Players of the Game. Graeme Talboys K.

drew their swords.

       Chapter Four

      ‘Please. There is no need for that. Put up your kettle.’

      Taken aback, they surveyed their opponents, not one of whom had moved closer, let alone drawn a sword. The one who had spoken stepped forward, his hands out palm upwards.

      ‘I am sorry for the way this has gone,’ he continued. ‘The others… failed their instructions. They became… over-excited and were lucky you were so… kind, gentle.’

      Jeniche and Alltud gaped. They had expected him to speak Arbiq, the language of the area. Instead, the young man was speaking Makamban. Admittedly his accent was poor and his grasp of vocabulary left something to be desired.

      ‘Dhorisay,’ replied Jeniche, summoning her equally shaky Arbiq. ‘I think you meant dhorisay. That’s the Makamban for “swords”.’

      ‘Oh?’

      ‘Dhorisoh means “kettle”.’

      The young man laughed. The others simply watched. Jeniche relaxed a little. Alltud let the tip of his sword rest on the ground.

      ‘They were simply meant to keep an eye out for you; report on where you had gone and keep me informed that I might, at the right time, approach you.’

      ‘For what?’ Jeniche wasn’t that relaxed. The young man smiled again. He seemed at his ease, but she had lived on the streets long enough to know how to evaluate someone. Most people were like tapestries. It was nearly all there on the surface; they were straightforward, had nothing to hide, and couldn’t do it when they tried. This one, though, was different. It seemed to be there. On the surface. But he was more like a book with a bright cover. There was plenty to see on the outside, but unless you got inside and took your time, there were many layers you would never discover.

      ‘Again, my apologies. Diplomacy is not really my strength. My name is Tohmarz. I represent Dahbeer who is the Qasireu of Alboran. He would very much like to meet you both.’

      Jeniche accepted they could not hope to fight their way out and sheathed her swords in a single, fluid movement.

      Alltud followed her example.

      ‘What is a qasireu,’ he asked as his blade slid home. ‘And do we have any choice?’

      They were escorted through Alboran at a leisurely pace. The streets and alleys were relatively empty; few people were about that early in the morning. The Qasireu’s men seemed to be spread out casually enough, but both Alltud and Jeniche knew how tight the formation really was. Some ahead, others behind, no one far from the flank and always someone at the entrance of an alley as they passed. There was no coercion; there was no escape.

      They were moving into a more prosperous area of Alboran when Tohmarz spoke again, this time in his native Arbiq. ‘The Qasireu is… he’s responsible to the Caleph of Alboran for the keeping of law and order in the city. I believe in Makamba that was the responsibility of a group of the wealthiest merchants.’

      Jeniche nodded. She knew all about law and order in Makamba. Perhaps not in the way this Tohmarz or the Qasireu he worked for did. On the other hand… She gave up trying to speculate, concentrated instead on learning from the things she did know about. That the Qasireu could afford well-trained and well-equipped men; that he kept his well-trained men in reserve for the things they were needed for and employed others as appropriate for the tasks in hand. Organized, then, and thinking ahead. Powerful. Wealthy. Which meant he was probably well entrenched in Alboran society. And that raised a very interesting question in her mind: what did someone like that want with the likes of us?

      She looked at Alltud who had clearly been following a similar train of thought because he shrugged and said, ‘I don’t suppose we’ll have to wait long to find out.’

      As the light grew and the city began to move from stupefied early morning stumbling into full wakefulness, they found themselves on wider, well-maintained streets lined with houses behind high walls. Tall palms grew that doubtless offered shade when the sky was not filled with dust.

      The further west they went, the more opulent it became. Well-tended public garden squares, people sweeping the paved roads, servants moving in that well-practised way that made them look busy even if they were doing nothing, a slight and cooling breeze taking the edge off the perpetual heat. It was toward the western edge of the city that they finally arrived at the residence of the Qasireu.

      A lot of words sprang to mind. Palatial was the one that stuck, especially when Tohmarz announced: ‘The Palace.’

      He led them to the main entrance where guards let them in. As the high gates closed behind them with the sound you would expect of heavy, well-maintained defences, Jeniche realized they had lost their escort. She also realized that ‘fortress’ would have been a better description.

      Tohmarz led them across an outer courtyard toward a second set of gates. The yard was well maintained but bare. Not something you could cross unseen or without resistance from the narrow windows in the imposing building that faced them. The only concession to any other use was the line of benches set against the outer wall. Perhaps a place for supplicants, those awaiting an audience, or where those awaiting justice could sit before being admitted. Alltud and Jeniche were led straight through.

      Beyond the stern façade and the reinforced inner doors, the wealth of the place became apparent. Cooling breezes blew, channelled by the architecture into the interior. Fountains could be heard splashing in verdant courtyards glimpsed through doorways along the main corridor. Water ran in a narrow channel along the centre of the floor with its dazzling mosaic of intricate patterns. Staff walked at a sedate pace on their errands. One of them caught Alltud’s eye as he passed by an open window. The man seemed vaguely familiar, although Alltud could not think why.

      Within an arched way through a wing of the palace, Tohmarz stopped them and knocked lightly on a door. After a few seconds it opened, an elderly woman looking them up and down.

      ‘Good morning, Laila. Please see the Qasireu’s guests to a room where they can freshen themselves.’ She nodded. To Jeniche and Alltud he said: ‘I will return in an hour. If there’s anything you need in the meantime, please ask Laila.’

      ‘The way out?’ muttered Alltud when Tohmarz had gone and they were following Laila along a corridor to a room.

      She held open a door. ‘There is water and fresh clothing in the suite. When you are ready, go on through to the garden where you will find food.’

      They stood in the room as the door closed behind them, silent out of habit, listening to see if it was locked. After a few minutes, Jeniche tried it. It was open. The corridor was deserted although she could hear domestic sounds from nearby, people talking quietly, water pouring. Further away, someone laughed.

      Back in the room, she took stock. Four doors led off the small space. One to the corridor. A second that was open and clearly led out into a garden. Standing in a third doorway was Alltud, shaking his head with a smile. He pointed across to the final door. ‘You’ve got your own room through there.’

      It wasn’t large, but there was a chair in the corner with a neat pile of fresh clothes on the rushwork seat, a bed frame, a bench with ewer and bowl, soap, a sponge, and some towels. In the corner, behind a low dividing wall, a large shallow tray was set in the floor with a small hand pump to one side. The water was clear and cool, running away in a small drain. No wonder Alltud had been grinning. What a luxury. She wedged the door with the chair and began to undress.

      Alltud was already sitting at the table in the garden, helping himself to the food that had been set out. Clean shaven and in fresh clothes, he almost looked like a respectable merchant. Almost. His wary eyes and the hilt of his sword within easy reach spoke of a different role.

      ‘That’s something