The softness vanished at once. The hatred that came into her eyes was extraordinary.
“You black bastard,” she said.
“Only partly black. There is much Moorish blood in the veins of the nobility of Songhay.” He met her seething gaze with tranquility. “In the old days we believed in absorbing those who attempt to conquer us. These days we still do, something that the Mansa of Mali ought to keep in mind. He’s got a fine harem, I understand.”
“Did you have to throw cold water on me like that? Everything I told you was the truth.”
“I hope and believe it is. I think there was love between us that night on the porch, and I wouldn’t like to think that you’d betray someone you love. The question, I suppose, is whether the Englishman was telling you the truth. Which still remains to be seen.” He took her hand and kissed it lightly, in the European manner. “As I said before, I’m very grateful, Selima. And hope to continue to be. If I may, now—”
She gave him one final glare and took her leave of him. Little Father walked quickly to the edge of the porch, spun about, walked quickly back. For an instant or two he stood in the doorway like his own statue. But his mind was in motion, and moving very swiftly.
He peered down the stairs to the courtyard below.
“Ali Pasha!”
The vizier came running.
“What the woman wanted to tell me,” Little Father said, “is that there is a plot against my life.”
The look that appeared on the vizier’s face was one of total shock and indignation.
“You believe her?”
“Unfortunately I think I do.”
Ali Pasha began to quiver with wrath. His broad glossy cheeks grew congested, his eyes bulged. Little Father thought the man was in danger of exploding.
“Who are the plotters, Little Father? I’ll have them rounded up within the hour.”
“The Russian ambassador, apparently. The Aztec one. And the little Englishman, Sir Anthony.”
“To the lions with them! They’ll be in the pit before night comes!”
Little Father managed an approximation of a smile.
“Surely you recall the concept of diplomatic immunity, Ali Pasha?”
“But—a conspiracy against your majesty’s life—!”
“Not yet my majesty, Ali Pasha.”
“Your pardon.” Ali Pasha struggled with confusion. “You must take steps to protect yourself, Little Father. Did she tell you what the plan is supposed to be?”
Little Father nodded. “When Serene Glory hands me the coronation cup at the funeral service, there will be poison in the drink.”
“Poison!”
“Yes. I fall down dead. Serene Glory turns to her miserable brother and offers him the crown on the spot. But no, the three ambassadors have other ideas. They’ll ask Mansa Suleiyman to proclaim himself king, in the name of the general safety. In that moment Songhay will come under the rule of Mali.”
“Never! To the lions with Mansa Suleiyman too, majesty!”
“No one goes to the lions, Ali Pasha. And stop calling me majesty. We’ll deal with this in a calm and civilized way, is that understood?”
“I am completely at your command, sir. As always.”
Little Father nodded. He felt his strength rising, moment by moment. His mind was wondrously clear. He asked himself if that was what it felt like to be a king. Though he had spent so much time being a prince, he had in fact given too little thought to what the actual sensations and processes of being a king might be, he realized now. His royal father had held the kingdom entirely in his own hands throughout all his long reign. But something must be changing now.
He went unhurriedly to the edge of the porch, and stared out into the distance. To his surprise, there was a dark orange cloud on the horizon, sharply defined against the sky.
“Look there, Ali Pasha. The rains are coming!”
“The first cloud, yes. There it is!” And he began to finger the woven charm that hung about his neck.
It was always startling when the annual change came, after so many months of unbroken hot dry weather. Even after a lifetime of watching the shift occur, no one in Songhay was unmoved by the approach of the first cloud, for it was a powerful omen of transition and culmination, removing a great element of uncertainty and fear from the minds of the citizens; for until the change finally arrived, there was always the chance that it might never come, that this time the summer would last forever and the parched world would burn to a crisp.
Little Father said, “I should go to my father without any further delay. Certainly this means that his hour has come.”
“Yes. Yes.”
The orange cloud was sweeping toward the city with amazing rapidity. In another few minutes all Timbuctoo would be enveloped in blackness as a whirling veil of fine sand whipped down over it. Little Father felt the air grow moist. There would be a brief spell of intolerable humidity, now, so heavy that breathing itself would be a vast effort. And then, abruptly, the temperature would drop, the chill rain would descend, rivers would run in the sandy streets, the marketplace would become a lake.
He raced indoors, with Ali Pasha following along helterskelter behind him.
“The plotters, sir—” the vizier gasped.
Little Father smiled. “I’ll invite Serene Glory to share the cup with me. We’ll see what she does then. Just be ready to act when I give the orders.”
There was darkness at every window. The sandstorm was at hand. Trillions of tiny particles beat insistently at every surface, setting up a steady drumming that grew and grew and grew in intensity. The air had turned sticky, almost viscous: it was hard work to force oneself forward through it.
Gasping for breath, Little Father moved as quickly as he was able down the subterranean passageway that linked his palace with the much greater one that shortly would be his.
The ministers and functionaries of the royal court were wailing and weeping. The Grand Vizier of the realm, waiting formally at the head of the Stairs of Allah, glared at Little Father as though he were the Angel of Death himself.
“There is not much more time, Little Father.”
“So I understand.”
He rushed out onto his father’s porch. There had been no opportunity to bring the Emir indoors. The old man lay amidst his dazzling blankets with his eyes open and one hand upraised. He was in the correct position in which a Moslem should pass from this world to the next, his head to the south, his face turned toward the east. The sky was black with sand, and it came cascading down with unremitting force. The three saintly marabouts who had attended Big Father throughout his final illness stood above him, shielding the Emir from the shower of tiny abrasive particles with an improvised canopy, an outstretched bolt of satin.
“Father! Father!”
The Emir tried to sit up. He looked a thousand years old.
His eyes glittered like lightning-bolts, and he said something, three or four congested syllables. Little Father was unable to understand a thing. The old man was already speaking the language of the dead.
There was a clap of thunder. The Emir fell back against his pillows.
The sky opened and the first rain of the year came down in implacable torrents, in such abundance as had not been seen in a thousand years.
In the three days since the old Emir’s death Little Father had lived through this scene three thousand times in his imagination. But now it was actually occurring. They were in the Great Mosque; the mourners, great and simple, were clustered elbow to elbow; the corpse of Big Father, embalmed so that it could endure the slow journey downriver to the royal burial grounds, lay in splendor atop its magnificent bier. Any ordinary citizen of Songhay would have gone from his deathbed to his grave in two hours, or less; but kings were exempt from the ordinary customs.