts often wandered to Latifa. She was somewhere in this place; somewhere, she lay in suspended animation, like a poor fly in a spider’s web. He must find her, and very soon, or it would be too late.

  Eighteen

  Omar’s uncle was wearing full battledress, including his Commander-in-Chief stripes.

  He saw Omar’s surprise and snapped, ‘I’m due on TV in half an hour to make an address to the nation on resisting these traitors. We are mobilising all the reserve forces.’ He sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘But before I go on, I want to hear everything from you, Omar. Everything, do you hear?’ The black-marble eyes regarded him fiercely. ‘Don’t bother lying. I’ll know if you are.’

  Omar couldn’t drag his gaze away from his uncle’s. He remembered how drawn he had been by his uncle’s eyes, and how somehow The Vampire had managed to hypnotise him into forgetfulness. He was very much afraid it would happen again.

  He said, ‘Of course, Uncle.’

  ‘Good.’ The tyrant touched Omar’s face wounds, making him wince. ‘The Secretary says you were badly beaten by those scum. I can see he was telling the truth. You understand now, Omar? You see what I’m fighting against, all the time? You see how I’m trying to protect our poor country from vile scum who would even stoop to beating children?’

  Omar said nothing, and thought of Latifa in her suspended animation. But he must not show his uncle any flash of his true feelings. He nodded.

  ‘So tell me. How many were there? How did they get in?’

  While waiting for his uncle, Omar had decided that in order for his story to work he must make it as simple as possible. And he must bank on the fact that his uncle had discovered the opening in the chimney.

  He looked guilelessly up at his uncle and said, ‘There were two of them at first. They got in somehow, I’m not sure how. It was almost as if they changed their shape and came through the keyhole like smoke.’

  It had been the right thing to say. The tyrant smiled grimly.

  ‘That’s possible. We know the Shadow Walkers – along with the rest of those werewolf clans – know how to use Jinns in their wicked plans. The inner quarters are protected against the forces of evil coming in, but that room had a weak point which was how they got in and kidnapped you. I have found the man who was respons
ible for leaving that outlet unprotected from the forces of evil. He has been executed.’

  His uncle went on, ‘How did they get you out of the palace? Where did they take you?’

  ‘I … they made me unconscious, sir. It was something they carried with them … some drug. It made me feel like my limbs were very heavy; it made my head spin and it had a sweet, sickly smell.’

  The tyrant frowned. ‘Probably some vile concoction from their vile country. They are known to be skilled in poison and drugs. Go on.’

  ‘Because I was unconscious I didn’t see where they took me. But when I woke up, I found I was in a dark room, somewhere deep underground. I could see figures moving about. They were dressed all in black, and their faces were veiled, but I could see burning eyes – red, quite red. And I could see they had claws – unnatural claws, uncle. Oh, I thought I had fallen into Jehannem!’

  The tyrant nodded again. He was smiling.

  ‘It’s all part of their mystique. But a great deal of it’s a trick. Remember when you arrived here and thought I had turned into some supernatural beast because I was wearing my night-vision goggles and gasmask? Well, the Shadow Walkers do similar things. People think they’re otherworldly because they know how to present themselves as such. Oh, they ally themselves with evil forces, but they are mortal men. They can be killed, Omar. In fact, I killed a great many of them, in the early days.’ The tyrant laughed. ‘And I’ll be very happy to do so again. Proceed. What happened? How did you escape?’

  He was in very good humour now. It was almost as if he welcomed the knowledge that the country was not yet completely under his control, as if he wanted to keep on fighting enemies for ever and ever. It was a good thing for Omar. It meant that his uncle wouldn’t be too suspicious.

  Emboldened, Omar said, ‘One of them asked me questions, lots of questions. I refused to answer them.’

  ‘Did you, now?’ said his uncle, regarding him thoughtfully.

  Oops, went too far there, thought Omar in a panic, as the hard eyes tried to search his soul.

  Looking down, he stammered, ‘Well – that – that is, sir, I tried to refuse answering. I really did – but they had a kind of power. Words came out of my mouth before I could hold them back, though I really wanted to.’

  ‘That’s better,’ said his uncle. ‘I told you not to lie. I know the Shadow Walkers’ tactics – and I know they make people babble, not because of torture, but because of that strange power they have. Don’t lie again, Omar. I don’t like it.’

  ‘No, Uncle,’ gulped Omar. ‘I … I …’

  ‘You were trying to make yourself a hero in my eyes,’ said his uncle, ‘but the truth is I know you’re a very ordinary and rather weak boy. I intend to make something of you, but at the moment you’re just so much malleable clay. Proceed.’

  The words stung Omar deeply, but he dared not protest. Instead, he said, ‘I escaped, sir, because they decided to move me. They put me in a car. It was a hatchback. But they had neglected to fasten the back properly, and when they were stopped, I managed to roll out and escape unnoticed. I discovered I was in a back street not far from the palace. And so I staggered here.’

  ‘I see,’ said the tyrant. He frowned. ‘Very remiss of them not to have guarded you better if they knew who you were.’

  ‘But they didn’t, sir,’ cried Omar. ‘I did not give them my real name. I said I was a relative of the Secretary, and my name was Ahmed bin Ali. They believed me. After all, I don’t look much like you, sir, or indeed like my father. Everyone says I take after my mother.’

  ‘That’s quite true,’ said the tyrant. ‘You’re a thin little stick, like she is.’ He smiled. ‘I think better of you now, boy. Maybe after all there is a certain low cunning in you which I can work on. And those Shadow Walkers must indeed be a shadow of what they once were if they’ve let you escape twice.’ He looked hard at Omar as he spoke. The boy didn’t understand at first, but just as he was about to open his mouth to speak, a thought struck him. His uncle had attempted to wipe the memory of Latifa and how she had saved him from death; this might be his way of seeing if the brainwashing had been successful or not. He longed to ask something of Latifa, but there was no way he could do so safely.

  So he said, as if puzzled, ‘Twice, sir?’

  The black-marble eyes glistened.

  ‘That’s what I said.’

  ‘But I only escaped once, sir.’ That was at least the truth.

  ‘How did you know they were the Shadow Walkers?’

  ‘They told me they were.’

  Omar was sweating.

  ‘Faisal told me you overheard them talking about rejoining the wolf clans.’

  ‘That is so, sir.’

  ‘That’s true enough. We’ve had word. The clans are rising again. A traitor by the name of Gur Thalab al Kutroob, who is backed by foreign elements, has come back. I knew he was coming already, because of a report I received recently from my agents in Ameerat. But now it seems he has even slipped into this country. And it was his family who founded the order of the Shadow Walkers. It all fits, Omar. We are under attack again. War is upon us again – war sponsored by traitors within and enemies without.’ He rose, and put a hand on Omar’s shoulder. ‘You did well, boy. Better than I could ever have imagined. We might make a man of you yet. Now, I must go to do my speech. Tonight, we will have a celebration of your safe return.’

  ‘Oh, thank you, Uncle,’ whispered Omar. He was squirming inside. Though he feared and disliked his uncle – even hated him – he didn’t feel very good about himself right now. He’d lied to just about everyone.

  But now was not the time for navel-gazing. His uncle had gone out of the room without locking the door behind him. This might be Omar’s opportunity to go exploring, especially if, as was usually the case, the Secretary had also followed his boss to the TV studio.

  Nineteen

  Omar slipped through the palace corridors. The clinic was not in the inner quarters but at the far western end of the palace, near the guardrooms. The TVs had been switched on in all the rooms he passed; the tyrant liked his staff to pay proper attention when he spoke. There were quite a few guards and servants about but nobody paid Omar very much attention. Why should they? Most would just assume him to be a young servant – and those who did know who he was would take good care not to challenge him. You didn’t bail up the tyrant’s nephew and ask him his business.

  Where would they be likely to keep Latifa? Would it be in this part of the palace, handy to lots of guards? Or in the inner quarters, where not many people were allowed entry? Or in some other part? Omar had no idea. But he had the jar of nablaylee with him, just in case a miracle should happen and he actually found Latifa first off.

  Time was pressing, and he’d discovered nothing. On TV, with the Secretary standing silent at his shoulder, the tyrant was declaring that Mesomia stood on the brink of war. He said that her people must be ready to make sacrifices for the dearly beloved Fatherland, and that he, as their humble Leader, had to take the burden of a great many hard decisions on his shoulders once again. Omar knew the long-winded phrases and flowery language would soon be drawing to a close and Uncle Haroun would return to the palace. Then there’d be no chance to escape his scrutiny. After what had happened – or what they thought had happened – Omar would be well guarded. He might even find it impossible to meet Ketta in the guards’ courtyard at midnight.

  Oof! Turning a corner he cannoned straight into someone coming the other way. The breath was knocked out of him.

  Then a sweet voice said, ‘Why, it’s Omar, head down and scurrying like a little dark mouse.’

  He had run straight into Mira and Ingrid, the two female magicians, who were walking arm in arm along the corridor.

  Blushing, he said, ‘Sorry – I didn’t see – I’m very clumsy –’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ said Mira sweetly, and Ingrid, in her deep foreign voice, echoed, ‘Nothing at all, little one.’

  ‘Where are yo
u going in such a hurry?’ said Mira, her head on one side. ‘Are you hoping to do something naughty before your uncle comes back from the studio?’

  Omar felt sick. Was it that obvious? But then, they were magicians, which meant having a good ability to read people’s thoughts on their faces, as much as anything. He managed to croak, ‘No, I was just exploring … I haven’t had a chance to do it since I arrived, and –’

  ‘Come on, little Omar,’ said Mira, taking one of his arms, while Ingrid took the other. Strolling on with him, Mira continued ‘You don’t need to tell us fibs, you know. We heard about how you stood up to your uncle the other day, and we were very impressed. You know that poor Basrel’s been laid low since he made that spell? It often rebounds on the magician, especially if he’s not properly prepared himself for it. And Basrel had no time. Mind you, he is a pompous old fool, and I can’t say I’m sorry he’s had to keep to his bed.’

  Omar listened to all this gabble, hardly daring to believe his ears. Then Ingrid broke in. ‘Mira and I made a secret little spell when we discovered you had gone. And through it we saw the truth – you are not all you seem.’

  ‘I – I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Don’t worry, dear boy,’ trilled Mira, ‘we saw the truth all right – that your coming here means your uncle’s end is nigh. But we’d never tell him that!’

  Omar looked around nervously. Ingrid smiled.

  ‘Don’t panic,’ she said. ‘Nobody can hear us. We wanted to say this to you, Omar: we have never approved of what your uncle has done. We’ve had no choice but to do as he wanted.’ Omar saw that there was an expression of real anxiety in her eyes. He thought, why, she’s trying to make her plans, for afterwards, trying to survive. It made him feel both disgusted and hopeful.