CHAPTER 31

THE ANTECHAMBER TO the throne room was more than large enough to intimidate. Even Benzamir felt cowed by the high ceiling and the distance between the walls. The doors were tall and narrow, and made him feel like a little child.

‘Master,’ whispered Wahir. He’d found speaking at normal volume caused a booming echo that deeply disturbed him. ‘Why are they making us wait so long?’

‘I don’t know. There could be a whole host of reasons, the least of which is that the emperor isn’t ready yet.’

‘Doesn’t he want the book?’

‘I’m sure he does. It’s just that we’re strangers here and don’t know how things work.’

Wahir hefted the metal book in his arms into a more comfortable position. ‘What do we do?’

‘We stand around, twiddling our thumbs.’

As he finished speaking, the throne-room doors swung open, and Underminister Mwendwa backed through, bowing.

‘Please listen,’ he said, straightening, ‘you are not to approach the throne unless invited. You are not to touch the emperor on any account. Do not turn your back to the emperor. You are to address him as Your Imperial Majesty or Your Imperial Highness. You must answer his questions fully and candidly, and not ask questions of your own. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, that’s fine.’ Benzamir adjusted the unfamiliar blue shift he’d been given to wear and inspected his companions. ‘Ready? No spitting on the carpet, Said.’

‘I don’t spit on carpets,’ Said objected, then tutted. ‘Very funny.’

‘Right, best foot forward, and try and look suitably awed.’

It wasn’t difficult. If the anteroom had been tall, the throne room reached almost to the sky. Benzamir’s eyes were drawn irresistibly upwards to the oil lamps strung between the tapering pillars and into the darkness beyond, then down the length of the room to the dais and the golden throne surrounded by a sea of red banners that draped gracefully around it.

‘Awed yet?’ giggled Alessandra. Her fingers dug into the scroll and left shadowed dents.

‘I’ve seen some incredible sights in my time, but this is right up there with the destruction of the Eta Eridane. Courage.’ Benzamir started the long slow walk towards the throne, and the others hurried to catch up.

Halfway down, a functionary in a simple white robe stopped them with an upraised hand.

‘Who is it that desires an audience with His Imperial Majesty?’

Benzamir’s throat was dry. ‘Benzamir Michael Mahmood and his companions, emissaries of the People over the Sea.’

The man bowed to the throne and announced them in a clear, ringing voice. The tiny figure sitting on the throne lifted his ebony-handled fly whisk, and they had permission to proceed.

When they eventually reached him, they discovered that His Imperial Majesty the Kaisari Yohane Muzorewa was a great bull of a man, but still dwarfed by the size of the chair in which he sat. Sweating in his robes despite the coolness of the room and the efforts of a man with a swinging fan, the emperor of the Kenyan empire looked strangely uncomfortable.

The white-robed functionary took the scroll from Alessandra’s unresisting hands and presented it to the emperor with downcast eyes. He backed away down the steps, stood to one side and waited as the scroll was unrolled and studied.

The emperor kept glowering over the top of the page as he read, glancing from one to another, trying to work out who they actually were. Benzamir stayed guardedly neutral and tried not to let his eyes wander too much.

‘Prince Mahmood,’ said the emperor, laying the scroll to one side, ‘I wish to learn more of your People over the Sea.’

‘As you wish, Your Imperial Highness,’ said Benzamir. ‘We are travellers from the far northern sea. We pride ourselves on our shipbuilding and our navigation. We learned of your power and fame from merchants who were beginning to bring us tales of Great Nairobi. My father the king insisted that I and my companions set out at once to find you, and to offer you this book as a token of our esteem.’

‘Did he indeed?’ said the emperor. The gold crown on his head glittered.

Benzamir pulled Wahir forward and they gave the book to the functionary, who carried it up to the throne. The emperor hesitated as he started to unwrap the rug from it.

‘Prince Mahmood, how did this book come to your father?’

‘It was brought to our lands by a merchant. When we heard that it might have been acquired, shall we say, under dubious circumstances, it made my father all the more determined to deliver it to you.’

The emperor narrowed his eyes and pulled the last of the rug away. The gleaming book sat heavy in his hands – hands that were now crawling with microscopic bugs.

‘You are right, People from over the Sea, that this book was lost to me and I despaired of its restoration. You do me honour in returning it without fear or favour, and I welcome you into friendship with the Kenyan empire.’ He hesitated again, almost turning his head to one side, then the other, without wishing to be seen to do either. ‘It is my wish that I repay this great compliment your father has bestowed on me. I would have us draw up a treaty between your people and mine, and ambassadors exchanged. While these articles are drafted, you will be my guests. I will arrange matters and, in due course, speak with you again.’

Benzamir felt a tingling of anticipation, but said nothing about it. ‘Your Imperial Majesty is both gracious and hospitable. We will wait on your pleasure.’ In Arabic, he added, ‘Bow and leave, but remember not to turn round.’

They retreated all the way down the throne room and eventually reached the far end. The tall doors opened for them, seemingly without human intervention, and they ended up back in the antechamber. The doors swung shut with a solid bang.

‘It went well?’ asked the underminister. ‘I thought it did.’

‘Yes, it went very well,’ said Benzamir.

Alessandra looked worried, and he managed to communicate to her without speaking that she should stay quiet for the moment.

‘I thought that you bowed to no man,’ said Said.

‘Ibn Alam demanded something from me that wasn’t his to ask for and that I wasn’t prepared to give. That’s not how Gift works.’ Benzamir glanced back at the doors. ‘But sometimes you have to play the game.’

Wahir followed the direction of his gaze. ‘Was there something going on that . . .?’

‘Wahir. Not now.’

‘But . . .’

‘Really, not now.’ Benzamir turned to the underminister with a forced smile. ‘If you’ll show us to our rooms, there are matters of state I need to discuss with my colleagues.’

‘Of course, Your Highness. Please follow me.’

They back-tracked their way through the palace until they were outside, in a garden rich with green plants and scarlet flowers. Night had fallen and the sky was once more alive with stars, the air thick with perfume and insects.

‘Wahir, remember this place, just by the fountain. If we get separated for any reason, this is where you come. Yes?’

‘Master, was it just me, or did the emperor seem, well, scared?’

Benzamir looked up: Underminister Mwendwa was ahead, carrying a swinging lantern on a pole, and Said and Alessandra were between him and them.

‘I thought that too. We can’t talk about it unless we’re certain we’re not being overheard. So not another word.’

Wahir turned round, looking at all the high walls and towers, fixing the garden’s location in his mind. ‘There are figures in the dark, up on roofs.’

‘There’s no reason for anyone to trust us. We don’t have a history, and our story is as thin as fog. The only thing going for us is that it’ll take a while for them to work out who we really are and what we want.’