A Fire in the Sun (7 page)

"Kmuzu," I said, "you know anything about a businessman named Reda Abu Adil?"

"A little, yaa Sidi," he said. "What do you wish to know?" He never looked away from the road.

"Everything, but not right now." I closed my eyes and let my head fall back against the seat. If only Friedlander Bey would tell me as much as he told Kmuzu and Lieutenant Hajjar. I hated to think that Papa still didn't entirely trust me.

"When we get back t the estate," said Kmuzu, "you'll want to talk with Friedlander Bey."

"That's right," I said.

"I warn you that the woman has put him in a surly mood."

Wonderful, I thought. I'd forgotten about the woman. Papa was going to want to know why I hadn't murdered her yet. I spent the rest of that ride thinking up a plausible excuse.

Chapter 4

Iif I'd known just how difficult things were going to be, I might have had Kmuzu drive me straight out of the city and on to some distant, peaceful place. When I got home—by this time I was used to thinking of Friedlander Bey's palace as home—it was about four o'clock in the afternoon. I decided that I could use a nap. After that, I planned to have a brief meeting with Papa and then go out and spend some time in Chiriga's club. Unfortunately, my slave Kmuzu had other ideas.

"I will be quite comfortable in the small room," he announced.

"I'm sorry?" I said. I didn't know what the hell he was talking about.

"The small room that you use for storage. It will be sufficient for my needs. I will bring a cot."

I looked at him for a moment. "I assumed you'd be sleeping in the servants' wing."

"Yes, I have quarters there, yaa Sidi, but I will be better able to look after you if I have a room here also."

"I'm not really interested in having you look after me every minute of the day, Kmuzu. I put a certain value on my privacy."

Kmuzu nodded. "I understand that, but the master of the house directed me—"

I'd heard enough of that. "I don't care what the master of the house directed you," I shouted. "Whose slave are you, mine or his?"

Kmuzu didn't answer me. He just stared at me with his big, solemn eyes.

"Yeah, well, never mind," I said. "Go ahead and make yourself at home in the storage room. Stack up all my stuff and drag in a mattress if you want." I turned away, deeply irritated.

"Friedlander Bey has invited you to

"I suppose it doesn't mean anything that I have other plans," I said. All I got was the same silent stare. Kmuzu was awful good at that.

I went into my bedroom and undressed. Then I took a quick shower and thought about what I wanted to say to Friedlander Bey. First, I was going to tell him that this slave-spy thing with Kmuzu was going to have to end pretty goddamn quick. Second, I wanted to let him know that I wasn't happy about being teamed with Officer Shaknahyi. And third, well, that's when I realized that I probably didn't have the nerve to mention anything at all about items one and two.

I got out of the shower and toweled myself dry. Standing under the warm water had made me feel a lot better and I decided that I didn't need a nap after all. Instead, I stared into a closet deciding what to wear. Papa liked it when I wore Arab dress. I figured what the hell and picked a simple maroon gallebeya. I decided that the knitted skullcap of my homeland wasn't appropriate, and I'm not the turban type. I settled on a plain white keffiya and fixed it in place with a simple black rope akal. I tied a corded belt around my waist, supporting a ceremonial dagger Papa'd given me. Also on the belt, pulled around behind my back, was a holster with my seizure gun. I hid that by wearing an expensive tan-colored cloak over the gallebeya. I felt I was ready for anything: a feast, a debate, or an attempted assassination.

"Why don't you stay here and get yourself settled in?" I said to Kmuzu, but instead he followed me downstairs. I just knew he'd do that. Papa's offices were on the ground floor in the main part of the house connecting the two wings. When we got there, one of the Stones That Speak was in the corridor, guarding the door. He glanced at me and nodded; but when he looked at Kmuzu, his expression changed. His lip curled just a little. That was the most emotion I'd ever seen from one of the Stones.

"Wait," he said.

"I will go in with my master," said Kmuzu.

The Stone struck him in the chest and shoved him back a step. "Wait," he said.

"It's all right, Kmuzu," I said. I didn't want the two of them wrestling on the floor here outside Friedlander Bey's office. They could settle their little dominance dispute on their own time.

Kmuzu gave me a cool glance, but said nothing. The Stone bowed his head slightly as I went past him into Papa's waiting room, and then he closed the door behind me. If he and Kmuzu went at it out in the hall, I'd be at a loss to know what to do. What's the proper etiquette when your slave is getting beaten up by your boss's slave? Of course, that wasn't giving Kmuzu the benefit of the doubt. Maybe he had a trick or two of his own. Who knows, he might have been able to handle the Stone That Speaks.

Anyway, Friedlander Bey was in his inner office. He was sitting behind his gigantic desk. He didn't look well. His elbows were on the desktop, and his head was in his hands. He was massaging his forehead. He stood up when I came in. "I am pleased," he said. He didn't sound pleased. He sounded exhausted.

"It's my honor to wish you good evening, O Shaykh," I said. He was wearing an open-necked white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of baggy gray trousers. He probably wouldn't even notice the trouble I'd taken to dress conservatively. You can't win, right?

"We will dine soon, my son. In the meantime, sit with me. There are matters that need our attention."

I sat in a comfortable chair beside his desk. Papa took his seat again and fiddled with some papers, frowning. I wondered if he was going to talk about the woman, or why he'd decided to saddle me with Kmuzu. It wasn't my place to question him. He'd begin when he was ready.

He shut his eyes for a moment and then opened them, sighing. His sparse white hair was rumpled, and he hadn't shaved that morning. I guessed he had a lot on his mind. I was a little afraid of what he was going to order me to do this time.

"We must speak," he said. "There is the matter of alms-giving."

Okay, I'll admit it: Of all the possible problems he could have chosen, alms-giving was pretty low on my list of what I expected to hear. How foolish of me to think he wanted to discuss something more to the point. Lake murder.

"I'm afraid I've had more important things on my mind, O Shaykh," I said.

Friedlander Bey nodded wearily. "No doubt, my son, you truly believe these other things are more important, but you are wrong. You and I share an existence of luxury and comfort, and that gives us a responsibility to our brothers."

Jacques, my infidel friend, would've had trouble grasping his precise point. Sure, other religions are all in favor of charity too. It's just good sense to take care of the poor and needy, because you never know when you're going to end up poor and needy yourself. The Muslim attitude goes further, though. Alms-giving is one of the five pillars of the religion, as fundamental an obligation as the profession of faith, the daily prayer, the fast of Ramadan, and the pilgrimage to Mecca.

I gave the same attention to alms-giving that I gave the other duties. That is, I had profound respect for them in an intellectual sort of way, and I told myself that I'd begin practicing in earnest real soon now.

"Evidently you've been considering this for some time," I said.

"We have been neglecting our duty to the poor and the wayfarers, and the widows and orphans among our neighbors."

Some of my friends—my old friends, my former friends—think Papa is nothing but a murderous monster, but that's not true. He's a shrewd businessman who also maintains strong ties to the faith that created our culture. I'm sorry if that seems like a contradiction. He could be harsh, even cruel, at times; but I knew no one else as sincere in his beliefs or as glad to meet the many obligations of the noble Qur'an.

"What do you wish me to do, O my uncle?"

Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Do I not reward you well for your services?"

"You are unfailingly gracious, O Shaykh," I said.

"Then it would not be a hardship for you to set aside a fifth part of your substance, as is suggested in the Straight Path. Indeed, I desire to make a gift to you that will swell

your purse and, at the same time, give you a source of income independent of this house."

That caught my attention. Freedom was what I hungered for every night as I drifted off to sleep. It was what I thought of first when I woke in the morning. And the first step toward freedom was financial independence.

"You are the father of generosity, O Shaykh," I said, "but I am unworthy." Believe me, I was panting to hear what he was going to say. Proper form, however, required me to pretend that I couldn't possibly accept his gift.

He raised one thin, trembling hand. "I prefer that my associates have outside sources of income, sources that they manage themselves and whose profits they need not share with me."

"That is a wise policy," I said. I've known a lot of Papa's "associates," and I know what kind of sources they had. I was sure he was about to cut me into some shady vice deal. Not that I had scruples, you understand. I wouldn't mind getting my drugs wholesale. I've just never had much of a mind for commerce.

"Until recently the Budayeen was your whole world. You know it well, my son, and you understand its people. I have a great deal of influence there, and I thought it best to acquire for you some small commercial concern in that quarter." He extended to me a document laminated in plastic.

I reached forward and took it from him. "What is this, O Shaykh?" I asked.

"It is a title deed. You are now the owner of the property described upon it. From this day forward it is your business to operate. It is a profitable enterprise, my nephew. Manage it well and it will reward you, inshal-lah."

I looked at the deed. "You're—" My voice choked. Papa had bought Chiriga's club and was giving it to me. I looked up at him. "But—"

He waved his hand at me. "No thanks are necessary," he said. "You are my dutiful son."

"But this is Chiri's place. I can't take her club. What will she do?"

Friedlander Bey shrugged. "Business is business," he said simply.

I just stared at him. He had a remarkable habit of giving me things I would have been happier without: Kmuzu and a career as a cop, for instance. It wouldn't do any good at all to refuse. "I'm quite unable to express my thanks," I said in a dull voice. I had only two good friends left, Saied the Half-Hajj and Chiri. She was really going to hate this. I was already dreading her reaction.

"Come," said Friedlander Bey, "let us go in to dinner." He stood up behind his desk and held out his hand to me. I followed him, still astonished. It wasn't until later that I realized I hadn't spoken to him about my job with Hajjar or my new assignment to investigate Reda Abu Adfl. When you're in Papa's presence, you go where he wants to go, you do what he wants to do, and you talk about what he wants to talk about.

We went to the smaller of the two dining rooms, in the back of the west wing on the ground floor. This is where Papa and I usually ate when we dined together. Kmuzu fell into step behind me in the corridor, and the Stone That Speaks followed Friedlander Bey. If this were a sentimental American holoshow, eventually they'd get into a fight and afterward they'd become the best of friends. Fat chance.

I stopped at the threshold of the dining room and stared. Umm Saad and her son were waiting for us inside. She was the first woman I'd ever seen in Friedlander Bey's house, but even so she'd never been permitted to join us at the table. The boy looked about fifteen years old, which in the eyes of the faith is the age of maturity. He was old enough to meet the obligations of prayer and ritual fasting, so under other circumstances he might have been welcome to share our meal. "Kmuzu," I said, "escort the woman back to her apartment."

Friedlander Bey put a hand on my arm. "I thank you, my son, but I've invited her to meet with us."

I looked at him, my mouth open, but no intelligent reply occurred to me. If Papa wanted to initiate major revolutions in attitude and behavior at this late date, that was his right. I closed my mouth and nodded.

"Umm Saad will have her dinner in her apartment after our discussion," Friedlander Bey said, giving her a stern look. "Her son may then retire with her or remain with the men, as he wishes."

Umm Saad looked impatient. "I suppose I must be grateful for whatever time you can spare me," she said.

Papa went to his chair, and the Stone assisted him. Kmuzu showed me to my seat across the table from Fried-lander Bey. Umm Saad sat on his left, and her son sat on Papa's right. "Marîd," said Papa, "have you met the young man?"

"No," I said. I hadn't even seen him before. He and his mother were keeping a very low profile in that house. The boy was tall for his age, but slender and melancholy. His skin had an unnatural yellowish tint, and the whites of his eyes were discolored. He looked unhealthy. He was dressed in a dark blue gallebeya with a geometric print, and he wore the turban of a young shaykh—not a tribal leader, but the honorary turban of a youth who has committed the entire Qur'an to memory.

"Yaa Sidi, "said the woman, "may I present to you my handsome son, Saad ben Salah?"

"May your honor be increased, sir," said the boy.

I raised my eyebrows. At least the kid had manners. "Allah be gracious to you," I said.

"Umm Saad," said Friedlander Bey in a gruff voice, "you have come into my house and made extravagant claims. My patience is at an end. Out of respect for the way of hospitality I have suffered your presence, but now my conscience is clear. I demand that you trouble me no more. You must be out of my house by the call to prayer tomorrow morning. I will instruct my servants to give you any assistance you require."