Free Sultan's Wife by Jane Johnson

me as I left the herbman’s stall. It had called Sidi Kabour’s name, but what if someone recognized me despite my disguise?
    â€˜The white cloak you were wearing – where is it now?’
    Thank God for Zidana. ‘In my room. Why do you ask?’
    â€˜The man who killed Hamid Kabour would have been covered in his blood: it was a brutal slaying.’
    I make a sign to ward off the evil eye, and so does the older officer. He catches my eye. ‘Do you have this cloak so that we may see it? Then we can leave you to get on with your day,’ he says, rather more gently than his companion.
    â€˜Of course: the emperor himself gave it to me. It is one of my most treasured possessions.’
    The guards flank us as we walk through all the hammering and scurrying of the ongoing building works. In the second courtyard a great hole has been dug for the mixing of tadelakt, the special plaster that can be polished to a high sheen. It is a delicate and difficult art and can take months to cure. In the early stages it can be very volatile. Even as we walk past there is a cry and one of the workmen staggers backwards, clutching his face. ‘Lime burn,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘He’ll probably be blind for life.’
    â€˜Good God,’ says the older officer. ‘The poor man.’
    â€˜If he’s lucky he’ll escape with his life.’
    â€˜
Insha’allah
.’ He thinks about this, then adds, ‘And if he isn’t?’
    â€˜They’ll add him to the mix.’ He looks appalled. ‘You’ll see worse than that if you stick around. On average we lose thirty workmen a day.’
    After that, we walk in silence, although, as we make our way towards the inner courts where the buildings become ever more immense and highly decorated, I can see the older man’s eyes darting everywhere. Who can blame him? Nothing of such size or scope has ever been undertaken in Morocco before. The younger officer seems unimpressed, and I suspect he has already been inside the palace complex. He seems impatient, his chin thrusting out with every step, as if nothing can swerve him from his duty. I toy with the idea of admitting that I had found the corpse of Sidi Kabour and walked away without reporting it, but something tells me they are set on their course and this will only make matters worse.
    At the entrance to my room, I stop. ‘I will bring you the burnous to inspect.’
    â€˜We will come in with you.’ The second man gives me a gimlet stare.
    They stand in the doorway taking in the sparse furnishings as I go to the chest and take out the cloak, which they examine minutely. Finding no blood, they hand it back. ‘And this is the only white burnous you own?’
    â€˜I am not made of money.’
    The younger man sneers, then turns to Hassan. ‘You said you were on duty yesterday when this man returned?’
    Hassan nods. ‘Yes, I opened the gate to him. He was running –’
    â€˜He was
running
?’ He turns back to me. ‘Why were you running?’
    â€˜It was raining.’
    â€˜You did not say he was wearing a white cloak when he returned,’ the officer says to Hassan, though his eyes remain upon me.
    My eyes flick in consternation to the guard: he stares back at me impassively. ‘I do not have time to take notice of what everyone wears, but I am sure Nus-Nus was wearing that burnous.’
    The younger man’s disappointment is palpable. ‘And what about your footwear, sir?’
    The ‘sir’ is new, which is a better sign; but I forgot the babouches.
    â€˜You were barefoot, I believe,’ Hassan supplies helpfully.
    â€˜Barefoot?’ Both officers stare at me with renewed interest.
    â€˜The mud was appalling: I did not want to ruin my babouches.’
    The younger man refers to his notes again. ‘It says here that you left the palace wearing a pair of high cork pattens.’
    Oh,