And, in all truth, his recovery, however partial it might be, was indeed the product of an extraordinary effort of will. The Buzzard had lain in bed and made an inventory of his body, concentrating on those parts of it that still functioned at least moderately well. His legs had not been broken, and though they were covered with burns and scar tissue, the muscles beneath the ravaged skin seemed to be capable of supporting and moving his body. Likewise, though his left arm was no more, his right arm was still whole and his hand could still grasp, so he might yet hold a sword again one day. He had the sight of one eye and hearing in one ear. He could no longer chew properly and his digestion seemed to have become unduly sensitive so that he could only eat food that had already been broken down into a soft, mushy porridge. But it was enough that he could still eat at all, and if his food was nothing more than a bland, tasteless porridge, it hardly mattered, since his tongue seemed unable to distinguish flavour any more, no matter how much salt, sugar or spice was added.
Above all, however, the Buzzard’s mind was still sound. He had suffered terrible headaches and the pain in every part of his body – including, strangely, those that no longer existed – was unrelenting. Still he was able to think, and plan, and calculate, and hate.
It was that hatred above all that drove him on. It had forced him to keep getting up when at first, unused to the imbalance of his body, he kept falling. It drove him through gruelling physical activities, in particular the building up of his surviving arm’s strength by the repeated lifting of a sack of millet, procured from Jahan’s kitchens, when with every single breath he took the air cut through his throat and lungs like caustic acid.
The black, burning fire in the Buzzard’s soul seemed to fascinate Jahan. ‘Please, don’t let me interrupt you. Pray continue with your exertions,’ he said, and stepped right up to his guest, making no effort to disguise the mix of revulsion and fascination he felt in the presence of such a foul and monstrous distortion of a man.
The Buzzard felt Jahan’s lordly eye upon him and the urge to defy him drove him on. He lifted the sack, which he held in his hand by the neck, again and again, though his exhausted muscles and scorched chest begged him to stop. He was feeling faint, lathered in a film of pus and bloodstained sweat and on the point of collapse when there was a knock on the door and one of Jahan’s functionaries entered. The man was unable to conceal the shock on his face when he set eyes on the Buzzard, who was bent almost double, his one good hand resting on his knee and his back heaving up and down. But he re-gathered his composure and spoke to Jahan. ‘There is a man at the gate who insists that you wish to see him, your sublime excellency. He says his name is Ahmed and he is a leather worker. It seems he has finished the task you set for him. When I asked him to explain himself he refused, claiming that you had sworn him to secrecy.’
Jahan smiled. ‘That is indeed true. Send him in.’ Then he bestowed a particularly condescending smile upon the Buzzard, and said, ‘I have bought you a small gift, your lordship. Just a miserable thing, but I believe it may be of interest.’
William Grey, His Majesty’s Consul to the Sultanate of Zanzibar, stood in the line of supplicants waiting to plead their case outside Maharajah Sadiq Khan Jahan’s palace, cursing the bad luck and even worse judgement that had brought him to this intolerable situation. Through all his years in Zanzibar, Grey had been welcomed as an honoured guest by Jahan, as he was by far the most powerful, wealthy and influential members of Zanzibar society. For Grey was not only the representative of one of Europe’s greatest monarchs, he was also a convert to Islam, a change of faith that had brought him much favour and granted him access to places and people beyond the reach of any Christian. Then that conniving Scots rogue Angus Cochran, titled the Earl of Cumbrae, but more aptly nicknamed the Buzzard, had arrived in Zanzibar, closely followed by an arrogant young pup called Henry Courtney, whereupon the life of ease and privilege that Grey had constructed over many years had fallen apart in the matter of a few short months.
It had all begun with the Buzzard pestering Grey to use his influence to obtain him a commission to fight for the Sultan of Oman against the Emperor of Ethiopia. The piratical Scot planned on growing rich in war booty taken from the Christians and was happy to pay the very reasonable fee Grey charged for his services. To give the Buzzard his due, he had kept his word. The moment the Letter of Marque was placed in his hands he set sail for the Horn of Africa and set to work on the task for which he had been commissioned.
Five weeks later, young Courtney arrived, apparently eager to join the struggle against Ethiopia and, like the Buzzard, he also purchased a Letter of Marque. Not surprisingly, Courtney was eager to hear all he could about the war and had been fascinated to discover that the Earl of Cumbrae was also playing his part. Grey had not given Courtney’s interest in the earl a second thought. Why should he? The Muslim cause was about to receive a second heavily armed warship, with which it would exert total control over all the waters between Arabia and the coast of Africa. As the man who had helped procure the ships, Grey would be held in greater esteem than ever.
In the event, however, Courtney had weighed anchor and chased after the Scotsman without so much as a by your leave, sneaking away like an ungrateful, deceitful, two-faced traitor and fighting for the Ethiopian emperor and his general Nazet. It transpired that his real intent all along had been the pursuit of vengeance against the Buzzard, whom he held responsible for his own father’s death. A short while later news had reached Zanzibar that Courtney had found the Scotsman and engaged him in battle. The story went that the Buzzard, fighting till the last, had been burnt alive and gone down with his ship, the Gull of Moray.
In the old days, Grey would have been able to confirm the veracity of this account and uncover a great deal more information to which the common herd were not privy. But this was no longer possible, for Courtney had taken to harassing, capturing and sinking Arab vessels up and down the Red Sea, to the consternation of the men who owned the stricken vessels and could no longer profit from their cargoes. These men now held Grey at least partially responsible for their losses and shunned him accordingly.
Every door in Zanzibar, or at least every door that mattered, had been slammed in his face and Grey now knew no more than the lowliest guttersnipe or coffee-shop gossip. All he could do was keep coming here, to the maharajah’s palace, in the hope that one day his serene, magnificent and merciful highness Sadiq Khan Jahan would show compassion for his plight and allow him to plead his case. Grey looked ahead of him in the queue and saw Osman, a procurer of women and small boys with whom he had once done regular business. But he’d not laid hands on one of Osman’s pretty little fancies, male or female, in months. Osman – a mere flesh-peddler! – had given him a regretful shrug and said he could no longer be seen to do business with a man of Grey’s reputation.
Grey seethed as he watched Osman gossiping with one of the guards at the gate. The press of people, the clamour of their pleading voices and the smell of their unwashed bodies combined to form an unbearable assault on his senses. Grey had long lived in the tropics and affected Arab dress as well as religion, for long flowing robes were more comfortable by far than the heavy coats of thick wool that most Englishmen insisted on wearing, as if entirely indifferent to their geographical and climatic circumstances. Nonetheless, he was perspiring like a pig on a spit and his temperature rose still higher when he saw a leather-peddler he knew, Ahmed by name, given the sign to enter the palace. Ahmed was carrying a large box, similar to the ones ladies used to convey their headgear. Grey paid it no mind.
A few minutes later, another of the palace functionaries appeared at the gate and had a word with one of the guards. At once three men were despatched into the crowd, beating men and women out of the way with long wooden staffs as they forced their way through the mob. With a start Grey realized that they were heading directly for him. He panicked and tried to get away but the sheer press of bodies was so heavy that he could not force his way throu
gh and suddenly he was not only sweating like a pig but squealing like one too as he was grabbed by the arms and half-dragged, half-carried up to the gates and then through them before being deposited unceremoniously on the ornately tiled floor.
Grey rose to his feet to find the same official who had summoned Ahmed standing close by. ‘If you will come this way, effendi, His Excellency, in his great wisdom and mercy, wishes to speak to you.’
As he followed the official along a cool, shaded cloister, through which he could see the waters of a fountain glittering in the noonday sun, Grey realized that the three guards who had been sent to fetch him were following close behind. They no longer carried their staffs, but each bore a wickedly curved scimitar tucked into his scarlet waistband.
It struck Consul Grey that the invitation to an audience with the maharajah might not turn out to be quite the blessing he’d been hoping for.
he Buzzard might not have many of his senses in full working order, but he was still perfectly capable of smelling a rat when one went by right under his nose. That heathen bastard Jahan was up to something, he was sure of it, but what? And how in heaven’s name did an insignificant little man who worked in leather fit into the maharajah’s plans?
Before the question could be answered there was a knocking on the door. Jahan called out, ‘Enter!’ and who should step into the room, looking like a huge jellied pudding, trembling with fear, but His Majesty’s Consul in Zanzibar himself. The Buzzard waited while his fellow Briton bowed and scraped to the maharajah and then rasped, ‘Good morning, Mr Grey. Hadn’t expected to clap an eye on you again.’
The Buzzard was becoming used to the successive expressions of shock, disgust and barely suppressed nausea (or even expressed nausea in some extreme cases) that his appearance provoked. But Grey’s discomfiture was even more absolute than most. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly as he searched in vain for something remotely appropriate to say before he finally gasped, ‘But … But … You’re supposed to be dead.’
The Buzzard stretched the remains of his lips into something approximating a smile. ‘Evidently I am not. Apparently the Almighty still has plans for me in this world, rather than the next.’
‘Truly, Allah is all-knowing and merciful,’ said Grey, darting a glance at Jahan to see whether his piety had been appreciated.
It was the maharajah who spoke next. ‘Now that you two gentlemen have become reacquainted, let me explain the purpose of this audience. I shall start by saying this: I hold the pair of you personally responsible for the insufferable loss of life and the damage and loss of property caused to our people’s shipping by that filthy infidel Henry Courtney. It is my fervent desire, and that of my brother the Grand Mogul himself, to seek vengeance in the fullest measure against Courtney and his men. We find ourselves, however, in a quandary.
‘My brother is currently concluding an agreement with the East India Company, concerning trade between our lands in India and the kingdom of England. He believes that such an agreement will deliver enormous rewards and he naturally does not wish to endanger the prospect of great riches by conducting a public campaign against one of His Majesty the King of England’s subjects, particularly one who comes from an eminent family.’
‘The Courtneys, eminent?’ the Buzzard thought to himself. ‘That’ll come as a shock tae all the lords and ladies who’ve never even heard of ’em!’
‘As a result, we must seek retribution with discretion and subtlety, using proxies who can act as figureheads for our vengeance. And who could be better suited to that role than two men such as yourselves? You both have very good reason to hate Captain Courtney. You know something of this man and how he thinks and you must, I am sure, be keen to atone for your own recent failings, for which many a ruler less merciful than myself might very well have you both executed.’
‘Does your royal highness wish us to kill Captain Courtney ourselves?’ Grey asked, in tones of barely disguised alarm.
‘Well, perhaps not with your own blades, no,’ Jahan reassured him. ‘I fear you would prove no match for him, Consul, and as for the earl here, he was unable to best Courtney with two hands, so I hardly give him much chance with one. But I feel certain that you can devise a way to bring him down. You can find him and trap him, even if others must come in for the kill. And you can then take responsibility for his execution, for who would not agree that you had reason to take his life after the deception with which he tricked you, Consul Grey, or the hideous djinn into which he transformed you, my poor Earl of Cumbrae.’
‘And if we do not agree tae pursue him for you?’ the Buzzard asked.
Jahan laughed. ‘Come now, of course you will agree! In the first place I am offering you all the resources of men and equipment you need for the vengeance you desire above all else. And in the second, both you and Consul Grey will die here, in this building, on this day if you do not agree to my terms. I am a merciful man. But I will not be wronged a second time and let that insult go unpunished.’
Grey threw himself to the floor and abased himself in a grovelling salaam. ‘Your highness is too kind, too merciful for a wretch like me. I am honoured and grateful beyond all telling for the chance to serve you in this way.’
‘Yes, yes, Consul, thank you, but please, stand on your own two feet like a man,’ Jahan replied. Then he looked at the Buzzard. ‘And you?’
‘Aye, I’ll do it. I’ll even tell you where the conniving sod’s bound for too, because there’ll only be one place he’ll want to go.’
‘All in due course,’ Jahan said. ‘First however, it has struck me, Cumbrae, watching you in recent weeks, that your skin must now be especially sensitive. You will not, I believe, be able to survive exposure either to our burning sun, or the winds and spray that will buffet you should you ever step aboard a ship. I have therefore commissioned a form of headgear that will protect you.’
He clapped his hands and at once Ahmed the leather merchant opened his box and pulled out what looked to the Buzzard like some kind of leather cap, or hood. There was a design upon it, too, but the way that Ahmed was holding it made it impossible for him to work out exactly what it was.
Ahmed now approached the Buzzard, his eyes cast down at the floor as he walked, as if he were too terrified even to glance at the face of the monster before him. When the leather merchant reached the Buzzard a new problem presented itself: he was a good head shorter than the Scotsman. Ahmed looked imploringly at Jahan who nodded and said, ‘Be so good as to bow your head, Cumbrae.’
‘I’ll bow tae no man!’ the Buzzard rasped.
‘Then you will lose it.’ Jahan paused and then went on in a conciliatory tone, ‘Please do not force my hand. Bow your head and let this craftsman do his work and I will reward you with everything you need to gain the revenge you so desperately crave. Defy me and you will die. So, what will it be?’
The Buzzard bowed his head. A moment later he winced and then cried out in pain despite himself as the leather hood was pulled over his raw skin and worked into position. The Buzzard now found himself looking out at the world through a single eye hole, cut into the leather, which was fitted tight, in fact almost moulded to the shape of his face. He could breathe through two more openings beneath his nostrils, but so far as he could tell, the whole of his head was covered except for his mouth. A moment later, even that freedom was curtailed, for Ahmed brought up another flap of leather. Part of it was formed into a cup that fitted around the Buzzard’s chin. There was a gap between the flap and the rest of the mask just wide enough to allow him to move his mouth a little. The Buzzard felt a tugging to one side of his face as the flap was tightened and then he heard a click that sounded very much like the closing of a padlock. Yes, he could feel the weight of it now.
The Buzzard felt a sudden surge of alarm, verging on panic. He jerked his head up and with his one good arm lashed out at Ahmed, knocking him to the ground. Before he could make another move, the soldiers raced across the floor and one of them grabbed his rig
ht arm and forced it up behind his back, until the Buzzard had no option but to bend his body and head down.
Once more he felt the tradesman’s nimble fingers, as a broad leather collar was placed around his throat and, like the mask, padlocked. The Buzzard heard Jahan say, ‘Mr Grey, be so good, if you will, as to carry the looking glass that is lying on that table to your right over to your fellow countryman. I’m sure the earl would like to see how he looks now.’
‘M-m-must I …?’ Grey stammered.
‘Please,’ Jahan said, with cold-blooded calm, ‘do not oblige me to remind you of the alternative should you refuse.’
The Buzzard heard Grey’s shuffling footsteps coming towards him and then the soldier let go of his arm and he was able to straighten his body. As he lifted his head, the Buzzard’s eyes were directly level with the mirror, barely two paces away from him. He saw what the world would see and now it was his turn to cry out in revulsion at what confronted him.
His head was entirely enclosed in leather the colour of a tarred ship’s plank. Crude stitches of leather thread held the various pieces of the mask together and formed the sharply angled eyebrows that gave the impression of eyes set in a furious, piercing stare. To make the effect even more shocking, the blank eye was painted with white and black paint to look as though it was open and all-seeing, while the hole through which the Buzzard now gained his pitifully limited view of the world appeared to be a blank, blind void. The nose was a predatory beak, a hand span long, that thrust from his face in a cruel visual pun on his Buzzard nickname. Further stitches shaped the mask’s mouth into a permanently manic grin, made all the more ghastly by the jagged white teeth, with pitch black gaps between them that had been painted around the orifice through which he was expected to speak, eat and drink.