A few minutes later, Captain Zakur summoned her back to the command room. “We have Hadji Tumar, Sultana,” he told her.
Ranya followed him below. One of the communications consoles had been cleared for her use; she sat down and activated the screen. She found the lean, spectacled visage of Hadji Tumar regarding her from what appeared to be a cluttered and disorganized private office. “Good afternoon, Amira,” he said to her.
“Thank you for taking my call, Allameh,” she replied. “I hope you are safe from the fighting.”
“As safe as anyone can be today,” the old scholar said. “But I have a feeling you did not call me to inquire after my safety. How may I be of service?”
“I have a favor to ask of you. I need you to speak to the Caidist leaders on my behalf, and ask them to hear me out.” Ranya gestured helplessly at the air. “We all face a very dangerous new enemy, and I do not believe they understand the threat. I have to try to convince them.”
Tumar studied her through the screen. “Are you speaking on behalf of the sultan, Amira Ranya?”
Ranya steeled herself. “Sultan Rashid is dead. His transport was shot down near the Khalifa Palace.”
The old scholar flinched. “God is merciful,” he whispered. “I see. This has been a terrible day—I am sorry for your loss. What do you wish me to convey to the caids?”
Ranya told Tumar what she meant to do. When she finished, the allameh looked dubious, but he nodded. “I will ask, Amira,” he said. “I cannot promise that they will agree, but I believe they will at least listen. Give me half an hour.”
* * *
It ended up taking almost an hour to make the arrangements for the next call. Ranya spent the time rehearsing what she meant to say, while doing what she could to keep up on the military developments. She lost track of the battle between Hector and Panther; the orbit of the Montréalais traffic-control station carried it out of sight of the fighting, leaving her to wonder if the battle had concluded, which ship had won, and whether Sikander had survived the day or not. The Dremish troops finished securing the spaceport in Tanjeer and turned their attention on the Abdelkadar Barracks on the outskirts of the capital, heavily damaging the base with airstrikes. Whether they knew it or not, the Dremish might have aided her there, since many of the troops at Abdelkadar were under the control of commanders who had refused the sultanate’s orders, declaring for Salem el-Fasi. But not all of them, Ranya reminded herself. Many of the men would be confused or torn by their conflicting orders, and every Gadiran who died today, loyal or disloyal, was one of her people.
Finally Captain Zakur appeared and led her to one of the yacht’s conference rooms, hastily refitted with comm gear to provide her with more privacy than the crowded command center. She sat down, composed herself for a moment, then activated the vidscreen.
In one panel of the divided conference display she saw Tumar ibn Sakak, still working out of his old-fashioned office. In three additional panels she faced two sun-darkened, gray-bearded men in the traditional garb of the desert tribes, and a younger man with olive skin and black, curly hair, who wore a keffiyeh over the dirty jumpsuit of an urban laborer. She recognized the first of the gray-bearded men as Harsaf el-Tayib, but she didn’t know the other two. All three started in surprise as they realized who she was.
“Hadji Tumar, you have deceived us!” the desert chieftain she didn’t know protested. He was a short, round-bodied man, and it appeared that he was taking the call from a mining pit or quarry somewhere in the deep desert. “This is the amira!”
“Forgive me, Caid Ahmed,” the old scholar said. “She asked to speak with you, and I did not think you would agree if I told you first. I would regard it as a great personal favor if you would consent to hear her out.”
“It is not fitting for a man of God to employ falsehoods,” the chieftain said with a scowl.
“It is not fitting for servants of God to kill one another, and there has been far too much of that of late, especially when their strife profits the godless,” Tumar answered. The protesting chieftain’s scowl deepened, but he fell silent. “Amira Ranya, this is Caid Ahmed el-Manjour. The other men you can see are Caid Harsaf el-Tayib and Alonzo Khouri. Several others are listening in but do not wish to reveal themselves at this time.”
“I remember Caid Harsaf from the time when my father was sultan,” Ranya said. She looked at the lean, bearded chieftain. “I thank you for hearing me out.”
“It is only because of my respect for the allameh that I am listening,” Harsaf el-Tayib replied. “Where is the sultan? The allameh said he wanted to warn us of a danger threatening us all.”
“Sultan Rashid el-Nasir is dead,” Ranya said, keeping her voice even. “His transport was shot down a little more than an hour ago as he left the Khalifa Palace.”
“Rashid is dead?” Caid Harsaf said, surprised. He glanced at the others in his display. “Who is sultan now?”
“I am now the eldest surviving heir of Sultan Kamal, and the head of House Nasir,” said Ranya.
“A woman cannot be sultan!” Caid Ahmed blustered.
“No, but she can be sultana,” Ranya replied. “I do not claim that title yet, however. It is my hope to serve as regent only until the proper succession can be determined, and today is not the day to do that.”
Caid Harsaf gave el-Manjour a humorless smile. “You see, Ahmed? Hadji Tumar did not lie. He promised the head of state, not Sultan Rashid by name.” His eyes shifted to the allameh. “But I must wonder if the amira can be regent.”
“There is precedent,” Tumar answered. As a scholar and jurist, his view on that question carried a good deal of weight. “Speak your mind, Amira.”
“We share a common enemy,” she told the rebel leaders. “I told you that Sultan Rashid is dead, but I did not tell you who killed him. He was shot down by a Dremish assault shuttle, after the Dremish warship in orbit over our planet launched a kinetic bombardment that destroyed much of the Khalifa Palace. I understand that Sultana Yasmin and at least one of her daughters were killed in this bombardment, too. One of my cousins may still survive—I simply do not know.” A surge of anger and grief welled up in the core of her being at that thought, but she fought it down and continued. “You all know by now that Salem el-Fasi is attempting to claim the throne. What you might not yet realize is that Dremark is backing him with troops and warships so that they can seize control of Gadira and install el-Fasi as their puppet.”
“Montréal, Dremark, what is the difference?” Alonzo Khouri asked, speaking for the first time. “Any of the Coalition powers would be happy to be our master. They will still get rich from our labor while we remain buried in poverty.”
“The difference is that it’s been twenty years since a Montréalais garrison occupied Gadira,” Ranya answered. “Yes, they provided my uncle with military aid and investments, but they gave up on stationing troops here a long time ago. Today Dremark’s soldiers saw fit to obliterate a six-hundred-year-old planetary treasure with bombs from orbit and assassinate my uncle. How do you think they will deal with riots and protests in the poor neighborhoods of our cities?” She shifted her gaze to the desert chieftains. “Or open rebellion by the free desert tribes?”
“If they think they can crush us under their heels, they are fools,” Caid Ahmed snarled. But Caid Harsaf said nothing, shifting in his seat and reaching up to stroke his beard.
“There is something else I need to show you,” Ranya said. She linked her dataslate to the vidscreen and brought up an image to show the others—a slender, sandy-haired offworlder, captured in midstride by a security cam near the parade ground of El-Badi Palace. “This is a man who calls himself Otto Bleindel. He is the Dremish consul in Gadira.”