‘Let’s be on our way, Mister Keats,’ said the commodore. ‘They can’t hang us if we’re killed in action, and you have your promise to me to keep.’
Jack boarded the airship and a moment later it was flung into the uncaring sky.
The priest Salwa bent on one knee before Immed Zahharl, who was raging at the courtiers scattering before the cushion-lined pool where the great man had been lounging up until a couple of minutes ago.
Their fear of his temper was all the greater because the pool was located beside the caliph’s torture garden, where the bodies of his enemy’s had been twisted into tree-like shapes twenty feet tall; their mouths sealed or removed by the mages, so their agonies could offer no disturbance to those who were invited to walk the gardens.
Some of the twisted forms were older than the oldest tree — life-prolonging drugs were mixed with the water the gardeners used to keep their victims alive. After all, there was no memory of betrayal longer than that of the Caliph Eternal. The grand vizier, it was known, liked to do his thinking here — among the contorted bodies of those who had fallen from grace and favour. Perhaps to look into the eyes of those he had manoeuvred into the garden; perhaps as a reminder to himself of the price of failure. Many of the empire’s great and good were summoned to meander through the grounds and witness the punishment meted out to those who rebelled against the empire, those who lost wars against Cassarabia, those who were found in the palace kitchen trying to add poison to the Caliph Eternal’s meals. Visitors could usually be counted on to draw the obvious lesson, with many cases of treasonous thoughts that never then progressed into action.
The grand vizier flourished the results of the blood-code test that had established the intruder’s identity beyond doubt — skin cells scraped from the broken-nosed face of one of the womb mages who had tried to stop the intruder. ‘And how was this wretch Omar Barir allowed simply to roam around the library’s lowest levels as if he was a senior womb mage? Are we to hold picnics down there outside our breeding vats and invite along every slave in the palace?’
There was no answer from the chagrined staff as the grand vizier pointed down at Salwa. ‘If the last son of Barir knew enough to follow you down there, if he knew enough to attempt to rescue his precious Shadisa, then the chances are he also knows the Caliph Eternal is bound to the Sect of Razat.’
‘I am sorry, master,’ said Salwa. ‘This is my fault.’
The grand vizier waved the keeper’s apology away angrily. ‘Barir, always a Barir. His father was a thorn in my side; continually agitating for trade rather than war, and his mongrel idiot of a bastard son is no different. Well, as Ben Issman once turned the wastelands of the world to gardens, I shall turn the guardsman’s interference into victory.’ He waved the cowering priest up from the floor. ‘I trust some of Shadisa’s blood and flesh is left?’
‘A little, master,’ said Salwa.
‘Remove a corpse from the library’s mortuary that matches Shadisa’s height, weight and age. I will change the body to be an exact match of the slave girl. After the corpse’s face is smashed in, we will leave enough trace of Omar Barir’s flesh on the body to ensure that he is identified as her murderer. We will let the guardsmen themselves jump to the obvious conclusion when they investigate.’
‘The flesh from his drak breeding …’ said Salwa.
‘Yes,’ said the grand vizier. ‘And how fitting that his drak will be the last one we need to grow for any guardsmen. Those meddling sons of the landed gentry, always bleating about tradition while holding back the empire from its greater destiny. It is time for those dogs to join the secret police among the ranks of the traitors to the empire, and Barir’s crimes have provided me with the provocation I need to act. In fact, a delicious idea has just occurred to me. The last son of Barir’s blood will come in useful for far more than just Shadisa’s murder.’
Salwa knew better than to press the grand vizier on the nature of his notion; the ambitious monster was never more dangerous than when being pressed. ‘We will need to find guardsmen who will confess to their order’s corruption, master.’
The grand vizier pointed to a figure the size of a cedar tree on the other side of the pool, a torso grown as hard as stone while the victim’s arms splayed out in a fan of thousands of bones, eyes staring wildly above a sealed mouth. ‘They always confess to something, Salwa. Just unsew the mouth of the head of the secret police, if you do not believe me.’
Omar looked as if he was having to resist grabbing Boulous and pushing him aside. ‘I must see the grand marshal of the order.’
‘Wait until Master Uddin returns,’ said Boulous. ‘We need his counsel on what to do next.’
‘He disappears for days and weeks at a time,’ said Omar. ‘Do you even know how long he will be gone this time, or where he is?’
‘On the guardsmen’s business,’ said Boulous.
‘This is the guardsmen’s business!’ shouted Omar, pushing the empty vial towards Boulous. ‘The Caliph Eternal has been made a slave with whatever drug was inside here. Our oath is to him, we are his justice.’
‘You are letting your anger over the girl’s death cloud your decisions,’ said Boulous. ‘The guardsmen’s position is precarious and this tale of yours will carry far more weight if it comes from the lips of Master Uddin. He is senior in the order, he might even be in the running to become the next grand marshal.’
Omar pushed past Boulous and opened the door to depart Uddin’s cell in the fortress. ‘I am going to face the present grand marshal and he will listen to my words. They are the truth and he will believe me. Are you with me?’
Boulous hurried out after Omar. ‘Hasty,’ he whispered. ‘Too hasty.’
Boulous had never seen Omar so angry. Normally he was as languid as a lizard lying on the sand, content to be still and drink up the sun. Now he was the force of a sandstorm that would send lizards scurrying away to their burrows, scouring the whitewash off the capital’s minarets below. No good would come of this, Boulous was certain. He hadn’t even needed the note of warning that old Nudar had sent up to him from the palace below to know that. This was a time for subtlety and nuance, the cold calculations that the grand vizier specialized in, not blundering about like a shell-blinded drak in battle.
Unfortunately, the last son of the House of Barir didn’t seem to practice subtlety, despite all of Boulous’s attempts to open his eyes to the machinations within the Jahan.
Getting to see the grand marshal was every bit as difficult as Boulous had anticipated. The jahani who administered the commander of the guardsmen’s diary ran his fingers over the pages, rubbing at a small pair of spectacles as he inspected the evening’s business, tutting as he read.
‘Not tonight,’ said the diary keeper, glancing up from the desk to look down the corridor that led to the stairs up to the grand marshal’s offices.
‘Please,’ said Boulous, ‘just ten minutes with the old man. You know me, Jizan, and you know the favours I have done you in the past.’
‘Indeed I do,’ said the diary keeper. ‘And my memory is not so short that I have forgotten their existence over the last hour.’
‘What do you mean?’ demanded Boulous.
‘I mean I already have officials of the guardsmen furious at me for allowing you two an unscheduled appointment earlier this evening; that was his last slot of the night. You can go away now.’
Boulous felt a sinking feeling in his gut. ‘We did not see the grand marshal earlier.’
The diary keeper shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is time for final prayers. It is time for food, and there is a campaign that must be planned from scratch. You have heard that there is to be all-out war, haven’t you? Come back tomorrow Boulous Ibn Uddin and stop wasting my time.’
But Omar had already pushed past the two sentries on either side of the corridor and was sprinting towards the spiral stairs at the other end. The diary keeper shouted for reinforcements from the guardroom down the corridor. Boulous threw caution to the wind and ran after the sprinting sentries, their ceremonial knives jingling on their belts as they pursued Omar.
Boulous gasped as he crossed the threshold. The grand marshal’s frail body had been stabbed through the chest with his own scimitar, pinned vertically against a bloodstained tapestry between two firing slits in the wall. He looked like an insect stolen by a collector, pinned to the fabric for display. Omar had stumbled over two dead guards sprawled across the floor, their throats cut, and the two pursuing sentries had seized the young guardsman from behind even as he took in the horror of the slaughter.
Boulous felt the cold metal of the diary keeper’s pistol jamming into his neck before he could even turn around. ‘What have you done, Boulous, and why in heaven’s hundred names did you come back here? You should
