“Given the political instability of the system, I would imagine that the sultan’s personal security must be extremely sensitive,” Magda said to Garcia. “After all, he inherited the throne after his brother was killed, didn’t he?”
“It’s worsened in the last few weeks,” Garcia said. “The local insurgents have gotten their hands on modern offworld arms. It has significantly upped the ante, so to speak.”
Sikander glanced from the window to the consul. “Modern arms? The reports we saw didn’t mention that.”
“The Royal Guard is keeping those details out of the press for now. They don’t want it publicly known that the Caidists are well-funded enough to bring in offworld arms.”
“Who would want to support the extremists?” Magda asked. “Islamic hardliners from the Caliphate? Foreign operatives inclined to make a little trouble for Montréal?”
“There’s a Dremish cruiser just over our heads,” Sikander observed.
Garcia shook his head. “The Panther showed up a few days after the weapons were first employed. Wherever the new arms came from, they weren’t on board the warship,” he said. Then he leaned forward a bit and pointed out the window behind Sikander’s seat. “Not to change the subject, but if you’ll look to your right, you can get a good view of El-Badi Palace. It’s really quite impressive.”
Sikander turned in his seat and peered out the window as the others looked past him. The palace compound sprawled over a low, flat-topped hill between Tanjeer’s downtown quarter and the Silver Sea. Domes sheathed in gold leaf glittered with blinding brightness in the sunlight; elegant marble colonnades and arcades ringed the main structure, decorated with patterns of blue tile. The ground car sped along a tree-lined boulevard at the foot of the hill, heading toward the palace gate.
“Are there any special considerations of etiquette we should be aware of?” Markham asked the consul.
“Address the sultan as ‘Your Highness.’ Under no circumstances should you initiate contact, so don’t offer your hand. If he offers you his, it’s acceptable to shake.” Garcia thought for a moment. “The sultan’s niece Ranya may be in attendance. Her title is amira. The same rules apply for her. Oh, and one last thing—are any of you title holders? I should include that in any introductions.”
“My executive officer is the senator Malgray, but he remained on the ship today,” said Captain Markham. Senatorial families were well represented in the Commonwealth Navy, making up a good ten or fifteen percent of the officer corps. Naturally, the percentage only increased once one reached the flag ranks. “And Mr. North here is Nawabzada of Ishar.”
“Ah, a Kashmiri title.” Garcia looked back to Sikander. “May I ask where that falls in precedence?”
“It’s equivalent to senator-viceroy,” said Sikander.
The consul raised an eyebrow. That was about as close to royalty as one could get in Aquila’s patrician ranks. “That may be helpful,” he observed. “Sultan Rashid understands that our senatorial families are title holders, but the lack of letters-patent colors his perception of Aquilans just a bit. You are certainly the highest-ranking individual in Commonwealth service to visit in quite a while, Mr. North. I wouldn’t be surprised if he warms up to you because of that.”
“Captain Markham is my commanding officer, Mr. Garcia. The sultan shouldn’t overlook her because I happen to have a title,” said Sikander. The ground limo turned in to the palace gate, and climbed slowly up a winding road under the shade of stately rows of palms that led to the top of El-Badi’s hill.
Captain Markham gave Sikander a wry smile. “Don’t be concerned on my account, Mr. North. I asked you to join the landing party specifically because I guessed that the local aristocrats might be impressed by your pedigree. From what I understand, the sultan leaves most important matters to the officials in his court. Mr. Garcia will be introducing me to the decision makers while you keep the royals occupied.”
Sikander inclined his head. “My duty becomes clear, ma’am. I will strive to be as interesting as possible.”
The ground limo turned in to a circular driveway by the palace’s grand main entrance. Delicate fountains and pools stood on either side of the drive. Servants in traditional Gadiran garb hurried up to open the doors and offer the Aquilans assistance in climbing out of the car. For a moment, Sikander wondered if they would be escorted through the gilded front doors with blasts of trumpets, but Franklin Garcia motioned for them to follow him to a winding path that led around the building. From somewhere ahead of the Aquilans came the soft sound of music playing and the buzz of voices in conversation. Then they rounded a wing of the palace, and found an elegant party in progress among the gardens and pavilions behind the palace. Colorful canopies draped between marble columns provided shade; at a glance, it seemed that about half the attendees were offworlders, and half were well-off Gadirans.
Garcia spoke briefly with a palace attendant, who announced their arrival. Sikander thought that a few heads turned at his own rather colorful title, but most of the attendees took little notice; if one moved in these circles, the formalities quickly ceased to draw one’s attention. Then the consul ushered them toward a buffet. “Refresh yourselves if you like, but stay close by,” he told them. “An attendant will come find us when the sultan is ready to meet you. It shouldn’t be long.”
Sikander hadn’t thought he was very hungry, but the lavish spread in front of him changed his mind. He helped himself to a small selection of fruits and cheeses, and discovered that no alcohol was being served. Instead, he found a wide selection of teas and fruit juices, so he settled for some lemonade, taking great care not to spill anything on his spotless uniform. The other officers followed suit and stood together taking in the crowd as they ate and drank. Most of the men wore military uniforms or modern Montréalais-style suits, although the native Gadirans added a fez or close-fitting caps not unlike the pakuls many Kashmiri men wore. The women dressed in colorful, flowing dresses with delicate embroidery; most were bareheaded.
“I rather expected burkas and veiled faces,” Magda Juarez observed, echoing Sikander’s own thoughts. “This seems a good deal more open than some of the Caliphate worlds.”
“The guests may not be very representative of Gadira as a whole,” said Markham. “We are standing in the sultan’s garden, after all.”
They had just finished their first small plates when a stoop-shouldered, silver-haired man with a broad face and flat features approached. He wore a light summer suit of modern cut, and smiled warmly. “Good afternoon, Franklin,” he said to Garcia. “Unless I am badly mistaken, these must be some of the officers from the Commonwealth cruiser that arrived recently.”
“Nothing gets past you, Paul.” Garcia shook the other man’s hand, then turned to make introductions to Hector’s officers. “May I present Mr. Paul Nguyen, the Montréal Republic’s ambassador to Gadira?”
“A pleasure to meet you, sir,” Captain Markham said, shaking Nguyen’s hand. The others did so in turn. “How long have you been posted here?”
“Six years as ambassador, Captain. But I served two tours in Gadira as a more junior representative of the Republic at the beginning of my career.” Nguyen gestured at the palace grounds and the low, sprawling city beyond. “This is something of a homecoming for me. How was your voyage?”
“Uneventful, which is the preferred state of affairs,” Markham replied. “However, we were a little surprised to find upon arrival that we weren’t alone here.”
“Our Dremish friends,” the Montréalais replied with a nod. “It seems that Gadira’s troubles are attracting a good deal of attention.”