Felaheen

And as no one could actually find a birth certificate for the child and Hani had been born elsewhere, the question remained open. Lady Nafisa might have been able to provide an answer but Hani's aunt was dead. Something else for Hani to feel guilty about.

"Hungry?" Raf repeated.

"No," said Hani. "Not really."

The mullah's reply to the Sultan was equally simple. "I am unable to attend, O King, as I rely for life upon the sweet air of Qasr al Arifin and have no way to bring this with me in storage jars."

Hani paused, her small fingers hovering in midair. A matrix of fine wires across the back of her hands ended in finger thimbles. Every time her hands flicked across the invisible keys of her imaginary keyboard, words got added to a processing package installed on her laptop one floor up in the haremlek. Very clever but not madly practical because Hani relied on seeing a screen to write.

All the same, it was kind of Hamzah Effendi to send her a present. Hamzah Effendi was Zara's father and Zara was the girl her Uncle Ashraf should have married, the one everyone thought . . .

If only.

Hani kicked her heels against the legs of a silver chair and sighed. Another four paragraphs and she'd let herself go down to the kitchen to make coffee.

At first the Sultan was perplexed by this answer. And then, after consideration of the mullah's open disrespect, he determined to remonstrate with the man when they next met, famous sage or not. At about this time the visit from the Indian ambassador was cancelled and so the Sultan needed no advice from anyone after all.

Many months later, as fig leaves began dropping and the stars grew cold the Sultan sat down to supper and no sooner had he picked up his goblet than an assassin leapt upon him. Immediately, Mullah Bahaudin, having entered the dining room at this exact moment, jumped upon the assassin and wrestled him to the ground.

"O Mullah," said the Sultan, "It seems I am indebted to you in spite of your earlier rudeness."

Mullah Bahaudin smiled. "O Sultan," he said sweetly. "The courtesy of those who know is to be available when actually needed, not sit waiting for emissaries who will never arrive . . ."

Hani flicked her fingers over a nonexistent trackball to shut down her laptop and pulled off her gloves. She would write the rest of Bahaudin's story, particularly the bit where the Mullah met a miracle worker who could walk on water–but to get things right she really did need a screen.

"Okay," Hani said, slipping down from her chair. "I'm off to make some coffee." She left her comment hang in the air, a fact that seemed to escape both Uncle Ashraf and Zara. "Anyone like some?" Hani asked loudly.

"Do

It was the wrong answer.

"Just look at this," said Do

"Disgraceful. You could get twice the zest out of that."

On screen a plump boy in a chef's hat was discarding half a lemon.

"Now he's adding cream," Do

When Hani said nothing Do

The child nodded.

"About you?"

Hani looked at her. "What do you think?" Everyone in the house knew what Hani thought. She refused to go to school in New York and she didn't want a tutor at home. Hani was begi

"Zara just wants to get rid of me," Hani said. "They both do."

"That's not . . ." Do

Frying last season's almonds in a drizzle of olive oil and grating rock salt over the top, Do

Hani did what she was told, sipping at a glass of red wine Do

"Now you listen to me," said Do

"Yes it is."

"No," Do

"What?" asked Hani, suddenly interested.

"Ahh," the elderly Portuguese woman shrugged in irritation. "No matter. You're too young to know about these things . . ."

Although if Do

Hani wasn't sure where the bricks or sheets came into it, but she got the general point.

"You want more birthday cake?"

"Not really." Hani shook her head. "I came to get coffee."

"Caffeine darkens the skin," said Do

"It's for His Excellency."

The Portuguese woman looked doubtful.

"Papers." Hani a

On Hani's tray were a collection of afternoon papers, three tiny mugs of mud-thick coffee, and the plate of baklava Do

"The Enquirer," she told her uncle, dropping it onto his table and using it as a mat for his coffee.

Pope To Make Boy Saint?

The Emir of Tunis had been saved from death by a child's power of prayer; the Enquirer was quite categoric about that. An u

Missing from the story was the obvious fact that Pope Leo VII was unlikely to beatify, never mind canonize, a minor Islamic princeling (even assuming the mufti in Stambul was willing). Also missing was the fact that, far from being a hero, Murad Pasha had found himself in deep disgrace. In fact the beating he received for not obeying an order from the Emir left the boy unable to sit for three days.

Raf skim-read the story, shifted his cup to reach the end, and tossed the lies to the floor, narrowly missing Ifritah, Hani's grey cat.

"Uncle Ashraf!"

"It was an accident," Raf said firmly, and went back to work.

A fine-tooth comb, plus instructions on the correct way to lift potential evidence from pubic hair.

A Miranda card, one side listing Inalienable Rights, the other Rules of Plain View.

Two dozen unused postmortem fingerprint cards, both left and right.

Vacuum-packed latex gloves, eight pairs.

A booklet in Spanish on Vucetich's system of fingerprint classification, stamped LAPD not to be removed.

A foldout chart of poisons, arranged by the time in which they begin to react. Starting with ammonia, reaction time zero, and ending with stibine, three days to three weeks . . .