‘Will your enemies be able to see these magic beetles?’ asked Wahir. ‘Is it like your tattoo?’
‘It’s a risk I have to take. I don’t think they’ll be watching for them, but even if they do detect the bugs, they won’t know for certain where they came from or who set them.’
Said nodded. ‘It’s a good plan then. We’ll need the best parchment, or vellum, and coloured inks.’ He looked through the purse and brought out the last of the sheikh’s money. ‘If this doesn’t work, we’re going to starve to death.’
‘To be honest,’ said Benzamir, ‘this is the bit that scares me most. Actually writing, using a pen or a brush, isn’t something I’m too familiar with. We have machines to write for us.’
Alessandra linked arms with him and started marching him down the hill to the riotous city below. ‘Then you’ll have to practise first, Benzamir. I’m not going hungry again.’
They rented a room in a house close by the citadel, with a wide window that let in lots of light. While Alessandra and Wahir went out to find inks and paint, paper and ribbon, Benzamir practised his Swahili on the landlady, and Said moved the single large table over to where it would be of most use.
Then they waited. It was becoming hot, and both men grew increasingly uncomfortable. They sat on the table, as close to the window as they could get without falling out, watching the street below slowly empty as the sun reached its zenith. All the time, the spires of the citadel winked and beckoned in the haze.
‘Look! A procession,’ said Said, and almost fell off the window ledge. ‘Merciful Allah! Is that an elephant?’
Benzamir craned his neck round the shutters and saw it was true. An elephant, dressed in heavy cloth sewn with thousands of metal plates, lumbered by. On its back was a small covered howdah carrying a driver and two archers. A handful of children had escaped their parents to watch from the street, and though they waved and called up, the soldiers imperiously ignored them.
Behind the elephant came a troop of spearmen, wearily trudging the dusty road, heads down; behind them, an ox cart pulled by a team of huge-horned cows, white with sweat and panting hard. Their load was an Arab driver, an ostrich-plumed Kenyan officer and three more people.
One was a prisoner. He had his hands chained together and around part of the cart to prevent his escape. He looked beaten, his dusty face pale next to his guard’s gleaming skin. The other two were of less certain position: they shared a ride with a captive man, yet they were free to grip the sides of the rolling cart on their own. One was a man, a Ewer most likely, with a hint of white-blond hair on his pink head and dressed all in black. The man’s clothing didn’t seem the most appropriate for the climate, and Benzamir wondered how far he was from home.
The woman . . . Benzamir felt his hands tighten around the windowsill and the breath catch in his throat. At that moment she happened to look up and saw them gawking down at her. She returned their curious stares with cool disregard.
Then they were past, heading up the hill towards the citadel.
‘Said?’ said Benzamir. ‘What story goes untold here?’
‘I’ll be back soon.’ Said slid off the table, and was gone. He reappeared trotting alongside the cart, asking questions of the driver. The officer shouted at him and tried to shoo him away, but Said was persistent. Only when he’d scavenged his answers did he stop, hands on his knees, gasping for breath. He trudged back.
‘You’re not going to believe this, master,’ he panted, and stopped to drink the water proffered by Benzamir. ‘The black man in chains is a thief. Guess what he stole?’
‘The emperor’s books? Did they get the other one back?’
‘No. The driver said that both had been lost, and the emperor was furious. The thief is going to be tried. And hanged. Or stoned. Or something like that.’
Benzamir refilled Said’s pottery mug. ‘Did the driver say when the trial was going to start?’
‘He said tomorrow. He said that the emperor himself was going to sit in judgement. The thief isn’t a common man, but one of the emperor’s underministers. I don’t know what that means, but it sounds important.’
‘What it means is that we’re running out of time.’ Benzamir tutted.
Wahir burst in, and Alessandra followed a moment later, carrying an armful of soft cotton bags.
‘Master! You’ll never guess what we saw!’
‘You mean, the man who stole the emperor’s books being taken to the citadel in chains?’
Deflated, Wahir sulked. ‘How did you know? It could have been anything. Having a magician as a master isn’t fun.’
Benzamir pointed down to the street. ‘They came by here, and Said went to find out. Did you learn anything about the others who were with him?’
‘The Ewer man and woman? No. The man in the black coat is very scary though. Up close, he’s a mess of scars. He looks like a monster. The woman just watched me. Like there was nothing there, no feelings.’ Wahir leaned out of the window, looking at the dust cloud drifting along towards the brass gates. ‘Very pretty, in a sad way.’
‘Let’s get this table cleaned up and make a start,’ said Benzamir, brushing the wood with his hand and inspecting the dirt clinging to his fingertips. ‘We have to see the emperor. Today, if possible.’
‘Why?’ asked Said.
‘I don’t know why. It’s suddenly become important.’ Benzamir took the first few bags from Alessandra and examined their contents. ‘When the sun goes down, we’re just going to have to present ourselves at the citadel and see how far we get.’
‘Master, what’s wrong?’
They could all tell that something had changed, but couldn’t tell what. Neither could Benzamir. He was at a loss to know how to explain himself.
‘There comes a moment in every story when a small action, inconsequential on its own, turns out to be the tipping point. I think— no, I feel that if we have an audience with the emperor the day after tomorrow, it’ll be a day too late. I just hope that we don’t have to trust to my skill, and that the book will be enough to get us in.’
CHAPTER 30
AFTER A FEW doodles and incomprehensible lines of script, Benzamir declared himself ready.
‘Right,’ he said. He cracked his fingers and flexed his wrists, and sat on the stool. ‘Make me some red. Red’s always impressive.’
Wahir tapped some of the red dye into a soapstone bowl and dripped the acid onto it until a thick, bubbling paste formed. He pushed the bowl across the table.
Benzamir picked up his brush and inspected the fine end. He sucked on the antelope hair to make it finer still, and dipped it in the ink. He looked up and saw that everyone was holding their breath.
‘This could take a while,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you didn’t all turn blue and fall over.’
‘Sorry,’ said Said, and held the corner of the vellum down.
Benzamir started to construct an illuminated capital, a letter clutched at by some great worm-like creature with many arms. He used green and brown, and fine brass dust to simulate gold leaf. ‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘It just has to be good enough.’
Wahir mixed up a large pot of thick black paint, and while the illumination dried, Benzamir pricked out lines using a needle. When he was ready, he started to write: ‘To His Imperial Majesty Emperor Yohane Muzorewa, greetings. I commend to you His Excellency Benzamir Michael Mahmood, my loyal servant, and his illustrious retinue, on this the first meeting of our two proud and noble peoples. I pledge peace between us, and authorize my servants to act on my behalf as they humbly present to you a gift, a token of the friendship that might exist between us. Yours in good faith—’ And he stopped. ‘I need something that sounds impressive. But not ridiculous.’
‘Who’s your king? Can’t you put his name down?’ said Said.