The Poison Throne, page 11
The girl nodded gratefully then looked at the guide who was frowning. After a moment, without a word, he picked her up, dumped her roughly on the camel, climbed aboard himself and pulled the reins. The camel spat and lurched to its full height and they rode ahead, following the doctor towards the darkening hills.
20
Gregor
‘This way, Gregor,’ Cadali whispered, nervously checking behind him to see if anyone had noticed them. ‘We need to be quick.’
Gregor followed him along an empty corridor. They were in a disused wing of the palace; even so, it paid to be careful. It had become increasingly difficult to do anything unnoticed by Barakat. But in the midday heat, when everyone was sleeping . . . Let’s hope they’re sleeping, Gregor thought.
He could smell Cadali’s sweat, probably a combination of fear and excitement. Gregor knew he couldn’t trust the man – who could? – but he was curious to know what plans were afoot.
They were hurrying through a vast, glass-ceilinged hall towards a thicket of trees. Gregor knew immediately where they were, though it had changed considerably: the old Sultan’s menagerie. Without the teams of gardeners and animal keepers who had tended to every plant and creature living there, the menagerie, once famed throughout the world, had become a dense, impenetrable jungle.
Cadali stopped beneath the branch of a banyan tree, and nodded to Gregor to wait.
‘And now?’ Gregor asked.
‘Now we need to be patient. Trust me, Gregor. You’ll thank me for this.’
Gregor doubted that. What hare-brained scheme was Cadali trying to involve him in? He had no doubt that Cadali would betray him if it was useful, as he would in turn betray the ex- Vizier. The problem was, in this world turned upside down, neither of them knew what Maya would consider of value. Were either of them of any consequence at all in this new Tumanbay?
Gregor detected movement, a shadow flicking across the ground and he spun around. It was a woman.
‘Gregor . . . Thank you for coming,’ she said. ‘I know it is difficult for you in these times.’
Cadali stepped forward. ‘May I introduce you,’ he said, ‘to Dona Ana. Part of the diplomatic mission from the kingdom of—’
‘I know who she is,’ Gregor said, keeping his eyes firmly on her and his hand on the hilt of his sword. ‘We met before, on the battlements. Your husband sold cannons to our former Sultan.’
‘Indeed, he did. The Hand of God and the Hand of the Sultan. And you suspected I wasn’t who I claimed to be.’
‘Our Gregor has a suspicious mind,’ Cadali said. He laughed heartily, insincerely – and stopped when neither Gregor nor Dona Ana joined in.
‘Walk with me.’ Dona Ana gestured towards a clearing. Gregor nodded and joined her. When Cadali made to follow them, she turned and said, ‘Stay here, you’ll want to keep watch, I presume.’
It was not a question but a command and was not what Cadali wanted at all, but he conceded, ‘Yes, certainly. I will be here. Just in case.’
‘Good,’ Dona Ana said, then joined Gregor who was walking ahead.
‘When my husband and I first came to Tumanbay,’ she said, ‘the great Sultan al-Ghuri himself showed us around this magnificent menagerie. What a wonder it was! There were giraffes, leopards and all manner of exotic creatures. All gone now . . . ’
‘As are the diplomatic missions.’
She stopped, unsure of what Gregor was implying. ‘The diplomatic missions?’ she asked.
‘They all left the city long before Maya’s army arrived. I’m surprised you didn’t go with them.’
‘Well, they have impounded our goods. How can we leave?’
‘With respect, Dona Ana, if this was about the impounded goods, we would not be meeting in secret.’
She nodded. ‘I believe you know why you are here.’
‘Do I?’
They had reached the clearing and were now surrounded by thick jungle. Gregor wondered if perhaps some of the creatures which had inhabited the menagerie hadn’t gone away at all, but were still there, watching, waiting, searching for their next meal.
‘My king,’ Dona Ana said, holding out a folded-up piece of parchment with a wax seal, ‘wishes to help you.’ Gregor took it from her and broke the seal.
‘He will give you whatever you need to defeat this regime,’ she said as Gregor scanned the content of the letter. ‘We know there is resistance. But they are disorganised. They need a leader.’
‘A leader?’ Gregor said, turning back to her.
‘Your brother, perhaps?’
‘General Qulan is in chains.’
‘But you, Gregor, are in a position to—’
‘You have been foolish, Dona Ana.’ Gregor handed the letter back to her.
She frowned, confused by his response.
‘It is only a matter of time now until you and your husband are arrested.’
‘No one saw me coming here—’
‘Cadali. He is compromised. It is a trap. You cannot help me and I cannot help you. My advice. Leave the palace. Leave Tumanbay as fast as you can.’
He turned to go, but Dona Ana stopped him with her hand on his shoulder. ‘This regime will end,’ she said. ‘And when it does, what side do you want to be on? You will have to commit sooner or later, Gregor.’
I am committed, he thought, committed to not being killed by these inept interlopers who have no idea of what they are up against. He was about to walk back to Cadali, who was hovering at the entrance to the menagerie, when Dona Ana said, ‘Have you looked into his eyes?’ The question caught him off-guard. What was she talking about?
‘Whose eyes?’ he asked.
‘The inquisitor. Barakat’s.’ She had Gregor’s attention now. ‘There’s something there, I’ve noticed,’ she continued. ‘If you look hard enough, you will see it – a grain of doubt?’
How incredibly perceptive, Gregor thought. He had noticed it himself; beyond Barakat’s cold, snake-lie stare, there was something else, something he had never quite been able to interpret. Maybe she was right, maybe it was doubt.
‘Find it,’ she said. ‘Use it. That’s the key to ending all this . . .’
Gregor stared at her for a moment. She had no idea what sort of danger she was in. Eventually he said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘You will. You will,’ she said.
Gregor bowed and walked away. As he passed Cadali, the ex-Vizier enquired if everything was satisfactory.
‘Perfectly,’ Gregor replied. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ and he strode back towards the palace.
Gregor hurried to the throne room where Effendi Red was standing over Sultan Madu.
‘Take it, Majesty,’ the Regent said, handing him the royal seal; Madu looked at it as if he’d never seen it before, holding it close to his eyes and blinking. Gregor could see his hand was trembling. He seemed dazed and detached. ‘Let me help you,’ the Regent said, guiding Madu’s hand to the parchment laid out in front of him with its pool of melted red wax. Madu applied the seal.
‘My apologies, effendi,’ Gregor said. ‘I came as quickly as I could.’
Sensing the urgency in Gregor’s voice, Red looked up. ‘What are you talking about?’ he asked.
‘I need to speak to you, Regent.’ He tilted his head slightly towards Madu. ‘In private.’
Effendi Red nodded. ‘Majesty, why don’t you . . .’
‘Am I free to go?’ Madu said, suddenly alert.
‘You are free to do whatever you please, Majesty. As always . . .’
Madu got up, leaving the seal in the wax, took a deep breath and made his way unsteadily towards the doors at the other end of the throne room. Noticing Gregor, he stopped and observed him for a moment.
‘You’re looking very, very . . . serious, Gregor. Is it serious?’
‘I’m afraid it is, Majesty,’ Gregor said.
‘Oh dear, dear, dear . . .’ Madu said, shaking his head gravely. Then he turned and walked back to where he had come from, as if he had forgotten something. When he was close to the Regent, he stopped and said quietly, ‘I signed what you asked. What about my . . . my . . . ’
‘You will get what you want when I deem it appropriate,’ Red replied.
Madu’s breath quickened. ‘I need it now. Please, I . . . I need it now.’
‘Escort His Majesty back to his chambers,’ the Regent said to one of the courtiers hovering in the back of the room. As he came forward, Madu held up a hand. ‘No! Don’t touch me! I can walk. I have limbs.’ And he walked towards the great doors of the throne room, knocking into a table on his way out.
‘What do you want, Gregor?’ the Regent asked.
‘There is a foreign spy in Tumanbay working to support and organise the Resistance.’
‘I see.’
Gregor pulled the letter Dona Ana had given him from his tunic and handed it to Red.
‘A letter from her king.’
Red took the letter and read it. ‘How did you come by it?’
Gregor had been waiting for this moment. A chance to earn Effendi Red’s trust.
‘The ex-Vizier, Cadali, introduced us.’
‘I see. Yes,’ Red muttered, resuming his examination of the letter, as if there was something more than words to be got from it.
‘It was my duty to . . .’ Gregor let this hang. He felt no guilt over the betrayal; Cadali had almost certainly set up the meeting with Dona Ana to strengthen his position with Barakat. He hoped Dona Ana had heeded his warning to leave the city.
Effendi Red folded the letter and was about to speak when something got caught in his throat and he started to cough. He’d been a sickly fellow recently, Gregor thought, considerably diminished from the man he had been before. ‘You must have no doubt, effendi,’ Gregor said, when at length the coughing subsided, ‘of where my loyalties lie . . .’
Effendi Red nodded and found a chair to sit down on.
21
Heaven
‘Wrongly imprisoned?’ the official asked with a bored stare that seemed to look straight through Heaven.
‘Yes.’ She had been waiting in the courthouse all morning, being jostled and pushed and prodded by the other relatives of those imprisoned by the regime all waiting to see someone. It was her fourth visit. She had been sent to this counter, then that counter, filled in forms, submitted her father’s business details, the deeds to his house, been sent away to get references, affidavits and all manner of other documents and had finally, today, been allowed through to see the clerk of the court.
‘I was told I could submit these here,’ she said, placing the papers on the desk in front of the official, a man with a beard dressed in a long white jilbab. He glanced up at her with a look of disgust.
‘Your hair, sister.’
‘What?’
‘Your hair,’ he repeated, pointing with irritation to a curl of Heaven’s hair that had escaped from the side of her headscarf. ‘Are you looking for a husband?’
‘No, I—’
‘Then don’t come in here looking like a prostitute. Cover yourself,’ he said.
She quickly tucked the curl back in.
He shook his head disparagingly, then looked down at the papers.
‘Prisoner’s name?’ he asked.
‘It says there,’ she said, pointing helpfully, ‘Ibn Bai. He’s my father – he has been wrongly imprisoned.’
‘Everyone who comes here says they are wrongly imprisoned.’
‘No, but my father came in to answer some questions about some books. For clarification. He wasn’t under arrest. It was all a mistake—’
‘A mistake?’
‘Yes, he hasn’t been charged with anything. Look,’ she said, pulling out a document from the pile. ‘See, signed by the judge . . .’
The official scanned it for a brief moment, then handed it back. ‘You need a stamp from the court official,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘You need this stamped.’ He had finished with her and beckoned the next in line forward.
‘But they said a signature was all that I needed.’
‘It has to be stamped. Next! Yes, come forward . . .’ Two young men pushed past Heaven and thrust their papers at the official. One of them turned and called out to a woman accompanying an elderly infirm man who came to join them.
‘No, wait,’ Heaven shouted, staying in front of the clerk’s desk. ‘It took me three days to get his signature. I don’t have time—’
‘Is that my fault?’ the clerk said.
‘There must be something you can—’ But she was silenced by the clerk’s hand which he held up sternly.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I already explained to you, very politely, what you need to do. Now if you want me to—’
‘There is always something else, isn’t there?’ She could feel herself shaking and tried to keep her voice measured. But now the others waiting were getting restless.
‘We are all waiting!’ shouted a man in the queue behind.
‘My father has been sitting in a cell for three days now—’
‘Sister, please,’ said one of the two men who had been called forward. ‘We all have relatives we are trying to help. You need to step back. You must do what the brother here tells you. Go.’
‘I won’t,’ Heaven cried. ‘I’m not moving—’
The clerk lifted an arm and clicked his fingers to the back of the room.
‘Everyone has to follow the rules,’ the man continued. But Heaven was no longer listening. She became aware of two guards approaching through the crowd. She grabbed the table.
‘Help me!’ she screamed. ‘Someone, help me, for God’s sake!’ At this moment she was so full of rage, she would have rather died or joined her father in a stinking cell than give in to these people.
She felt an arm wrap gently around her. ‘Come, sister,’ said one of the guards quietly, kindly. It wasn’t the confrontation she expected. The room had gone quiet. She was confused, disorientated. She felt tears rolling down her cheeks. ‘You want to go peacefully or do you want—?’
‘Yes,’ she said, allowing herself to be guided away past all the stares. ‘It’s all right. I . . . I’m going. I’ve come here every day . . .’
‘That’s right. Out you go,’ said the guard, opening the door for her. ‘Calm yourself, sister, and come back tomorrow.’
The door shut and Heaven found herself back in the crowded central courtyard where she had begun her quest. She stood there for a moment, trying to collect herself, looking around at all the activity: the anxious relatives, clutching papers, queuing to get into different rooms, and the smiling officials walking purposefully – or so it seemed – from here to there, apparently unconcerned or blind to the weight of worry and sadness all around them.
There had to be someone, somewhere, who could help. And then she had an idea: she knew where she had to go.
22
Bello
From a distance, the young man appeared motionless in the back of the carriage. Close to, you would see his fingers drumming impatiently on his thighs, hear his irregular breathing suggesting a relentless craving. He watched as the short fat monk emerged from the great doors of the Hafiz’s palace and made his way, not hurrying at all, across the portico and down the steps. There was a slight smile on his face, as if he were privy to some secret supply of grace that no one else knew about. There was no ceremony, no ‘Peace be upon you’; the monk simply opened the carriage door, climbed in and sat opposite the young man.
‘How is His Majesty today?’ he enquired after a few moments.
‘Not in the mood for talking,’ Madu replied. ‘Just get on with it.’
‘I assume you have come for your . . . blessing from the Hafiz?’ The monk rummaged through his bag.
‘Quickly, Bello. I’m being watched.’
‘Ah, everyone is being watched, Majesty. And for that we must be thankful. He watches every one of us, the poor, the rich, the worthy, the—’
‘Save your sermons for the gullible. I want my blessings!’
From his bag Bello produced a small glass vial.
‘Here, Majesty,’ he said, holding it out in his open palm.
Madu took the bottle eagerly.
‘Go!’ Bello said, reaching for the door handle. ‘Be blessed, be joyful, be—’
‘Wait! Let me try it first.’
Madu careful uncorked the vial and, bending over it, sniffed the contents. After a moment, his head fell back and his eyelids started to flutter.
‘Isn’t it good, Majesty? The purest. From the Megalla Hills.’
‘Pure as the hills . . . and the sea . . .’ Madu mumbled, drifting into a stupor. Bello watched for a moment impassively. When it became clear that the conversation was unlikely to continue, he opened the door and stepped out.
‘Until next time, Majesty,’ he said with a little bow of his head. Then he turned to the driver, ‘The Sultan wishes to return home.’ It would be embarrassing for all concerned for His Majesty to be found outside the Hafiz’s palace in a state of stupefaction.
As the carriage moved off, Bello was about to go back inside when something caught his eye. It was a young woman, her head covered, standing by the gates looking at him. He knew there were spies everywhere, watching everything, reporting back to the Inquisitor, but they were not usually so brazen. It made him nervous. Was the Hafiz about to be . . . Now she was walking straight towards him.
‘Hello,’ he called out. ‘Do you want something?’
‘I need to see the Hafiz.’ She was young, no more than twenty, and, despite wearing a long loose chadri – the required dress for women under the new regime – he could see she was pregnant.
