‘Prince Mahmood,’ said the emperor, laying the scroll to one side, ‘I wish to learn more of your People over the Sea.’
‘As you wish, Your Imperial Highness,’ said Benzamir. ‘We are travellers from the far northern sea. We pride ourselves on our shipbuilding and our navigation. We learned of your power and fame from merchants who were beginning to bring us tales of Great Nairobi. My father the king insisted that I and my companions set out at once to find you, and to offer you this book as a token of our esteem.’
‘Did he indeed?’ said the emperor. The gold crown on his head glittered.
Benzamir pulled Wahir forward and they gave the book to the functionary, who carried it up to the throne. The emperor hesitated as he started to unwrap the rug from it.
‘Prince Mahmood, how did this book come to your father?’
‘It was brought to our lands by a merchant. When we heard that it might have been acquired, shall we say, under dubious circumstances, it made my father all the more determined to deliver it to you.’
The emperor narrowed his eyes and pulled the last of the rug away. The gleaming book sat heavy in his hands – hands that were now crawling with microscopic bugs.
‘You are right, People from over the Sea, that this book was lost to me and I despaired of its restoration. You do me honour in returning it without fear or favour, and I welcome you into friendship with the Kenyan empire.’ He hesitated again, almost turning his head to one side, then the other, without wishing to be seen to do either. ‘It is my wish that I repay this great compliment your father has bestowed on me. I would have us draw up a treaty between your people and mine, and ambassadors exchanged. While these articles are drafted, you will be my guests. I will arrange matters and, in due course, speak with you again.’
Benzamir felt a tingling of anticipation, but said nothing about it. ‘Your Imperial Majesty is both gracious and hospitable. We will wait on your pleasure.’ In Arabic, he added, ‘Bow and leave, but remember not to turn round.’
They retreated all the way down the throne room and eventually reached the far end. The tall doors opened for them, seemingly without human intervention, and they ended up back in the antechamber. The doors swung shut with a solid bang.
‘It went well?’ asked the underminister. ‘I thought it did.’
‘Yes, it went very well,’ said Benzamir.
Alessandra looked worried, and he managed to communicate to her without speaking that she should stay quiet for the moment.
‘I thought that you bowed to no man,’ said Said.
‘Ibn Alam demanded something from me that wasn’t his to ask for and that I wasn’t prepared to give. That’s not how Gift works.’ Benzamir glanced back at the doors. ‘But sometimes you have to play the game.’
Wahir followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Was there something going on that . . .?’
‘Wahir. Not now.’
‘But . . .’
‘Really, not now.’ Benzamir turned to the underminister with a forced smile. ‘If you’ll show us to our rooms, there are matters of state I need to discuss with my colleagues.’
‘Of course, Your Highness. Please follow me.’
They back-tracked their way through the palace until they were outside, in a garden rich with green plants and scarlet flowers. Night had fallen and the sky was once more alive with stars, the air thick with perfume and insects.
‘Wahir, remember this place, just by the fountain. If we get separated for any reason, this is where you come. Yes?’
‘Master, was it just me, or did the emperor seem, well, scared?’
Benzamir looked up: Underminister Mwendwa was ahead, carrying a swinging lantern on a pole, and Said and Alessandra were between him and them.
‘I thought that too. We can’t talk about it unless we’re certain we’re not being overheard. So not another word.’
Wahir turned round, looking at all the high walls and towers, fixing the garden’s location in his mind. ‘There are figures in the dark, up on roofs.’
‘There’s no reason for anyone to trust us. We don’t have a history, and our story is as thin as fog. The only thing going for us is that it’ll take a while for them to work out who we really are and what we want.’
‘By which time we’ll have gone.’
‘You should have stayed at school, Wahir. You learn very quickly.’
They had crossed the courtyard garden, and the underminister waited for them at the door to a red-stained building that had many lines of lit windows up its sheer face.
‘The guest accommodation,’ said the underminister. ‘I trust it will be acceptable.’
They were given a suite of rooms on the third floor. The cunningly designed building had a central courtyard overlooked by balconies, but none of the windows on the outer walls would open. Thick squares of blown glass knitted together in a hardwood frame let in light, but nothing else.
Servants would bring them whatever they wanted, but they could not leave without an escort.
The moment Underminister Mwendwa had left them, Alessandra blurted out: ‘What the hell is going on, Benzamir?’
He put his finger to his lips and made sure that everyone saw it, then beckoned them over into a huddle. With their heads touching, he whispered: ‘These walls will have ears, I guarantee it. It’s quite clear we weren’t believed. We’re sea people, but didn’t come from the sea. We look like a bunch of Arab tribesmen, except for Alessandra, and they know the book was traded in Misr. They’ve every reason to throw us in a cell, but they have to treat us as guests, because they can’t work out why we’re doing what we’re doing.’
‘The emperor was very ill-at-ease,’ said Alessandra. ‘You must have seen that.’
‘I didn’t notice anything,’ said Said.
‘There were things he said too.’
‘I don’t understand World.’
Benzamir hushed them. ‘For now, we’re People from over the Sea. We have to stay in character every moment, together or alone. Give the Kenyans no extra reason to suspect us. There is something going on, though, outside our little charade.’
‘What could it be?’ asked Wahir, his voice rising with excitement.
‘Shout it out, why don’t you? It can’t be anything to do with us; we’ve only just got here.’ He worked his jaw as if chewing. ‘The trial. The book. Things are moving too fast.’
‘What of your special beetles, master? When will they tell you something?’
‘When I have a chance to listen to them.’ Benzamir heard a note of exasperation creep into his voice. ‘We’re all hungry and tired. Get some food brought up, and I’ll join you later. All right?’
They all straightened up. Said thought it should be Alessandra who fetched the servants, and Alessandra bristled at the suggestion. Benzamir left them arguing and found one of the simple but neat rooms in which to hide.
He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. By concentrating, he started to see and hear things he should neither see nor hear.
The image was grainy, contorted, a fish-eye view that was built up in incomplete layers to make a discordant whole. The sound was better, alternately booming or tinny, depending on the distance of the source from the bugs.
The book was being carried down a corridor. He could hear the emperor’s heavy footsteps and sense his weight rolling from side to side in the motion of the picture.
There was someone else too. Another man all in black from head to foot, so that even his feet were obscured. He was walking in front, leading the way.
Benzamir frowned in his half-sleep. At first he thought it was the man with the scars they’d seen earlier, but it wasn’t. There was something wrong about the way the man moved too.
They reached a door and went through. The emperor closed it behind them and they were alone: no guards, no servants, no advisers. Just two men in an empty room.
‘This is fortunate,’ said the man. He spoke in Swahili, though the sound was muffled by the folds of cloth that hung over his face. ‘These Sea People have succeeded where your Ethiopians have failed. Perhaps my alliance should have been with them.’