Peter Dickinson - The Poison Oracle

“I am called by Akuli bin Zair to the Council,” said Morris mildly. “This man is a witness whom the Council have asked to hear.”

“And the ape? Is she also a witness?” snarled one of the strangers.

“A better one than you, bin Duwailah,” shouted one of the regular guards, more truly than he knew. It sounded as though there was a certain amount of needle here, but the two strangers refused to give way until the young sheikh with the cleft chin appeared from the hail and cursed them for fools.

“But the slave must leave his weapons,” he said.

Morris translated, and smilingly Gaur handed his belt, with its sheathed dagger and holstered revolver, to one of the regular guards.

Deliberately Morris allowed Dinah loose as they entered the hall itself; she had been restless with curiosity ever since she heard the noise of the coffee-pestle, and now she raced across the mosaic floor to investigate, to try the taste of a coffee-bean and spit it out, and then to pout at the dozen sheikhs already assembled. The diversion allowed Morris to settle on an unoccupied patch of cushions, to check the position of the recorder-switch while he pretended to be sorting Dinah’s fruit, and finally to run a vague eye round the Council Chamber and see that a dark wisp of veil dangled through the tracery of the women’s gallery.

He sighed with relief and snapped his fingers at Dinah, who ran over to see whether he was going to pay proper attention to her.

“Sirs,” he said as he took her on his lap, “I ask your pardon for bringing this ape to the council, but she has been much frightened on our journey in the marshes and I cannot leave her alone. She is more valuable than many hawks. The Sultan paid ten thousand dollars a month to keep her in Q’Kut.”

After a mutter of astonishment the conversation shifted to the subject of animals and their prices, famous mares and camels, and a long account of how someone’s uncle had traded into Somaliland on a rumour of a strain of superb horses and had come back with nothing but a shipload of mules. Where he could, Morris brought in references to their own Sultan’s wealth and generosity.

In about ten minutes Hadiq arrived, escorted by bin Zair and the new secretary, a dark-skinned little man who bore a vague resemblance to bin Zair himself, and turned out to be his nephew. Hadiq, looking strained, made a little speech of welcome and thanks for the advice they were about to give him. His eye fell on Morris.

“Hi, Batman, welcome back to the Batcave,” he said.

“Hi, wonderboy,” said Morris. “Let’s go.”

But Hadiq rose from his throne and crossed to where Gaur stood, massive and withdrawn, outside the circle of councillors. He took both his hands and greeted him in Arabic. Gaur stumbled through his reply. Several of the Arabs looked furious, and one leaped to his feet, shouting that he owed no allegiance to a Sultan who befriended the murderers of his own father. Three of the younger men jumped up with their hands on their daggers. Morris got ready to clap, long before he had planned to, but bin Zair came scuttling off his stool by the throne, tugging at their arms, squeaking for calm. They settled. Hadiq went back to his throne. Coffee was served, tiny cups offered to each man in strict order of precedence. Morris was delighted to see how high he came on the list, but all the same he watched the process carefully; there is a well-known Arab technique whereby the coffee-man secretes poison under his thumbnail and by pouring coffee over it is able to eliminate any selected guest. Morris got his three tiny helpings unthumbed, but even so he was very nervous. This was not his sort of scene at all—it had to go just right, with no opportunities for re-runs and erasures.

Dinah seemed to sense his nerves, but luckily didn’t respond by fidgeting around, badgering the coffee-man and mocking the grave sheikhs. Instead she nestled into his lap, still as a sick child, and fingered at his shirt-buttons.

As the junior councillor at last shook the coffee-cup to show he had had enough, bin Zair rose.

“Friends of two Sultans,” he said, “you are very welcome once more. And we have good news. Lord Morris is returned safe from the marshes, so we do not have his death to avenge. But we also have bad news. As you know, we have bought aeroplanes and bombs and napalm, but the pilots whom we hired—both good men who have fought in many little wars—say they cannot fly these planes across the marshes. The changes in the air, they say, would break an old aeroplane in pieces. Moreover they say it will be very difficult to find any targets in the haze.”

“They simply want more money,” said someone. “All mercenaries are the same. Offer them double. The Sultan is very rich.”

“They have refused double,” said bin Zair. “I think perhaps some fool has told them how the marshmen would treat them if they were forced to land among the reeds.”

“Cannot men be found who are not cowards?” shouted Fuad, the hysteric camel-raider, just as if he had maintained the same pitch of frenzy all the time Morris had been away.

Bin Zair smiled and pulled his beard.

“Now,” he said, “we who live by the marshes know this. When the floods are fully gone, the reed-beds become very dry, and it is then the custom of the marshmen to burn certain patches. Now, at that time, if we buy hovercraft and mount flame-throwers on them, we could safely burn . . .”

Hadiq was rising to his feet, pale and nervous. But Fuad spoke first.

“How long?” he shouted. “Hovercraft? They will take many weeks to come.”

“The reeds will not be fully dry for four months,” said bin Zair.

Fuad started to shout again, sensed somehow that the feeling of the meeting was against him and sat down; his Adam’s apple jerked about in his throat as though he were actually swallowing bile.

“We cannot wait here for four months,” said the young man with the cleft chin.

“In my time I have waited twenty years to take vengeance,” said Umburak, placid as ever. While he told the well-known details of two ancient murders, Morris managed to catch Hadiq’s eye and make a tiny signal that he wanted to speak. The reminiscent mutterings were still dying away when Hadiq stood up.

“Four days ago I buried my father, whom I loved,” he said. “Still I do not know how he was killed. Have you news, Morris?”

It didn’t sound as though the Council was prepared to devote more than a few seconds to this academic point, but Morris cleared his throat and answered loudly.

“Yes, I have news about that, and also about the oil.”

At the marvellous word the whole tone of the meeting changed. There was a brief outburst of muttering and whispering. Morris clapped his hands, as if for silence, and though he didn’t dare look he thought he heard a faint rattle of metal on stone, somewhere up in the gallery. In the following hush he fished a tangerine out of his basket and gave it to Dinah to keep her quiet; but she must have sensed his nervousness, for she insisted on huddling into his lap to eat it.

“Yes,” he said, “I have spoken with many marshmen, both about the oil and the death of their lord. It was clear to me that they did not know that the oil even existed. It follows from this that bin Zair killed the Sultan.”

He spoke the accusation directly at the old man, peering for some sign of guilt or shock, but saw only a slight jerk of the head and widening of the yellow-oozing eyes. The result was that he didn’t notice the nephew until he saw a revolver being brandished under his nose. He shrank back. Dinah clutched too tightly for him to free an arm. The nephew was prodding at the safety-catch but his spittle was already reaching its target on the wings of his curses. Then suddenly he reeled back. The revolver rattled to the floor and he lay supine with blood streaming from his temple where Gaur’s throwing-stick had struck.