Sea Robber

SIXTEEN

THE KORA KORA headed directly towards them. Clearly the commander of the vessel knew exactly where to find the river mouth, and he’d seen the two castaways on the shore. Hector judged it wiser to stand his ground. Beside him Vlucht shifted nervously. ‘Vicious bastards,’ he warned. ‘Treat them respectfully. They take offence easily and would lop off your head if they thought you lacked respect.’

Within minutes the war canoe was close enough for a shouted command and a final thump of the drum. The paddlers relaxed, and the vessel glided into the little creek and nuzzled gently into the muddy bank.

With the chance to examine the crew more closely, Hector decided they weren’t as fearsome as their reputation. Many of the paddlers were scrawny old men with stick-like arms and there was a sprinkling of youngsters who were little more than boys. They were half-naked, wearing only faded blue loincloths and head shawls, and their skins ranged from coffee-brown to a rich, dark mahogany. With short, fuzzy hair and broad, flattish noses, they were distinct from any of the people Hector had encountered on his travels. None of them looked particularly fierce or frightening as they rested on their paddles and cast curious glances at the two Europeans. In contrast to the huge, shimmering silk banner of violet and gold, the rest of the vessel was grey and shabby. There were several discoloured areas where the hull had been patched, and the thatch on the small hut that served as a cabin was frayed and tatty. Nor was the group of men clustered on the kora kora’s deck very imposing. One or two were smartly turned out in long white gowns, but most of them were dressed in scraps of old uniforms, mismatched jackets and skirt-like sarongs, and they clutched matchlock muskets that were poorly maintained. The only weapons that appeared to be in good order were their long daggers with broad, slightly curved blades and a number of well-honed spears. There was no sign of any deck armament, and Hector doubted that the kora kora was sturdy enough to carry cannon.

Hector and Vlucht hurried forward to greet the landing party. It was led by the tall, thin man in the white gown. He had a narrow, scholarly face and shrewd brown eyes beneath a plain white turban. He appeared to be wary, rather than hostile, as he sprang ashore.

Unexpectedly he greeted them in heavily accented, but clearly understandable Spanish. ‘From which country do you come?’ he asked.

Hector nodded towards the wreck of the Westflinge. ‘The ship is from the Netherlands, so too are her crew, and her captain here.’

The tall man was quick to note the omission. ‘And yourself?’

‘I come from Ireland.’

The tall man looked vaguely disappointed. ‘Yet you speak Spanish?’ he asked.

‘I learned it from my mother. I had not expected to hear the language spoken so far from her homeland.’

‘The Spaniards first came here during the reign of my Sultan’s great-grandfather. They sought trade and we established good relations with them,’ the tall man explained. He watched Hector and Vlucht closely, trying to decide what sort of people they were. ‘I am Ciliati Mansur, and my family has provided court chamberlains over many generations. I was taught to speak the foreign tongue. But in the time of the present Sultan, the Spaniards have not returned.’

‘Forgive me if I seem ignorant or impolite,’ said Hector, ‘but our vessel was leaking badly and we had no choice but to run her ashore. We do not wish to trespass, nor do we know on whose territory we have landed.’

The court chamberlain drew himself up to his full height and said with grave formality, ‘You are on the lands of His Majesty Said Muhammed Jihad Saifuddin Syah ab Ullah, Sultan of Omoro. I have the privilege of presenting you to his son, His Highness Prince Jainalabidin.’

During the exchange a small, slight figure had emerged from the cabin on the kora kora and made his way to the bow. Hector saw that it was a child. One of the half-naked paddlers had left his place and gone to stand on the muddy bank, immediately beneath the upturned prow. He bent forward, hands on knees. The child stepped down on to the shoulders of his attendant, who carried him up the slippery bank and set him on his feet beside the chamberlain. Hector found himself looking down into the solemn yet haughty expression of a boy who could not have been more than seven years old. He was dressed in a dazzling white sarong, over which he wore an elegantly cut miniature jacket of cloth of gold with red facings. A turban of the same material was wound around his head, and his small feet were encased in white silk slippers. The lad’s complexion was noticeably fairer than that of his attendants.

The boy spoke in a light, clear voice. There was no mistaking that he was giving orders to the chamberlain.

‘His Highness,’ Mansur translated, ‘says that you are to come immediately to the palace. There you are to stand before the Sultan and explain your presence to him.’

Hector bowed diplomatically as Vlucht beside him muttered under his breath, ‘Do whatever the puppy asks.’

The chamberlain turned to the kora-kora crew and waved. A score of the Omoro left the war canoe and began to move off towards the camp.

‘If Your Highness will excuse me, I must attend to my companions,’ Hector apologized and hurried off to catch up with them.

The Sultan’s men wasted no time in dismantling the camp. They took down the makeshift tents, rolled up the canvas and retrieved the ropes and cordage. They collected all the items that had been brought ashore from the Westflinge – the boxes, blankets, guns, tools, Vlucht’s navigation instruments and Jacques’ cooking gear. Everything was carried back on to the kora kora and stowed. Nothing was left behind, and soon the campsite was nothing more than a bare patch of ground. Jacques, Jezreel, Stolck and the invalids could only look on until the moment they were ushered firmly but politely on to the kora kora. The skiff, which had been moored to the bank, was untied and attached by a towline to the stern of the war canoe. Maria was nowhere to be seen.

‘Where’s Maria?’ Hector asked Dan, catching him by the arm.

‘She went off for a walk in the jungle,’ the Miskito answered. ‘She cannot have gone far.’

Hector turned to the Omoro chamberlain. ‘One of our party is missing,’ he said.

‘We cannot delay,’ Ciliati Mansur answered. ‘The Sultan expects our return in time for maghrib, the sunset prayer.’

‘Please allow me a few moments,’ Hector begged.

Fortunately it took him no more than a few minutes to locate Maria. She had only gone as far as the tree, hoping to catch another glimpse of the remarkable birds. When Hector returned with her, the chamberlain was taken aback.

‘You did not say that your travelling companion was a woman,’ Mansur said in surprise.

‘She is my betrothed,’ Hector answered.

‘But you are not yet married?’

‘No.’

‘And her family permits her to travel without female companions?’

‘That is our custom,’ Hector answered.

The chamberlain sucked in his breath softly. Hector guessed Maria was the first European woman he’d ever seen, and he didn’t approve of her lax foreign ways. ‘Then she must remain in the cabin until we arrive home,’ he said firmly.

THE JOURNEY to the Sultan’s capital proved to be a short one. The kora kora’s crew looked to be frail, but they kept up a brisk pace. Four hours of steady paddling along the coast brought them to their destination, and Hector used the time to question Ciliati Mansur about what to expect. The Sultan of Omoro, the chamberlain informed him, had ruled for nearly forty years over a small coastal kingdom that was once rich and powerful, but now increasingly impoverished. Mansur blamed this decline on the shadow of the Sultans of Ternate and Tidore. They had intercepted the only trade that brought much money to Omoro – the sale of exotic bird skins.

‘We call them manuk dewata, “God’s Birds”,’ explained the chamberlain. ‘In truth, Allah put the creatures in our jungle so that we can have something to offer in exchange for the items we lack – guns, powder, and so forth. Traders come from as far afield as Malacca to buy our bird skins.’

‘Are the feathers really that precious?’ asked Hector.

A slight smile twitched the corners of Mansur’s mouth. ‘Yes, thanks to the vanity of man. We pretend the birds are enormously difficult to catch. We claim they have no legs and so they can never alight on land, but soar up into the sunbeams and catch and fix the colours of the rainbow in their plumage.’

‘I’ve seen the creatures settle and squabble on the branches of a tree, and they were noisy and very down to earth,’ said Hector.

‘Then you are one of the very few outsiders to have witnessed such things,’ said the chamberlain. ‘In reality the birds are not so difficult to take. The hunters spread a sticky gum on the branches where the birds gather, and the creatures are trapped. The bird catchers wring their necks, strip off the skins with the feathers attached and bring them to the Sultan’s agent. He alone has the right to sell them on to the Malay traders. That tale of the legless birds started because the hunters cut off the birds’ legs while they are skinning them.’

Hector glanced across to the young prince seated on a cushion by the door of the cabin into which Maria had gone. ‘Does the Sultan have other sons?’ he asked quietly.

‘Prince Jainalabidin is the Sultan’s only male child. Allah withheld that blessing for many years. Our Sultan is old enough to be Prince Jainalabidin’s grandfather.’

Hector remained silent. When both he and Dan had been prisoners of the Barbary Turks, he had observed how greatly the Muslim rulers valued having a male heir.

‘When will I be allowed to speak with my betrothed? I have to reassure her that all is well,’ he said. Everything had happened so quickly that he hadn’t had a chance to exchange more than a few words with Maria, and she’d been confined to the cabin since coming on board.

‘That will be for the Sultan to decide,’ the chamberlain answered blandly. He paused, as if considering what to say next. Then he added in a cautionary tone, ‘When you meet His Highness, please remember that he is full of years, and that old men are given to strange fantasies. Their decisions sometimes seem erratic.’

Hector was left wondering uneasily whether his fate, and that of his companions, would now depend on the whims of a capricious dotard who ruled a bankrupt kingdom.

THE KORA KORA turned into a narrow, steep-sided river mouth on which the Sultan’s capital was situated. The place, Pehko, was a ramshackle settlement of bamboo and thatch houses. The nearest were little more than shacks poised on stilts over the grey-green surface of the fetid backwater. As the kora kora glided into harbour, Hector could see women and children standing on the rickety platforms, their arms held up to shade their eyes as they gazed at the return of their menfolk. A strong odour of drying fish and rotting debris mingled with the scent of wood smoke from the cooking fires and drifted across the water. Chickens and ducks foraged along the foreshore, where dozens of small dugout canoes were drawn up, and festoons of nets hung to dry on posts driven into the mud. He glimpsed more thatched dwellings farther up the slope, half-hidden among groves of tall trees, their foliage a deep, luxuriant green with glimpses of red and yellow fruit. There were only two buildings of any size. One was the mosque, for he could hear the call to prayer from its roof. The other was an untidy sprawling structure situated on high ground behind the town, where a curve of hillside gave a view directly down into the estuary. Even at a distance he could see the extravagant profusion of flags and banners sprouting from every corner and angle of the building, along the ridge of the roof and from triple flagstaffs in front of the grandiose portico.

‘Kedatun sultan, the palace of the Sultan,’ murmured the chamberlain as the kora kora came to rest against the wooden pilings of a jetty on the right bank. On the dockside six Omoro warriors were waiting. They were armed with spears and shields trimmed with horsehair. Behind them stood a bizarre-looking vehicle. The two rear wheels were almost the height of a man, their spokes and felloes painted in blue and green patterns, now faded and peeling. The two front wheels were one-third of the size and similarly decorated. Slung between them by leather straps hung a gilded sedan chair, its door panels showing pictures of leaves and flowers. But instead of horses between the shafts, the contraption was to be pulled by four servants, barefoot and wearing loincloths. On their heads, in imitation of horse decoration, they wore long, nodding plumes, orange and black, thrust into their turbans. As he watched, the young prince disembarked from the kora kora and stalked across to the carriage. The door was held open by a kneeling servant. The small prince stepped inside, and a moment later the team of humans were trotting away, dragging the carriage up towards the Sultan’s palace on the hillside.

A discreet nudge from Dan brought Hector’s attention back to his immediate surroundings. The chamberlain was indicating that it was time for him and his party to disembark and follow him. Hector turned to look for Maria, but it was too late. A cordon of armed Omoro already blocked his view and they were hustling Vlucht and the other Hollanders on to the jetty. Hector had a feeling that while he and his friends were not exactly prisoners, neither were they free to do as they pleased. He tried to push through the cordon back to the cabin, but his path was barred. Thwarted, he ran to catch up with Mansur, to ask again if he could speak with Maria. But Mansur was already at the entrance to a long, low building erected on pilings over the water.

‘Please make yourselves comfortable in here until the Sultan sends for you,’ he said suavely, standing aside so that Hector and the others could enter. ‘Food will be brought to you very soon.’ There was an awkward pause, and then he added, ‘The baru baru will be on hand to make sure that you are not disturbed.’ Then without another word he turned away, and an armed guard took up his position at the door. It was clear that the baru baru were the Sultan’s soldiers.

Hector and his companions found themselves in what was evidently some sort of warehouse. To judge by the mouldy smell, it had not been used for a very considerable time. Jezreel pushed open a wickerwork shutter to let in the light. The window looked out over the anchorage, and to their right they could see the kora kora still tied to the jetty. As a group of natives unhitched the towrope of the skiff, the goods that had been taken from the camp already lay in a heap on the waterfront.

‘We could break our way out of here at any time we wanted to,’ said Jezreel, tapping on the wall. It was flimsily made of leaves woven into frames of bamboo.

‘First, I’ve got to get Maria back,’ said Hector.

Jacques had been exploring the warehouse, which was partitioned into a number of large rooms. He came back with an armful of empty sacks that could serve as bedding. ‘Might as well make ourselves comfortable,’ he said cheerfully, throwing them on the floor.

Without warning, the door to the warehouse swung open and a file of a dozen women came in. They wore narrow dark-blue skirts that reached down to their bare feet, short cotton blouses and their hair was covered in headcloths of blue and white cotton. They were carrying covered earthenware bowls and several baskets whose contents were hidden beneath large leaves, and two large pitchers. These they set down on the floor and one of the women unwrapped a cloth bundle, which contained some wooden ladles and bowls. Then they withdrew. Not a word had been said, and it was noticeable that they had avoided looking directly at the strangers.

‘Now what have we got here?’ said Jacques with happy anticipation. He lifted the lid to one on the bowls and sniffed. ‘Fish stew, and a good one. And what are these?’ He peeled back the covering to one of the baskets and picked out what looked like a bun and bit into it. ‘Not bad. Reminds me of wheaten bread, but a little bland.’

‘Sago cake,’ said Vlucht. ‘Cheap food for the locals. Made from the pith of the sago palm. It grows wild in these parts.’

‘Cheap or not, it is a welcome change from rice,’ said Jacques appreciatively. He selected a ladle and stirred the fish soup vigorously. The ingredients swirled to the surface and he scooped up the floating morsels. After sucking up the contents of the ladle, he chewed for a few moments, then put his finger into his mouth and extracted a shred of white flesh.

‘What is this?’ he said, holding it up. ‘I thought it was fish stew.’

‘Sea slug,’ said Vlucht. ‘I came across it in China. Considered a great delicacy. Said to help your virility.’

‘Could be easier on the teeth,’ observed the Frenchman. ‘A bit chewy for some of our toothless Dutch friends over there.’

Toothless or not, the Westflinge’s survivors joined hungrily in the meal, before the company settled down for the night. Vlucht’s crew chose one of the adjoining rooms as their dormitory, and Hector and his friends, after neatly piling up the empty bowls and baskets near the door, spread out their sacks on the wooden floor and prepared to go to sleep. The only sound was the water lapping around the wooden pilings that supported the building.

Hector lay staring at the rafters. He was anxious about Maria. He sensed her captors wouldn’t harm her, and he was sure that she was well able to look after herself, but he was depressed by the feeling that somehow he’d failed her. Again and again he went over the events of the day, wondering if he could have done things differently and kept her beside him. But everything had happened so quickly and uncontrollably. He fretted that Maria would change her mind, that she wouldn’t want to share a future with someone whose life seemed to lurch from one crisis to the next. Beside him he heard Dan stir, and in the darkness he heard his friend’s quiet voice. ‘Maria is strong. She waited a long time for you to find her, and she’ll know that you will not let her down now. Try to get some rest, for tomorrow we will need to keep our wits about us.’

CILIATI MANSUR came to fetch them soon after dawn. He had changed his immaculate white gown for a similar flowing garment all in black, and his plain turban had been replaced by a strange-looking black velvet cap in the shape of a pyramid.

‘My court dress,’ he explained. ‘As well as being His Majesty’s chamberlain, I also hold the rank of jogugu, his prime minister.’ He adopted a more formal tone. ‘His Majesty commands me to bring before him all those of you who speak Spanish.’ Seeing Hector’s puzzled look, he added in a more normal voice, ‘The Sultan is proud that he knows a few words of Spanish, and likes to demonstrate that knowledge to his courtiers.’

Hector looked around his friends. ‘Dan, you should join me, and Jacques too. But Jezreel can stay behind with Stolck. What about the crew of the Westflinge?’

The chamberlain shook his head. ‘The captain can come. The Sultan may wish to question him. But it is better that the others stay. Often His Majesty is angered by the sight of Hollanders. They remind him that their trading company favours Ternate and Tidore, and this harms his own kingdom. It will be better for everyone if His Majesty remains in a favourable mood.’

‘What about my betrothed, Maria? When will I be able to see her?’ Hector enquired firmly.

Mansur made a soothing gesture. ‘All in good time,’ he answered. ‘She is well looked after.’

Hector tried not to let his impatience show as the little group left the warehouse. The air was pleasantly cool and fresh as they made their way through a fishermen’s market, which had already been set up on the waterfront so that the night’s catch could be sold before the heat of the day. The displays of small fish on racks of trays were dazzling – spots and stripes and bands of silver and ultramarine and yellow, bright orange and crimson, deep black. Mongrel dogs with curly tails nosed for scraps beneath the stalls, and an occasional cat shrank back and crouched in alarm at the sight of the strangers passing. Soon Mansur turned into the broad, leafy lane that climbed towards the palace, and ten minutes of walking brought them to a point where the path widened out and gave a clear view of the Sultan’s residence just ahead. Unlike the simpler homes of his subjects, the Sultan’s palace was built with brick walls and had a roof of dark-red tiles. A broad portico, its roof supported by tall wooden columns, ran the full length of the front of the building. Two small saluting cannon stood on each side of the steps leading to the double entrance doors. The guns pointed out over the harbour, and the strange carriage of the day before was parked prominently close by.

‘A gift from the Spanish, long ago,’ the chamberlain explained, indicating the carriage. ‘They left some horses as well. But the animals soon died. Nevertheless, the Sultans of Omoro still set great store by its use. No other ruler has such a conveyance.’

Several natives who looked like palace guards lounged at the head of the steps. When they saw the chamberlain coming towards them, they scrambled to attention, and one of them hurried inside.

‘Those are kabo, the Sultan’s gatekeepers, and they have gone ahead to announce our arrival. You must follow our rules of etiquette,’ warned Mansur as he led them up the steps and in through the tall double doors. ‘Always address the Sultan as “Your Majesty” and do not approach closer than ten feet. It will also be appreciated if you would speak loudly and clearly. He is getting a little deaf.’

They passed through an antechamber where several more kabo were on duty, and then into a large reception hall. Shafts of sunlight streamed in through small windows high in the walls and made pools of such bright light that it was difficult to see into the shadowy outer fringes of the room. There was very little by way of furniture – some carved chests, a few low tables and several silk screens. The floor was covered in coir matting. Various men were standing about, but appeared to be doing nothing more than passing the time in silence. They were dressed like Mansur in long, loose black gowns and the same pyramid-shaped velvet caps, and Hector presumed they were attendants and courtiers. A faintly musty fragrance pervaded the air and reminded Hector of the disused warehouse. There was a general sense of lethargy and inactivity. The chamberlain led his little group into the centre of the room, and a rhythmic swaying movement in the far shadows caught Hector’s attention. It was caused by a large feathered fan, its long shaft held by a servant. He was wafting it back and forth. But the action was so slow and lazy that it scarcely disturbed the air.

Hector blinked. Beneath the fan and seated cross-legged on a low divan amid a mass of cushions was a small, very wizened old man. He wore a dishevelled white robe edged with yellow, and his lopsided turban was loosely tied and supported a tall spray of orange-red feathers. Under the bulk of the turban his face had so shrivelled with age that the bones of the skull stood out clearly. There were shadowed hollows at his cheeks and his temples where the flesh had fallen away, and his mouth was a pucker of wrinkles. From this ancient face peered a pair of watery, red-rimmed eyes. Hector guessed the shrunken old man was the ruler of Omoro and at least eighty years old, possibly more.

Mansur performed a low, graceful bow, bringing his hands up to his face in a gesture of obedience. Hector copied him, as did Dan, Jacques and Vlucht.

In a loud, high voice the chamberlain launched into some sort of introduction. When he finished there was a pause while the Sultan squinted several times as if trying to focus his gaze. Then he waved a tiny, claw-like hand towards a small inlaid box on a low table beside him and croaked a few words in a language that Hector found incomprehensible.

‘His Majesty asks if you will partake of betel nut with him,’ Mansur translated into Spanish, quickly adding in a low voice, ‘You are not expected to accept. This is a formality.’

Hector realized that his companions behind were waiting for him to speak up on their behalf.

‘Your Majesty,’ he said in Spanish, ‘it is a very great honour to be received at your court.’

The Sultan gave a sudden grimace, which Hector took to be a smile. There was a manic air about the old man. It was as if he might suddenly burst into a cackle of laughter or shriek angrily. The old man looked straight at Hector and mumbled a few words, which were clearly meant to be understood without the need for an interpreter. Hector surmised that the Sultan imagined he was speaking Spanish. If so, his meaning was lost.

To cover his confusion and hide his ignorance, Hector bowed again.

Mansur came to his rescue. ‘His Majesty thanks you for your presents,’ he murmured.

For a moment Hector failed to understand what the chamberlain meant. Then one of the Sultan’s attendants emerged from behind a screen. The man was holding a cushion on which lay the Westflinge’s main steering compass. He advanced towards the Sultan, knelt and placed the cushion and compass on the ground in front of him. Moments later another attendant appeared with the ship’s spare compass, then in quick succession the servants brought in half a dozen of the muskets that had been recovered from the camp and laid them out on the wooden floor.

Behind him the Westflinge’s captain gave a derisive snort. ‘Another way of robbing us, like those bastards did in China,’ he muttered under his breath.

As the array of items increased, the Sultan sat hunched amid his pile of cushions. Occasionally he cracked his knuckles with an unpleasant, squelching sound. The only time he displayed any animation was when the attendant carried in Vlucht’s hourglass. The Sultan beckoned and the attendant brought up the object for closer inspection. The Sultan reached out and took the glass, then turned it over so that the sand began to run. He stared at the trickle of grains for half a minute before handing the instrument back to the servant and waving him away. The hourglass joined the pile of items salvaged from the ship.

Vlucht gave an unhappy grunt. Two attendants had appeared, carrying between them the box that contained the hen-and-chickens clock. They set the box on the ground before the Sultan, opened the lid and lifted out the mechanical toy. They placed it on the lid of the box and stood back. The Sultan eyed the model balefully. Then he turned to his chamberlain and spoke.

‘His Majesty asks what the purpose of this device is. He says he is offended by the gift of a humble chicken,’ said Mansur.

‘Please tell him that it is a clock,’ said Hector.

There was a rapid exchange between the chamberlain and his master, and then Mansur said, ‘His Majesty says you have already given him a timepiece. Why do you give him a second one?’

At that moment Hector realized the Sultan was not as senile as he looked. He had worked out for himself the reason for the sand running through the hourglass.

Hector decided to take a chance. ‘The clock with the bird is very special,’ he said. ‘It is for His Majesty’s entertainment. There is no other clock like it.’

Behind him Vlucht sucked in his breath in surprise. ‘Christ, lad. Watch what you are doing.’

The Sultan leaned forward unsteadily and spat a feeble jet of red betel juice towards a silver spittoon beside his couch. Most of the liquid splashed on the floor, and a dribble of the juice was left running down his chin. He spoke disdainfully to his chamberlain.

‘His Majesty does not believe that a bird and its young ones can tell the passage of time,’ said the chamberlain.

‘Dan, can you show him how the clock works,’ said Hector out of the side of his mouth.

‘Dear God, let’s pray it performs better than in Hoksieu, or we’ll never leave this place alive,’ the Westflinge’s captain muttered as the Miskito walked forward and wound up the spring to drive the mechanism. He adjusted the hands to a point just before midday and stepped back. Once again everyone waited and watched for the machine to work. Even the courtiers had edged forward to get a better view.

The cogs inside the machine’s base began to whirr. The chicks started their circuit around the mother hen’s feet. The hen leaned forward and began to raise her wings. Then, as before, something went wrong. There was a muffled twang, and all movement abruptly stopped. The mechanical hen remained at half-tilt, her chicks frozen in place.

There was a nervous silence, which lasted for several moments. No one moved. Hector was aware that beside him the chamberlain had gone tense, as if awaiting an angry outburst from his master.

During this interval Dan calmly stepped forward and opened the metal flap that concealed the clockwork. Ignoring everyone, he felt inside and must have reset the mechanism, for he closed the flap, reset the hands of the clock and took a pace backwards.

Once again the hands of the clock came together and the hen and her chicks began to move. All went well until the moment came for the hen to raise her wings and flap and crow. Instead she had raised them halfway when a cog slipped and then jammed. The mother hen jerked forward. Her wings began to quiver and vibrate madly. The creature let out a harsh metallic cry.

The Sultan clapped his hands with delight. ‘Manuk dewata. Manuk dewata,’ he cried.

The tension in the room evaporated. The courtiers murmured their astonishment, and the chamberlain allowed himself a smile of relief. ‘He believes it mimics one of those birds that we saw in the forest,’ whispered Jacques beside Hector.

Abruptly the Sultan clapped his hands again, angrily this time. Immediately all noise stopped as the courtiers waited for the old man’s next pronouncement. The Sultan was glaring at his foreign visitors, and with a sudden clench in his guts Hector remembered the chamberlain’s warning about the old man’s whims.

The Sultan’s hand shot out, pointing at Dan as he snapped a question.

‘His Majesty wishes to know whether that man can also repair guns,’ translated Mansur.

‘Please tell His Majesty that Dan has worked in an armoury and knows how to repair muskets. Also, that I and my companions are ready to help him.’

The Sultan was racked by a coughing fit. When it was over, there was a long pause while he struggled for breath before finally speaking to the chamberlain.

‘His Majesty the Sultan thanks you for your gifts. He graciously gives permission for you and your companions to stay while you are repairing the guns of his soldiers.’

‘What about me and my crew?’ asked Vlucht.

‘The audience is at an end,’ replied the chamberlain brusquely. He was already bowing and getting ready to leave. Clearly he was relieved at the way the meeting had gone and was eager to be gone.

‘And what about Maria?’ begged Hector, adding his voice. ‘Ask His Highness where she is and when I might see her.’

When the chamberlain failed to relay the question, Hector stepped forward and faced directly towards the old man. In clear, loud Spanish he repeated his demand.

A shocked hush fell over the room as everyone waited for the Sultan’s reaction. He cocked his head on one side and must have understood, or at least guessed, the meaning of Hector’s words, for the wizened old man’s expression was full of malice as he answered.

‘What did he say?’ asked Hector, turning to Mansur.

‘His Majesty says he has been told that this woman is betrothed to be your wife. But such an arrangement is not recognized in his kingdom until he has given his royal assent. Instead he is of the opinion that the woman would make a suitable servant and companion to his son, and teach him foreign ways and tongues.’

With that the chamberlain bowed again to his master and took Hector firmly by the elbow and hustled him out of the audience room.