He walked across the landing and tried the door opposite. There hadn’t been an occupant yesterday, but the room was locked. He used his laser to cut the deadbolt, and blew away the smoke with a flap of his hand as he heard footsteps coming purposefully up the stairs.
It was worth the time it took to relock his own door. He was in the empty room just as there were voices outside. He’d have to hurry. In three steps he was at the window, undoing the shutters, looking down and around. There was nothing to climb, and there was only a small grimy courtyard to jump down into.
Benzamir looked up. The eaves of the peaked roof were within reach. He tied the ends of the blanket so that he could wear it like a papoose. The emperor’s men were occupied trying to persuade the landlady to open the door. It wouldn’t be long before they realized that there was nothing there and widened their search.
He stood on the sill, turned round, then straightened up and fell backwards. He caught the edge of the shingled roof, and swung himself up until he was perched like a spider on the slope. The sandals gave him no grip, and he carefully slipped each one off and put them in the blanket.
The surrounding buildings were a similar height, and there was no one to overlook him. He listened carefully. The voices faded; they had gone into the room and were searching it for clues as to who the Sea People might be or where they had come from.
He waited: the door to the room below him opened. Benzamir grew very still. The boards creaked all the way across to the window. There was a pause.
Then they creaked back to the door. He allowed himself a rueful smile: here he was stuck on a roof with a mix of pens and brushes and contraband technology, while the local police stood around on the landing, arguing with each other about where he could have possibly gone. It was yet another thing he hadn’t exactly planned for.
It was time to move. He crept up to the ridge without crossing it, and made his way to the next house. He glanced back. No pursuit. Three more roofs and he was at the end of the row. A narrow alleyway separated them, leading from the street to a maze of outbuildings and animal pens.
He jumped it, lightly, surely. The absence of cries, drums or whistles told him he was still undetected. It couldn’t go on. Sooner or later he’d have to return to ground level, lose himself in the morning crowds.
The spies would know that when he left the citadel, he was carrying nothing but his pass. The inks he could just abandon in a rubbish tip somewhere, but the carpet had to go too, and that would be much more difficult. He wondered how he could possibly part with it now they had shared so many days’ travel, then in the next breath laughed at himself for such sentimentality.
He carried on to the next alley, keeping low all the while. He looked down, saw that the coast was reasonably clear and jumped. It was a long way down, but he didn’t balk. There was no magic to the landing, just a question of absorbing the impact with enough craft so that nothing broke.
He straightened himself up, dusted himself off and joined the early morning flow of people minding their own business. He took a walk towards the distant, belching kilns and furnaces, and came back just a little lighter.
The square had the name of a long dead king, resurrected from before the time of empire to provide some gravitas to the playful gardens and hissing fountain at its centre. Bright blooms nodded in the breeze, and the broad fronds of palm trees lacing together overhead meant that the shadows were cool and welcoming.
Benzamir watched the play of the water across the surface of the pond. The fountain spray fell in a threefold arch, breaking up the mirror reflection and sending sparkling light in every direction.
A familiar figure walked towards him, resplendent in red robes, accompanied by a servant with a parasol.
‘Shall we take a seat, Prince Benzamir?’ asked the underminister.
‘I’d like to say this was a pleasant surprise, but I think I know you better than that. I’ll have to confine myself to saying it is merely pleasant.’
Underminister Mwendwa indicated a bench surrounded by thorny bushes with brilliant orange flowers. The functionary with the parasol took up a position a little way away; not so close as to overhear, not so far as to not come when called.
‘The emperor sends his greetings to the emissary of the People over the Sea.’
‘The king, I’m sure, would reply in kind, Underminister. Though I’m not certain what he’d say about your following me around. Perhaps he’d thank you for keeping his representative safe in this wild and lawless city.’ Certain that the irony in his voice had been understood, Benzamir fetched out a paper bag of rose-water sweets he’d bought from a street vendor. ‘Care for one?’
‘You’re kindness itself,’ said Mwendwa, and licked his fingers free of icing sugar. ‘But I’ll ask you plainly: why do royal sons choose to stay in shabby guest houses and visit our iron works? I can’t believe you do it for enjoyment.’
‘The iron works were a wonder. Everyone should go. My father will be amazed when he hears of them. Though,’ added Benzamir, ‘you might want a word with the forge-master about this morning’s castings. Some impurities found their way into the mix. As to our lodgings? I’ve slept in worse.’
‘I hope you understand our caution, Prince. These are strange days. There are many visitors in Great Nairobi, and not all of them wish the empire well.’ Mwendwa gave Benzamir a sideways glance. ‘I call you Prince because I believe you have Kenya’s best interests at heart. Not because I believe you to be a prince.’
Benzamir chose his words carefully. ‘I’ve no reason to harm either empire or emperor, though you have to take my word for that. Underminister, why haven’t you arrested me yet?’
Mwendwa bent his head low. Benzamir leaned in to hear him. ‘You know of the trial of Solomon Akisi which takes place today?’
‘Great Nairobi talks of nothing else.’
‘He was an underminister, like myself. But he defied the emperor, who is wise in all things.’
‘Even if he’s wrong?’
‘Ah,’ said Mwendwa, ‘you see clearly. You brought the emperor a generous gift, but perhaps you would have done better to bring a cart-load of gold, or sacks of pearls from the sea.’
‘Underminister, I can’t help but be aware of the party factions of the Kenyan court; our delegation isn’t the only one to have arrived recently. As far as the Sea People are concerned, the gift of the book was most appropriate.’ He let that sink in, and added, ‘Then there’s the Russians.’
‘Will they press their case?’
‘Yes. They’re as passionate about their stolen property as the emperor is about his.’
Mwendwa played with the fleshy part of his chin. ‘That, perhaps, is to our advantage. I and my colleagues want the empire strong, because it benefits all people, not just us. Do you get my meaning?’
‘A weak empire is no use to anyone,’ agreed Benzamir, ‘except those who would make it deliberately weak. I’m not one of those people.’
‘I had thought so, and I’m glad to confirm this. We need all the friends we can get, Prince.’ Mwendwa sat pensively on the edge of the seat and looked up at the towers, the mills spinning on their high posts, the greenery cascading from rooftop gardens and windowsills. ‘If all this were swept away, we’d lose so much more than mere stone and tile. The Users? They were vain and stupid. Somehow they let their vices destroy them. I like to entertain the thought that the Kenyan empire is neither vain nor stupid, and that we’ll escape sharing their fate.’
Benzamir listened to the water fall and the leaves rustle. He shouldn’t choose sides, as he already had his own side to be on, but Mwendwa’s transparent passion for his city swayed him. ‘I’ll do what I can. Perhaps you can do something for me.’