‘You told her you weren’t a prince. If anyone was overhearing that, the guards would be beating down our doors.’ Wahir blew the steam off his own coffee and wrapped his hands around the cup for warmth. ‘Men do and say stupid things around women; things to impress and make themselves seem more important. But not you: you say things that make you less in her eyes and I don’t understand that.’

‘I’m not sure that I do either.’

‘So why did you tell her you weren’t a prince?’

‘It’s not news. She saw through me quicker than the emperor did. I’m just not stamped from a royal mould, I suppose. And I did it to get some information.’ Even as he said it, it sounded cheap and tawdry. ‘And I made her cry like I’d torn her heart out.’

‘Master,’ asked Wahir, ‘do you find her beautiful? I suppose that most men would. Sometimes I’d see slaves brought to the sheikh’s palace. They’re slaves, you don’t pay them that much attention. But there was one woman, and you could see the men act differently towards her. Even though they owned her, there was something that made them be nice to her.’ He leaned heavily on the balustrade, eyes staring into the distance. ‘There was something. I don’t know what it was. Am I still too young to know?’

‘Beauty comes from the inside. It seeps out of every pore and is in every line and curve. I’ll tell you the story of Ali Five-camels,’ said Benzamir. ‘In a time that was and was not, there lived a young man called Ali. His family had a good name, and they were fairly well off. Not as rich as the sheikh, but they had lots of camels, and places to graze them. Soon enough, Ali came of age, and his father told him that it was about time he got married. There were lots of pretty girls in the village, and their fathers were all eager that Ali should choose their daughter. Truth be told, the girls were fighting over Ali too. He was a good-looking boy, with a gentle nature, but both fathers and daughters were after the mahr and other gifts he would give at the wedding.

‘Ali had different ideas. All his life he had dreamed about a woman who would love him for who he was, not for what he owned. So he set off on a journey to find such a woman. He was at an oasis one day when a poor nomad family arrived with their few goats. Ali found them good company: they shared their food with him, though they had little, and their daughter fetched them water from the well, always making sure that Ali’s cup was full.

‘That night the nomad and Ali were talking, and the subject of his daughter came up. The nomad said that his daughter would go to the grave unwed because of her deformity, and how unfair it was. Ali was surprised, because he hadn’t noticed until then that her lip was creased, and a scar ran up her face. He agreed that it was unfair – and told the nomad that if he was willing, he would marry their daughter.

‘When they returned to the village, word soon got out that there were wedding preparations going on. All the village girls were desperate to see who had beaten them, but when they saw the nomad’s daughter, they couldn’t believe that someone they thought ugly could have won Ali’s heart. They said he was marrying her out of pity, and it wouldn’t be long before he divorced her. They said all this to her face at the village well, and then asked her how much mahr Ali was giving her. It wasn’t a few coins, or a goat. It wasn’t even a camel. Or two camels. Or three camels. It was five camels.’

‘Master? Five camels for an ugly woman? This Ali is mad!’

‘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.