Three Princes (7 page)

She let that sink in. “That is what the official notice in the Campus News will say. It will not say that you will be heading west, across the Atlantic Ocean to the New World.”

Sashetah Irene turned her focus on Scott Oken, touching his wrist with that same fond touch. “You are going with him, my child. You are going along because you are the only one whom I can trust to keep Mikel alive on this journey, to keep him safe in that dark kingdom. A boatful of Dozey’s soldiers could not protect him as well as you.”

***
AS THEY
walked back down the many steps to the promenade level, Oken said to his friend, “The Queen said I have to take good care of you. Mik. Let’s start by getting a meal into you.”

“The Blue Ostrich,” Mabruke said absently. It was clear his thoughts were thousands of leagues away. Then he glanced over at Oken, as if startled to see him. “I could eat the whole bird.” He reached up to flick the white plume in his top hat.

“It was nice tea, though,” Oken said with amusement. “You’ve got to admit that. A royal tea, you might say.”

“I could still eat the whole bird.”

A SNARLY
little wind came up, raising chaotic gusts filled with dusty sand that obscured the road surface and billowed upward to hide the stars. Mabruke sat hunched over the control panel of the little vehicle rented for the journey to Marrakech. He was focused intently on the line of glowing light that marked out the middle of the dark highway rolling out in front of them. Oken was relaxing in the passenger seat with his arms folded, half-dozing as he watched the landscape surge past. The Shoulders of Atlas were vast, dark shapes against the dark horizon on their right, and the broad Sahara was an immense presence of emptiness in the night.

The exit to the Marrakech Road had dropped them to the south and west, taking a route around the Atlas Mountain Range rather than through them. The Grand Sahara Highway was behind them, soaring over the desert sands on ancient aqueduct structures, a straight line of stonework arches from Memphis to the Atlas Hills. Oken and Mabruke were at ground level for the first time on the trip. The drive west from Memphis had been peaceful, high above the desert sands spread out to the horizon in a gesture of infinity. The Exit Inns along the highway served a satisfying variety of cuisines from all over Africa, and the views from their suites were breathtaking.

The highway also had windscreens to keep back the endless sands. At ground level, the winds were free to have their way with them. The low-slung vehicle was designed to slip among the winds, and to grip the road through sand. At times, however, the wind- blown dust reduced visibility, forcing Mabruke to reduce speed.

The line of lighting in the road vanished. Mabruke let the vehicle roll to stop. Oken sat up, waking abruptly from his half doze.

“There’s something ahead of us,” Mabruke said. “I think there are some animals crossing the road or else sand has covered the lights.”

“Where are we?” Oken said in a sleepy voice.

“Marrakech Exit, east of the Atlas.”

“Do you want to know what the Horus Scope is for today?” Oken spoke somewhat testily. He did not like riding in this little vehicle, through a barely visible world. He had wanted to stop at the last Way Out Inn up on the highway. Mabruke, however, had insisted that they continue on.

“You’ve told me already, twice, in fact.” Mabruke peered through the swirling gusts of sand to see the road lights.

“Don’t go out after dark.” Oken was needling the man and he knew it. “That’s what it says.”

“So you said before.” Mabruke was clearly amused. “But we’ve traveled west from Memphis. Are you really sure what day it is?”

Oken looked out at the darkness ahead. “Is it safe to stop if it’s blowing like this?”

“I was considering that.” Mabruke inched the vehicle forward, then braked abruptly as a gray and white goose flew out of the night, just missing their windshield, flapping frantically away.

“Anything about geese in the Horus Scope?”

“Not until next week. What’s that bird doing out this time of night?”

The wind vanished with the abruptness of the goose’s flight, leaving them sitting in the clear night. They were surrounded, however, by several dozen men on camels. The camels were black, and the men were covered head to toe in black desert robes. Man and beast were nearly invisible in the night, a solid mass blocking them in on all sides.

“Camels.” Oken turned to Mabruke with a puzzled look. “Tall ones, too.”

“Indeed. Tall camels.”

Before they could reach any conclusion to that thought, they saw the camels drop to their knees and the men closest to the vehicle slide down from their saddles. The vehicle doors were simultaneously wrenched open. With dismaying swiftness and strength, the men grabbed Oken and Mabruke, fixing masks over their faces even as they dragged them out of their seats. The masks cut off sight and muffled their voices.

Oken tried to struggle. The men were implacable, almost casual, in their strength and the way they held him. He could not see. He felt his wrists being bound in front of him. He was handed up to one of the camel riders and roughly settled onto the saddle in front of him.

The camel lurched to its feet, turned, and ran over the sand at top camel speed. Oken could hear the wind, the unhappy grunts of the animal, and the padded thud as it ran. He could not hear anything that sounded like Captain-Prince Mabruke.

OKEN WAS
annoyed when he awoke, annoyed to realize that he could fall asleep in the midst of such dire circumstances. Somewhere during the long, monotonous ride through the Saharan night he had fallen asleep, slumped against the chest of the rider who held him in place. Mabruke often told his espionage cadets that maintaining inner reserves was crucial when in the field. Hunger, fatigue, and, worst of all, dehydration could weaken reflexes and blunt thinking. Grabbing a nap, a drink, or a meal in a moment of relative safety could make the difference in response time when danger struck. Nonetheless, Oken was disappointed in himself.

He tried to sit forward, only to find himself gripped with that same iron strength. They were at an angle, as though the beasts were running uphill. Faint light filtered through the mask, and the chill of night was giving way to the warmth of the African Sun. Even as he noted this, the ride was over.

The camel dropped to its knees. Oken was half-carried, half- dragged to someplace inside. He could not determine what kind of inside. The whispery, wide-open sounds vanished, replaced by a sudden hush and the cool of a large interior scented with coffee, incense, sweat, cheese, and hashish. Low voices in quiet conversation murmured somewhere to his right.

Oken was stood up on his feet. The mask and wrist-binding were removed in the same gesture.

He found himself in an large, luxurious tent with magnificent rugs covering every surface, and brassware fittings for the supports and fans. Elaborate glass lamps shed a warm, amber-colored glow. Men in layered burnooses and brimless hats sat on cushions, talking quietly, or were standing around the perimeter on casual guard. Everyone was armed with swords and knives carried in embroidered sheaths hung across their backs.

Oken stood taking in his surroundings while rubbing his wrists to restore circulation. The men who had brought him made no further move to hold him. They simply walked away to side tables, where carafes of water and trays of bread and cheese waited.

A group of people near the center of the tent parted, revealing Mikel Mabruke sitting back comfortably on a heap of leather cushions in front of a low table spread with an array of dishes, stacks of flatbreads, and wheels of cheese. Tall urns of engraved silver stood on heating stands, with cups hanging on hooks around the rim.

Mabruke looked up and their eyes met. “There you are!” Mabruke called to Oken, gesturing to the pile of cushions beside him. “Come! Sit! Have a bite to eat. You must be famished.”

Oken made a careful review of his friend and the men with him. Nothing in Mabruke’s gesture or face suggested anything but a man relaxing among friends. Oken strode over, rubbing his wrists and watchful of Mabruke’s expression.

The man seated across from Mabruke gestured toward Oken’s feet with his knife tip. He was an old man with a stern, dark-brown face, thick brows, and carefully braided beard and side-locks. Silver rings covered his fingers, rings with finely cut black stones and shining pearls, matched by thick wristbands. A single earring dangled, a silver ram’s horn spiral. The scar marring the narrow ridge of his nose ran from the corner of his right eye to the rim of the left nostril. A second scar lifted the corner of his mouth into a permanent smile. The look in his black eyes was guarded and the knife tip pointed with unwavering aim.

Mabruke pointed to his own bare feet. “The rugs are much more comfortable on bare feet, you know.” Then he patted the pile of cushions again. “Sit!”

Oken took off his boots and dropped them to the rug, then slowly lowered himself onto the cushions.

Mabruke leaned forward, gesturing with his silver cup. “Master Zaydane, allow me to present Lord Scott Oken, top graduate of the academy, and memoryman on this assignment.”

He turned to grin at Oken’s sullen look. “Master Moulay Zaydane—he was dean of the academy when I was but a raw, young recruit, stumbling over my own feet.” He leaned back again, sipping at his coffee. “We became good friends, as things went by.”

Zaydane reached up to stroke his beard, repressing a smile. “Once you had learned to keep your great long legs out of everyone else’s way.”

“He calls me his giraffe calf.” Mabruke smiled across at the older man.

Oken recognized the name Moulay Zaydane at once. Zaydane’s Trade, though flawless, was accented with a strong flavor of the Atlas Mountains. “Your reputation at the academy survives, Master Zaydane,” he said. “It’s an honor to meet you in person, although I don’t know that being kidnapped was quite the introduction I had in mind.”

Zaydane dismissed this with a wave of his hand, rings flashing. “Have some coffee, Lord Oken. You have had a long and dusty ride.”

“I smell like a camel, as well.” Oken wondered why he was not in on the joke that these two shared.

“That can be dealt with later.” Zaydane took a silver cup from the urn nearest him, held it to the spout, and filled the cup with steaming, aromatic brew, then handed it to Oken.

“He takes honey.” Mabruke selected a honey dish from his table and held it out.

Oken took the dipper and swirled the golden brown honey into the cup, all the while eyeing the two men and waiting for them to break into laughter. “If I’d known I was being invited to a coffee klatch, I would have worn my other suit. The one with the fancy cuffs and buttons.”

Both Mabruke and Zaydane laughed. A little too heartily, Oken thought. “Then, of course, that suit’s in my luggage, isn’t it, in the vehicle we left behind?”

“Safely on its way to Marrakech,” Zaydane said.

“That’s where I thought I was.”

“You will be, soon enough.” Zaydane’s scarred face was unreadable.

“We’ve been rescued,” Mabruke said amiably. “Relax and enjoy it.”

“Rescued?” Oken tried to determine whether or not his friend was merely playing along with their captors. Mabruke’s look was perhaps too genuine. “Just how would that be?”

“There were riders waiting for you at the exit,” Zaydane said. “We were watching for your arrival, as instructed, then men were seen riding out of the shadows at the base of the highway when your vehicle appeared. Our original plan was to ride in escort until you reached camp. We kept just out of their sight, to see what they would do. When that windstorm blew up, we decided to pull you out of harm’s way and put our men in your place, as decoy.”

“Really? You couldn’t just ask? I’m not much for camel riding, but I can be reasonable about it.”

Zaydane shrugged eloquently beneath his black robe, turning his palm up in a dismissive gesture. “We knew that the sandstorm would clear as quickly as it came. The moment was perfect, there and then. I made the decision to get you out of the vehicle as quickly as possible, before the men following you rounded the bend and saw us. My men replaced you, and drove on. Explaining, asking, doing anything other than we did might have revealed us to your followers. By whisking you out of there, we avoided bloodshed, and we got away without detection. We fooled them. Those men following your vehicle are being led on a wild goose chase through the Atlas Hills.”

“How did you manage the goose?” Oken said.

A warm light touched his eyes. “Old Dozey? He scents the winds better than a hound.” The thought clearly pleased him.

“Still,” Oken began a further protest, then stopped at a look from Mabruke.

“If the people following us had seen Zaydane’s men,” Mabruke said to him, “they would report only that we had been kidnapped by raiders. Either way, they would not know where we were are now.”

Oken sipped at his coffee to cover his momentary confusion. He reminded himself that he was a raw youth compared to these two men, that his indignation at their methods would seem childish. The hot, rich brew and the tang of the honey were distracting, a wilder, more intense flavor than anything he had ever had in Memphis or in Europe. He let that be the focus of his attention. “Excellent coffee.” He pointed to the table. “Which cheese would you recommend I try first?”

AN HOUR
or two was spent eating great quantities of fine cheeses, sweet and hearty breads of every kind, olives, mushrooms, and dried dates soaked in honey. Mabruke and Zaydane kept up a steady round of small talk about the food, about horse breeds, and the cost of camels and their bad tempers. Oken listened without much participation, instead taking note of the men coming and going through the large tent. He made sure that he got a look at their faces, so that he would recognize them in the future. If these people truly were on Mabruke’s team, Oken wanted to be certain he knew them. If this were an elaborate ruse, Oken wanted to know the faces of his enemies. Until he had a chance to speak with Mabruke in private, he would withhold judgment on either side. He found himself hoping they were not the enemy. They looked to be a tough and formidable group. Oken remembered the hard strength with which he had been captured and held during the night. Better to have such men on his side.

Apparently, only the night riders wore black, and only the older wore braided beards like Zaydane’s. The rest were clean shaven, with their hair kept neatly out of sight under the straight- sided, gaily patterned headgear. Most wore burnooses in a variety of colored stripes, with red, bronze, and yellow dominating, although a combination of green and bronze was also popular. A few wore blue and purple striped robes with bright red and blue hats. After a time Oken placed a pattern, in that those in blue and purple sat cross-legged before low writing desks set with quill stands and inkwells, writing steadily in a variety of small notebooks, while checking data back and forth with each other. Oken thought at first that these were younger men; finally he noticed that these scribes were actually women. They dressed just as the men did; their makeup and jewelry were the same. Their dusky faces and almond- shaped eyes had smoother lines. Their scarlet mouths were full. He found himself gazing more often in their direction, wondering how he might strike up a conversation, particularly with a tall, lean woman nearby whose elegantly shaped cheekbones; high, smooth brow; and pointed chin grew more attractive every time he glanced at her. Perhaps if he were to ask if he might borrow a quill?