It would be easier, he thinks, to perform a successful laryngotomy, or say the right thing to Bianca three times in a row.
The young Berber girl, Lalla, who does his infidel washing, comes to him with a plate of dates. Her gift is all the more touching for the knowledge that she herself is forbidden to take food until sunset. She stands at a discreet distance, watching in utter fascination while he eats, her face serious, her eyes growing wider by the moment. He smiles at her. When she smiles back, he thinks her expression might beat the sun for brilliance.
‘Hadir?’ he says, exaggerating the movements of his mouth.
Lalla points in the direction of the Koutoubia mosque, to indicate that Hadir is at his devotions. Then, her courage exhausted, she runs back into the house and the safety of grandmother Tiziri.
When Hadir returns, he has news. By some animal ability to sense the currents of the city, he has learned that Captain Connell has arrived with the rest of the cargo.
‘Are the apprentices with him?’
‘Captain Con-nell and four Christians – this is what my friend, the guard at the Bab Doukkala, tells me.’
‘Where are they now? Do you know?’
‘Resting in the garden where you and I met Minister al-Annuri. They will not stay long. Con-nell has lodgings in the Aduana.’
Nicholas opens his mouth to instruct Hadir to go there and see where Connell takes the apprentices, but a sudden hammering on the street door silences him. He imagines the white-robed, imperious al-Annuri has come to complete the job the kufiya left unfinished. Hadir looks at him, unable to hide the fear in his eyes. He is clearly thinking the same thing.
Moments later, grandmother Tiziri ushers Sumayl al-Seddik into the garden. He rolls as he walks, like a plumped bejewelled cushion blown on a stiff breeze. He seems in a mighty good humour. The tall, balding de Lisle trails him, observing Nicholas in mild surprise, as if he was making his morning rounds and hadn’t expected his patient to survive the night. A small coterie of al-Seddik’s attendants make up the rearguard.
‘We have been summoned,’ the minister says happily, making it sound as though he’s received a divine invitation. ‘His Majesty the sharif has granted you an audience.’
‘Today?’
‘Within the hour.’ A little wince of qualification. ‘Though His Majesty’s hours are not necessarily the same as a common man’s.’ He casts a disapproving eye over Nicholas’s plain attire. ‘Do you perchance have finer apparel than this?’
You sound like Robert Cecil, Nicholas thinks. Next you’ll be telling me I look like a Thames waterman. ‘I fear this is all I have, sir.’
In a minister’s world, apparently, such shortcomings are swiftly remedied. One of his attendants produces a robe of spun silk and an embroidered jerkin that are clearly not al-Seddik’s because – by pure coincidence – they fit Nicholas perfectly, almost as though they’d been prepared for the eventuality. As he puts them on, Hadir watches with a proud smile on his face.
‘I’ve never had an audience with a sultan,’ Nicholas says, as the attendant fastens a wide tasselled belt with a gold clasp around his waist. ‘I was once called before the Censors of the College of Physicians, but they only think they’re royalty. What is the protocol?’
‘It is very simple,’ al-Seddik tells him. ‘We will approach His Majesty on our knees. When he calls me forward, I will rise and kiss him on the cheek.’
‘Do I kiss him?’
‘Of course not,’ the minister says in horror. ‘You are an infidel. Imagine if I, a Moor, had sought such a familiarity with your queen when I was in London.’
‘You should have taken the chance,’ Nicholas replies with a mischievous grin. ‘They say she’s a dreadful flirt. The Earl of Leicester died before he plucked up the courage. At the moment, in the Jackdaw, all the serious money is on the Earl of Essex.’
Al-Seddik looks at him blankly. ‘I will ask you for the letter. You will hand it to me. I shall then break the seal and translate its contents to His Majesty. In return, he may give you a gift. Or he may pay you no attention at all. Whatever his reaction, we shall retire on our knees. After that, I will have a couple of my fellows ensure that you return here safely. I wouldn’t want you wandering lost in the lanes, dressed in such tempting garb.’
‘I’ll get the letter,’ Nicholas says, beckoning Hadir to follow him. When they are out of al-Seddik’s hearing he says, ‘Go at once to where Connell and the apprentices are. Keep watch. Find out where he takes them.’
‘But I must accompany Sayidi Nich-less to the palace,’ Hadir protests, sounding like a small boy who’s been told he can’t stay in the same room as the adults. ‘I have to – I am your secretary.’
‘You will be doing me – and your sultan – a far better service by discovering where those apprentices go. They may lead us to the Falconer.’
Reluctantly Hadir accepts. ‘Be careful of Minister al-Seddik,’ he warns.
‘Why? If we can trust anyone, we can trust him. He is Lord Burghley’s friend. I’ll tell him about Sykes’s letter when de Lisle has gone.’
‘I mean, don’t trust him not to steal the sharif’s reward from me. He is already a rich man. Hadir needs the gold more than he does.’
Nicholas laughs. ‘I promise I won’t let him cheat you. Just remember to stay out of Connell’s sight.’
‘He will not see me,’ Hadir promises with a grave frown. ‘I shall be like the magic letter Sayidi Sy-kess writes to your friends in England. I shall become invisible.’
‘It is called, in English, the Palace of Wonders,’ says al-Seddik proudly as he leads Nicholas through the immense ornate archway.
The el-Badi Palace seems to Nicholas well named – a secret world with its own horizons of high red walls flanked with shady, pillared pavilions. He gazes out over a vast area of manicured gardens set with date palms, olive and citrus trees. Pathways reflect the dazzling sunlight from uncountable numbers of small glazed tiles, lapis blue, emerald green and blood red, all strung together in geometric patterns, as if the artisans who crafted them had somehow found a way to weave solid stone on a loom. Fountains fill the air with their melodic song. Down the centre runs a broad pool as wide as a river, where birds with long, curving bills wade.
‘They are ibis,’ al-Seddik tells him. ‘It is fitting that His Majesty should look out upon creatures who once graced the palaces of the pharaohs.’
Nicholas searches for a sign of the man on whom this magnificence is lavished, paid for – as Hadir has told him – by Portuguese gold and built by Portuguese slaves. But there is no sign of anyone remotely grand enough.
They are led to one of the tented pavilions, to sink down upon silken cushions and await His Majesty’s pleasure. De Lisle is still with them. Nicholas finds himself casting glances at the Frenchman, as if trying to penetrate that aloof exterior to see the conspiracy boiling within. After a while he stops, fearing the Frenchman will grow suspicious of his interest.
And so they wait.
And wait.
His Majesty’s hours are not necessarily the same as a common man’s…
It is mid-afternoon, shortly after the al-’asr prayers, before they are called.