Free Kingdom by Jack Hight Page B

open to reveal a small room. A single window looked out on the courtyard of the palace, and through it streamed sunlight, illuminating a broad oak table with four chairs. The Egyptian ambassador had ignored the chairs and sat cross-legged on the thick carpet. He was simply dressed, his white cotton caftan contrasting with his dark skin, the same deep-brown colour as the table. John saw at once that he was no warrior: his face was soft and his hands plump. He rose as John entered.
    John inclined his head. ‘As-salaamu alaykum, sayyid.’
    ‘Wa-salaam alaykum,’ the ambassador replied. His voice was soft and his Egyptian accent strange.
    John placed his hand on his chest. ‘My name is John—Juwan,’ he added, giving it the Arabic pronunciation.
    ‘I am Al-Khlata, secretary to Shawar, the Vizier of Egypt.’
    John gestured to the chairs. ‘Please sit. King Amalric has asked me to ensure that you are comfortable.’
    ‘I have everything I need,’ Al-Khlata said as he sat on the carpet.
    ‘You shall have fruit and cool water. I insist.’ John looked to William, who nodded and hurried off. John sat on the carpet across from Al-Khlata. ‘You must have travelled far.’
    ‘Across Al-Naqab,’ Al-Khlata agreed. His hazel eyes narrowed as he examined John. ‘How do you come to speak our language so well?’
    ‘I spent several years at the court of Nur ad-Din.’
    ‘And now you serve these savages?’
    ‘We cannot all choose our masters.’
    At that moment a servant boy entered with a tray upon which sat a pitcher of water, two cups and a bowl filled with cubes of mango. The boy placed the tray on the floor between them and retreated, closing the door behind him. Neither man spoke as John poured the water and handed a cup to Al-Khlata. The Egyptian took a sip and placed the water aside. John held out the bowl of mango, but Al-Khlata waved it off.
    ‘I did not choose to serve my master, either,’ the Egyptian said. ‘My father was a Turcoman, born far from these lands. I do not remember him, whether he was a baker, merchant or warrior. I was bought as a child and sent to the Caliph’s palace in Cairo, where I was taught to write, to recite poetry, to keep accounts.’
    ‘Then we are not so different.’
    Al-Khlata nodded. ‘Tell me of your new master, the King.’
    ‘He is a good man, honest and intelligent.’
    ‘I have heard that he is given to drink and women.’
    John shrugged. ‘He is a king.’
    Al-Khlata met John’s eyes. ‘I have heard that he is mad.’
    ‘Far from it, but—’ John’s forehead creased as he hesitated. When he spoke again, his voice was low. ‘But he is odd. He sometimes laughs suddenly for no reason. You should not be offended. He is not mocking you.’
    ‘I see.’
    ‘And what of your vizier, Shawar?’
    Al-Khlata looked amused. ‘Like your king, a good man.’
    John heard the door creak open behind him and looked to see the spare, straight-backed seneschal Guy standing there, with William close behind. ‘Come,’ Guy said in Latin. ‘The King will see you now.’
    William translated for Al-Khlata, who rose and followed Guy out of the door. John and William fell in behind them.
    ‘Can he be trusted?’ William whispered.
    John shook his head. ‘He did not eat the fruit he was offered. This is a great insult in their culture; it shows that he does not trust our hospitality. And a man who does not trust us cannot be trusted.’
    William nodded. ‘I was right about you, John. God did send you to us for a reason. Did you learn anything else? Why is he here?’
    ‘I did not ask.’
    ‘By Christ! Why not?’
    John shrugged. ‘You said to make him comfortable. It would not have been polite.’
    ‘Very well,’ William grumbled. ‘We shall find out soon enough.’
    ‘G-God grant you joy, Al-Khlata. Welcome to J-Jerusalem, and to my c-court,’ Amalric declared in a voice too loud for the size of his private audience chamber. He sat upon a simple wooden throne, flanked by