by Martin Dukes
“What do you mean, tire of us?” asked Henry, furrowing his brow.
Zulfiqar reddened, conscious perhaps of having overstepped the mark.
“He means the Sultan is prone to enthusiasms,” said an elderly woman, sweeping into the room with regal poise. “And he had better learn to curb his tongue unless he wishes to be parted from it.”
The newcomer, to judge from her splendid dress and the meek demeanour of the two maids who attended her, was a person of high status in the Sultan’s court.
“Permit me to introduce you to Her Highness, the Lady Shaquira,” said Zulfiqar, recovering his wits and making a dramatically low bow. He might have been about to say more but Shaquira silenced him with a gesture.
“That will do. Await us outside with my attendants. I shall summon you in due course.”
Henry, who had been standing in his underpants, positioned a pair of baggy trousers in front of himself. Kelly let the sari drop. Alex absently smoothed down the sleeves of his new blue shirt. All of them regarded the newcomer warily as she crossed the room and seated herself comfortably on a long padded bench beneath the window. She had iron-grey hair in a long plaited tress that swung behind her as she walked. A nose of impressive dimensions jutted between a pair of eyes that could have cut steel. These came to rest upon Alex. She sniffed.
“I am the Sultan’s mother,” she said. “In case you were wondering.”
“Ah,” said Alex. “Delighted to meet you, I’m sure.”
“Are you? Are you indeed? Well, we shall see about that,” said Shaquira, her eyes scanning Alex rapidly from head to toe and then flickering on to do the same with his companions.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she told them accurately enough. “And I shall tell you. I think people will confirm that I always like to come straight to the point. You will be aware that my son, the Sultan, is a boy of tender years. He is seventeen, indeed, and yet fate has placed the destiny of many thousands in his hands. And much wealth, I should add. It is my duty to protect him from those whose interests are not aligned with his own, whose interests are selfish or malign. I trust you take my meaning.” She had a stick made of some dark wood with a carved ivory head. This she rapped on the floor to emphasise her point.
“Uh, yes,” said Alex cautiously. “Of course.”
“We’re not some kind of spies, or agents or anything like that, if that’s what you mean,” said Henry, sounding a little indignant.
“We’re here completely by accident,” said Alex. Feeling that being open with what was clearly a very formidable woman was the only possible option, he told her about the circumstances of their arrival in the Sultan’s midst.
She nodded.
“Get some trousers on, boy,” she said in a sharp aside to Henry. “I’ve seen men’s legs before. Let’s have none of this skulking about.”
She turned to Alex, eyes narrowed. “But what of your arrival in the desert? I have heard of your journey to the oasis and of your apprehension by the slavers. How did milkskins such as you come to be in the midst of the trackless desert? It seems you have no baggage or equipment of any kind. Some people might consider that suspicious, don’t you think? Some people might think your story raises certain questions.” She regarded Alex stonily. “I urge you to tell me more, and I warn you that I can pick truth from lies as easily as a prospector picks glinting gold from the pan of dross.”
Alex found his mind racing. He found it all too easy to believe that there was no point in telling lies, but the truth was also likely to be deemed incredible.
“What would you say if I told you we came from a different time and a different world?” he tried.
Shaquira’s finely plucked eyebrows twitched perceptibly upwards and there was a lengthy silence during which Alex could sense Henry and Kelly regarding him anxiously.
“Go on,” she said at length, pursing her lips. “Is that the sort of thing you are proposing to say?”
Thinking now that nothing but the complete story would do, Alex launched into a comprehensive account of their adventures from the first moment he found himself stranded in Intersticia until the instant they found themselves lost in the desert. The story, interspersed by various shrewd enquiries from their host, took the best part of an hour. At the end of it, before Shaquira had had a moment to make her response, Zulfiqar ventured timidly back into the room.
“Get out!” snapped Shaquira. “I am aware of the time.”
She turned to the window and seemed to regard the distant rooftops below for a lengthy interval.
“A fascinating story,” she said at length. “And one that would do credit to anyone’s powers of invention.”
“But it’s the truth!” blurted Henry, any further objection dying on his lips as she raised an imperious hand.
“No more. I shall consider it. For now you must dress. Your servant will certainly expire from sheer anxiety if you do not quickly dress for my son’s feast.”
She snapped her fingers and Zulfiqar came hurrying back into the room, together with Shaquira’s two maids.
“You have ten minutes to dress your masters here,” she told him. “And I shall have you whipped if I do not find them to my satisfaction. You…” she extended a bony finger in Kelly’s direction. “Come with me into the adjoining chamber and I shall deal with you myself. What can this dolt know of feminine attire?” She clucked disapprovingly as she led Kelly away.
“Hasn’t she got to cover her head or something?” asked Henry when Kelly emerged, twenty minutes later, looking rather splendid in a sky-blue sari embroidered with gold. The colour in her cheeks as she considered her reflection in a full length cheval glass showed that she thought so too.
“Do you see my hair covered?” retorted Shaquira impatiently. “Such antique practices died out many generations ago. The modern world has no place for such indignity. There,” she said, passing Kelly another couple of expensive looking bracelets to add to the many she was already wearing. “Another hour and we should have had you looking like a princess, but for now you are presentable enough.”
What might have been the faintest of smiles flickered briefly to life across her stony features.
“And you two will do. Zulfiqar may keep his hide intact… for the present. I shall speak with you again tomorrow, but for now we must dine.”
She made to usher them towards the door but stopped, placing a light hand on Alex’s shoulder.
“I urge you to be cautious,” she said speaking softly. “If drink loosens your tongue, then forego it. This court is riven with jealously and suspicion. There are plenty who might resent your intrusion, plenty who would sift your words for reasons to destroy you. Do not retell the story you have told me today. There are others less credulous than I.”
Alex’s stained and travel worn garments went to the laundry, whilst Alex himself, resplendent in silks and brocades like an Arab potentate, went to the Sultan’s feast, Shaquira’s warning still ringing in his ears.
“Christ, I feel like I’m in ‘Aladdin’ or something,” muttered Henry as they hurried down the corridor that led towards the Sultan’s great hall. The shadows of palms and cypresses were lengthening across lawns and gardens. Cicadas, or some such things, were chittering rhythmically in the warm evening air.
“Lay off the drink,” Alex warned him. “Remember what his nibs’ mum just told us.”
“No worries,” said Henry. “Sounds like there’re some scary people about.”
“I could quite get used to this,” said Kelly cheerfully, jingling her jewellery and sounding the most positive Alex had heard her for days.
“Knock ‘em dead!” said Henry with a grin and a sidelong glance. “But remember, Alex has got a deposit down on you; you know, betrothed and all that.”
“Oh, shut up!” said Alex and Kelly in unison.
“Do hurry,” squeaked Zulfiqar from in front of them, turning and wringing his hands. “It would not do if you arrived later than hi
s Highness.”
Alex found it impossible to enjoy the feast. Henry seemed to have forgotten his earlier undertaking with regard to alcohol, and Alex found himself straining to hear what indiscretions he might utter. They were seated at the Sultan’s left hand, the place at his right, the place of honour, being reserved for his Grand Vizier, Faisal, the leader of his government. This, Alex presumed, must be the second most powerful man in the realm. He was a man of enormous girth, with a number of sparsely bearded chins and a head that tapered gently from neck to a crown, topped with an enormous black turban. His manner of dress was sober, his great bulk swathed in plain black, with the splendid gold jewel in his turban the only concession to extravagance.
“Do not be deceived by appearance,” whispered Zulfiqar in his ear whilst reaching over from behind to pour water for Alex. “He is as rich as the Sultan himself. And as great a fatted hog though he is, yet he is as dangerous as a snake.”
The Grand Vizier, as though he may have heard this shocking introduction, turned his eyes upon Alex. He smiled benignly and raised his goblet as though to toast the Sultan’s health; the eyes that flickered over Alex consideringly, though, were like chips of grey stone, colder still, if such a thing were possible, than the Lady Shaquira’s. Faisal had been introduced to the milkskins at the outset and had been left in no doubt that they enjoyed the Sultan’s favour. He had enquired after their health and assured them of his own dedication to their wellbeing, but Alex had been left with a sensation of deep foreboding. This was only enhanced when he saw the Grand Vizier, thinking himself unobserved, turn to the hatchet-faced character sitting next to him and mutter a few words that caused the fellow to regard Alex coldly and nod slowly before making his apologies and leaving the table. The man did not return.
Alex had half expected that men and women would be seated apart, but there was a great deal about this world that confounded expectation and Kelly was seated a few places away between an elderly lady of distinguished appearance and a tall, rather foppish young man dressed in orange silk garments and bearing more ornaments than a Christmas tree. She was talking to him in animated tones.
“I think she’s barking up the wrong tree there,” confided Henry, leaning across the table and sounding worryingly slurred.
“Take it steady with the booze,” murmured Alex, and then, turning to Zulfiqar, “Henry’s a little the worse the wear. Can’t you do something about it?”
“I shall attend to it directly,” he whispered. “Yonder groom is a friend of mine and I shall see to it that his wine is generously watered.”
The Sultan’s mother sat at an adjacent table with a group of friends and confidantes. Her conversation appeared absorbing, her friends laughed often, but Alex was aware that she was watching too, that the man’s absence had been remarked.
The story of the Sultan’s triumph was bound to be recounted once more, although all those present had undoubtedly heard it all before from different sources. Nevertheless, Alex, Kelly and Henry were obliged to stand and be introduced, their role in events described in detail once more, whilst all present beamed and clapped and cried, “Hurrah!”
“This slaving is a curse,” the Sultan told Alex fervently, his eyes gleaming with passion. “And I shall stamp it out in these regions. I will not have my subjects fear for their liberty whenever they step out of their houses. It is not enough to react to events as we have done until now. I have a desire, nay, a calling.” He clenched his fists at this point and leaned so close to Alex he could feel his breath on his face. “ A calling to strike at the heart of the vipers’ nest and stamp it out for good. Hmmm… will you help me, Alex?”
This enquiry came as an unpleasant surprise. Up until this point Alex had felt that he had negotiated the various social challenges of the evening rather well. It seemed that he had given offence to no one and made no serious error with regard to table etiquette. He had been copying everyone else’s behaviour as much as possible and managing to avoid the more offensive looking foodstuffs without making an unseemly fuss about it. His mind reeled under this sudden and unexpected onslaught.
“Of course, Your Highness,” he heard himself saying. “Although I doubt my presence would add to your strength. You have seen my horsemanship. My swordsmanship is even less distinguished.”
“It shall be corrected,” said the Sultan enthusiastically. “We shall make a warrior of you yet.”
“And no one doubts your courage,” said Faisal, his huge head suddenly appearing at the side of the Sultan’s, a broad and sneering grin splitting his oily features. “I’m sure you will be a lion on the battlefield. Isn’t that so, Your Highness? A veritable prince amongst warriors – I see it in your frame, in the set of your features.” He stifled a guffaw with the back of his hand.
“What’s that?” asked Henry, picking entirely the wrong moment to intervene.
“You are to be warriors,” Faisal told him. “The Sultan has decreed it.”
“Really?” said Henry with a careless laugh. “Warriors, eh?” demonstrating how much wine he had taken on board. “That is sooo cool!”
“Indeed,” said the Sultan, reaching across to clap him on the shoulder. “And together we shall scour the coast of the slaver scum.”
When the feast was over and they returned to their suite, it was to find that someone else had been there first. It was not that the place had been ransacked – far from it – but it was clear that cushions and chairs had been moved and replaced, items of discarded clothing lifted and set down again. Zulfiqar was first to notice. Henry would hardly have been aware of it had his bed been turned upside down.
“I fear your rooms have been searched, master,” said Zulfiqar, glancing around and stroking his soft beard thoughtfully. “This is the Grand Vizier’s work, no doubt.”
Alex told him about the warrior who had left the table and not returned.
“Yes,” said Zulfiqar, snapping his fingers. “That was Murad, Captain of Faisal’s secret police. It was certainly he or one of his acolytes who did this, master. He is a very bad man,” he said, shaking his head. “A very bad man indeed.”
“But why would they do that?” asked Kelly. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”
Zulfiqar shrugged, perhaps concerned that he was getting in too deep.
“It ill behoves a humble servant to speculate,” he said warily. “Is there any other service I may perform for you, before I bid you all goodnight?” He indicated Henry, who was already lying face down, snoring on his bed. “Master Henry will be alright, do you think? He seems prone to being vanquished by the bottle – if to say so is not an impertinence.”
“Indeed,” said Alex grimly. “Goodnight, Zulfiqar, we’ll be fine now, thanks.”
“You stupid moron,” Kelly told Henry the next morning. “Are you actually trying to get us all killed?
She regarded him with furrowed brow, arms folded, still resplendent in the local costume but of a less showy kind now.
Henry rubbed his head ruefully and sat up in bed.
“Hey! There’s such a thing as privacy,” he grumbled, pulling the sheets more closely around him.
“Pah!” said Kelly, crossing to the window and drawing back the curtain so that the room was flooded with brilliant morning light.
“Aagh! You’re a sadist!” whimpered Henry, covering his eyes.
“Head hurt, does it? Good!” said Kelly, eyes blazing.
“She has a point,” said Alex, emerging from the adjoining chamber that functioned as a kind of bathroom. There was a basin on a stand in there and he had been trying to brush his teeth with a bit of coarse wet rag. “I hope you didn’t say anything that might get us into trouble. You were going on a bit, weren’t you? What were you saying to that chap in the purple turban with the stringy moustache? Nothing about the Sultan’s mum, I hope.”
“Nooo,” said Henry. “Not that I can remember.” He frowned and looked suitably guilt stricken. “I don’t think so.”
“Do that again
and I’ll batter you.”
Henry clearly toyed with the idea of telling her she couldn’t possibly batter him, but then he thought better of it.
“Okay, okay, mea culpa,” he sighed, throwing himself back on the pillows. “What are we doing today, anyway?”
“Well, if you hadn’t been so disgustingly drunk you’d know that we’ve got to start learning to be soldiers,” said Alex. “The Sultan’s sending someone to take us to the stables first off, and we’ve got to get weapons training later on. It’s like he thinks we’re his new military strike force, or something.”
“No way!” said Henry with a laugh. “That is so cool!”
“That’s what you said last night. And no, it is not cool,” said Kelly, throwing a cushion at him. “You might get yourselves killed.”
“You’re definitely a glass half empty girl, aren’t you?” said Henry, having dodged this missile.
“Seriously, we might,” said Alex. “That Grand Vizier guy, Faisal, was pretty quick to jump on the bandwagon, and I don’t trust him one little bit. I don’t think he likes the idea that we seem to be flavour of the month with the Sultan. I think it’d suit him down to the ground if we met with a nasty training accident.”
“Really? Do you really think so?” Henry frowned. “Nah, it all looks legit to me.”
Further discussion on this theme had to be set aside when Zulfiqar came in to tell them that her Royal Highness demanded their attendance at their earliest convenience.
“That means now,” he explained, just in case there should be any doubt.
The Lady Shaquira’s apartments were in another part of the palace, on one of the higher terraces, with a private garden surrounded by a high wall. Here there was an elegant row of ponds with tinkling fountains. Peacocks strutted amongst the flowering shrubs with a fine magisterial air. Alex, Henry and Kelly found their hostess sitting in a rattan chair, whilst one maid wafted a big feather fan over her and another filed her nails. She dismissed these menials with a casual wave of her hand as Zulfiqar led the travellers across the lawn towards her.