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.

He walked across the landing and tried the door opposite. There hadn’t been an occupant yesterday, but the room was locked. He used his laser to cut the deadbolt, and blew away the smoke with a flap of his hand as he heard footsteps coming purposefully up the stairs.

It was worth the time it took to relock his own door. He was in the empty room just as there were voices outside. He’d have to hurry. In three steps he was at the window, undoing the shutters, looking down and around. There was nothing to climb, and there was only a small grimy courtyard to jump down into.

Benzamir looked up. The eaves of the peaked roof were within reach. He tied the ends of the blanket so that he could wear it like a papoose. The emperor’s men were occupied trying to persuade the landlady to open the door. It wouldn’t be long before they realized that there was nothing there and widened their search.

He stood on the sill, turned round, then straightened up and fell backwards. He caught the edge of the shingled roof, and swung himself up until he was perched like a spider on the slope. The sandals gave him no grip, and he carefully slipped each one off and put them in the blanket.

The surrounding buildings were a similar height, and there was no one to overlook him. He listened carefully. The voices faded; they had gone into the room and were searching it for clues as to who the Sea People might be or where they had come from.

He waited: the door to the room below him opened. Benzamir grew very still. The boards creaked all the way across to the window. There was a pause.

Then they creaked back to the door. He allowed himself a rueful smile: here he was stuck on a roof with a mix of pens and brushes and contraband technology, while the local police stood around on the landing, arguing with each other about where he could have possibly gone. It was yet another thing he hadn’t exactly planned for.

It was time to move. He crept up to the ridge without crossing it, and made his way to the next house. He glanced back. No pursuit. Three more roofs and he was at the end of the row. A narrow alleyway separated them, leading from the street to a maze of outbuildings and animal pens.

He jumped it, lightly, surely. The absence of cries, drums or whistles told him he was still undetected. It couldn’t go on. Sooner or later he’d have to return to ground level, lose himself in the morning crowds.

The spies would know that when he left the citadel, he was carrying nothing but his pass. The inks he could just abandon in a rubbish tip somewhere, but the carpet had to go too, and that would be much more difficult. He wondered how he could possibly part with it now they had shared so many days’ travel, then in the next breath laughed at himself for such sentimentality.

He carried on to the next alley, keeping low all the while. He looked down, saw that the coast was reasonably clear and jumped. It was a long way down, but he didn’t balk. There was no magic to the landing, just a question of absorbing the impact with enough craft so that nothing broke.

He straightened himself up, dusted himself off and joined the early morning flow of people minding their own business. He took a walk towards the distant, belching kilns and furnaces, and came back just a little lighter.

The square had the name of a long dead king, resurrected from before the time of empire to provide some gravitas to the playful gardens and hissing fountain at its centre. Bright blooms nodded in the breeze, and the broad fronds of palm trees lacing together overhead meant that the shadows were cool and welcoming.

Benzamir watched the play of the water across the surface of the pond. The fountain spray fell in a threefold arch, breaking up the mirror reflection and sending sparkling light in every direction.

A familiar figure walked towards him, resplendent in red robes, accompanied by a servant with a parasol.

‘Shall we take a seat, Prince Benzamir?’ asked the underminister.