by Martin Dukes
“There are no feelings in science,” Zoroaster told him earnestly. “There is just science – knowledge pure and simple. It is ours to accept the simple truth of our observations.”
He crossed to the window and gazed up at the stars.
“It is as though they are my friends,” he said. “Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter and Saturn. And then my new one, of course.” He turned to Will. “I had thought to call it Zoroastrion.”
“I expect that’s the one we call Uranus,” said Will.
Zoroaster sniffed. “I like my name better,” he said.
One evening, Kelly and Alex were walking in the palace gardens after fencing practice. It had been a hot day but there was a cool breeze now and the shadows of an avenue of tall cypresses lengthened across the gravel path. They were quite alone and Kelly’s hand found Alex’s as they paused by the side of the pool where huge golden carp glinted in the dark waters. Alex’s mood was equally dark after a fencing session in which he had suffered humiliation once more.
“Don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said, squeezing his arm. “You nearly got the better of Tariq Hakim.”
“Oh, come on! He’s ten years old,” said Alex bitterly.
“Still, if you hadn’t tripped over the end of your sword…”
“I’m rubbish at it. I always will be rubbish at it. It’s like I’m not properly co-ordinated or something.”
“You’ll get better,” said Kelly soothingly. “You’ve got to give yourself a chance. You weren’t so bad with the musket once you got the hang of it. Things are generally going okay though, aren’t they? Malcolm would be pleased with us. I mean, Henry’s obviously lapping it up. Will’s found himself a new interest and Tanya’s already made some friends.”
It was a fortnight after their arrival in Zanzibar city and Kelly had made friends too. She was already well in with a small group of girls belonging to the Sultan’s extended family and dwelling within the palace. Two of them were the Sultan’s half-sisters, daughters of some his father’s numerous wives.
“You seem to be getting on well with that Kashifah girl,” said Alex, forcing himself to lighten up a little. “And what’s that big one, bit of a moustache?”
“Nusrat.”
“Yeah, that one. Is that where you were last night?”
“Yeah, we had a bit of a girly night.”
Alex frowned, his moment of forced jollity draining away abruptly. The thought of Kelly and Tanya spending the night away from their shared quarters was one that he found oddly upsetting. It was inevitable that they should make friends in their new home, if they were going to make the best of what might be a lengthy stay. Nevertheless, for a while the Outlanders had been closely bonded by shared uncertainty and danger, and in retrospect there was something precious about those days. Now, with no obvious and immediate danger to hold them together, it seemed that their paths were diverging. Alex told himself that he was foolish and unfair to resent Kelly’s new connections. Perhaps it was because he had made no new friends of his own, unless you counted the Sultan, who was to become part of a very important relationship indeed.
“It’s funny, Alex,” said Kelly, breaking into his thoughts. “I don’t know if I can ever fully trust these people, no matter how friendly they seem.”
This was welcome news to Alex, who stopped and turned to face her.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s a different culture, isn’t it? A scary culture, actually.”
“Scary in what way?”
She shrugged. “You know – severed heads on gates, execution the punishment for just about every crime.”
“That’s the smack of firm government,” said Alex.
“More than that,” said Kelly, eyes wide. “Guess what Nusrat was telling me last night.”
“What?”
“Well, ever wonder why the Sultan has got six sisters and no brothers?”
“I didn’t know he had. That’s not unusual, I guess. Not really.” He frowned.
“The point is he did have brothers. He had two, Alex. One three years older than him and one three years younger. D’you get my meaning?”
Alex didn’t, not exactly, but a vague sense of foreboding was growing in him.
“You’re going to tell me something bad, aren’t you?” he said.
“Uh huh. He had them strangled,” she said, holding Alex’s hands in front of her and looking earnestly into his eyes. “When his father died all hell let loose in here, and when the dust settled there was Jalil and the GV sitting on top and his brothers getting offed to save any trouble later on. It’s what they do, Alex. Nusrat was telling me. It’s like, traditional, when a Sultan dies – been going on for centuries.”
“Like survival of the fittest,” said Alex grimly.
“Something like that. But it just proves we can never really trust anyone here, because they’re operating by a different set of rules. What they think is totally, totally normal might just completely freak us out.”
It seemed hard to believe that Sultan Jalil was guilty of fratricide. He seemed the pleasantest of fellows and evidently regarded Alex as some kind of talisman. When it became apparent that Henry was definitely warrior material and Alex demonstrably otherwise, the Sultan took steps to recognise this reality. He frequently turned up at the daily exercises and was a wonderful swordsman himself. Ahmed was regularly bested by him and the old soldier was clearly giving it his best shot.
“There, you are, Alex,” said the Sultan, wiping his hands after one such bout. “Observe the value of balance when parrying on the back foot.”
“A remarkable display,” said Alex, approvingly and with no need for exaggeration. “I wish I could learn from it.”
“You shall learn,” said the Sultan with a grin, clapping him on the shoulder. “But we must not force things on. For some the road is longer and more circuitous. Perhaps the bow or the musket would better suit your talents.”
“Perhaps,” said Alex, but in tones that suggested he wasn’t staking a lot on it.
“And of course the sharp arrow that is my army needs a strong bow and a guiding intelligence to speed it on its way,” he continued, gazing thoughtfully at a column of foot soldiers marching smartly across the dusty parade ground under the watchful eye of a mounted officer.
If the Sultan was suggesting that Alex’s military future lay in intelligence and planning, Alex was all for it. A career spent comfortably in base camp, moving coloured flags around a map, seemed just the sort of field in which he might achieve distinction.
“I need a sounding board,” the Sultan told Alex as they made their way back to the royal apartments for refreshment. “Someone I can trust, who doesn’t have an axe to grind. Someone who will give me a straight answer.”
He stopped so abruptly that the servant behind actually walked into Alex’s heel and nearly exploded with embarrassment, terror and shame. The Sultan turned to Alex, eyes filled with sudden intensity.
“This place is rotten with intrigue, you see. The palace is divided between those who support my mother and those who back my Grand Vizier. They think I am too callow to know of this, but they underestimate me. Do you know what a lonely place this is? Do you know how lonely it is to be the Sultan?”
The servant and a few others in the team who always followed the Sultan had backed off, as though they sensed their master had private, possibly awkward disclosures to make. The same was true of the four bulky bodyguards who shadowed him wherever he went.
Alex felt hugely embarrassed by this. A significant part of his brain got on with trying to stop his cheeks from flushing red, with indifferent success. Another one worked on possible responses.
“I imagine it can be very lonely at times,” he settled on, thinking that few people would consider vast wealth and unfettered power an especially tough break in life.
“It can, Alex,” said the Sultan, and there were actually tears in his eyes. “It really can, for whom can I confide in?”
There was an awkward pause after which Alex heard his mouth form the words, “You can confide in me,” whilst the rest of him stood back and wrung its hands helplessly, for who knew what appalling confidences the Sultan may wish to share? If he ever got on to talking about brothers, for example, all sorts of unpleasantness might come to light. There were lots of things about the Sultan Alex was definitely better off not knowing, because knowing them might set him up for a whole world of presently unpredictable but potentially serious trouble.
“I thank you,” said the Sultan. “I thank you from the depth of my heart, for truly you were heaven-sent. And you must call me Jalil, for that is my name.” He beamed at Alex, stepping back and regarding him in a manner that showed he expected Alex to protest.
“Oh, er, I couldn’t,” stammered Alex, coming through with the goods. “I mean, how could I?”
“Because I insist on it,” the Sultan told him. “I command you to do so.”
Now Alex was conscious of the blood draining from his cheeks, absolutely certain that this could not be regarded as a positive development.
“But only when we are alone,” added the Sultan, apparently suddenly conscious of the group of servants and bodyguards pretending they were far enough away not to have overheard. “It would not do otherwise, do you see?”
“Mmm,” nodded Alex. “I’m still not sure…”
“You will,” insisted the Sultan, this time with a perceptible edge of steel in his voice that brooked no opposition. “Do it now. Call me Jalil.”
Alex glanced around wildly and swallowed hard.
“Jalil,” he croaked.
“There,” said the Sultan with a roar of laughter. “See! You can do it! Now we are true friends, you and I.”
Chapter Six
In the ensuing days and weeks Alex found himself called upon to be the Sultan’s more or less constant companion. Only during meetings of his council and audiences with various high officials of government was he spared this necessity, and when the Sultan retired to his apartments for the night. At these times Alex hurried back to his quarters to throw himself full length on his bed and to unburden himself to the others.
“So what was it today?” Will asked him one night. “You look knackered.”
“I am knackered. The Sultan’s been sorting out this massive legal punch up between a couple of aristos. He’s been running all the details past me.”
“Ouch,” said Will, furrowing his brow.
“But then he wants to know what I think, doesn’t he? And it’s all about who owns this piece of land up past the harbour, all sorts of complicated stuff about ancient agreements, disputed title deeds,” he waved his hand weakly. “You don’t even want to know.”
“Sounds dull.”
“It’s so boring I want to open my veins, but d’you know what really worries me?”
“Go on…”
Alex sat up on the edge of the bed and leaned forward towards Will.
“Like you say, this is all deeply dull stuff. But what if it comes to life and death, eh? What if he wants me to advise him on something where someone’s life is at stake?”
Will made a low whistle. “I see your point,” he said.
Neither of them spoke for a few seconds. At length Alex sighed and sagged as though he were inflatable and some of the air had been let out of him. He rubbed the back of his neck ruefully.
“Anyway, where’s Kell and the others?”
“Kelly’s off with Tanya and her girly pals,” Will told him. “Henry’s down at the stable doing something with a saddle.”
“Ha! And how are you getting on with the Astronomer Royal?”
“He’s not the Astronomer Royal,” said Will. “This other guy is, and I shouldn’t go mentioning it to him either. He gets very hot under the collar.”
Will had made this mistake himself, a few nights previously when he and Zoroaster had been counting meteors in the northern sky. Up until that point Will had been thinking that the day had gone rather well. He had brought in a couple of cushions for the chairs they were now using on the terrace at the top of Zoroaster’s tower. Although showing signs of disapproval, the old astronomer had not rejected them out of hand. He had regarded them sniffily for a moment and made a comment about the “softness” of youth but had sat on one nevertheless and given no indication of feeling unacceptably comfortable.
“When did you say you were going to present your findings about the new planet to the university?” asked Will, to break a silence that, apart from Zoroaster’s bronchitic wheezing and the occasional creaking of his knees, had lasted for the best part of an hour.
“Eh? Oh, I was thinking maybe next month,” said the old astronomer, stroking his beard. “There’s an annual general meeting.”
“Someone was telling me about that,” Will had said. “Isn’t that Fajaruddin, the Astronomer Royal chappie, going to be there?”
He was going to say more about this, and about whether Fajaruddin would be interested in his, Zoroaster’s, findings but was prevented from going any further by a great explosion of rage from next to him.
“What did you say?” demanded Zoroaster, leaping to his feet, his face hard to make out in the darkness but easy to visualise purpling with rage. “Did I hear you call that lying, dandified dog of a halfwit lickspittle, Astronomer Royal?”
“Huh?” Will nearly toppled off his chair with shock and horror.
Zoroaster might have had more to say about Fajaruddin but he was so angry all he could do for a moment was to let out a great incoherent blare of fury into the night. Passers-by in the street below looked up in alarm to see what infamy might be going on at the top of that bleak tower. Having vented off his first explosion of fury Zoroaster got on with damning Fajaruddin’s eyes and mentioning a number of things about his looks, height, morality and dress sense which Fajaruddin might have found upsetting. Will, who had flecks of Zoroaster’s saliva all over his face, wiped this with his sleeve and waited for the tempest to abate.
“He’s a cheat and a liar,” said Zoroaster bitterly, when he could be induced to speak at anything less than a mild shout and form full sentences once more. “He calls himself Royal Astronomer but he’s no more a scientist than the dogs in the street. You should see him strutting about in his fine suits like a great brainless peacock. All he’s interested in is lining his own pockets and sucking up to the Grand Vizier – damn his eyes too! Hah!”
“Hah!” he added for good measure.
Zoroaster kicked over his chair and stood panting for a moment, clenching and unclenching his fists. “All his so-called discoveries, all his so-called research – bought or stolen from better brains than his, and that’s a large category, believe you me,” said Zoroaster, wagging a crooked old finger at Will.
“So who is Astronomer Royal?” asked Will cautiously. “I’m guessing it’s you.”
“Yes, it’s me alright!” roared Zoroaster, breathing deeply. “It always was and it always will be, so long as I live and breathe!”
“So what went wrong then?” asked Will when Zoroaster had stopped glaring at him as though he wanted to strike him dead.
“I’ll tell you what went wrong,” said the old astronomer after a moment in which he took a deep, slow breath. He picked up his chair and sat down heavily on it. “Oh, yes; I’ll tell you where it all went wrong.”
It appeared that Zoroaster had been appointed Royal Astronomer by Sultan Jalil’s father. In the disturbances that had followed the Sultan’s death all sorts of new appointments had been made within the palace. Fajaruddin had come forward with a claim to be appointed Astronomer Royal, supported by Hussain, the Grand Vizier. Not unnaturally, someone had pointed out that there already was a Royal Astronomer. Unfortunately, Zoroaster had been out of the country at that time on one of his occasional foreign expeditions. The laws stated that should the Royal Astronomer be absent for more than a year he would forfeit his post, his official residence and the generous salary that went with the position. Zoro
aster would have been back in Zanzibar well before the end of the year had he not been detained by the Emir of Punt over a trivial issue relating to import taxes.
“It was a set of lenses for my telescope,” snarled Zoroaster. “How was I to know there was a tax on fine glassware? I never heard anything so ridiculous in my life. But I’ve a fair idea where the idea came from,” he said, clenching his fists in front of him.
“What, you mean Fajaruddin put him up to it?” asked Will wide-eyed.
“That’s exactly what I mean; Fajaruddin or one of his lackeys. He told the Sultan that no one knew where I was. I’m damn sure he knew exactly where I was. I’ll bet the little sneak had me followed. He’s got powerful connections in Punt and I’ll bet the dog persuaded the Emir to make up a reason to hold me there.”
“Oh dear,” said Will rather inadequately. “That’s terrible. What were you doing in Punt, anyway?”
“I was doing a little research into the Wireworm,” said Zoroaster, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “You’ll have gathered that the worm is a powerful image in Zanzibar, and in these regions more generally.”
It was true. To call someone a worm could be an insult or a compliment, depending on the circumstances. Will had seen doorways with the symbol of a writhing worm carved on the lintel, placed there as a symbol of good fortune and to ward off evil spirits. The Sultan’s bodyguards bore the same symbol on their shields, which was one reason why Jalil had been so delighted to see white worms in his dream, before Alex’s arrival with Kelly and Henry.
“A remarkable beast, the Wireworm,” said Zoroaster, cheering up a bit. “Would you like to see one?”
“Oh, yes please,” said Will eagerly, seizing on an opportunity to lighten Zoroaster’s mood.
Zoroaster led Will down into his bedroom, which was inky black and lit only by the narrow slit of the window. Whilst Will waited at the bottom of the ladder that led to the roof platform, Zoroaster groped around the walls until he found the shelf where the lamp and tinder box were kept. A few moments and a little moderate cursing later the old man had a lamp lit and reached under his bed. He brought out a large stoppered glass jar with a few small holes punched in the stopper.