"Stephen Goldin - Storyteller" - читать интересную книгу автора (Goldin Stephen)

they should have had no trouble against a lightly armed wedding party whom they outnumbered four to
one. Yet each passing day bespoke some trouble, some unexplained foul-up that could endanger the
smoothly working plan she had so carefully arranged. Shammara did not like to have her plans thwarted,
and someone would end up paying.

At the end of the second week a carrier pigeon arrived in the special cage atop Shammara's tower. The
pigeon keeper removed the sealed message and had it sent immediately to the woman who ruled the
palace. Shammara read it and flung it angrily to the ground. She stormed around her room, breaking
bottles and throwing objects to the floor in her frustration. When she'd finally calmed down enough to
present a civilized front, she summoned the wali of police to discuss the matter with him.

The wali, a man of great size and bulk, came instantly at her command. He had a thin mustache, a
sharply pointed beard, and little piggy eyes that almost disappeared beneath his shaggy black eyebrows.
So great was his girth that even his kaftan was tight across his midriff, giving him a slightly slovenly
appearance even though his turban was impeccably wrapped. His portly frame made his obeisance an
awkward gesture, but he tried his best as he said, “Salaam to thee, O my noble queen."

Shammara, already in a foul mood, stiffened. “I have never had the title ‘queen’ and I never will. That
was reserved for my late husband's first wife, and will belong to my son's wife, but never to me."

“You are queen of my soul, queen of my allegiance,” said the wali, covering quickly. “I cannot think of
you as any less."

Shammara, clad only in a breezy thawb of bright yellow silk and no veil, looked at him for a moment.
The corners of her mouth twitched in a quick smile despite herself. She repressed it by reminding herself
of the serious situation they faced. “Your explanation is accepted, but do not repeat the mistake. Sit
down. We have a problem."

The wali lowered himself awkwardly onto a plump cushion on the tiled floor of the high-domed audience
chamber while Shammara, as was her wont, reclined on her satin-covered diwan whose legs were
carved in the semblance of a lion's claws. Despite her comfortable position there was nothing relaxed
about her posture, and the wali—who was capable of reading such signs—braced himself for the worst.

“I've just received word from one of my agents in Marakh,” Shammara said without further prelude.
“Prince Ahmad escaped our ambush through some miraculous intervention and has gone into hiding
somewhere. King Basir doesn't know what to do, but is going to lie to us and say the prince was killed as
planned. Princess Oma will be sent here to marry Haroun as soon as possible, to cement our
relationship."

The wali scowled, making his thin mustache sag into his face. “Can we trust an ally who lies to us this
way?"

Shammara waved her hand idly. “Basir isn't much of a problem. I'll deal with him in my own time. But
right now his incompetence has put us in some jeopardy.” She looked straight into the wali's eyes. “If
Ahmad can raise an army, how much trouble could he cause us?"

“Ravan has never been conquered in all its history,” the wali assured her. “Its walls are as strong as ever,
its defenses as secure. The armies of five kingdoms could not defeat us—and if anyone tried, we have
many allies to rally to our defense. The Holy City would be defended by most of mankind if any force,
even Prince Ahmad, should attack it."