Now Hector was wide awake. He scrambled to his feet. ‘Show me,’ he said.
They went to the room that the Westflinge’s crew used as a dormitory. The sacks on which the men had slept lay scattered on the floor, but there was no one there.
‘Maybe the guards took them away in the night,’ Hector ventured.
‘I don’t think so. They’ve cleared off. Look here.’ In the flimsy thatch wall facing the harbour someone had ripped a large hole. Hector went across and peered out through the gap. Directly opposite him the Malacca trading jong rode quietly at anchor. There was no one to be seen on her deck. He craned his neck and looked in the opposite direction and noticed at once that something was missing. The Westflinge’s skiff, which had been towed into harbour behind the kora kora when they first arrived, was no longer where it was usually moored against some pilings.
‘They made off with the jolly boat,’ he said. ‘Must have taken it during the night and dropped down on the tide.’
‘And left us in the shit,’ growled Jezreel. ‘The Sultan will fly into a rage when he finds out.’
Hector’s stomach churned at the thought of how this might affect Maria’s situation.
‘We’ve no time to waste. We have to explain to Mansur that we knew nothing about this.’ A sudden thought struck him. ‘Where’s Stolck?’
Together they returned to their own room to find Dan and Jacques both awake. But the corner where Stolck usually slept was empty. He too had left with his countrymen.
‘WHAT WILL HAPPEN to Vlucht and his men if they are caught?’ Hector asked Mansur an hour later. The chamberlain had hurried to the warehouse in response to a message from Hector. For the first time the courtier was genuinely perturbed, and an expression of distaste crossed his face. ‘Traditionally the punishment for defying the authority of the Sultan is death by strangulation. But in this case I fear the culprits are likely to be thrown off a cliff in his presence.’
‘Why the difference?’ asked Jacques, who was listening.
‘That is how the Dutch executed some rebel princes some years ago. The Sultan has said that, given the chance, he is keen to return the compliment.’
‘And what happens if the fall isn’t fatal?’ asked Jacques glumly.
The chamberlain grimaced. ‘If the victim survives, he’s carried up half-alive and thrown over a second time.’ He looked around the little group. ‘His Majesty will want to know exactly how many of you are still here. I think that all of you should appear before him.’
As they made their way across the bazaar to reach the footpath to the palace, Hector noticed a change in the reaction of the market traders. Usually they were friendly and curious, but today they avoided his eye and seemed frightened and wary.
The same tension was palpable when Mansur brought them into the audience chamber in the palace. The courtiers hovered at the outer fringes of the room, clearly reluctant to come near to the Sultan, who was in his usual place, seated among the cushions. It was as if everyone was waiting for a storm to break. Hector looked anxiously about him, searching the farthest corners of the hall, still hoping to catch a glimpse of Maria. But there were no women present. The clock with the hen-and-chicks was now displayed prominently on a tall stand. Clearly the gadget had caught the Sultan’s fancy.
At the Sultan’s right-hand side sat his only son, Prince Jainalabidin. The youngster was dressed even more gorgeously than before, in a dazzling robe of white cotton striped with yellow, embroidered slippers on his feet, and a yellow turban with a small spray of jewels pinned to it. He was staring fixedly in their direction. Hector found it impossible to guess what was going on in the boy’s mind, but he had the uncomfortable feeling that, whatever it was, it was tinged with dislike.
Mansur bowed and made the customary introduction, but this time the Sultan did not invite the newcomers to share betel nut. Instead he sat silently for a long interval, blinking his rheumy eyes and staring malevolently at the foreigners. When eventually he spoke, Mansur translated in a low, obsequious voice.
‘His Majesty has been informed that your colleagues have stolen away in the night like thieves.’
‘We knew nothing of their plans,’ Hector answered.
‘You must have overheard them plotting this act of disobedience.’
‘They are not of our people. When they speak among themselves in their own language, neither I nor any of my companions know what they are saying.’
The Sultan shifted irritably on his cushions, crossing and recrossing his legs. He swayed back and forward slightly as if suffering from stomach cramps, then beckoned to one of his attendants, who came forward with a metal cup of water. The Sultan took a sip. Hector sensed the courtiers in the room behind him were holding their breaths, waiting for an outburst of royal rage. Seconds passed and the atmosphere grew more and more tense. Prince Jainalabidin was totally still, but stared at the visitors, his eyes glittering. Hector was reminded of a small, very poisonous viper about to strike.
Abruptly the Sultan let out a high-pitched cackle. The sound was unsettling, a demented gleeful noise, which ended in a series of watery coughs before the old man delivered his next pronouncement.
‘His Majesty says he is delighted that the Hollanders have gone,’ Mansur translated. Relief was evident in his tone. ‘His Majesty states they were useless mouths, expensive to feed, idlers who did not do any work.’
The Sultan’s eyes were streaming, the tears trickling down the grooves in his wrinkled face. An attendant hurried forward with a cloth. When the coughing had subsided and the Sultan had wiped his face, Prince Jainalabidin leaned across and whispered something in his father’s ear. The Sultan flapped the cloth towards Jezreel and wheezed a few words.
‘His Majesty says the big man is to join his troops. He is a skilful soldier, and Omoro needs good warriors,’ Mansur translated.
‘My companion has done some sword fighting in the prize ring, but he was never in the army,’ Hector answered. He was puzzled at how the Sultan had come to the idea that Jezreel was a professional military man. The Sultan’s next remark provided the answer.
‘That is not what my son tells me.’
Hector glanced at the young prince. Maria must have told the youngster that Jezreel was a soldier, he thought. She’d probably been trying to impress the lad with the importance of their captives, hoping they’d be better treated. The prince had been staring at them out of curiosity and boyish admiration, not with dislike.
The Sultan spoke again. ‘His Highness Prince Jainalabidin has asked to lead another hongi-tochten against Sugala,’ translated Mansur. ‘He says that our men now have muskets that work properly and the Sugala will not be expecting a second attack this season. He will take them by surprise and teach them not to trespass on our forests.’ The old man glanced down at his son indulgently. ‘The prince is clever. He knows that the more bird skins we have to sell, the more traders will come to Omoro and the richer we will become. That way our kingdom will regain its former glory.’ The Sultan hawked into the cup from which he had been drinking. A lackey hurried forward to remove it from his shaking hand.
Hector thought quickly. A successful campaign against Sugala, with Jezreel taking a leading part, was the obvious chance to obtain the Sultan’s favour. He stole another look at the boy sitting beside the Sultan. He could see that Prince Jainalabidin was agog at the idea of leading another attack on Sugala. His eyes were shining with anticipation. It occurred to Hector that the youngster’s eagerness might just as quickly turn to disappointment and blame. It was more than likely Jezreel and his colleagues would be made the scapegoats if the new expedition was a failure. He recalled what the Malaccan trader had said: all previous campaigns against the Sugala had achieved nothing. Jezreel’s presence would make no difference.