CHAPTER 30

After a few doodles and incomprehensible lines of script, Benzamir declared himself ready.

‘Right,’ he said. He cracked his fingers and flexed his wrists, and sat on the stool. ‘Make me some red. Red’s always impressive.’

Wahir tapped some of the red dye into a soapstone bowl and dripped the acid onto it until a thick, bubbling paste formed. He pushed the bowl across the table.

Benzamir picked up his brush and inspected the fine end. He sucked on the antelope hair to make it finer still, and dipped it in the ink. He looked up and saw that everyone was holding their breath.

‘This could take a while,’ he said. ‘I’d rather you didn’t all turn blue and fall over.’

‘Sorry,’ said Said, and held the corner of the vellum down.

Benzamir started to construct an illuminated capital, a letter clutched at by some great worm-like creature with many arms. He used green and brown, and fine brass dust to simulate gold leaf. ‘It doesn’t have to be perfect,’ he said, mostly to himself. ‘It just has to be good enough.’

Wahir mixed up a large pot of thick black paint, and while the illumination dried, Benzamir pricked out lines using a needle. When he was ready, he started to write: ‘To His Imperial Majesty Emperor Yohane Muzorewa, greetings. I commend to you His Excellency Benzamir Michael Mahmood, my loyal servant, and his illustrious retinue, on this the first meeting of our two proud and noble peoples. I pledge peace between us, and authorize my servants to act on my behalf as they humbly present to you a gift, a token of the friendship that might exist between us. Yours in good faith—’ And he stopped. ‘I need something that sounds impressive. But not ridiculous.’

‘Who’s your king? Can’t you put his name down?’ said Said.

‘How can I break the news to you that the king has been dead for hundreds of years but lives on as an uploaded machine intelligence? Oh. I just did.’

‘Why not use your father’s name,’ said Alessandra.

‘That’s a very good suggestion. It’d make the old man proud, but won’t that make me a prince?’

‘Is that such a bad thing?’ She shrugged.

Benzamir dipped his brush in the ink one last time and wrote: ‘King Benyounes Zamir Mahmood.’

He pushed his stool back and examined the page critically. ‘Good enough, or start again?’

They moved closer, pressing against him, looking at it from his point of view.

‘I have no idea what all that scribbling means,’ said Said, ‘but it’s a miracle.’

‘He’s right,’ said Alessandra. ‘It’s beautiful. You’ve done very well.’

‘Wahir?’

‘It’s a very impressive document, master. Only weren’t you supposed to do it in Arabic too?’

With a sigh, Benzamir dropped back down on the stool, took up his brush and started writing underneath.

         

They added a few frills: some extra titles for Benzamir’s father, which included King of the People over the Sea; a copy of the fictitious Great Seal, embossed with the blunt end of a steel needle; an extra brilliant illumination of impossible creatures and magical ships.

Then it was finished. They left it to dry on the table and lay on their beds, prickly with heat. Only Wahir lounged by the window, accepting the gift of a slight breeze.

‘It’s very quiet outside.’

‘It’ll pick up again soon. No one wants to work at the moment.’

‘Slaves have to,’ said Alessandra. ‘Slaves work and masters sleep.’

‘But listen,’ said Benzamir. ‘Remember how noisy it was before? This is not an economy run on slave labour.’

‘So who does the work?’ asked Said. He lifted his head off his mattress briefly, before letting it fall back down. ‘Who collects the night soil? Who drags the stone? Who guts the fish?’

‘Slave economies are appallingly inefficient–never mind their innate cruelty. There’s no incentive for the slave owners to do anything different, and there’s every incentive for the slaves to do as little as possible, or rise up and kill their owners. Slavery is bad for the empire, which is why I’m assuming the emperor has either banned it or at least discourages it.’

‘What do your people do, Benzamir?’ Alessandra got up and poured a cup of water from the pitcher. She drank half of it, then dribbled the rest of it over her face until it ran down her neck and darkened her clothes.

Distracted, Benzamir caught Said looking at her, then at him. He purposefully stared at the wooden boards of the ceiling. ‘My people? We don’t have money, as such. We work on a system of credit called a Gift economy. Those who gift the most to their tribe, and to all the–ah, people–some of whom aren’t strictly people–have the highest status.’

They all fell silent for a while, then Alessandra said: ‘So who does empty the chamber pots?’

‘We use magic. If we wanted–if I wanted–I wouldn’t have to lift a finger from cradle to grave. Everything would be done for me. But my status would be lower than that of a worm.’

‘How much status do you have?’

‘I’ve lost a lot, along with the whole tribe. Having a traitor in your midst, someone you’ve shared everything with since you were young, is taken very seriously. I have to take my share of the blame, and assume my part of the responsibility in righting the wrong.’

‘What a strange life you lead, Benzamir.’ Alessandra refilled the cup and gave it to him. ‘I can’t imagine a country where these things happen. But I think I might like to see it.’

‘I…’ Benzamir hesitated as he sat up and took the water from her. He drank to buy himself some time. ‘I never imagined I would eat dates, or play backgammon in the place it was invented, or see the pyramids. How can my imagination compete with this? You have such a beautiful, complicated place to live. Exploring it would take ten–a hundred lifetimes. Why would you ever want to leave?’

She was about to say something else when Wahir interrupted and the moment was lost.

‘Master, what is it that your enemies want with us? What could we possibly give them that they don’t already have?’

‘I don’t know if I hoped you’d ask, or that you wouldn’t. And I don’t know if this is the time to answer, either.’ Benzamir gnawed at his finger. ‘You’re right: you can give them nothing. But look at what they would give you in return.’

‘What, master?’

‘Everything.’ He was appalled and excited at the thought. ‘Absolutely everything.’

         

A little while before sunset they set off back up the hill. The citadel grew larger until it was all they saw: the massive walls, the formidable doors, the spear-carriers on the ramparts. In comparison, they were inconsequential. From easy talk, they lapsed into nervous silence until Said said: ‘You should have a chariot, like the Ethiopians, or a string of camels, the more the better. We will be laughed at and turned away.’

‘More likely killed and thrown to the dogs,’ said Wahir. ‘How could we have expected anything else?’

Benzamir beat some of the dust out of his kaftan with the flat of his hand. ‘I know what they expect: banners, heralds, musicians, a parade of wealth and a big splash of noise and colour. All they’re getting is us, a raggedy band of travellers. But’–and he grasped the big man by the shoulders–‘appearances are deceptive. If they only knew who they were meeting. The mighty warrior Said Mohammed, protector of the noble line of Alam.’

He spun round to take Wahir under his arms and lift him up. ‘Then there’s Wahir the Fox, trusted son, cunning spy.’

‘Master, put me down. The scroll is becoming creased.’

‘Good,’ said Benzamir, and he creased it some more until, laughing, Wahir struggled free.

‘And what about me?’ said Alessandra shyly. ‘Or you, for that matter?’

He bowed before her. ‘You’re Alessandra the Free, learned and wise, fearless and true. And me? I am Benzamir Michael Mahmood, Prince of the People over the Sea. Who would dare turn us away?’

‘No one, master. We are kings in our own land!’

‘Wahir, we’re kings wherever we go. It isn’t that you wear a crown or have a hundred servants or a thousand soldiers. It’s here’–Benzamir touched his head and then his heart–‘and here. We might be dirty, smelly, tired, hungry, thirsty, scared. But we’re still kings.’

‘And are these supposed to be words to live by?’ Alessandra tried to straighten out the corners of the page of vellum Wahir was clutching.

‘Believe them. At least for the next five minutes, that’s all I ask.’ The line of the gate was marked by a thick iron bar set into the ground, pierced with huge holes ready to receive massive bolts. Above them loomed the arch, and inside, steel-helmeted guards lurking in the cool shadow. ‘I have to believe it for the next five minutes as well.’

Benzamir stepped over the line and announced: ‘I bring greetings from the People over the Sea to the emperor of the mighty Kenyan empire.’

The guards, fine-faced Africans from the north, roused themselves and their broad-bladed spears. They looked over the visitors and called their captain.

‘What? What is it?’ he asked wearily in heavily accented World.

‘I am Prince Mahmood, and I’m seeking an audience with the emperor.’

‘Can’t you read?’ said the captain, pointing to the forest of signs outside the gate.

‘Of course we can. We’re not barbarians. Wahir?’

Wahir presented the rolled-up vellum with as much aplomb as he could muster. The captain unrolled it and pretended to read it while plainly not understanding a word.

‘If you haven’t got a letter of invitation from the right minister, you can’t come in.’ He handed the document back without re-rolling it, and folded his arms.

‘Master? Is he after baksheesh?’ Said wondered. ‘We only have a couple of coins left.’

‘He’s just doing his job. Unwrap the book, but don’t let them get hold of it.’ Benzamir turned back to the captain. ‘My king has sent a priceless gift to the emperor, one I understand he’d like very much. But if you don’t want it, we’ll be on our way. I’m sure we can use it ourselves.’

Said unveiled the corner of the User book and held it up for a moment, then shrugged theatrically.

‘Stop!’ blurted the captain, then recovered. ‘I mean, wait. I’ll fetch someone.’

He barked at one of the guards, who dropped his spear and lozenge-shaped shield and ran through the inner gates to the space beyond.

‘See?’ said Benzamir. ‘Some things have value beyond money.’

‘Perhaps you should let us look after your gift,’ said the captain. His fingers stroked the sweat off his palms.

‘Perhaps it’d be a mistake to take something by force that we’re ready to give freely. The king of the People over the Sea is a powerful man and would take great offence at such an action.’ Benzamir took a step forward as if to show that he had not only the king’s authority, but his own as well.

The captain of the guard looked down at Benzamir looking up at him. ‘Your balls are as brass as these gates, emissary. You know that that book was stolen from the emperor, and that we even have the traitor-thief in the cells as we speak. I could take it from you now and you’d never be able to stop me.’

‘And I can piss higher up the wall than you, even though you’re taller. Trust me, it wouldn’t be you who’d take the book. One of your men perhaps, if they had the stomach for a fight, but not you. You’d be flat on your back the moment you gave the order.’ Benzamir tried a smile on for size. ‘Sorry, but this is important. The fate of the world hangs in the balance.’

They were interrupted by a flurry of red and gold cloth.

‘You may stand aside, Captain,’ puffed the grey-haired man. ‘I’ll be dealing with this.’

The captain was in no mood to back down, but Benzamir saw that there was no further need for posturing. The book was safe for the moment. He stepped back and let the man come between them.

‘You may go to your post, Captain.’

With a grunt of annoyance, the captain turned away and stamped into the guardroom. As he disappeared, he flashed Benzamir the devil’s horns with his fingers. The guards drew back and muttered to themselves as the grey-haired man beckoned the visitors forward.

Once again, Wahir offered the scroll, and the man took it. He read the Arabic script and bowed to Benzamir. ‘My lord. I am Joshua Mwendwa, and I am one of His Imperial Majesty’s underministers of state. I welcome you and your party to Great Nairobi, and may I express what a pleasure it is to meet new friends of the empire, wherever they might be found?’

‘You may. I am Prince Benzamir Mahmood, and I bring a gift from my father the king as a token of his esteem.’

Underminister Mwendwa pressed his hands together in an attempt to stop them lunging forward and grabbing the book from Said’s arms. ‘Yes, your gift. A very fortunate choice. The emperor has an almost complete set of these books, and yours will be a valuable addition to the set.’

‘So I understand. The king of the Peoples over the Sea is very wise.’ Benzamir dug his toe into the ground and twisted it around. ‘May we arrange a time to present ourselves and our credentials to His Imperial Majesty?’

‘I am certain he will wish to see you at his earliest convenience.’ Mwendwa nodded to the guards, who began to close the outer gates. ‘But first he would insist you enjoy the hospitality of the imperial palace. A bath? Clean clothes? I can tell you’ve come a very long way indeed.’

They were going to be trapped, both them and the book. Benzamir decided to put a brave face on it. ‘Further than you might anticipate, Underminister. We will accept your kind offer.’

Mwendwa presumed to take Benzamir’s arm and usher him forward to the inner gate. Benzamir strode forward confidently, arm-in-arm with the underminister, leaving the others to trail hesitantly behind. The guards opened the inner gates, just as the outer ones banged echoing shut.