‘How can I break the news to you that the king has been dead for hundreds of years but lives on as an uploaded machine intelligence? Oh. I just did.’
‘Why not use your father’s name,’ said Alessandra.
‘That’s a very good suggestion. It’d make the old man proud, but won’t that make me a prince?’
‘Is that such a bad thing?’ She shrugged.
Benzamir dipped his brush in the ink one last time and wrote: ‘King Benyounes Zamir Mahmood.’
He pushed his stool back and examined the page critically. ‘Good enough, or start again?’
They moved closer, pressing against him, looking at it from his point of view.
‘I have no idea what all that scribbling means,’ said Said, ‘but it’s a miracle.’
‘He’s right,’ said Alessandra. ‘It’s beautiful. You’ve done very well.’
‘Wahir?’
‘It’s a very impressive document, master. Only weren’t you supposed to do it in Arabic too?’
With a sigh, Benzamir dropped back down on the stool, took up his brush and started writing underneath.
They added a few frills: some extra titles for Benzamir’s father, which included King of the People over the Sea; a copy of the fictitious Great Seal, embossed with the blunt end of a steel needle; an extra brilliant illumination of impossible creatures and magical ships.
Then it was finished. They left it to dry on the table and lay on their beds, prickly with heat. Only Wahir lounged by the window, accepting the gift of a slight breeze.
‘It’s very quiet outside.’
‘It’ll pick up again soon. No one wants to work at the moment.’
‘Slaves have to,’ said Alessandra. ‘Slaves work and masters sleep.’
‘But listen,’ said Benzamir. ‘Remember how noisy it was before? This is not an economy run on slave labour.’
‘So who does the work?’ asked Said. He lifted his head off his mattress briefly, before letting it fall back down. ‘Who collects the night soil? Who drags the stone? Who guts the fish?’
‘Slave economies are appallingly inefficient – never mind their innate cruelty. There’s no incentive for the slave owners to do anything different, and there’s every incentive for the slaves to do as little as possible, or rise up and kill their owners. Slavery is bad for the empire, which is why I’m assuming the emperor has either banned it or at least discourages it.’
‘What do your people do, Benzamir?’ Alessandra got up and poured a cup of water from the pitcher. She drank half of it, then dribbled the rest of it over her face until it ran down her neck and darkened her clothes.
Distracted, Benzamir caught Said looking at her, then at him. He purposefully stared at the wooden boards of the ceiling. ‘My people? We don’t have money, as such. We work on a system of credit called a Gift economy. Those who gift the most to their tribe, and to all the – ah, people – some of whom aren’t strictly people – have the highest status.’
They all fell silent for a while, then Alessandra said: ‘So who does empty the chamber pots?’
‘We use magic. If we wanted – if I wanted – I wouldn’t have to lift a finger from cradle to grave. Everything would be done for me. But my status would be lower than that of a worm.’
‘How much status do you have?’
‘I’ve lost a lot, along with the whole tribe. Having a traitor in your midst, someone you’ve shared everything with since you were young, is taken very seriously. I have to take my share of the blame, and assume my part of the responsibility in righting the wrong.’
‘What a strange life you lead, Benzamir.’ Alessandra refilled the cup and gave it to him. ‘I can’t imagine a country where these things happen. But I think I might like to see it.’
‘I . . .’ Benzamir hesitated as he sat up and took the water from her. He drank to buy himself some time. ‘I never imagined I would eat dates, or play backgammon in the place it was invented, or see the pyramids. How can my imagination compete with this? You have such a beautiful, complicated place to live. Exploring it would take ten – a hundred lifetimes. Why would you ever want to leave?’
She was about to say something else when Wahir interrupted and the moment was lost.
‘Master, what is it that your enemies want with us? What could we possibly give them that they don’t already have?’
‘I don’t know if I hoped you’d ask, or that you wouldn’t. And I don’t know if this is the time to answer, either.’ Benzamir gnawed at his finger. ‘You’re right: you can give them nothing. But look at what they would give you in return.’
‘What, master?’
‘Everything.’ He was appalled and excited at the thought. ‘Absolutely everything.’
A little while before sunset they set off back up the hill. The citadel grew larger until it was all they saw: the massive walls, the formidable doors, the spear-carriers on the ramparts. In comparison, they were inconsequential. From easy talk, they lapsed into nervous silence until Said said: ‘You should have a chariot, like the Ethiopians, or a string of camels, the more the better. We will be laughed at and turned away.’
‘More likely killed and thrown to the dogs,’ said Wahir. ‘How could we have expected anything else?’
Benzamir beat some of the dust out of his kaftan with the flat of his hand. ‘I know what they expect: banners, heralds, musicians, a parade of wealth and a big splash of noise and colour. All they’re getting is us, a raggedy band of travellers. But’ – and he grasped the big man by the shoulders – ‘appearances are deceptive. If they only knew who they were meeting. The mighty warrior Said Mohammed, protector of the noble line of Alam.’
He spun round to take Wahir under his arms and lift him up. ‘Then there’s Wahir the Fox, trusted son, cunning spy.’
‘Master, put me down. The scroll is becoming creased.’
‘Good,’ said Benzamir, and he creased it some more until, laughing, Wahir struggled free.
‘And what about me?’ said Alessandra shyly. ‘Or you, for that matter?’
He bowed before her. ‘You’re Alessandra the Free, learned and wise, fearless and true. And me? I am Benzamir Michael Mahmood, Prince of the People over the Sea. Who would dare turn us away?’
‘No one, master. We are kings in our own land!’
‘Wahir, we’re kings wherever we go. It isn’t that you wear a crown or have a hundred servants or a thousand soldiers. It’s here’ – Benzamir touched his head and then his heart – ‘and here. We might be dirty, smelly, tired, hungry, thirsty, scared. But we’re still kings.’
‘And are these supposed to be words to live by?’ Alessandra tried to straighten out the corners of the page of vellum Wahir was clutching.
‘Believe them. At least for the next five minutes, that’s all I ask.’ The line of the gate was marked by a thick iron bar set into the ground, pierced with huge holes ready to receive massive bolts. Above them loomed the arch, and inside, steel-helmeted guards lurking in the cool shadow. ‘I have to believe it for the next five minutes as well.’
Benzamir stepped over the line and announced: ‘I bring greetings from the People over the Sea to the emperor of the mighty Kenyan empire.’
The guards, fine-faced Africans from the north, roused themselves and their broad-bladed spears. They looked over the visitors and called their captain.
‘What? What is it?’ he asked wearily in heavily accented World.
‘I am Prince Mahmood, and I’m seeking an audience with the emperor.’
‘Can’t you read?’ said the captain, pointing to the forest of signs outside the gate.
‘Of course we can. We’re not barbarians. Wahir?’
Wahir presented the rolled-up vellum with as much aplomb as he could muster. The captain unrolled it and pretended to read it while plainly not understanding a word.
‘If you haven’t got a letter of invitation from the right minister, you can’t come in.’ He handed the document back without re-rolling it, and folded his arms.