They were done at last with the chanting of the prayer for the dead. Now they were doing the prayer for the welfare of the kingdom. Little Father held his body rigid, barely troubling to breathe. He saw before him the grand nobles of the realm, the kings of the adjacent countries, the envoys of the overseas lands, all staring, all maintaining a mien of the deepest solemnity, even those who could not comprehend a word of what was being said.
And here was Serene Glory, now, coming forth bearing the cup that would make him Emir of Songhay, Great Imam, master of the nation, successor to all the great lords who had led the empire in grandeur for a thousand years.
She looked magnificent, truly queenly, more beautiful in her simple funeral robe and unadorned hair than she could ever have looked in all her finery. The cup, a stark bowl of lustrous chalcedony, so translucent that the dark liquor that would make him king was plainly visible through its thin walls, was resting lightly on her upturned palms.
He searched her for a sign of tremor and saw none. She was utterly calm. He felt a disturbing moment of doubt.
She handed him the cup, and spoke the words of succession, clearly, unhesitatingly, omitting not the smallest syllable. She was in full control of herself.
When he lifted the cup to his lips, though, he heard the sharp unmistakable sound of her suddenly indrawn breath, and all hesitation went from him.
“Mother,” he said.
The unexpected word reverberated through the whitewashed alcoves of the Great Mosque. They must all be looking at him in bewilderment.
“Mother, in this solemn moment of the passing of the kingship, I beg you share my ascension with me. Drink with me, mother. Drink. Drink.”
He held the untouched cup out toward the woman who had just handed it to him.
Her eyes were bright with horror.
“Drink with me, mother,” he said again.
“No—no—”
She backed a step or two away from him, making sounds like gravel in her throat.
“Mother—lady, dear lady—”
He held the cup out, insistently. He moved closer to her. She seemed frozen. The truth was emblazoned on her face. Rage rose like a fountain in him, and for an instant he thought he was going to hurl the drink in her face; but then he regained his poise. Her hand was pressed against her lips in terror. She moved back, back, back.
And then she was running toward the door of the mosque; and abruptly the Grand Duke Alexander Petrovich, his face erupting with red blotches of panic, was running also, and also Prince Itzcoatl of Mexico.
“No! Fools!” a voice cried out, and the echoes hammered at the ancient walls.
Little Father looked toward the foreign ambassadors. Sir Anthony stood out as though in a spotlight, his cheeks blazing, his eyes popping, his fingers exploring his lips as though he could not believe they had actually uttered that outcry.
There was complete confusion in the mosque. Everyone was rushing about, everyone was bellowing. But Little Father was quite calm. Carefully he set the cup down, untouched, at his feet. Ali Pasha came to his side at once.
“Round them up quickly,” he told the vizier. “The three ambassadors are persona non grata. They’re to leave Songhay by the next riverboat. Escort Mansa Suleiyman back to the Embassy of Mali and put armed guards around the building—for purely protective purposes, of course. And also the embassies of Ghana, Dahomey, Benin, and the rest, for good measure—and as window-dressing.”
“It will be done, majesty.”
“Very good.” He indicated the chalcedony cup. “As for this stuff, give it to a dog to drink, and let’s see what happens.”
Ali Pasha nodded and touched his forehead.
“And the lady Serene Glory, and her brother?”
“Take them into custody. If the dog dies, throw them both to the lions.”
“Your majesty—!”
“To the lions, Ali Pasha.”
“But you said—”
“To the lions, Ali Pasha.”
“I hear and obey, majesty.”
“You’d better.” Little Father grinned. He was Little Father no longer, he realized. “I like the way you say it: Majesty. You put just the right amount of awe into it.”
“Yes, majesty. Is there anything else, majesty?”
“I want an escort too, to take me to my palace. Say, fifty men. No, make it a hundred. Just in case there are any surprises waiting for us outside.”
“To your old palace, majesty?”
The question caught him unprepared. “No,” he said after a moment’s reflection. “Of course not. To my new palace. To the palace of the Emir.”
Selima came hesitantly forward into the throne room, which was one of the largest, most forbidding rooms she had ever entered. Not even the Sultan’s treasurehouse at the Topkapi Palace had any chamber to match this one for sheer dismal mustiness, for clutter, or for the eerie hodgepodge of its contents. She found the new Emir standing beneath a stuffed giraffe, examining an ivory globe twice the size of a man’s head that was mounted on an intricately carved spiral pedestal.
“You sent for me, your highness?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. It’s all calm outside there, now, I take it?”
“Very calm. Very calm.”
“Good. And the weather’s still cool?”
“Quite cool, your majesty.”
“But not raining again yet?”
“No, not raining.”
“Good.” Idly he fondled the globe. “The whole world is here, do you know that? Right under my hand. Here’s Africa, here’s Europe, here’s Russia. This is the Empire, here.” He brushed his hand across the globe from Istanbul to Madrid. “There’s still plenty of it, eh?” He spun the ivory sphere easily on its pedestal. “And this, the New World. Such emptiness there. The Incas down here in the southern continent, the Aztecs here in the middle, and a lot of nothing up here in the north. I once asked my father, do you know, if I could pay a visit to those empty lands. So cool there, I hear. So green, and almost empty. Just the red-skinned people, and not very many of them. Are they really red, do you think? I’ve never seen one.” He looked closely at her. “Have you ever thought of leaving Turkey, I wonder, and taking up a new life for yourself in those wild lands across the ocean?”
“Never, your majesty.”
She was trembling a little.
“You should think of it. We all should. Our countries are all too old. The land is tired. The air is tired. The rivers move slowly. We should go somewhere where things are fresh.” She made no reply. After a moment’s silence he said, “Do you love that tall gawky pink-faced Englishman, Selima?”
“Love?”
“Love, yes. Do you have any kind of fondness for him? Do you care for him at all? If love is too strong a word for you, would you say at least that you enjoy his company, that you see a certain charm in him, that—well, surely you understand what I’m saying.”
She seemed flustered. “I’m not sure that I do.”
“It appears to me that you feel attracted to him. God knows he feels attracted to you. He can’t go back to England, you realize. He’s compromised himself fifty different ways. Even after we patch up this conspiracy thing, and we certainly will, one way or another, the fact still remains that he’s guilty of treason. He has to go somewhere. He can’t stay here—the heat will kill him fast, if his own foolishness doesn’t. Are you starting to get my drift, Selima?”
Her eyes rose to meet his. Some of her old self-assurance was returning to them now.
“I think I am. And I think that I like it.”