Wahir listed all the things he thought Benzamir would need. ‘Anything else?’

‘What else could a man need? That’s a lot of pots and pans you’re landing me with.’

‘That’s not much. It’s only a few days, after all. Though you’ve got your own possessions too.’

‘No. I’ve a fine kaftan from the sheikh and a spare jellaba. These sandals.’ Benzamir smiled and puffed the pipe.

‘But you have a knife, for eating. A razor for shaving. Oil for your hair. Soap for washing. Blankets for sleeping.’

‘Not . . . exactly.’

‘A bag for food?’

‘I . . . no. I’ve got what I stand up in, and these two heavy bags of money.’

Wahir started to recoil. ‘What are you? How did you beat Ibn Alam? Where did you come from?’ His voice was rising, and Benzamir hurried to silence him.

‘I’m just a traveller who finds himself on these shores.’ He spoke quietly and quickly. ‘I have nothing but my wits to keep me alive; those and a little luck. Or if you prefer, Allah smiled on me by sending such a rash fool as the sheikh’s son to meet me. But if you shout about this all over town, the chances of me getting out of here alive are small to none. And you won’t get your camel.’ The best lies were those that so closely resembled the truth as to be indistinguishable.

The boy sat back down, eyed Benzamir suspiciously and drank his coffee. ‘There’s more to you than that,’ he said.

‘There is. You’re the only one in the whole of El Alam who knows it.’ Benzamir opened his purse and dug out three heavy coins. ‘Go and buy me what I need. I’ll meet you outside the mosque as morning prayers are called.’

Wahir nodded and slid the coins across the table into his lap. He looked at them, at the great wealth they held. He got up to leave, and Benzamir held him lightly by the wrist as he passed.

‘I’ll be very disappointed if you let me down, Wahir.’

‘I won’t.’

The light from outside flashed as he stepped out into the street. Benzamir settled back in his chair and noticed an ageing man on his own, staring at a backgammon board. He finished his coffee, picked up his pipe and walked over.

‘Salam alaykum, Abu,’ he said. ‘I might not be a worthy opponent, but I know how to play.’

The man looked up and indicated with a nod of his head that Benzamir should sit. ‘We don’t get many strangers around here.’

‘That’s good, because they don’t get much stranger than me.’

‘I’ll be white.’ The old man smiled, showing two rows of yellowed, stumpy teeth.

It was just something else that set Benzamir apart from the inhabitants of El Alam. He had perfect teeth; perfect in every way.

Having fallen asleep to the sound of the streets, which seemed to come alive at night, he was woken by the muezzin’s reedy cant from the mosque’s minaret. The fact that he had slept at all was surprising; that he could allow mere exhaustion to come between him and novelty. It was hot, dry, dusty, altogether different to what he was used to. Perhaps that was what was tiring: the simple otherness of his situation.

Still, Ibn Alam hadn’t attempted to cut Benzamir’s throat during the hours of darkness, a darkness that was itself amazing; a night sky lit up with a thousand points of light, stars he knew the names of yet had never seen quite like that. The moon had been low and fat in the northern sky. It had looked big enough to fall on all their heads – yet it was the same moon that man had once walked on and his ancestors had looked up at. He supposed with time he could get used to it.

It was his third day, and by Bedouin custom he ought to be out of the sheikh’s palace by the time the dew dried on the ground.

Of course, his ancestors were Berbers, not Arabs, but there was little now to split the two.

He put the kaftan on over his jellaba, bundled up his spare and retrieved the two bags of money from under his pillow. He stopped for a drink of water, picked up his sandals, and that was it. He was ready to go, and it all now depended on Wahir.

The muezzin was still calling. He slipped down a narrow flight of stairs and into the courtyard. A veiled woman was drawing water at the well. It might even have been the same woman he had seen there before. She had her back to him as she strained at the full bucket.

Benzamir put on his sandals and walked carefully out to the well. He put his bundle down and picked up the slack of coiled rope. Eventually the woman noticed and gave a squeak of surprise. She let go of the rope, but Benzamir didn’t. He pulled the bucket up and out, and put it on the ground next to the row of storage jars she had to fill.

‘Salam, sister. I’m only sorry I can’t do more. I must be away.’

He scooped up his belongings and hurried to the gate, leaving the woman speechless behind him.

The guard let the faithful man go out to pray. There in the square, kicking his heels against the central plinth, was Wahir. The camel – his camel – was fully loaded and ready to go. All the kneeling creature needed was a passenger.

‘Good to see you again, Wahir.’

The camel hissed its annoyance. Still, with Wahir walking in front, it would carry him to the next port. From there he could go and see the world. Even as he was straddling the saddle and tucking his leg around the pommel, he started to smile.

‘Isn’t this amazing?’ he said.

‘It’s a camel. What’s so good about that?’ Wahir made the whooshing sound, and Benzamir grabbed a tight hold of the pommel.

He stayed on, just.

CHAPTER 10

HE SOON SETTLED into the strange swaying motion, though it took more time to get used to the sight of Wahir walking ahead of him, leading the camel on a long rein. Wahir was his employee, an archaic concept that he understood but wasn’t comfortable with. More importantly, Wahir felt that he was Benzamir’s servant, and that would really not do, as it implied that through mere chance of birth or wealth the boy was somehow less important, less worthy, than the man. Respect was always earned, not bought and sold, and certainly not demanded as a right. Benzamir’s people had moved on from such things a long time ago.

Still, he had a job to do, and part of that job was to blend in. These were his people: he looked like them, he dressed like them, and after some effort he talked like them. All that remained was to behave like them, but learning etiquette was acutely difficult, something he couldn’t observe from outside society. He’d make mistakes for certain, and had to hope that he’d learn fast enough before he accumulated enough catastrophic errors to be caught out.

There’d be time to foment social discord later, if he was still alive. Right now he was a what-used-to-be-north-but-now-was-south African nomad, and he had to be one down to the very pores of his skin.

He made Wahir lead them round in a wide circle. By heading north towards the mountains, then skirting the fields that surrounded El Alam and going back to the coast, he hoped to throw off immediate pursuit. With a little luck, the sheikh’s son would be so busy searching the dusty Atlas foothills that he could get clean away. He had no wish for a confrontation that could only end badly. Possibly for both of them.

It didn’t take long for Wahir to leave everywhere he’d ever known behind. For all the boy’s talk, his lingering looks behind him told Benzamir that his guide was in uncharted territory. To Wahir, El Asnam was somewhere over there, to the west. Between the two towns was an indeterminate distance marked out by an inconstant road. Nor was there any assurance that when they got there, there’d be a boat to take Benzamir anywhere.

Benzamir rather liked this part of his duties. He had the opportunity to go anywhere and do anything. The world was his.