Free Dream Guy by A.Z.A; Clarke Page A

famed as yourself, Seyyid Lokman, as craftsmen we must assert that authenticity is more important than appearance. If I buy a bowl from a merchant who tells me it is crafted by the great artist Wu Xianyang of China, I expect to pay a far greater price than I would pay for the work of a potter from Iznik. I would be enraged to discover that the basin I had been admiring, and for which I paid so many piastres, was an item sold in bazaars all over the empire.”
    The large man in lavender spoke. “Here is the situation. This basin has been purchased for the sultan under the impression that it was Chinese, and a consequently inflated price was paid out of his coffers for the piece. Now we know that the basin is not Chinese, and no one is willing to admit that they were fooled into purchasing the bowl. Everyone is terrified of telling the sultan, first of all, how much it cost and, second of all, that it is not as valuable as it has been made out to be. But what is the right thing to do?”
    Joe watched as Lokman and Karabashi waited for the scribe and the two craftsmen to respond. But the three small men would not meet the eyes of the scholar or the writer, and they seemed to have lost the power of speech.
    “What would happen if you told the sultan the truth?” Joe asked. All the men looked up at him in astonishment.
    “Who is this infidel?” asked the scribe. He seemed relieved by the distraction from the question of the basin.
    “Where has he come from?” asked one of the painters. “How did he enter our chamber?”
    Then the men whirled round and noticed that they were not in their chamber.
    “Where are we?” they all asked. Karabashi and Lokman asked with amusement, but the scribe and his two red-robed companions were uneasy and unamused.
    “You’re in England.”
    “England? What strange place is this? What sorcery has transported us here?”
    “I am afraid I dreamed you, although I have no idea how. If you are all quiet, I can probably dream you back home. Where do you come from?”
    “We serve the sultan and we should be in Istanbul. We should be in the scriptorium at the Imperial Palace.” Karabashi stood up, and Joe was impressed to see his turban graze the ceiling. “Are we in our own time or in another?”
    “I think another. Who are you?”
    Karabashi introduced himself then his companions. “I am Ahmed Karabashi, scholar. This is my friend, the great chronicler, Seyyid Lokman Ashuri. Here is the scribe Ilyas and the two painters Osman and Ali.”
    Joe, feeling underdressed in his usual sleeping gear of boxers and T-shirt, reached for his toweling dressing gown that had fallen off the bed. Lokman reached over and handed it to him. He pulled it on and stood up. He came up to Karabashi’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure whether to bow or not, but since they had invaded his room, he thought not.
    “I’m Joe Knightley. I am a draftsman.” That sounded like a term they might understand. “So what are you going to do about this bowl thingy?”
    “Should we find ourselves once more in the Imperial Palace, I myself shall place the object before the sultan and tell him that it came in truth not from China but from Iznik. If he chooses to punish me for speaking the truth, so be it. My argument will then be disproved, in which case I should merit punishment.” Karabashi shrugged and sat down again. Osman, Ali and the stout scribe looked shocked, their eyes now as round as their little white faces. Joe went over to his desk and sat in his chair.
    “You could always point out that it’s pretty amazing that your own craftsmen can now produce bowls that are as good as the Chinese ones,” he mused. “So good that this one fooled all the experts at the palace.”
    The little men gasped and applauded Joe’s notion while Lokman and Karabashi raised their eyebrows at each other.
    “A natural courtier. The ability to deliver unpalatable truths is a gift.”
    “You’d better wait until you’ve seen how the