‘Shush, Wahir, and listen. The village girls thought Ali mad too. They complained to everyone who would hear. If Ali’s bride was worth five camels, how much more than that should their husbands-to-be give them? But as time went on, the girls all got married, and they found that their mahr was much less than Ali’s bride’s. They stopped looking down at her, and instead started looking for the reason why Ali thought her worth five camels.’
‘And what did they find?’
‘They found that she was beautiful.’ Benzamir finished off the last of his coffee. ‘Come on. I’m going to bed, and you’ve got no excuse left to stay up.’
‘But master,’ Wahir called to Benzamir’s retreating back, ‘was she beautiful before Ali gave five camels for her mahr or not? These stories of yours, they don’t make any sense!’
CHAPTER 33
BENZAMIR GOT UP before the sun and shook Said awake. It took a while.
‘Tell me you’re listening, or I’ll pry your eyelids back.’
The big man eventually sat up, working his mouth as if he tasted something dead inside. ‘What? What is it?’
‘I’m going to do a bit of housekeeping. I’ll be back before the trial starts, but I need you to do something for me: we need to be near the front. I don’t know how these things work, so it’s your job to find out and make it happen. Understand? The front, do you understand?’
‘Yes, yes. Why is it still dark outside?’
‘Because it’s night-time. You will remember this conversation, won’t you?’
Said flopped back down, making the frame of the bed creak. ‘I’ll remember,’ he mumbled. In a moment he was asleep again. His arm slipped off the side of the mattress and dangled above the floor.
Benzamir placed it back across his chest and patted his hand. ‘This is what too much excitement does.’ He picked up his sandals and tiptoed into the main room, where the remains of their last meal still sat on the low table, attracting the first morning flies.
He was trying to decide between a mango and a banana when he heard someone behind him.
‘Where are you going?’
‘Out,’ said Benzamir. The banana then. He offered the mango to Alessandra, who made no move to either accept or decline it. ‘I’ve given Said instructions.’
‘What was last night all about?’ She folded her arms. ‘I watched from up here.’
‘Wahir didn’t mention that. But it wasn’t very private, was it?’ He put the mango back into the bowl and peeled the banana, eating half of it in three quick bites. ‘Our book seems to be in demand: the emperor wants it, the patriarch of Mother Russia wants it. It’s a shame it’s not here any more. Last seen heading north, out of the city and out of range. I can’t be more definite because I don’t want to make the bugs broadcast, but it’s going somewhere.’
‘That’s not what I mean. Who is she?’
‘A Russian princess. The man who came with her is a monk or a priest. Or both.’ He finished the banana and draped the skin across one of the dirty plates. ‘I really do need to go.’
‘What did you say to her to make her weep like that?’
She was standing in his way, between him and the door. He took her shoulders and gently turned her aside. ‘I told her that I would save her from the wrath of God.’
Alessandra tried to say several things, none of which would come out. Benzamir decided that it was a good time to leave, so he did.
He obtained a pass – a numbered, embossed plaque of copper – from one of the functionaries and made his way through the gardens to the gatehouse. Every so often he would look up at the buildings towering above him, at the rooftop guards with their crossbows and the gunners manning rudimentary artillery. The palace was well-garrisoned, watching for enemies from both outside and in. For all their arms and their vigilance, Benzamir knew that it was too late.
They were already here.
He puzzled over the identity of the man shrouded in black. He knew all the traitors, just as they knew him. He’d been one of them once. But the man’s voice was unrecognizable; Benzamir had filtered it and tweaked it, tried to match it with the patterns he knew, and had come up with nothing. Nor had he seen the man’s face, swathed as it was in dark cloth until only the faint shine of enhanced eyes could break the shadow.
He showed his pass to the guards of the inner gate just as the sun came up. Darkness one moment, light the next. The clouds in the sky turned red, then orange, then dove-grey, and it was day. The outer gates were cranked open, and the first of the morning’s deliveries of meat and milk was already wheeling in.
He stood to one side to watch as a steady procession of carts passed by, then slipped out. From the hilltop, Great Nairobi lay like a giant beginning to stir.
The mills were already turning, the fires burning. Southwards, across from the bare ground of the killing field in front of the citadel walls, there were vast kilns breathing puffs of dirty steam and sparks which carried on the wind. To the north were the fine buildings of merchants and bankers, set along wide, tree-lined roads and around fountain-set squares.
Squeezed between them in the hazy valley was where Benzamir had rented his room, and where he headed now. Yesterday he had been wearing his own clothes. Today he was in a rich man’s costume, and while he didn’t play the part, everyone else took their cue from his finery. Those who presumed themselves his equal nodded to him; those who did not averted their eyes and got out of his way.
And Benzamir found himself scanning every face, from the first stragglers making their way home to their beds, to the workers repairing the road, to the handcart pullers trotting towards market. Everyone: the men, the women, the young, the old, black, white, high station or none.
He was looking for someone he recognized, someone who had no right to be there, anywhere on the planet. It was making him tremble with nerves, because there was no guarantee that they weren’t out looking for him.
What would he do if they found each other, passing in the street? Would they invite Benzamir to retire to the nearest tea house and talk over their predicament and their terms of surrender? Or would they run – and would he give chase?
He turned down an alley and pressed his back against the cold stone of a wall. There were forty dead men in a burned-down monastery to reckon with now. It was a complication he couldn’t ignore. And he still had no idea what they wanted the antique books for.
He stepped back out and tried to compose himself. The boarding house was a little further down the road, not far at all. He kept his head down all the way and slipped past the wooden door. He closed it behind him, and felt no better.
Noises from deeper inside the building told him that people were already up and preparing for their day. He walked up the stairs, waiting at the landing for two men and their satchels full of cloth samples to pass by, then entered his rented room using the worn iron key he had been given.
The inks and paints they’d used were still out on the table. They had to go – they’d been stupid not to tidy up before leaving for the citadel. The responsibility was all his though. He found the bags they came in and started to refill them.
He was almost done when there was a sharp, authoritative banging from the street-side door. He climbed up onto the table and lay down, peeking over the window ledge.
There were four men. One carried a staff tipped with a silver antelope. Benzamir had seen enough of that symbol around the palace to know what it meant. His heart skipped. He’d been watching for his own enemies when he should have been on the lookout for ruthlessly efficient Kenyan spies. They’d had him followed, they’d seen him enter the building and now knew that he and his companions had stayed there. He had, for a moment, underestimated the empire. For most people who did that, it didn’t end well.
He quickly finished with the calligrapher’s materials and felt under his bed for the flying carpet. If it had still been night, he might have been tempted to use it. He put everything on the thin blanket that lay rumpled on the floor and gathered up the corners.