Sea Robber (41 page)

‘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.

‘G
ET A HOLD ON YOURSELF
,’ Vlucht hissed under his breath to Hector as Mansur briskly ushered the little group through the guard room. ‘That old goat might as easily have decided to add your woman to his own collection of wives.’

‘He has no right to decide what happens to Maria,’ Hector protested.

‘You don’t know how these eastern despots behave,’ Vlucht raised his voice as they emerged on to the portico. ‘They do precisely what they want to do, and you could ruin everything for the rest of us.’

Hector was seething. He wanted to turn around and force his way back into the Sultan’s presence. But Mansur was oblivious to Hector’s angry mood. ‘In keeping with His Majesty’s wishes, I will arrange for any special tools that you may need for musket repairs – there is a metalworker in the bazaar who—’

Hector interrupted him rudely. ‘Do you know where Maria is being kept?’

The chamberlain was unruffled. ‘If she is being considered as – how do you say? – a governess for His Royal Highness Prince Jainalabidin, she will be lodged with the Sultan’s women. You should not worry. They live very comfortably.’

‘And how long am I supposed to wait until I can see her?’ Hector snapped.

‘There may come a moment when a discreet meeting can be arranged . . . or perhaps the circumstances will change,’ the chamberlain murmured.

‘What do you mean?’ Hector demanded. He resented the bland way Mansur deflected his questions.

‘His Majesty is increasingly forgetful. One day he issues an order, the next day he no longer remembers what he has commanded. Or he contradicts what he has said previously. It is part of my duties to smooth over any inconsistencies.’

‘And what if I simply found my way to wherever it is that Maria is being held?’

The chamberlain looked at him in open disbelief. ‘Enter the women’s quarters? That would not be easy or sensible.’ Noting the stubborn expression on Hector’s face, he went on, ‘His Majesty has only one son, but he has a number of daughters. They too live in the female quarters until the time comes when they are to be married off to neighbouring rulers. That is how Omoro builds its alliances. The virtue of the princesses is of state importance and jealously protected. The guards would deal harshly with an intruder.’

In glum silence they descended the path that led down to the town. Arriving at the warehouse where they were lodged, Hector noted that the number of sentries at the door had been doubled. Inside, the crew of the
Westflinge
were picking over the remains of another meal. They were only interested in knowing when they would be allowed to leave Pehko. It was Jezreel who tried to raise Hector’s flagging spirits.

‘I’d take the chamberlain’s word that no harm will come to Maria,’ he said. ‘These people don’t seem to be nasty. They’ve looked after us well so far, and the truth is we really have no choice but to do what the Sultan wants. But that won’t stop us from trying to get you and Maria together again.’

S
O ANOTHER WEEK
dragged by. Dan set up a workshop in one of the empty rooms within the warehouse. There, with help from Jacques and Jezreel, he set about repairing the dozens of rusty, damaged weapons that were delivered by the Sultan’s men.

Whenever Hector stepped outside the building, he looked up towards the palace on the hill and wondered if the Sultan’s women ever spent any time in the open air so that he might catch a glimpse of Maria. Once or twice he tried walking up the footpath to the Kedatun sultan, but was intercepted by the guards and turned back. As he agonized about Maria, Hector also began to fear that he and his companions were sinking into the same slow torpor he’d sensed on the first day they arrived in Pehko. It was obvious that Vlucht and his crew were content to do very little. They loafed around the building, the invalids visibly returning to health, and Stolck preferred to spend much of his time with his countrymen.

Meals were delivered with admirable regularity, though the menu of rice, sago cakes, fish stew and fruit never varied. In fact there was little to distinguish one day from the next. Each cool dawn was followed by a hot and humid morning as thunder clouds swelled inland before advancing on the town, delivering a sudden downpour and then drifting out over the sea. The puddles they left behind steamed in the returning sunshine and disappeared by the time the swift tropical dusk fell, and the inmates of the warehouse lay down to sleep with the certain knowledge that the pattern would be repeated the following day.

The arrival of a foreign ship was the only break in the monotony. On the fifth day after the interview with the Sultan, a vessel came gliding into the creek on the tide and dropped anchor directly in front of the warehouse. According to Vlucht, the newcomer’s twin side rudders and boxy shape identified her as a small jong, a merchant ship from Malacca, and that evening Hector met her captain on the jetty as he returned from presenting his compliments at the palace.

Musallam Iskandar was a man of indeterminate age. He was running to fat, with slightly bulging eyes, greying stubble and a scattering of pockmarks on a face whose features hinted at Arab rather than oriental ancestry. He greeted Hector cheerfully in passably good English.

‘Mansur told me that there were foreigners in Pehko,’ he said. ‘I noticed that little jolly boat of yours tied up in the harbour, but I do not see your vessel.’

‘We were forced to run our ship aground farther along the coast,’ Hector explained. ‘The Omoro found us cast away and brought us here.’

‘You were fortunate. The Omoro don’t venture far nowadays.’

‘That big kora kora came across us,’ said Hector, nodding towards the outrigger vessel, which had not stirred since their arrival.

‘On their way back from hongi-tochten against the Sugala, I expect,’ observed Musallam. ‘It’s an annual ritual. The Sultan of Omoro quarrels with his neighbour, the Rajah of Sugala, over who owns the forest and the right to harvest the wild birds. Every year Sultan Syabullah sends a war party to menace his rival, but the raid never solves anything. The Sugala know what’s coming, and they built a palisade around their capital years ago. So they retreat within their defences, the Omoro fire off a few shots and then come back home.’