Free In the Palace of the Khans by Peter Dickinson Page A

afternoon they dropped Nigel’s mother off at some kind of diplomatic charity do on the embankment and drove on through the stifling heat, past the palace on the far bank, then up into the old town opposite a ridiculous fairy bridge with little knobbly spires down either side, like the ones you see on the roof of a cathedral. As soon as they were round the corner Rick stopped the car, took a banknote out of his wallet, turned to the bodyguard, spoke a few words in Dirzhani and gave him the note. The guard grunted and got out of the car.
    â€œDon’t want him waiting out in the road for us,” Rick explained. “Makes the neighbours jumpy.”
    He drove on up a typical twisting street, crowded with people and stalls, and filled with the reek of spices and herbs and the rich sweet smoke of barbecues, and halted beneath an imposing poster of the President triumphing over his snow ibex.
    â€œThat’s where I live,” he said, gesturing at the street opposite. “Got to take you round the back, though. No room to leave the car in front.”
    A little further on he turned left into a side street and then nosed the Rover into an impossibly narrow slot that opened into a courtyard with a strange old tree in the middle, its twisting branches utterly bare until they reached a bunch of dark spiky leaves at their tips. Rick parked underneath it, left the car without bothering to lock it and led the way under a narrow arch into smaller courtyard, lined with pots of herbs and trailing flowers, filling the oven-like heat of the enclosed space with their scent.
    â€œAin’t all mine,” said Rick. “That’s us, at the back there. That side’s a little orphanage run by a couple of Greek nuns. Lord knows how they come here. Guy other side runs half the fishing fleet. Took me out in one of his boats once. They do it at night, with lamps. Good night, right time of year, fish pretty well leap into the boat. It’s amazing.”
    By now they’d reached the far side of the courtyard. He opened a door into a high, dim corridor. Cool air streamed out into the open.
    â€œâ€™Nother good thing about this Khan,” he said. “No power cuts. Old days, before he took over, barely worth having air-conditioning. Lucky to get six hours electrics in twenty-four, and then you didn’t never know when it was going to come on. Hi, guys! We’re home! Come and say hello to young Nigel.
    â€œSpeak English good as I do,” he added. “Only they’re not used to boys. Janey rattles along her own way. She’s got a lot of the words, but she’s not got much use for the grammar.”
    They’d reached a point where the corridor opened into a wider hallway, with what was obviously the front door at the further end. Two girls came out of a door on the left, lined themselves up side by side and curtseyed to Nigel. They were wearing the same sort of clothes as Taeela, with shawls over their heads framing their very un-Dirzhani faces, both light brown, the older one a bit darker than her sister. He made a careful note of their looks, for Taeela. One was a year or so older than Nigel, and wore a bit of eye-shadow and pink lipstick. Her sister was about two years younger, with a more serious face, and no make-up.
    He’d had twenty minutes coaching from Roger before he left the embassy, so he knew what was expected of him. He clasped his crossed hands in front of his chin and spoke his only words of Dirzhani.
    â€œMy blessings upon this house.”
    â€œI’m sorry about the accent,” he added in English.
    The girls stared at him, dumbly. The older one gave a get-me-out-of-this glance at someone just beyond the door at her side.
    â€œOK, let’s do it my way,” he said. “I’m your Dad’s friend, Nigel. Good to meet you.”
    No good. He was praying Rick didn’t start apologizing for their shyness, when the person the other side of the door