The Emir’s longevity was becoming an embarrassment. Weeks were going by and the daily bulletins were a monotonous succession of medical ups and downs, with no clear pattern. The special ambassadors, unexpectedly snared in an ungratifying city at a disagreeable time of year, could not leave, but were beginning to find it an agony to stay on. It was evident to everyone now that the news of Big Father’s imminent demise had gone forth to the world in a vastly overanticipatory way.
“If only the old bastard would simply get up and step out on his balcony and tell us he’s healthy again, and let us all go home,” Sir Anthony said. “Or succumb at last, one or the other. But this suspension, this indefiniteness—”
“Perhaps the prince will grow weary of the waiting and have him smothered in a pillow,” Prince Itzcoatl suggested.
The Englishman shook his head. “He’d have done that ten years ago, if he had it in him at all. The time’s long past for him to murder his father.”
They were on the covered terrace of the Mexican embassy. In the dreadful heat-stricken silence of the day the foreign dignitaries, as they awaited the intolerably deferred news of the Emir’s death, moved in formal rotation from one embassy to another, making ceremonial calls in accordance with strict rules of seniority and precedence.
“His Excellency the Grand Duke Alexander Petrovitch,” the Aztec major domo announced.
The foreign embassies were all in the same quarter of New Timbuctoo, along the grand boulevard known as The Street of All Nations. In the old days the foreigners had lived in the center of the Old Town, in fine houses in the best native style, palaces of stone and brick covered with mauve or orange clay. But Big Father had persuaded them one by one to move to the New City. It was undignified and uncomfortable, he insisted, for the representatives of the great overseas powers to live in mud houses with earthen floors.
Having all the foreigners’ dwellings lined up in a row along a single street made it much simpler to keep watch over them, and, in case international difficulties should arise, it would be ever so much more easy to round them all up at once under the guise of “protecting” them. But Big Father had not taken into account that it was also very much easier for the foreigners to mingle with each other, which was not necessarily a good idea. It facilitated conspiracy as well as surveillance.
“We are discussing our impatience,” Prince Itzcoatl told the Russian, who was the cousin of the Czar. “Sir Anthony is weary of Timbuctoo.”
“Nor am I the only one,” said the Englishman. “Did you hear that Maori ranting and raving yesterday at the Peruvian party? But what can we do? What can we do?”
“We could to Egypt go while we wait, perhaps,” said the Grand Duke. “The Pyramids, the Sphinx, the temples of Karkak!”
“Karnak,” Sir Anthony said. “But what if the old bugger dies while we’re gone? We’d never get back in time for the funeral. What a black eye for us!”
“And how troublesome for our plans,” said the Aztec.
“Mansa Suleiyman would never forgive us,” said Sir Anthony.
“Mansa Suleiyman! Mansa Suleiyman!” Alexander Petrovich spat. “Let the black brigand do his own dirty work, then. Brothers, let us go to Egypt. If the Emir dies while we are away, will not the prince be removed whether or not we happen to be in attendance at the funeral?”
“Should we be speaking of this here?” Prince Itzcoatl asked, plucking in displeasure at his earplugs.
“Why not? There is no danger. These people are like children. They would never suspect—”
“Even so—”
But the Russian would not be deterred. Bull-like, he said, “It will all go well whether we are here or not. Believe me. It is all arranged, I remind you. So let us go to Egypt, then, before we bake to death. Before we choke on the sand that blows through these miserable streets.”
“Egypt’s not a great deal cooler than Songhay right now,” Prince Itzcoatl pointed out. “And sand is not unknown there either.”
The Grand Duke’s massive shoulders moved in a ponderous shrugging gesture.
“To the south, then, to the Great Waterfalls. It is winter in that part of Africa, such winter as they have. Or to the Islands of the Canaries. Anywhere, anywhere at all, to escape from this Timbuctoo. I fry here. I sizzle here. I remind you that I am Russian, my friends. This is no climate for Russians.”
Sir Anthony stared suspiciously into the sea-green eyes. “Are you the weak link in our little affair, my dear Duke Alexander? Have we made a mistake by asking you to join us?”
“Does it seem so to you? Am I untrustworthy, do you think?”
“The Emir could die at any moment. Probably will. Despite what’s been happening, or not happening, it’s clear that he can’t last very much longer. The removal of the prince on the day of the funeral, as you have just observed, has been arranged. But how can we dare risk being elsewhere on that day? How can we even think of such a thing?” Sir Anthony’s lean face grew florid; his tight mat of graying red hair began to rise and crackle with inner electricity; his chilly blue eyes became utterly arctic. “It is essential that in the moment of chaos that follows, the great-power triumvirate we represent—the troika, as you say—be on hand here to invite King Suleiyman of Mali to take charge of the country. I repeat, your excellency: essential. The time factor is critical. If we are off on holiday in Egypt, or anywhere else—if we are so much as a day too late getting back here—”
Prince Itzcoatl said, “I think the Grand Duke understands that point, Sir Anthony.”
“Ah, but does he? Does he?”
“I think so.” The Aztec drew in his breath sharply and let his gleaming obsidian eyes meet those of the Russian. “Certainly he sees that we’re all in it too deep to back out, and that therefore he has to abide by the plan as drawn, however inconvenient he may find it personally.”
The Grand Duke, sounding a little nettled, said, “We are traveling too swiftly here, I think. I tell you, I hate this filthy place, I hate its impossible heat, I hate its blowing sand, I hate its undying Emir, I hate its slippery lecherous prince. I hate the smell of the air, even. It is the smell of camel shit, the smell of old mud. But I am your partner in this undertaking to the end. I will not fail you, believe me.” His great shoulders stirred like boulders rumbling down a slope. “The consolidation of Mali and Songhay would be displeasing to the Sultan, and therefore it is pleasing to the Czar. I will assist you in making it happen, knowing that such a consolidation has value for your own nations as well, which also is pleasing to my royal cousin. By the Russian Empire from the plan there will be no withdrawal. Of such a possibility let there be no more talk.”
“Of holidays in Egypt let there be no more talk either,” said Prince Itzcoatl. “Agreed? None of us likes being here, Duke Alexander. But here we have to stay, like it or not, until everything is brought to completion.”
“Agreed. Agreed.” The Russian snapped his fingers. “I did not come here to bicker. I have hospitality for you, waiting outside. Will you share vodka with me?” An attache of the Russian Embassy entered, bearing a crystal beaker in a bowl of ice. “This arrived today, by the riverboat, and I have brought it to offer to my beloved friends of England and Mexico. Unfortunately of caviar there is none, though there should be. This heat! This heat! Caviar, in this heat—impossible!” The Grand Duke laughed. “To our great countries! To international amity! To a swift and peaceful end to the Emir’s terrible sufferings! To your healths, gentlemen! To your healths!”
“To Mansa Suleiyman, King of Mali and Songhay,” Prince Itzcoatl said.