In the Palace of the Khans (32 page)

“Yes, we're all fine. Will you tell Rick?”

“Ah … His family's still with you, then? I'm afraid I've got some disturbing news for you to pass on to them. Tell me, that first call you made to us—you did it from his house?”

“Yes.”

“That explains it then. Yesterday the authorities lifted some of their emergency measures and Rick went down to check on his house and hasn't come back. The authorities claim to be making every effort to find him, but we've reason to believe they've got him and are planning to charge him with helping the Khanazhana to escape. They'll claim he doesn't have diplomatic immunity because he's got Dirzhani citizenship.”

“Bastards! Yes, I'll tell Janey. Does that mean they've got everything under control?”

“By no means. There's still a night curfew in Dara Dahn, road blocks, foot patrols, house searches and so on. My impression is that their hold is pretty precarious, with most of the army still sitting on the fence. There's rumours of a mutiny in the barracks at Dorvadu and unrest elsewhere. I and my diplomatic colleagues are pressing them to draw up a provisional constitution leading to the introduction of democratic government. Can you give me any kind of a line on Varaki reactions?”

“They're hopping mad. The Dirzh lot are still holding seven of their chieftains hostage in Dara Dahn. Some of them are all set for a fight, which they'd lose. But most of them know that, so they want to try and sort things out, get their hostages back, have a say in the constitution, all that.”

“Useful as far as it goes. I have deliberately not asked you about the Khanazhana. I'll leave it to you to tell me what you can, when you can.”

“Well … Hang on …”

He'd turned in response to a touch on his elbow. Mizhael made an urgent gesture for him to ring off and pointed south. Three large helicopters had appeared, two or three miles away.

“Sorry, Dad,” he said. “Something's happening.”

“All right. I'll tell your mother you're safe and well, and will call tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Good luck, Niggles.”

He signed off. Mizhael was already starting to dismantle his equipment. Nigel gave him the handset and watched the approaching helicopters. They had almost reached the walls of Sodalka when they swung out over the desert and then in again to circle the city. Mizhael rose and stood shielding the dish with his body as they clattered along beside the ridge, well below the level where he and Nigel were standing. The horsemen on the plain below had stopped to watch.

“Probably just a show of strength,” he muttered, hurriedly stuffing the leads and cables loose into the case. He fitted the dish into the bulge in the lid, crammed it shut and clipped the case onto the rack.

“Sort it out when we're home,” he said, handing Nigel the collapsed tripod. “You're going to have to cope with this. Hop on.”

By the time he started the engine the helicopters had completed their circuit of Sodalka and were beginning another. Two of them swung on along the same course as before, but the third peeled off and climbed directly towards the quad-bike as it jolted down the hill.

“Don't worry,” Mizhael shouted over his shoulder. “They can't land on this slope.”

The bike bucked and tilted. Nigel clung to Mizhael's waist with his right arm while his left cuddled the tripod uncomfortably into his stomach. His shoulder was starting to hurt again. The helicopter came directly at them, passing only a few feet above them, with the battering downdraught of its rotors sending the dust and grit of the hillside stingingly into their faces.

Then it was gone. A bit of grit had got under Nigel's left eyelid, blinding him with tears, but through the growl of the bike's engine he heard the helicopter clatter away, turn, turn twice more, and now it was on their tail, directly above them … And staying there. Deliberately keeping them in its hideous downdraught, as if it was trying to batter them into surrender.

“Hold tight! Lean left!” yelled Mizhael.

Nigel let go of him, grabbed the side of his saddle and moved with Mizhael as he swung his whole body-weight inwards and the bike lurched violently to the left.

He'd misjudged it! They were going over!

But then they were bumping along the slope, momentarily out of the awful storm, with the thunder of the rotors below them on their right. Somehow the grit had wept itself out from under Nigel's eyelid. He wiped the side of his face against Mizhael's shoulder and now through the blur of tears he could see the dark shape edging back towards them, tilted to an angle where it looked as if the pilot was trying to slice their heads off with the rotor tips as he passed over them.

“Right!” yelled Mizhael.

That meant letting go of both saddle and tripod and swapping hands, then grabbing the tripod as it slithered from his lap. They charged downhill through the edge of the storm. When Nigel opened his eyes the helicopter was behind them, but already turning to head them off again.

The manoeuvre repeated itself, once, twice, three times, with variations, the pilot getting better at the game each time. That was obviously how he thought of it. He was having fun, the cat tormenting the helpless wren. Once, when the helicopter passed close beside him, Nigel thought he could see jeering faces at the small windows. Louts in a street gang watching some of their mates beat up a passer-by.

Mizhael had headed directly down the hill, avoiding the road where the helicopter could land. Out on the slope they could dodge and weave as they bucketed slantwise down towards the gates of the city. They'd only a few hundred yards to go, with the helicopter on their tail again, when Mizhael steered them just below a larger than usual boulder, yelled “Left!”, swung round it and roared up the slope.

Deafened by the combined clamour of their engine and the rotors, and wrestling to keep his seat and hang on to the tripod, Nigel didn't realise anything had happened until Mizhael slowed, turned and looked over his shoulder. Nigel did the same, and stared.

The wreckage of the helicopter lay beside the boulder with the dust of the crash still settling round it. There was no sign of any other movement. Mizhael cut the engine.

“Bloody idiots,” he said. “Must have caught a rotor. We'd better get out of here. The other two will be back any minute. You OK?”

“Suppose so,” Nigel muttered, still staring. Those jeering faces. They'd belonged to real people, full of life.

The helicopter exploded. A glaring ball, blinding sight. A bellowing roar and a blast of searing air, riddled with grit, lashing into his face.

“Hold tight,” said Mizhael and drove off, stopping again when they were well clear of the wreck. Nigel forced his eyes open. His face was stinging sore. Something trickled into the corner of his mouth. He licked, and found that it was blood.

He twisted round and looked back. The wreck was now a normal blaze, the flames bright orange despite the strong sunlight. Oily black smoke roiled up into the limpid air. And the men were all dead. Dead.

“You've got a cut,” said Mizhael.

“Yes, I know. So've you. On your left cheek … Higher. It isn't bleeding much. My face is pretty sore.”

“Mine too. Alinu will have something. Hey! They're coming back! We'd better get under cover.”

Nigel twisted round to look. The other two helicopters had swung round and were heading straight for them. A moment later the clatter of their rotors was joined by another as a line of horsemen crossed the ridge and raced towards them, riding without reins on the treacherous terrain and loosing off with their AKs as they came. The Akhlavals liked to put on a show all right.

By the time they reached the shelter of the gateway the helicopters were hovering over the wreck and the citizens of Sodalka were massed along the walls, cheering like a football crowd as the quad bike drove through, with their cavalry escort behind them firing triumphant volleys into the air.

CHAPTER 19

Taeela, still in black, brought Janey to supper so that Nigel could tell her the bad news. She listened, stony-faced, and turned to Mizhael.

“Tomorrow I go to Dahn, talk to Nardu for lending you boat,” she said. “You choose a good man for coming with me. Money too I will need. I may go, Khanazhana?”

The conversation switched to Dirzhani as she and Mizhael made arrangements. Spicy smells drifted from Lily-Jo's cooking.

“What do you think of the new me?” muttered Nigel. “I like it a lot.”

Taeela had stared at him when she had first come in, and then laughed, but Janey had come first.

“I like both yous,” she said. “Your face looks sore.”

“The helicopter chucked up a lot of gravel and stuff at us, but it's not too bad now, since Alinu got at it.”

“You spoke with your father? Lucy is well?”

“She was out, but he told me some other stuff. I'll tell you as soon as Mizhael's stopped talking to Janey. I wanted to tell her about Rick first.”

“Yes. Poor Janey … You are sad, Nigel? It was scary what happened to you. So stupid, these men! This never could happen if my father is alive.”

“I suppose it was scary, but there wasn't really time for that. I'd got stuff to do, just staying on. No, it was … I didn't see the actual crash, so that wasn't too bad. But when it went up. Those men … They'd been alive just a moment before, laughing at us. Alive. To see them the like that …”

“This is war, Nigel. One little bit of war. If the Varaki fight the Dirzh, many, many times it will happen. We must stop that.”

“You think you can take the palace without killing anyone? Sesslizh? Madzhalid? Mr Dikhtar?”

(Take the palace? Crazy. Gameboy fantasy. But it was real for her. Mizhael too, seemingly. It couldn't work, even in Dirzhan. But he'd promised himself that he'd stick by her. And he'd promised his father he'd stay out of it. And nothing would bring the dead men back. He felt really depressed.)

Taeela was looking at him as if she was expecting an answer to something she'd said.

“Sorry,” he muttered. “I was thinking about those stupid guys in the helicopter.”

“Sesslizh, Madzhalid, and Avron Dikhtar—they are different. They killed my father. I have sworn my vengeance on them. It is the word of the Khan.”

“You don't have to kill them. You can put them on trial or something. Anyway you need Mr Dikhtar. He'll tell you all sorts of stuff if he thinks it'll save his skin—who else was in it, who put the money up, that sort of thing.”

Her face hardened.

“It is the word of the Khan, Nigel,” she said. “They killed my father.”

He couldn't meet her look. There seemed to be a huge gulf between them.

“Your dad tell you anything else, Nick?” said Mizhael.

Nigel pulled himself together and turned.

“Um … they've lifted the curfew a bit—he didn't say how long. There's rumours about a mutiny at Dor-something. Dorvadu? Dad and the other ambassadors and people are trying to get the Colonels to sign a provisional constitution …”

“That could be useful. Did he say when? See if you can find out next time you talk to him. Not sure how we're going to do that. Don't want the same thing happening tomorrow. After dark tonight, maybe …”

“That would be good.”

Lily-Jo came in to tell them that supper was almost ready, and to take Doglu off for Darzha to bathe.

“We will help to bring supper in,” said Taeela when she returned. Lily-Jo looked surprised and started to protest, but Taeela spoke to Janey, and Nigel and Mizhael were left alone in the living room. They moved over to the window and stood looking down on the central courtyard.

“Couldn't help hearing what you were talking about,” said Mizhael. “I'm afraid she's right, Nick. These guys killed her father. Got to avenge that. Fat chance her brothers will do it, so it's down to her—with her own hands, if she can. No Dirzhak's going to think she's worth anything without that. Let alone have her for Khan. Tell you the truth, I feel that way myself. Not think, Nick. Feel. It's in our genes.”

“The vengeance of the Khan.”

Taeela's voice, a barely audible whisper, came from behind them.

She was standing by the table, staring at nothing, with a steaming bowl of noodles in her hands. Slowly she turned her head and looked at him. The gulf was still there, but the hardness was gone, and her eyes were sad.

“Do you stop helping me?” she said.

There wasn't a right answer.

“No. No I guess not,” he said. “I can't come with you. I've promised Dad I won't get involved. But I'll try and sort that map out for you.”

“Best thing you could do,” said Mizhael.

They ate mainly in silence. When they sat down the minarets of the city were golden with sunset. When they finished the stars were out behind them.

“Better go and make your call,” said Mizhael, pushing his chair back.

“Don't have any more adventures,” said Lily-Jo.

The gate of the city was closed and barred, but an armed guard opened it and closed it behind them. They drove quietly up to the ridge, where Nigel held the torch for Mizhael while he set up his dish. The embassy line was engaged, so they sat in silence looking out over the moonlit distances. Invisible below them lay the wreck of the helicopter and the charred bodies of young men.

Second try, they got through, and his father answered.

“British Embassy in Dirzhan. Ambassador speaking.”

He sounded tired.

“Hi, Dad. Sorry to call now. Thing is I can't tomorrow. Any chance of talking to Mum?”

“Later. You'll need to do it on the other line. I'll explain in a moment. First though, the interruption this afternoon—had that anything to do with a helicopter, or helicopters?”

“Uh … Uh …”

“I'm sorry, Niggles. I urgently need to know. Two hours ago I received a formal protest from the regime about one of their helicopters on a reconnaissance mission being brought down by insurgents using a ground-to-air missile supplied by the British.”