Worm Winds of Zanzibar (The Alex Trueman Chronicles Book 2)

by Martin Dukes

  “Hmm! What?”

  “I was enquiring as to whether you would care to fire the weapon,” said the trader with a knowing grin.

  “He’s one of the Brothers. I know he is,” Alex told Henry that evening as they prepared to dine with the Sultan and these new visitors. “Him and some of the other guys he’s got with him. He’s white, like us, so he probably started out looking for me in what ought to be Great Britain. He’s carrying some stuff that’s amazingly high tech by Zanzibari standards, so he’s probably been making a fast buck selling weapons to keep him going.”

  “Why not snazzy ray guns or something?” pondered Henry. “Especially if he’s got angel tech to draw on.”

  “Too obvious, duh!” said Alex tapping his head. “That would be bound to attract attention, wouldn’t it?”

  “I thought you said the angels had the place locked down. Nothing gets in, nothing gets out.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Alex, pacing up and down. “I’ve been thinking about that. But what if the Brothers had a fair idea this was where Malcolm dumped us, eh? Well, as you say, the world’s locked down now, but it wouldn’t have been thirty years ago, would it, maybe twenty, even? My guess is the Brothers travelled back in time and inserted a surveillance team back then so’s they wouldn’t show up on any kind of scan. They’ve been here waiting ever since. I guess they’ve got folks out listening for stories of white people mysteriously turning up and claiming to have come from other worlds. They finally got the word and here they are.”

  “Hmmm,” said Henry, idly toying with a sandal. “Could be. They’d have to be very, very patient, though, wouldn’t they? Maybe you’re just getting paranoid. If you’re so worried why don’t you just get your pal the Sultan to round them up and chop their heads off? There’d be a kind of poetic justice in that, don’t you think?”

  “That’s true,” said Alex thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t want to get them all topped, though. Still, I guess I could have a little word.”

  “Why not?” said Henry with a chuckle. “Sounds like you’ve got his nibs pretty much where you want him.”

  Garek’s trading deputation had been expecting an invitation to dinner. Instead, their vessel was impounded and its crew interned in a large house on the outskirts of the city, ‘pending investigations’, they were told. A strong force of guards was posted outside to ensure that Garek and his crew stayed where they were put. This was the most that Alex could persuade the Sultan to do.

  “The Emir of Tabor is a distant magnate of indifferent power, but it does not do to mishandle traders,” he said. “If traders are known to be arbitrarily detained here they will take their business elsewhere. I will detain them for a week, that is all, until the expedition sails. You may ask Hussain to investigate them if you wish, but I will not have them mistreated unless wrongdoing comes to light.”

  The Sultan was decidedly sulky about the whole business and Alex felt that he was in some danger of over-reaching himself. The Sultan had been very keen to add Garek’s new rifles to his arsenal and now his army would have to manage without. Doubtless they could simply have commandeered them, but this would have cut off access to technical advice and any further supplies. He was visibly distressed to receive a series of increasingly irritated notes from Garek, demanding to know on what grounds he had been imprisoned. All the time, preparations for the Sultan’s grand expedition proceeded towards their conclusion, soldiers gathered in encampment beyond the city walls and ships waited at anchor in the harbour whilst launches and cutters completed the loading of their provisions.

  “I presume you’ve asked the GV to have Garek and his lot interrogated,” said Henry one evening as he polished his sabre.

  “They’re all being questioned,” said Alex. “But it’s hard to know what questions to ask. Officially we’re trying to make out he’s got someone in his crew who might be spying for the pirates, although clearly that’s a load of bull. We’re just playing for time, really. As soon as the expedition sails, they’re going to let them go.”

  “What then?” asked Henry, holding up his blade to see it glint in the evening sun.

  “Search me,” said Alex with a shrug. “Maybe Malcolm will have beamed us out of here by then. Maybe we’ll come back and Garek’ll still be here waiting for us. The whole thing’s a mess. I wish Will was back. I wish Kelly and Tanya…”

  His voice faltered and he sighed, making a gesture of frustration with both hands.

  “Yeah, well… you know what I mean.”

  “I guess. Do you suppose they’ll be down at the dockside to wave us off with their handkerchiefs?” asked Henry.

  “I’m not holding my breath,” said Alex gloomily. “And I’m not sure the Sultan’s guard are going to be able to keep Garek banged up for long either. He’s an angel. I’m betting if he seriously wants out of there he can walk out any time he pleases.”

  “I doubt he will,” said Henry pursing his lips. “If you’re right in what you say, the guy’s been playing the long game. If he’s been waiting for you thirty years already he’s not going to blow his gaffe pulling a stunt like that… And if he does, we’re waiting for him,” he added with a grim smile, running his finger along the edge of his blade.

  “Oh, do me a favour!” said Alex, shaking his head.

  Everything was ready. Henry and Alex’s clothes and equipment were packed and sent down to the Sultan’s flagship, the Jewel of the Seas. Zulfiqar and his assistants were in a ferment of anxiety to ensure that everything should be provided for them on board during the three days or so it would take to sail to the pirate havens. The light dhows that were to be the ‘eyes’ of the expedition had already sailed, to scout ahead and report on what had become of their enemy’s dispositions. The Sultan’s great hall was ready and prepared for the most magnificent feast in Zanzibar’s history, to send the expedition on its way with good food and cheer.

  “It is to be hoped the expedition is crowned with success,” observed Zulfiqar dryly as food wagons queued at the palace side gates, bringing the finest foodstuffs from all over the realm. “Because an exceedingly great deal of plunder will be needed to pay for all this.”

  Tanya came with Kashifah and Nusrat and various other young ladies of the palace to wish the young warriors well, but Kelly stayed away.

  “Be careful, Alex,” said Tanya, hugging him as they got ready for the feast. “And you, Henry. Especially you, Henry.”

  “What do you mean, especially?” asked Henry, coming across to receive her embrace.

  “She means especially because being careful’s not exactly hardwired into you,” said Alex.

  Tanya nodded solemnly. “Kelly wants you to be careful, too,” she said. “Although she’s not actually saying it.” She looked at Alex and her blue eyes held reproach and a strange uncertainty.

  “Yeah, I know,” said Alex sadly. “I shouldn’t have done it. Tell her I’m sorry.”

  “I already told her that.”

  “Well, tell her again.”

  “Tell her to get a life,” said Henry contemptuously, failing to catch the mood.

  And then the Sultan was ill. He was stricken by a high fever on the eve of the expedition’s departure. The great banquet went ahead without him, but the atmosphere was restrained and there was no more than a low murmur of conversation in place of the festive tumult that might originally have been expected. In the midst of the feast a message came to tell Alex that the Sultan’s physicians were concerned for his life. It was quite clear that the project must be abandoned. As the hours passed and the Sultan’s fever grew higher and higher, so the ships and the troops in their encampments stood ready, awaiting the order to embark. The order was never to come. A whole week later and the Sultan remained poised between life and death, his brow mopped anxiously by his household servants, his physicians looking anxiously upon his pale, sweating features. A decision had to made. The regular troops were stood down and returned to their barracks. The mercenaries were paid off and dismissed, the v
essels in the harbour unloaded once more. It seemed the longest week in Alex’s life. With a number of the Sultan’s officers of state he sat at the young man’s bedside, grasping his hand when he reached out and speaking soothing words when the Sultan cried out in his torment. There was nothing artificial about Alex’s concern. He was uncomfortably aware that he had made enemies amongst the Sultan’s officers of state, and there were few he could rely on to support him if the Sultan shuffled off his mortal coil. If the Sultan perished, Alex feared that things might become very difficult indeed.

  “It would be a dangerous time,” said Zulfiqar, frowning when Alex asked him. As ever, when asked politically difficult questions, he glanced around him as though he feared being overheard.

  “No one’s listening,” Alex told him. “And I need straight answers from you. I need to know what happens if the Sultan pops his clogs… dies,” he added, faced with Zulfiqar’s blank expression.

  “It would be difficult,” said Zulfiqar haltingly. “There is no obvious heir. There is an elderly uncle and two cousins, one of whom dwells in Zanjd. The other is a corpulent youth with no interest in affairs of state. I fear that the Grand Vizier and the Sultan’s mother’s factions would clash. The Grand Vizier may wed Kashifah, the Sultan’s sister, in order to advance his cause.”

  spluttered Alex aghast. “Kashifah loathes him.” Zulfiqar spread his arms in an expression of helplessness. “I know… if God wills it,” scoffed Alex. “What about us… milkskins? What do you think would happen to us?”

  Zulfiqar reddened. “I fear for you, master,” he murmured. “There are those who do not love you. And it is no fault of your own. The Sultan has placed you in an unenviable position.”

  “I knew you were going to say that,” said Alex biting his lip. “I’m thinking we need to get out of here, if the Sultan doesn’t make it. How do we go about booking a ship?”

  “I will help you, master,” said Zulfiqar. “Although my heart grieves to see you suffer injustice.”

  The Sultan’s fever broke. The crowds of loyal city folk who had stood for days at the palace gates cheered to hear that he might yet live. Day by day he regained his strength until he was able to sit up and eat a little thin soup. The court rejoiced; the Grand Vizier and the Sultan’s mother could throttle back on the intensity of their scheming against each other. Alex abandoned the plans he had been drawing up to gather up the Outlanders and flee the country. But the Sultan who surfaced from the long torment of his fever was not the same Sultan. The Sultan Alex knew was reasonable, approachable and constant in his temperament. The man who awoke was a monster and a tyrant.

  It was a while before this became clear, although Alex soon noticed the young man was prone to long periods of apparent introspection whilst his eyes twitched spasmodically and his mouth hung crooked. These were interspersed with periods of apparent affability and then violent rages in which servants or even courtiers were apt to feel the weight of his hand. This first came to Alex’s attention when the Minister for the Treasury tried to tell the Sultan that the state was effectively bankrupt, that the expense of his military schemes and the extravagance of his court had quite exhausted the treasury. A long period of austerity was required if ever the state’s finances were to be restored.

  “And you dare to tell me that we are destitute?!” spat the Sultan, his face a pale mask of rage and incredulity. “You, who are charged with the management of the state’s financial affairs? What kind of management is this? I’ll tell you what kind. It is dereliction of duty on the grandest scale. It is little less than treason to endanger the state in such a manner. I should slay you where you stand.”

  He drew his sword and swished it in the air, causing Alex’s heart to skip a beat.

  “I beg forgiveness,” said the awestruck minister, shuffling backwards, head lowered. “But there is a simple relationship between funds flowing in through taxation and funds being expended by your government. The sums do not add up.”

  “Well make them add up!” roared the Sultan as the minister threw himself to the floor.

  “But the common people already groan beneath the weight of taxation,” wailed the minister.

  “And the common people love me,” snapped the Sultan. “Did their prayers for my health not soar to heaven in their tens of thousands these last few weeks? And what of the nobility? Do they groan beneath the weight of taxation? Do they spend their evenings mending their socks and wondering where their next meal will come from? I think not. I think they squander their useless lives in sybaritic luxury whilst the common people hunger at their gates. I will not have it!”

  He emphasised this point by aiming a kick at the minister, who whimpered and fell on his side, groping for his papers.

  “What do you think, Alex?” he demanded, turning suddenly to Alex. “Should I spill this creature’s blood?”

  “Not if you want him to do your bidding,” said Alex, horrified and thinking fast. He could see that the various other courtiers present in the Sultan’s throne room were slack-jawed with consternation. This behaviour was quite unexpected. The Sultan had clearly taken leave of his senses. “I think he needs to show you what he can do.”

  “The state is ruined, you say,” continued the Sultan, circling the cowering minister. “Then the nobles must do what they can to save the state. They are best placed to do so. They must pay, do you hear? They must disgorge the gold that they have swallowed.” He glanced wildly around the chamber at courtiers who dared not meet his gaze. “They live in houses with floors groaning beneath the weight of their jewels and riches. Bring me proposals to part them from some of it. Bring them tomorrow!” he roared, brandishing his sword meaningfully as the terrified minster scuttled from the chamber.

  It was not to be a good day for Alex. Word reached Zanzibar that the ship conveying Jemail to Persia had been shipwrecked in a storm. There were said to be no survivors. Zulfiqar brought the message to Alex that evening and stood wringing his hands anxiously whilst Alex sat down heavily on his bed.

  “Oh my god,” he said, head in hands. “What have I done? I have sent that young man to his death... because I was… because I was… jealous.”

  A terrible chill crept over him. A terrible lethargy gripped his limbs and for a moment he thought he would be unable to hold back the hot tears that threatened to course from his eyes. He felt faint. He felt as though a giant hand clutched at his throat so that words were stifled at birth.

  “Go!” he managed to croak, before throwing himself desolately on his pillow.

  Zulfiqar withdrew. A whispered conversation at the door indicated that Henry was being briefed as to the situation.

  “Bummer,” he heard, and then the door closed as Henry, with rare tact, decided that Alex may need a little time on his own.

  Later that night he went to Kashifah’s house. A servant opened the door and Nusrat soon appeared, with Kashifah behind her. Nusrat’s cheerful features were drawn into a grim mask of grief, her eyes red-rimmed from tears. Kashifah couldn’t even hold Alex’s gaze and turned to run weeping along the corridor, a handkerchief pressed to her mouth.

  “How dare you?” demanded Nusrat in a cold and level voice. “How dare you come here today?”

  “I had to come,” said Alex hoarsely. “I had to see Kelly.”

  “Well, I can tell you she has no wish to see you,” said Nusrat firmly, her eyes glinting like steel. She made to close the door but at that moment Kelly appeared at her side, the pallor of her face a shocking contrast with the kohl-smeared darkness of her cheeks.

  “I want to see him,” she said, her voice no more than a whisper. “I want to see him to tell him how much I hate him. I want to tell him I never want to see him again in my life!”

  Her voice had risen to a quavering crescendo with these words, and her fists were clenched into tight, white-knuckled balls in front of her.

  “I’m so sorry!” blurted Alex, but he spoke to the door slammed violently shut in his face.

  A
t the Sultan’s command, Garek and his crew were released from their captivity, having been more or less forgotten about during the time of the Sultan’s illness, when the government’s attention had been focused elsewhere. The Sultan seemed eager to appease them, to make up for the maltreatment they had suffered at his command, and nothing Alex dared say could dissuade him from inviting them to court.

  “You must stay a while,” the Sultan told Garek. “But this time as our guests. Our enquiries were based on false information,” he said, directing a critical glance at Alex. “And you should have been released as soon as this came to light. Please accept our humble apologies.”

  “Apologies are hardly necessary,” said Garek smoothly. “We live in dangerous times and of course I accept that you would wish to take precautions. Let us begin again. I should be happy to instruct your forces in the use of our rifles, should you wish to engage our services.”

  “Nothing would give me greater satisfaction,” said the Sultan. “And this time we must find you comfortable lodgings within my palace.”

  “A generous offer,” said Garek with a low bow. “And one we should be honoured to accept. We wish only to make friends in your country,” he said as he shot a sly smirk at Alex.

  And so Garek and the officers of his crew came to be accommodated in an apartment a few doors down from the Outlanders’. Zulfiqar made sure that the door was securely barred at night, but nothing could be done to avert their frequent encounters in the corridors of the palace or at the Sultan’s dinner table. Apart from Garek himself there was Shirman, his First Lieutenant, a tall, gangling, humourless man with a shock of unkempt blonde hair and a watchful expression, Dormikken, Second Lieutenant, a pale, round-faced fellow with a receding hairline, and Mainod, his Sailing Master, an older man of moderate stature with a perpetual head cold.

  “From now on we go everywhere together,” Alex told Henry after a brush with Shirman in the corridor that made his blood run cold. “I’m telling you, he just stood and stared at me. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t smile. He just watched me as I passed, with a sort of cold glare.”