In the Palace of the Khans (35 page)

“I guess that'll have to do,” said Lily-Jo. “I'll call Mike, and then I'll take Doglu out. Want to come?”

All those furtively watching eyes?

“No thanks. Tell him to bring Taeela up, if she's free. And Rahdan. They'd better check it over.”

“That is wonderful,” said Taeela. “Thank you, Nigel. You have worked so hard.”

“Well, I wanted to do something.”

He got it wrong. He could hear the undertone of ruefulness and resentment even as he spoke the words.

“Yes, it has been hard for you at Sodalka,” she murmured, so quietly that she might have been speaking to herself.

“I guess so. Can't be helped.”

“Hard for me too. I think of you every day. And Lucy.”

“I talked to her last night. She sent you her love.”

“When this is finished we will all go to the hunting lodge again and be happy together.”

“If only.”

“No, Nigel. Not if only. One day. Soon.”

The moment Nigel turned out the light the great maze started swimming and shifting behind his eyelids. Deliberately he chose a passage and worked his way along it, spy-holes, entrances, shafts, booby-traps … they were all there, inside his head, many of the slab-counts, even, as if his brain had been some kind of memory stick slotted into Lily-Jo's PC for her to send the file to.

He wasn't aware of falling asleep, only now he was feeling his way through the almost-dark, followed by a line of armed men, all of them relying on him to find the way, each one as tense as a hunted animal. He had one hand on the masonry at his side, the other holding his torch pointed down at the slabs as he numbered them off. Ten, eleven, twelve, and there was the spy-hole into the Ibex Room, where they could relax and rest. The entrance would be three slabs beyond it. He rose on tip-toe to peer through …

And he was looking not into the Ibex Room but into a dungeon cell, with a known figure hunched on the bench—known by the ash-blond hair bowed despairing over the knees. He turned, but the men who had been following him were gone, lost somewhere else in the haunted maze. Where was the Ibex Room? Where was he? As he stood fumbling with the folds of the map three chill fingers were laid against the side of his neck. His torch went out.

Only a nightmare. He knew that before he woke. He wouldn't be there.

“Crunch moment,” said Mizhael as he led Nigel across the courtyard next morning. “Everyone's coming.”

“Who's everyone?”

“The Khanazhana, of course,” said Mizhael. “The Akhlavals. Varat Vulnad and Benni Dorzh from the West Dirzh, Ammun Amla from the East Dirzh and old Uncle Doglu to help the hold everything together.”

“I thought they all hated each other.”

“Not as bad as that. Varat's my first cousin. Several Akhlavals have married Dirzhi over the years. A lot of people, not just us Varaki, aren't at all happy about the coup. President did pretty well by the country at large, provided you toed the line. More in people's pockets, crime way down, corruption a tenth what it used to be, good hospitals, schools for the kids, food in the markets, etcetera, etcetera. Everyone knows these bastards aren't interested in any of that. All they want is to do well by themselves. And the Khanazhana's got this bee in her bonnet about Dirzh being her people too—can't only be us getting rid of the bastards, got to bring them in somehow if the countercoup's going to stick. Uncle Doglu's backed her up on that.”

“I thought he …”

“Yeah, I was surprised. Old boy's got bloody good intelligence. Says Adzhar Taerzha's dead set on having a go at Sodalka and he's talked the colonels into making an example of us, keep the rest in line. Doglu says we've got to get our blow in first, and this looks like our best chance.”

“If it works. Everything's got to go dead right.”

“Yeah. Better had. In here, Nick.”

By now they had turned in through a door under main arch of the courtyard, climbed a stairway and reached an impressive pair of doors.

“Council chamber,” muttered Mizhael. “Good big table. Doglu fixed it. Don't know what he told Dad. Doesn't matter. Dad doesn't want to know.”

Inside the room the prickle of argument hung in the air. Several pairs of eyes swung to stare at Nigel. Only Izhvan Akhlaval didn't instantly look away.

Mizhael introduced the three strangers: Varat Vulnad was about Mizhael's age, serious looking; Ammun Amla was younger and smiled shyly when Nigel said hello; Benni Dorzh was small, wiry, bright-eyed, at least ten years older than any of the others. He answered Nigel's greeting English.

“Good morning, Mister Nick.”

The accent was Dirzhani crossed with American.

“Right,” said Mizhael. “Let's have a look at these plans.”

Nigel opened Lily-Jo's portfolio and laid the sheets out on the table in the order the attackers would come to them.

“These are the dungeons,” he said. “You come in from the river up beside the sewer. There's a gate here. You use it to climb across, and open it this side. Taee … The Khanazhana's got the key. Then you come along this side of the sewer to this door—the key's hidden in the wall, here …”

And so on, with long pauses while Mizhael translated, until they had climbed the first shaft. He laid the next three sheets out one above the other, with a small scale one beside them to show how they fitted together.

“That's the shaft you've been in,” he explained. “Lily-Jo's marked all the shafts in green and the secret passages in red. You're in one now, on the level below the Great Hall …”

Mutters of doubt broke began as Mizhael translated.

“It's all right. The other levels are much simpler. Look. This is the courtyard back here. You can see there's just one passage running all along this side, with a few short ones branching off. Most of the palace is like that, round the Great Hall. And it's not that difficult to find your way about once …”

He dried up. No one was listening. The mutters were louder now, and not just doubt. Dismay. Somebody asked a question. Mizhael answered without translating, explaining something, trying to calm things down. All the men answered at once, except Uncle Doglu. Mizhael gestured desperately, his voice unheard. Izhvan Akhlaval snatched up two sheets of the plan, ripped them across and across and stared at Nigel with that half-mad gaze.

Taeela seized the moment of silence and started to speak, just as Nigel had heard her speak to her father in the hide at the owl sanctuary, pleading and passionate. They listened, shaking their heads. She turned to Uncle Doglu and asked a question. He replied calmly, sensibly, telling her she was wrong. She looked at Nigel.

“Trouble?” he said, ridiculously. Even if he hadn't heard the anger in the men's voices he would have seen the answer in her face.

“They say you must go with them, Nigel. If you don't, they will not do it. I told them I will go. I know the passages better than you. They say that is no good. It must be you.”

“You've told them I can't. I promised Dad. Honestly, the plans aren't that difficult, nothing like as bad as they …”

“It is not about the plans, Nigel …”

“You remember what happened to you in the market?” said Mizhael.

“Oh, not that! It's rubbish!”

“They won't talk about it—that's bad luck in itself—but … Look, this is a risky business, going to need a lot of luck. They're staking their lives on it …”

Mizhael's voice trailed away. Nigel barely noticed. He was watching Taeela. She returned his look, deliberately blank-faced, not pitiful or pleading or trying to put any pressure on him. But behind the mask …

He had seen her weeping after her father's death, but even in the pit of misery she had been undefeated, defiant. Not now. Her one chance was gone, and she knew it.

A moment ago he had heard her arguing with all her soul-force that he must be allowed to keep his promise to his father. She'd stood by him, though she must have known what it might mean. He swallowed.

“All right,” he croaked. “I'll come.”

They understood without translation. The tension eased. Murmurings began.

“Wait,” he said. “Tell them I'm breaking my promise to my father … That's a big deal. I want something in exchange …”

The pauses for translation gave him time to think.

“I know why you really want me in on this. I don't believe in it myself, but that doesn't make any difference … It isn't going to work, is it, if you have to tie me up and drag me along with you? I have to come of my own free will … And there's got be a reason for me being there, like helping you find your way around the secret passages …

“Well, I'll do all that provided you promise me that there'll be as little fighting as possible, and you won't shoot anyone unless you absolutely have to … If they start shooting at you you'll have to shoot back I suppose, but like I say, as little as possible … Stuff like settling old feuds, that's out. Right …?”

He waited, letting them take it in. The Akhlavals didn't like it at all. Judging his moment he went on.

“You too, Khanazhana. You talked about taking vengeance on your father's murderers … With your own hands … That's out … You can arrest them and put them on trial—I hope you do—but that's it … I think they're total bastards and they deserve everything that's coming to them, but not like that … If you can't promise me that, then I'm out … Is it a deal, Khanazhana?”

They stared at each other. The men muttered among themselves and fell silent. Nigel was strongly conscious of them, full-grown adults, about to risk their lives on the outcome of what might have been a playground argument between two children.

Taeela nodded slowly, twice.

“It is a deal, Nigel,” she whispered.

He walked round the table and offered her his hand, palm up.

“Word of the Khan, Taeela?” he said.

She took it between both of hers.

“Word of the Khan, Nigel,” she said firmly, and repeated the oath in Dirzhani.

There was a thin moon setting in the western sky as the quad bike climbed the spur and halted at the platform.

“What are you going to tell them?” said Mizhael as he set up the dish.

This was the moment Nigel had felt sick in his stomach about from the moment Taeela had given him her word, worse even than the whole hideous business of going along on this crazy, impossible adventure. He couldn't tell his parents the truth. He loathed the idea of lying to them.

“We're going somewhere else and there isn't a secure line there, so whoever's listening will know where we are. Best I could do—sort of true—but I don't like it. They'll know.”

“Tough,” said Mizhael off-handedly.

Even he hadn't got it. He was too wrapped up in his own plans. Nigel felt utterly alone as he took the handset.

The usual clicks and whistles and silences.

“Ambass—”

Piano music.

He almost dropped the handset in his haste to ring off.

“What's up?” said Mizhael.

“Someone listening.”

“Let me try.”

He dialled, spoke briefly, listened and rang off.

“Hell, you're right,” he said. “You can usually tell. Wonder how they did that. Bloody nuisance. Never mind, Nick. I'll get a message to your parents somehow. Anyway we won't be using this system for a while.”

He wasn't a good liar. He had got it, after all. He must have fixed for this to happen so as to let Nigel off the hook. It was still a sort of lying, but at least he didn't have to tell the lie himself.

“Thanks anyway,” he said.

He spent his last day in Sodalka bringing his blog up to date. He knew he was never going to be able to post it, whatever happened, but at least Mizhael would be able to send it on to his parents one day so that they'd know what had happened to him, and why he'd done what he'd done.

CHAPTER 21

Somebody shook Nigel out of his dream.

“Boat coming now, Nick.” whispered a voice. Benni Dorzh.

Achingly he pushed himself into a sitting position, and found that he had been lying on somebody's coat with his head on his bag. His shoulder was acting up. The last he could remember was sitting by the tailgate in the back of the pick-up watching the dusty road reel away behind them in the almost-dusk, just as it had been doing all through the blazing day.

Now it was full night, a half moon rising in the east, the sky above dark velvet and full of stars. The rippled waters of the lake twinkled with their reflections, streaked here and there with the brighter gleam of a light-lure on one of the boats. Another darkness jutted out a little way over the water. The shapes of men moved to and fro on it.

Benni helped Nigel to his feet, picked up the coat and gave him his shoulder bag, and then helped him stumble down onto what turned out to be a rough old timber quay. Chugging softly, the approaching boat nosed in. The gunwale bumped against timber. Ropes were thrown and hauled tight. With a few low-voiced words the men loaded the guns and stores and climbed aboard, leaving only the driver to take the pick-up away.

There seemed to be eight of them now, the five who'd come from Sodalka, two crewmen from the boat, and one who turned out to be Rick's friend Nardu, the boat-owner, who had been waiting for the Sodalka party at the quay. The boat was oddly broad in the beam with a foremast and a short deck fore and aft, but was otherwise open. A stubby pole, not a mast, rose from the centre of the well. A small pile of something gleamed around its foot. A tarpaulin covered the three boxes of guns close to the foredeck. An uninterpretable darkness filled the further end of the well

They chugged a little way clear of the shore and drifted to a standstill. Nardu said something. Benni tugged at Nigel's sleeve.

“Now he light his light,” he said. “We gotta get down so guys in other boats not see us.”