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to the right of the chest. But they are not there. Dread fills me as I wonder if they are still where I left them, or whether they have as yet escaped notice.
    I do not have long to wait to find out. Later that morning I go to inspect the newly inaugurated Bab al-Raïs so that I can report back to Ismail that his orders have been properly carried out. Sure enough, the poor wolf’s head has been set above the gate and is grimacing away in a suitably ferocious fashion. On my way back to the inner courts my way is barred by two men wearing the coloured sashes that mark them as officers of the qadi and they are accompanied by a pair of palace guards, who carry the guns they have taken from the qadi’s men before guiding them into the palace grounds. No one but the imperial guards may bear arms within the palace walls, a sensible precaution in a kingdom Ismail has himself described as ‘a basketful of rats’ – always ready to rebel, and bite the hand that feeds.
    â€˜Are you the court official known as Nus-Nus?’
    Behind them, Hassan shrugs at me. ‘Sorry.’
    â€˜I am.’
    â€˜We wish to question you over a certain matter. A man has been most foully murdered in the souq.’
    I try to look shocked. I try to look innocent. I
am
innocent, for heaven’s sake: so why do I feel so guilty?
    â€˜Where were you between the hours of eleven and two the day before yesterday?’
    I look him in the eye. ‘Running an errand for his majesty in the bazaar.’ And I tell him about my appointment with the Coptic Bookseller.
    The second officer steps closer. I do not like the look of him: he is young and well fed and clearly thinks a lot of himself, judging by the care with which he has trimmed his beard into a fancy shape. I suspect he has plucked his eyebrows too. ‘We already interviewed the book-trader so we know you were there after noon. At what time did you return to the palace?’ He asks me this in a way that suggests he already knows the answer.
    â€˜Just before the emperor’s daily rounds,’ I concede.
    â€˜And what time might that be?’
    â€˜Around two.’
    â€˜There is a large gap of time unaccounted for. While you were in the souq, did you happen to visit the stall of one Hamid ibn M’barek Kabour?’
    The mask is firmly in place. ‘That name is not familiar to me.’
    â€˜We know you were there. You were seen entering his stall at’ – he examines the tablet on which he has written his notes – ‘just after eleven, wearing a “white burnous richly trimmed with gold”.’
    My heart starts to thunder. ‘Ah, Sidi Kabour. I do apologize: I have never been on first name terms with him. And you say the poor man is dead, murdered? That is terrible news indeed. What will the emperor do now for his incense? He cannot do without his agarwood and frankincense, and he refuses to buy it from anyone else. I don’t know what Ismail will say when he hears this news, he will be most upset. Is there a widow to whom he could make a gift?’ I think I am doing well in acting the part of concerned factotum, but the younger officer is not taken in by my babbling.
    â€˜Not purchasing illegal substances for the Lady Zidana, then?’ he says.
    â€˜Good heavens, no. And if I were you I would be very careful about repeating such malicious gossip about the emperor’s chief wife.’
    â€˜She is a witch: everyone knows it.’
    I turn away. ‘I have things to do: I cannot stand around here listening to your vicious tittle-tattle.’
    He catches me by the arm. In a former life he would be laid out cold on the ground, but you soon learn to curb your natural reactions at Ismail’s court. ‘I have a warrant signed by the qadi to take you into custody if you do not cooperate with us.’
    So they really do consider me a suspect. With a sudden lurch of memory I recall the voice shouting after