Robert Silverberg - Lion Time in Timbuctoo

He put the book aside. They both were staring at him.

To Michael he said, “I’ve arranged for you to defect to Turkey. Ismet Akif will give you a writ of political asylum. What happens between you and Selima is of course entirely up to you and Selima, but in the name of Allah I implore you not to make as much of a shambles of it as Khurrem and Alexius did. Istanbul’s not such a bad place to live, you know. No, don’t look at me like that! If she can put up with a ninny like you, you can manage to get over your prejudices against Turks. You asked for all this, you know. You didn’t have to fall in love with her.”

“Sir, I—I—”

Michael’s voice trailed away.

The Emir said, “Take him out of here, will you, Selima?”

“Come,” she told the gawking Englishman. “We need to talk, I think.”

“I—I—”

The Emir gestured impatiently. Selima’s hand was on Michael’s wrist, now. She tugged, and he followed. The Emir looked after them until they had gone down the stairs.

Then he clapped his hands.

“Ali Pasha!”

The vizier appeared so quickly that there could be no doubt he had been lurking just beyond the ornate doorway.

“Majesty?”

“We have to clear this place out a little,” the Emir said. “This crocodile—this absurd giraffe—find an appropriate charity and donate them, fast. And these hippo skulls, too. And this, and this, and this—”

“At once, majesty. A clean sweep.”

“A clean sweep, yes.”

A cool wind was blowing through the palace now, after the rains. He felt young, strong, vigorous. Life was just beginning, finally. Later in the day he would visit the lions at their pit.