Robert Silverberg - Lion Time in Timbuctoo

The day had been one long disorderly swirl. But suddenly now the world stood still, as though there had been an unscheduled eclipse of the sun. For a moment he had difficulty simply seeing her.

“What are you saying, Selima?”

“Do you want me to repeat it all, or is that just something you’re saying as a manner of speaking because you’re so astonished?”

He could see and think again. He examined her closely. She was unreadable, as she usually was. Now that the first shock of her bland statement was past, this all was starting to seem to him like fantastic nonsense; and yet, and yet, it certainly wasn’t beyond Serene Glory’s capabilities to have hatched such a scheme.

How, though, could the Turkish girl possibly know anything about it? How did she even know about the ritual of the cup?

“If we were in bed together right now,” he said, “and you were in my arms and right on the edge of the big moment, and I stopped moving and asked you right then and there what proof you had of this story, I’d probably believe whatever you told me. I think people tend to be honest at such moments. Even you would speak the truth. But we have no time for that now. The kingship will change hands in a few hours, and I’m exceedingly busy. I need you to cast away all of your fondness for manipulative amusements and give me straight answers.”

Her dark eyes flared. “I should simply have let them poison you.”

“Do you mean that?”

“What you just said was insufferable.”

“If I was too blunt, I ask you to forgive me. I’m under great strain today and if what you’ve told me is any sort of joke, I don’t need it. If this isn’t a joke, you damned well can’t withhold any of the details.”

“I’ve given you the details.”

“Not all. Who’d you hear all this from?”

She sighed and placed one wrist across the other.

“Michael. The tall Englishman.”

“That adolescent?”

“He’s a little on the innocent side, especially for a diplomat, yes. But I don’t think he’s as big a fool as he’s been letting himself appear lately. He heard it from Sir Anthony.”

“So this is an English plot?”

“English and Russian and Mexican.”

“All three.” Little Father digested that. “What’s the purpose of assassinating me?”

“To make Serene Glory’s brother Emir of Songhay.”

“And serve as their puppet, I suppose?”

Selima shook her head. “Serene Glory and her brother are only the ignorant instruments of their real plan. They’ll simply be brushed aside when the time comes. What the plotters are really intending to do, in the confusion following your death, is ask the Mansa of Mali to seize control of Songhay. They’ll put the support of their countries behind him.”

“Ah,” Little Father said. And after a moment, again, “Ah.”

“Mali-Songhay would favor the Czar instead of the Sultan. So the Russians like the idea. What injures the Sultan is good for the English. So they’re in on it. As for the Aztecs—”

Little Father shrugged and gestured to her to stop. Already he could taste the poison in his gut, burning through his flesh. Already he could see the green-clad troops of Mali parading in the streets of Timbuctoo and Gao, where kings of Mali had been hailed as supreme monarchs once before, hundreds of years ago.

“Look at me,” he said. “You swear that you’re practicing no deception, Selima?”

“I swear it by—by the things we said to each other the night we lay together.”

He considered that. Had she fallen in love with him in the midst of all her game-playing? So it might seem. Could he trust what she was saying, therefore? He believed he could. Indeed the oath she had just proposed might have more plausibility than any sort of oath she might have sworn on a Koran.

“Come here,” he said.

She approached him. Little Father swept her up against him, holding her tightly, and ran his hands down her back to her buttocks. She pressed her hips forward. He covered her mouth with his and jammed down hard, not a subtle kiss but one that would put to rest forever, if that were needed, the bit of fake anthropology he had given to her earlier, about the supposed distaste of Songhayans for the act of kissing. After a time he released her. Her eyes were a little glazed, her breasts were rising and falling swiftly.

He said, “I’m grateful for what you’ve told me. I’ll take the appropriate steps, and thank you.”

“I had to let you know. I was going just to sit back and let whatever happened happen. But then I saw I couldn’t conceal such a thing from you.”

“Of course not, Selima.”

Her look was a soft and eager one. She was ready to run off to the bedchamber with him, or so it seemed. But not now, not on this day of all days. That would be a singularly bad idea.

“On the other hand,” he said, “if it turns out that there’s no truth to any of this, that it’s all some private amusement of your own or some intricate deception being practiced on me by the Sultan for who knows what unfathomable reason, you can be quite certain that I’ll avenge myself in a remarkably vindictive way once the excitements of the funeral and the coronation are over.”

The softness vanished at once. The hatred that came into her eyes was extraordinary.

“You black bastard,” she said.

“Only partly black. There is much Moorish blood in the veins of the nobility of Songhay.” He met her seething gaze with tranquility. “In the old days we believed in absorbing those who attempt to conquer us. These days we still do, something that the Mansa of Mali ought to keep in mind. He’s got a fine harem, I understand.”

“Did you have to throw cold water on me like that? Everything I told you was the truth.”

“I hope and believe it is. I think there was love between us that night on the porch, and I wouldn’t like to think that you’d betray someone you love. The question, I suppose, is whether the Englishman was telling you the truth. Which still remains to be seen.” He took her hand and kissed it lightly, in the European manner. “As I said before, I’m very grateful, Selima. And hope to continue to be. If I may, now—”

She gave him one final glare and took her leave of him. Little Father walked quickly to the edge of the porch, spun about, walked quickly back. For an instant or two he stood in the doorway like his own statue. But his mind was in motion, and moving very swiftly.

He peered down the stairs to the courtyard below.

“Ali Pasha!”

The vizier came running.

“What the woman wanted to tell me,” Little Father said, “is that there is a plot against my life.”

The look that appeared on the vizier’s face was one of total shock and indignation.

“You believe her?”

“Unfortunately I think I do.”

Ali Pasha began to quiver with wrath. His broad glossy cheeks grew congested, his eyes bulged. Little Father thought the man was in danger of exploding.

“Who are the plotters, Little Father? I’ll have them rounded up within the hour.”

“The Russian ambassador, apparently. The Aztec one. And the little Englishman, Sir Anthony.”

“To the lions with them! They’ll be in the pit before night comes!”

Little Father managed an approximation of a smile.

“Surely you recall the concept of diplomatic immunity, Ali Pasha?”

“But—a conspiracy against your majesty’s life—!”

“Not yet my majesty, Ali Pasha.”

“Your pardon.” Ali Pasha struggled with confusion. “You must take steps to protect yourself, Little Father. Did she tell you what the plan is supposed to be?”

Little Father nodded. “When Serene Glory hands me the coronation cup at the funeral service, there will be poison in the drink.”