The Tyrant's Nephew

by Sophie Masson

  Ketta said, ‘Now! Run, Omar, run! Run straight in front of you! They’ve got the gate open a fraction, trying to see what’s making the smoke – run like mad, because it’ll clear in an instant.’

  Omar ran blindly, straight ahead. He reached the gate. As he slipped inside he felt someone jostling him, heard a surprised shout. The smoke cleared and he found himself in the central courtyard, near a jeep; he jumped behind it so he was hidden from sight of the guards at the gate.

  Ketta said, ‘They’re too nervous and busy to think of looking for you. Now Omar, we’ve got to make our way to the helicopter pad. Keep out of sight.’

  Omar scurried through the courtyard, keeping behind vehicles. Nobody took any notice; there was a great din and activity going on in the compound, people rushing here and there, a sure sign of panic. Omar thought, I never imagined it could end like this; my uncle’s reign seemed unbreakable. I cannot believe it. Surely he must have some other trick up his sleeve. We all lived in such fear of him; we were all sure he was more than human; he was a great sorcerer, unbeatable, unconquerable.

  They slipped into the palace. The corridors were crowded with people bent upon their own business. Some carried suitcases, others piles of goods. They have been looting, thought Omar, amazed and disgusted. They’re rats racing to leave the sinking ship. So why were there guards at the gate? Perhaps they weren’t defending The Vampire – perhaps they were just giving people protection to flee.

  Coming round a corner, Omar and Ketta ran into Mira and Ingrid. The enchantresses were also loaded with things. They were dressed plainly, their hair fastened, clearly prepared for a long journey. Mira smiled nervously at Omar, and gave Ketta a sly, anxious glance.

  ‘It’s too late, Omar,’ she said. ‘Everything is crumbling. Best if you flee with everyone else, wait till things settle down.’

  Omar looked at the magician, into her shallow eyes, and said, ‘You have been kind to me. There is one more thing I would ask of you.’

  ‘What’s that?’ she said sharply.

  ‘The rest of the nablaylee,’ said Omar. ‘I need it, urgently.’

  Mira looked at him, then at Ingrid, and lastly, at Ketta. Slowly, she beckoned to Ingrid, who took from out of her pack a little jar, which she handed to Omar.

  ‘Use it wisely,’ Mira said. ‘And now, we must go.’

  Omar could see Basrel and the other magicians hurrying down the corridor towards them. They were carrying as much plunder as they could, and Omar knew that they would have no regrets or guilt that they had benefited from the tyrant’s reign, and had, by their magic, made the tyrant stronger, and made people fear him even more. But they had saved Latifa, and they had helped Omar.

  He sighed deeply and said, ‘Farewell, then. Good luck.’

  ‘You too,’ said Mira, with a flashing smile. She and Ingrid hurried away, with Basrel and the others hot on their heels.

  ‘Come on,’ said Ketta, pulling Omar out of his reverie, and they hurried through the palace, following the noise of the helicopter, Ketta racing in front of Omar.

  Too late! By the time they found the pad, the big machine had taken off. It was lumbering into the air and turning towards the Parsarian border. The tyrant would try and get shelter in the home of his enemy – because the Preacher was also the enemy of the rebels and the foreign governments who supported them. It was over. Omar’s uncle would never be called to account for any of the things he had done.

  Twenty-eight

  As Omar stared at the ascending helicopter, a mixture of regret and relief filling him, a voice spoke softly behind him. ‘Why, my little friend, it’s you, back from the dead.’

  Omar spun around, looking for Ketta. She seemed to have vanished. But the Secretary was looking at him with a thin smile on his face. Omar was surprised by how relaxed the man looked, in the midst of the din and panic of the palace compound.

  ‘He’s gone,’ smiled the Secretary. ‘Your uncle – the one you were so afraid of, the one who protected you – he’s gone.’

  Omar stared at him. The Secretary smiled again, and clicked his fingers. At once, several armed men seemed to appear from the shadows, each pointing a gun right at Omar.

  ‘You are his heir,’ the Secretary said. ‘He presented you to the nation as such. He made a gift of you to the country. And so –’ he made another gesture and the men cocked their guns – ‘as he is gone, his heir will have to suffice, and pay for the crimes of The Vampire. Only then will the rebels be satisfied, and we will be able to enter into negotiations with them.’

  ‘No, but I …’ Omar began, pale as death; then he shut his mouth, firmly. He was not going to plead for his life in front of this man, this evil creature who had shared every step of the way in his uncle’s reign, and yet now was going to disown it.

  ‘Every last kinsman and kinswoman of the al-Alakahs will be hunted down and killed,’ said the Secretary. ‘Only then, according to the rebels, can we purge the horror from our soil that terrorised us and turned us into less than men. Take him,’ he snapped, turning to his men, ‘and guard him well. The leader of the rebels is coming to parley and I want to give him this boy’s life as a gift, to show he can trust us.’

  Ketta, Ketta, where are you, thought Omar, as the men seized rough hold of him and bound him, hand and foot. They tossed him into a corner and two of them stood over him, guarding him, while the Secretary bustled away, every inch of his smartly suited body expressing satisfaction and command. He must have been planning this for a long time, thought Omar as he lay in the dust; perhaps his hand was forced a little by the arrival of the rebels, but the plan was there, and could be put into operation at once. Mira had warned him; and he’d chosen to ignore her. Well, he’d been too foolish to understand. And now there would be no mercy for him; no nablaylee for his father; no help for Latifa.

  Except that Ketta, yes, Ketta would go back to the cave. The ways of Jinns were different to humans; she might think Omar’s life of little consequence but Latifa she did care about. He thought, I’m sure she’ll go back there, she’ll maybe help them both. They’ve got the flying carpet – they might even fly to Kirtis and get more nablaylee.

  But Mother and Mariam – what of them? The Secretary’s men will come for them, they’ll kill them, and all the servants, he thought. They’ll kill anyone connected to us, anyone, everyone. The Vampire’s crimes have been too great for forgiveness. And now he is out of reach, others have to take his place.

  No, I won’t be scared, thought Omar. I will not be scared. I will die like a man – or try to, anyhow. I will remember my good memories and those I love, and try not to let bitterness and hopelessness fill my soul. I will ask God to forgive me for all my mistakes, and ask Him most earnestly to welcome all my loved ones to heaven.

  He began to cry, silently, desperately, his chest heaving. He didn’t want the guards to see him do it, but he couldn’t help it.

  After a while he quietened and just lay there, numb and helpless, trying to find the strength within himself to face his fate. He didn’t know how long he had lain there, watched over by the impassive guards, when he heard hobnailed boots purposefully marching over the dust towards him. He tried to twist around, to meet his death squarely – for he was sure that was what was about to happen – but he couldn’t even do that. One of the guards roughly hauled him to his feet and made him face around. Omar saw, marching towards him, the Secretary flanked by two Generals; and beside them, Gur Thalab, dressed in traditional northern princely leather armour, a tall, long-legged Marshlander warrior, and Burhaan, with a bandaged face and one black eye. Behind these men was a small retinue of rebel warriors, guarding the rebels; and soldiers, guarding the Secretary and his generals. All of them were looking at him, and on none of those faces could any friendly feeling be read.

  ‘My lords,’ said the Secretary, ‘the tyrant has flown the coop but he has left his chick behind him. This is his nephew, Omar, who was anointed heir and successor to the dictator. As a testament to
our goodwill, we are prepared to execute him in front of your eyes, so that you know The Vampire’s line will be extinguished forever.’

  ‘It is only a child,’ croaked the Marshlander.

  ‘Children grow into adults,’ said the Secretary. ‘I have told you how I plotted the tyrant’s son’s assassination.’ He saw Omar’s shocked face. ‘Yes, boy, you didn’t know that, did you? I tampered with the brakes on Sayid’s car. I did this country a service, killing that little criminal.’ He went on, turning back to Gur, ‘And now I can get rid of this one for you, too. I and my friends have hated the tyrant for years; this is a great day for us, too. We are on your side.’

  Omar felt cold all over. He remembered the snake slithering out of the car, and looking into the Secretary’s laughing, triumphant, lying eyes, he thought he saw that snake-head, casting about, ready to strike from the shadows. Overcome with horror, he thought: what a world is this, that such evil men thrive? He closed his eyes briefly.

  He started. A hand had fallen on his shoulder. He heard a voice – the soft, deep voice of the werewolf prince. But Gur Thalab wasn’t addressing him. He was talking to the Secretary.

  ‘You opened the gates of the palace to us; we have walked into the city without a real fight. It has been a surprise for us, Faisal bin Amir, that the only fighting here should have been amongst the troops of Mesomia.’

  ‘We have been waiting for your coming for a long time, Gur Thalab,’ said the Secretary in an oily fashion. ‘Why should we attack those who will help us? We never meant to move against your men.’

  ‘Is that so? In the past, your messages of peace must have got lost, then, oh Faisal.’

  ‘It was not safe, you understand.’

  ‘No. Of course. I see.’ He looked briefly down at Omar. The boy tried to read something in the amber eyes but they contained no expression at all. ‘So now you wish to prove us your friendship by shedding the blood of this boy?’

  ‘Think who he is, oh Prince.’

  ‘I do,’ said Gur Thalab. ‘And that is why I propose not to execute him – or at least not yet – but to detain and interrogate him.’

  ‘He knows nothing,’ said the Secretary scornfully. ‘He is of no use to you, except dead. He is a poor, spineless, snivelling thing whose only sign of spirit was in the defence of a worthless beggar girl.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ said Gur Thalab steadily, not looking at Omar, ‘I should like to do exactly that. Will you grant my wish?’

  The Secretary shot a glance at Omar. It was poisonous.

  But he shrugged and said, ‘As you wish, oh Prince. Do not allow your princely mercy to blind you to reality, though. This boy, left alive, could be dangerous; he could be a focus for malcontents and traitors. His uncle has fled into exile and will certainly try to make use of him.’

  ‘We will bear that in mind. Meanwhile, will you please give orders for your men to leave him be, and give him into the care of my warriors, who will take him to my base, there to await me. And then, Faisal bin Amir, we have to discuss this peace treaty you propose.’

  As Omar was led away he tried to catch Gur Thalab’s or Burhaan’s eye, but neither of the men appeared even to acknowledge his existence. Only the Secretary’s eyes rested on him, with a malevolent laughter in them that he found chilling in the extreme. He was marched out of the yard, and out the gate. In silence, the warriors escorted him into the maze of alleyways he had been in earlier.

  He thought he caught a flash of white around the corner of a house. His heart leapt, thinking of Ketta. Would the Jinn appear once again and help him? But the flicker of white stayed just that – a flicker of brightness – and no Ketta appeared. Omar was taken inside a ruined house at the very bottom of a very miserable alleyway. Several men were sitting around a table, playing cards and talking. They were a motley group, and quite young: froggy Marshlander faces and sharp-nosed northerners, Shadow Walkers in masks – and there, in a corner reading a book, Brother Yussuf, the Nashranee monk from the marshes.

  He jumped up with a surprised look when the warriors bundled Omar in.

  ‘Tyrant’s nephew,’ they announced, gesturing Omar to sit in a chair, which they tied him to most effectively. ‘Prince Gur says to await him. The tyrant’s Secretary wanted to execute him, but the Prince said to bring him here, that he will be questioned.’

  Omar could feel all the curious, unfriendly eyes on him, and he blushed and looked down at his feet. But not before he caught the expression of amazed anger on the young monk’s face.

  The warriors went out again. The young men stared at Omar a moment more, then went back to their cards. But Brother Yussuf kept his glance fixed on Omar, and Omar felt it like a burning reproach. At last, he raised his head and said, brokenly, ‘Forgive me the lie. But it had to be.’

  The young monk glared at him, then got up abruptly, dropping his book, and came to sit near Omar.

  He said, ‘Fool that I am. I should have known.’

  ‘I –’ began Omar, but Brother Yussuf went on, softly, ‘I saw the Prince’s expression when he looked at you, back in Mydannar, and it puzzled me. I should have understood. I’m a fool, and not worthy of my calling.’

  As the astounded Omar sat still, not daring to move or even look Brother Yussuf in the eye, the monk began undoing Omar’s bonds. The others stopped playing cards and one of them began to get up.

  ‘What on earth are you doing, Yussuf?’

  ‘Undoing a wrong,’ said Yussuf, as the last of the bonds fell away. ‘Rub your hands and feet, Ahmed – er, sorry – what’s your real name?’

  ‘Omar,’ said Omar, hardly daring to believe his ears.

  ‘Well, Omar, now you’ll have to tell me. Tell us. What happened to you? What happened to the friend you came seeking help for?’

  Omar looked at him, and at the circle of curious but no longer quite so unfriendly faces. He said, in a rush, ‘Then you don’t – you don’t hate me?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said the young monk. ‘Why should we?’

  ‘I am the tyrant’s nephew,’ whispered Omar.

  ‘So?’ said Brother Yussuf. ‘The Bridge let you pass, and it has tumbled all black hearts and traitors into the mire. Therefore you must have been a true soul. And given who you are, you were brave to risk going into enemy territory for the sake of a friend.’ He grinned at Omar and clapped him rather painfully on the back. ‘We are proud to have you amongst us, my brave friend Omar. Now, don’t let our curiosity burn any longer. Tell us, what happened after you left the Marshlands?’

  Omar couldn’t speak for an instant, unexpected joy flooding him with almost as many tears as despair had done before.

  When at last he took a grip of himself, he murmured, flushing, ‘Sorry …’ but was hushed by Brother Yussuf, who said, with an impatient smile, ‘Tell it all, mind. All.’

  And then Omar found his voice. He found his honest tongue, after so long, and in the circle of that motley crew he was able to tell, for the first time, the story of his extraordinary and terrifying adventures since he first set out on his fateful journey in the Secretary’s car. And as he spoke it seemed to him that his mind was becoming clearer, his heart stronger, his speech firmer.

  When he finished there was a respectful silence, then Brother Yussuf said, ‘And to think I believed you were a meek little soul! Why, Omar, you are one of the bravest and truest men I know; and your deeds are great indeed, and will be sung down the generations. You are a hero – a great hero, as great as any I have heard of – for you had much to lose and yet you never lost sight of what was really important, and were prepared to risk your life for your friends and your family.’

  Omar protested, but the young monk would have none of it.

  ‘What you have told us is of unequalled wonder,’ he said, ‘and we are all your friends now, bound to you in love and admiration. Isn’t that so, lads?’

  There was a cheer at this. The astounded Omar saw that their faces were shining with love and admiration, and it made him
feel very strange indeed. He murmured a few embarrassed words, but his heart glowed with happiness. It only lasted a moment, though, because pretty soon he remembered the scene in the courtyard, and the Secretary negotiating with Prince Gur, and a great unease seized him. Surely Gur did not trust that snakey creature to …

  Heaven save us, Omar thought, as a blinding understanding flashed across his mind, the white snake! The Secretary’s no ordinary man. Who knows what evil plans he’s hatched? I must get back to the palace and warn Gur.

  He waited till the others were busy talking amongst themselves. Then he slipped out. He ran through the alleyways as fast as his legs would carry him, puffing, panting, his breath coming short and ragged, his head spinning. Then he suddenly became aware of something white and small racing alongside him: Ketta! Overcome with relief, he stopped, bent down, scooped her up and put her on his shoulder.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come back. I thought you’d gone away for good.’

  ‘Humans,’ observed the Jinn tartly, ‘think they know everything.’

  Omar set off again, a little slower.

  ‘Ketta – the Secretary. I saw him change into a snake that first day, when the car was ambushed.’

  He felt her claws tighten on his shoulder.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘There is no clan of snake shape-shifters, is there? Like the werewolf clans?’

  ‘No. There is no such clan.’

  ‘Then he wasn’t born a shape-shifter?’

  ‘No,’ said Ketta. ‘He must be a sorcerer; he must have learnt this shape-shifting, along with other things, from an afreet.’

  Omar shivered. Afreets were evil Jinn, servants of the terrifying Demon King, Iblis. Sorcerers enslaved afreets so they could learn their secrets. The price was often very high – the sorcerer’s soul would belong to Iblis, hollowing the sorcerer of his humanity, and making him very dangerous indeed.

  Omar said, ‘Prince Gur thinks he can negotiate with the Secretary.’