In the Palace of the Khans (29 page)

“I think she does not approve of me. To show my face. To speak how I did to the men.”

“Yeah, she's pretty old-fashioned. She doesn't stand any nonsense from Dad, mind you. Anyway, Nick and I've been talking about how we might get our blow in first. That's what I mean about playing for time. He says you're thinking along the same lines, right?”

“Yes. I will do it. I have a secret way into the palace. I will find good men. How many?”

“Twenty, minimum. With weapons and supplies. It's not just a question of getting them into the palace. You've got to get them into Dara Dahn first. Nick's got an idea about that. Nick, when you've stopped yawning?”

“You tell them,” said Nigel. The two or three little organising notions he had had under the influence of the darm were swamped by the huge tangle of the unknowable. The whole idea was crazy. Vaguely he was aware of Lily-Jo coming back and settling quietly onto the sofa beside Mizhael, and seeming to be listening just as intently as Taeela.

Taeela must have read his mood.

“It will work, Nigel,” she said.

Involuntarily he shook his head. She thought it would work because she willed it to work. But the world isn't like that

“It will work, Nigel,” she insisted.

“I think it might,” said Mizhael. “We'd have to get it just right, but …”

“We?” said Lily-Jo. “You are not doing this, Mike. This isn't one of your games. Don't be stupid. This is real. Anyway, you hate guns. Khanazhana, you don't want him. He wouldn't be any use. He never takes any exercise. He can't run. He can't do the tough stuff. OK, Mike, you can be the back-room boy, get it all ready, deal with the guys who're going to do it if you can find anyone that stupid, but you're staying right here.”

Mizhael laughed.

“Another one who doesn't take any nonsense from her husband,” he said. “We do pick 'em.”

“She is right, Mizhael,” said Taeela. “We cannot take many men. I thought only a few, but I didn't think of the fishing boats. We can take more in them. Your friend will do this, Dzhanayah?”

Janey shook her head doubtfully

“Perhaps I write to him letter,” said Janey. “Rick is good friend for Nardu. Lend him money for buying one boat. But this is big ask. Rick is friend for him, not you.”

“We'll find somebody,” said Taeela. “If we pay them enough … Anyway, somehow we will get there.”

“You're planning on going yourself?” said Mizhael. “That's even crazier …”

“I must go,” said Taeela. “I know the passages—not all of them, there are so many. They are very dangerous, full of traps. The through-ways are hidden. Nigel can tell you. I must show the men how to find them.”

“Isn't all that in your map?”

“I can't tell. The passages that I do know, even. The map is very old, very difficult. I can't read the writing. Look.”

Carefully she drew Fohdrahko's map out from under her clothing, unfolded it and spread it out on the coffee table. Nigel stared at it in dismay. It was hand-drawn onto what he thought might once have been be very fine white linen but had now gone brown, and crumbly at the folds. It showed all four storeys of the palace. At least, there were four separate plans, plus a couple of smaller ones, but they weren't anything like an architect's floor-plan, just a lot of fine spidery lines wriggling to and fro round small, shapeless spaces filled with neat patches of tiny writing, Dirzhani he assumed, but not in any letters he could read. Where was the Great Hall, for heaven's sake? It should have been obvious on at least three of the four storeys, but it wasn't on any of them. It was like trying to read a book in a dream. The details seemed to waver, change …

“Hell, it's in old script,” said Mizhael's voice, somewhere in the distance. “Those aren't letters, they're syllables. There are about nine hundred of them. We'll have to ask Doctor Ghulidzh. Dad's librarian. He should be able to read old script.”

Again a voice woke him, a woman this time.

“Time to wake up, Nick, if you're going to have any breakfast.”

Who …? Where …? The daylight seemed blinding. But he'd heard that soft lisp before.

He dragged his eyes open. Lily-Jo was standing over his bed. He had no idea how he'd got here. Darzha, the Baladzhins' servant, was watching from just inside the door. He peered at his wrist-watch. Half past nine.

“You've got an hour,” said Lily-Jo. “The Khanazhana wants you for when she meets the chieftains. Something about being a witness. Mike says to wear my clothes again, but you'd better come and have breakfast in your bedclothes. Here's a bath robe.”

“OK, thanks. Give me five mins.”

The bath robe matched the pyjamas, dark blue with a pattern of yellow lilies. Breakfast was fresh orange juice, a poached egg, toast and wild honey from the mountains.

“Mike gets it on Sundays, provided he's kept his weight.” said Lily-Jo. “One ounce over and it's crisp-bread.”

“It's great,” said Nigel. “Just like home.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Fine. Better than fine.”

It was true. His shoulder had been pretty stiff when he'd woken and was still bruise-sore if he prodded it, but he'd managed to ease it without pain, and apart from that he felt as well as he'd ever felt in his life, alive, interested, confident that he could cope. There were only two things wrong with his world. His parents would be worried stiff about him—he needed to talk to them. And he wasn't seeing enough of Taeela.

He'd hardly started eating when Mizhael came bustling in.

“You're up? Great. Slept OK? Any problems, apart from Lily-Jo's taste in nightwear?”

“My taste!” said Lily-Jo. “Men have so little imagination. I am given lilies. Doglu gets dogs.”

“Could be worse,” said Mizhael. “You might have been Camilla. Yes, Nick?”

“Is there a secure line out of here? I want to tell Mum and Dad I'm still OK. There was one in the palace, like I told you, and the embassy line's OK, and it's fixed to tell you if anyone's listening. Whenever I tried after the palace someone always was. I had to talk in code, sort of, or Spanish. But even if I do that now they'll still be able to work out where I am, and they'll guess Taeela's here too, and they'll come and try and get her.”

“Day or two and they'll know anyway, after yesterday. No way you can keep something like that quiet, not in Dirzhan. Got to think about that, before they come and bomb us flat. Anyway I can do a phone-line for you. Have to be this afternoon. You've got a date with the chieftains this morning. The Khanazhana says she needs you for a witness. Know what that's about?”

“I think so.”

“Great. After the chieftains, will you see if you can make sense of that plan of the passages? Doctor Ghulidzh can read old script. Doesn't speak much English, I'm afraid. Point is, you've seen them …”

“Only that once. I'll give it a go if you like, but Taeela …”

“She's going to have her hands full helping Dad keep the chieftains in check. My Ma's been talking to Dad. Laid down the law a bit. He's going to play for time, negotiate about returning the Khanazhana in exchange for …”

“No!”

“Her own idea. Not going to do it, of course, but it'll hold the bombers off for a week or two … Tell you later. We've got to get on.”

The chieftains were meeting in the room where they had dined the night before. It was already crowded—fifty or sixty men, Nigel guessed. Most of the furnishings had been cleared back against the walls, apart from a semi-circle of low seats beneath the gallery, where the seven chieftains sat, each with a group of men standing behind him, wearing the different coloured shoulder-sashes of their clans. You could have knitted a romper suit for a camel out of their beards. Zhiordzhio Baladzhin was in the group behind Chief Baladzhin, still looking flushed and furious.

One of the chieftains was on his feet, thumping his fist into his palm as he made his points. Each time he did so mutters of agreement rose from among the watchers. The strong bearded faces were easy to read, some fierce, confident, spoiling for the fight, some scowling disapproval, or anxious and uncertain. There was a bit of applause when the speaker sat down, and Zhiordzhio Baladzhin elbowed his way across to pat him on the shoulder.

By the time he got back to his place another chieftain was speaking, making much less of a meal of it. Mizhael whispered the gist of it. Did they want Sodalka bombed flat? Where were their anti-tank guns? And so on. Some of his audience looked ostentatiously at their watches, yawned and muttered among themselves, others nodded and murmured agreement. He too got a bit of applause when he sat down, not as loud as the first speaker, but from just as many people, Nigel thought.

Two of the chieftains must already have had their say before Mizhael and Nigel arrived, because only three more followed. The first was another hawk, the second wanted to get the hostages back and then decide what to do, and the third was a little old man who'd been sitting out of sight behind Chief Baladzhin and needed to be helped to his feet.

“My ma's uncle Doglu,” whispered Mizhael. “Dog-dog's named for him. Dad doesn't get to speak because he's in the chair, so Uncle Doglu speaks for the clan. They'll listen to him. He's a good guy. I've been talking to him.”

Despite his frail appearance, Doglu Baladzhin spoke in a slow, firm voice, pausing to gather his strength before each sentence, which gave Mizhael time to translate. His audience listened in respectful silence.

“He's saying we may have to fight in the end, but we aren't ready,” whispered Mizhael. “Got to play for time, protest and so on—send delegation to negotiate about the hostages, etcetera—meanwhile, got know more, find out who was behind the coup, paid for it—what the bastards intend to do next, how widely army supports them, etcetera … Ah, this is it. They must meet the Khanazhana—listen to what she says—forget that she's a kid, a girl. Knew her father's mind—saw him killed at her feet—watched his murderers from hiding-places—knew their names—got a lot to tell us … There's two or three of the chieftains very old fashioned. Aren't going to like that … Told you so …”

Two of the chieftains were their feet with their right arms held out rigid in front of them. Doglu Baladzhin stopped speaking.

“Points of order,” whispered Mizhael.

Chief Baladzhin asked a question and looked along the line of chieftains. One of them half stood, but sat back down as the mutter rose to a rumble.

“All of 'em want to take a look at her,” whispered Mizhael. “Doesn't matter which side they're on.”

Doglu Baladzhin said a few more words and sat down. An attendant went to the corner beneath the gallery and spoke to someone there. The room waited in silence until Taeela came sedately in, unveiled, followed by Janey, and this time Rahdan, wearing a smart uniform with a purple shoulder sash.

It was almost a repeat of last night's entrance. The clapping began at once, and continued, louder and louder, as Chief Baladzhin went to meet her and lead her along the line of chieftains, introducing them in turn. They rose and bowed as she came, and she seemed to have something different to say to each of them. One of the hawks tried to patronise her, smiling as he might have done at a too-clever child. The chieftain on his left, near enough to hear her reply, suppressed a different sort of smile as she moved on.

Finally Chief Baladzhin led her back to the centre of the semicircle, and signed to the chieftains to sit. She turned and faced the room, waited for silence, drew a breath and started to speak.

“She wants to tell us how her father died,” whispered Mizhael. “She says …”

The man next to them turned and frowned.

“Don't bother,” whispered Nigel. “I was there. I saw it happen.”

In fact he barely needed the translation. Taeela told the story slowly, in a clear, level tone, and he lived it through as she spoke. Only near the end, when he could almost see her coming down the great stairs, her voice faltered for the first time. She paused, swallowed, drew breath and carried on as before. The shots. The President's collapse. His final, desperate gesture to her to run, and it was over.

Nobody spoke or moved until Taeela turned towards Nigel. As far as he could tell she hadn't once glanced his way since she'd come in, but she knew where he was standing. Perhaps she'd picked him out through the gallery screen while the chieftains were speaking. She waved him over.

“You'd better come too,” he whispered as he started towards her.

He could feel the pressure of everyone's attention, all those eyes on them as they crossed the room. Close up, he could see the strain in her face.

“You wanted me for a witness, Lily-Jo said,” he muttered.

“You remember what my father told me, Nigel?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Today I sacrifice my queen.”

He stared at her, hearing the sadness in her voice and half-guessing what she meant.

“Oh … Well … Good luck,” he managed.

“Thank you,” she said. “Please tell him what I say, Mizhael.”

“Right,…”

The two of them moved aside to give everyone a clear view as she started to speak again, louder and slower, as though she was speaking to a much larger audience. Nigel forced himself to listen to Mizhael's whisper.

“She must avenge her father's death—they'll all go along with that, whichever side they're on. But not by fighting a war, Dirzhaki against Dirzhaki. Her father told her again and again she mustn't let that happen. He said if there is war the Russians and the Americans will make it an excuse to butt in. It's the men who killed him she's after, and the men who gave the orders, Adzhar Taerzha, Colonel Sesslizh, Colonel Madzhalid, Avron Dikhtar, men like that; and also the men who paid them.