‘What it means is that we’re running out of time.’ Benzamir tutted.

Wahir burst in, and Alessandra followed a moment later, carrying an armful of soft cotton bags.

‘Master! You’ll never guess what we saw!’

‘You mean, the man who stole the emperor’s books being taken to the citadel in chains?’

Deflated, Wahir sulked. ‘How did you know? It could have been anything. Having a magician as a master isn’t fun.’

Benzamir pointed down to the street. ‘They came by here, and Said went to find out. Did you learn anything about the others who were with him?’

‘The Ewer man and woman? No. The man in the black coat is very scary though. Up close, he’s a mess of scars. He looks like a monster. The woman just watched me. Like there was nothing there, no feelings.’ Wahir leaned out of the window, looking at the dust cloud drifting along towards the brass gates. ‘Very pretty, in a sad way.’

‘Let’s get this table cleaned up and make a start,’ said Benzamir, brushing the wood with his hand and inspecting the dirt clinging to his fingertips. ‘We have to see the emperor. Today, if possible.’

‘Why?’ asked Said.

‘I don’t know why. It’s suddenly become important.’ Benzamir took the first few bags from Alessandra and examined their contents. ‘When the sun goes down, we’re just going to have to present ourselves at the citadel and see how far we get.’

‘Master, what’s wrong?’

They could all tell that something had changed, but couldn’t tell what. Neither could Benzamir. He was at a loss to know how to explain himself.

‘There comes a moment in every story when a small action, inconsequential on its own, turns out to be the tipping point. I think— no, I feel that if we have an audience with the emperor the day after tomorrow, it’ll be a day too late. I just hope that we don’t have to trust to my skill, and that the book will be enough to get us in.’

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?’