Robert Silverberg - Lion Time in Timbuctoo

The foreign embassies were all in the same quarter of New Timbuctoo, along the grand boulevard known as The Street of All Nations. In the old days the foreigners had lived in the center of the Old Town, in fine houses in the best native style, palaces of stone and brick covered with mauve or orange clay. But Big Father had persuaded them one by one to move to the New City. It was undignified and uncomfortable, he insisted, for the representatives of the great overseas powers to live in mud houses with earthen floors.

Having all the foreigners’ dwellings lined up in a row along a single street made it much simpler to keep watch over them, and, in case international difficulties should arise, it would be ever so much more easy to round them all up at once under the guise of “protecting” them. But Big Father had not taken into account that it was also very much easier for the foreigners to mingle with each other, which was not necessarily a good idea. It facilitated conspiracy as well as surveillance.

“We are discussing our impatience,” Prince Itzcoatl told the Russian, who was the cousin of the Czar. “Sir Anthony is weary of Timbuctoo.”

“Nor am I the only one,” said the Englishman. “Did you hear that Maori ranting and raving yesterday at the Peruvian party? But what can we do? What can we do?”

“We could to Egypt go while we wait, perhaps,” said the Grand Duke. “The Pyramids, the Sphinx, the temples of Karkak!”

“Karnak,” Sir Anthony said. “But what if the old bugger dies while we’re gone? We’d never get back in time for the funeral. What a black eye for us!”

“And how troublesome for our plans,” said the Aztec.

“Mansa Suleiyman would never forgive us,” said Sir Anthony.

“Mansa Suleiyman! Mansa Suleiyman!” Alexander Petrovich spat. “Let the black brigand do his own dirty work, then. Brothers, let us go to Egypt. If the Emir dies while we are away, will not the prince be removed whether or not we happen to be in attendance at the funeral?”

“Should we be speaking of this here?” Prince Itzcoatl asked, plucking in displeasure at his earplugs.

“Why not? There is no danger. These people are like children. They would never suspect—”

“Even so—”

But the Russian would not be deterred. Bull-like, he said, “It will all go well whether we are here or not. Believe me. It is all arranged, I remind you. So let us go to Egypt, then, before we bake to death. Before we choke on the sand that blows through these miserable streets.”

“Egypt’s not a great deal cooler than Songhay right now,” Prince Itzcoatl pointed out. “And sand is not unknown there either.”

The Grand Duke’s massive shoulders moved in a ponderous shrugging gesture.

“To the south, then, to the Great Waterfalls. It is winter in that part of Africa, such winter as they have. Or to the Islands of the Canaries. Anywhere, anywhere at all, to escape from this Timbuctoo. I fry here. I sizzle here. I remind you that I am Russian, my friends. This is no climate for Russians.”

Sir Anthony stared suspiciously into the sea-green eyes. “Are you the weak link in our little affair, my dear Duke Alexander? Have we made a mistake by asking you to join us?”

“Does it seem so to you? Am I untrustworthy, do you think?”

“The Emir could die at any moment. Probably will. Despite what’s been happening, or not happening, it’s clear that he can’t last very much longer. The removal of the prince on the day of the funeral, as you have just observed, has been arranged. But how can we dare risk being elsewhere on that day? How can we even think of such a thing?” Sir Anthony’s lean face grew florid; his tight mat of graying red hair began to rise and crackle with inner electricity; his chilly blue eyes became utterly arctic. “It is essential that in the moment of chaos that follows, the great-power triumvirate we represent—the troika, as you say—be on hand here to invite King Suleiyman of Mali to take charge of the country. I repeat, your excellency: essential . The time factor is critical. If we are off on holiday in Egypt, or anywhere else—if we are so much as a day too late getting back here—”

Prince Itzcoatl said, “I think the Grand Duke understands that point, Sir Anthony.”

“Ah, but does he? Does he?”

“I think so.” The Aztec drew in his breath sharply and let his gleaming obsidian eyes meet those of the Russian. “Certainly he sees that we’re all in it too deep to back out, and that therefore he has to abide by the plan as drawn, however inconvenient he may find it personally.”

The Grand Duke, sounding a little nettled, said, “We are traveling too swiftly here, I think. I tell you, I hate this filthy place, I hate its impossible heat, I hate its blowing sand, I hate its undying Emir, I hate its slippery lecherous prince. I hate the smell of the air, even. It is the smell of camel shit, the smell of old mud. But I am your partner in this undertaking to the end. I will not fail you, believe me.” His great shoulders stirred like boulders rumbling down a slope. “The consolidation of Mali and Songhay would be displeasing to the Sultan, and therefore it is pleasing to the Czar. I will assist you in making it happen, knowing that such a consolidation has value for your own nations as well, which also is pleasing to my royal cousin. By the Russian Empire from the plan there will be no withdrawal. Of such a possibility let there be no more talk.”

“Of holidays in Egypt let there be no more talk either,” said Prince Itzcoatl. “Agreed? None of us likes being here, Duke Alexander. But here we have to stay, like it or not, until everything is brought to completion.”

“Agreed. Agreed.” The Russian snapped his fingers. “I did not come here to bicker. I have hospitality for you, waiting outside. Will you share vodka with me?” An attache of the Russian Embassy entered, bearing a crystal beaker in a bowl of ice. “This arrived today, by the riverboat, and I have brought it to offer to my beloved friends of England and Mexico. Unfortunately of caviar there is none, though there should be. This heat! This heat! Caviar, in this heat—impossible!” The Grand Duke laughed. “To our great countries! To international amity! To a swift and peaceful end to the Emir’s terrible sufferings! To your healths, gentlemen! To your healths!”

“To Mansa Suleiyman, King of Mali and Songhay,” Prince Itzcoatl said.

“Mansa Suleiyman, yes.”

“Mansa Suleiyman!”

“What splendid stuff,” said Sir Anthony. He held forth his glass, and the Russian attache filled it yet again. “There are other and perhaps more deserving monarchs to toast. To His Majesty King Richard the Fifth!”

“King Richard, yes!”

“And His Imperial Majesty Vladimir the Ninth!”

“Czar Vladimir! Czar Vladimir!”

“Let us not overlook His Highness Moctezuma the Twelfth!”

“King Moctezuma! King Moctezuma!”

“Shall we drink to cooler weather and happier days, gentlemen?”

“Cooler weather! Happier days!—And the Emir of Songhay, may he soon rest in peace at last!”

“And to his eldest son, the prince of the realm. May he also soon be at rest,” said Prince Itzcoatl.

Selima said, “I hear you have vampires here, and djinn. I want to know all about them.”

Little Father was aghast. She would say anything, anything at all.

“Who’s been feeding you nonsense like that? There aren’t any vampires. There aren’t any djinn either. Those things are purely mythical.”

“There’s a tree south of the city where vampires hold meetings at midnight to choose their victims. Isn’t that so? The tree is half white and half red. When you first become a vampire you have to bring one of your male cousins to the meeting for the others to feast on.”