Ybon stared at the P’naki box for a long time, finally stepping forward to take both spoon and box with him into the anteroom where he shut himself into a privy closet. There, he took a key from a secret pocket and opened the box. It was full of P’naki, the dark red powder fine as talc. He took a small pouch from beneath his clothing and opened it also, displaying contents that looked as finely powdered, as darkly red. With the seabone spoon he made a careful hollow in the P’naki in the box. Then he dipped the spoon into the pouch, brought it out heaped full, carefully wiped clean its convex side, then lowered it into the already created hollow in the box and left it there. The spoon now held a measured dose which looked in all respects like P’naki, and the lid, as he had already established, would shut and lock even with the spoon in place.
The key went back in the secret pocket and the pouch returned to its hiding place. Just before this expedition Ybon had stolen the substance in the pouch from a little box in a locked cupboard in the Shah’s private rooms. Not that Ybon had decided to use it, but he’d always thought something of the kind might be needed when the Great Effulgence, to everyone’s dismay and infinite regret, was no longer . . . radiant.
Moving softly, carrying the box with exquisite care, he returned it to the table in His Effulgence’s room. From his pocket he took a seabone spoon to lay where the other spoon had been. It wasn’t identical, but it was close in shape and size, and if he was lucky, no one would see it close up. Then he returned to the uncomfortable pallet on which he had spent the night, where he was wakened some time later by Prince Delganor, who wanted to know where the Marshal was. Shortly thereafter, the Shah was wakened by a lively discussion between the minister, the Prince, and two of the officers in the antechamber.
“What’s going on?” demanded His Effulgence, pulling himself higher on his pillows.
Ybon Saelan prostrated himself in the doorway.
“It’s the Marshal, Your Effulgence. He seems to have wandered off. He may be lost. It’s difficult to keep one’s way in the dunes when one is unaccustomed to the desert.”
“Went out in the dark did he?”
“Would you like the officer to tell you? He’s just outside.”
The Shah frowned but did not object. The officer came to the door, prostrated himself, then, nose almost on the floor, explained about the Marshal. Prince Delganor, meantime, stood just outside the doorway, his brow furrowed, listening to the story. He didn’t believe for a moment the Marshal was lost, he very much wished to know what the Marshal was up to.
The Shah grunted, waving the officer out. “My cup, Saelan!” he demanded.
The minister crept forward to the Shah’s right hand. The Shah fumbled in a pocket of his nightdress and came up with a key. Saelan crept away to the table, then rose. From their positions just outside, the Prince and the officer saw him use the key to unlock a box on the table, saw him pour a cup of water, saw him pick up the spoon from the table, saw him move the spoon to the box, which was now hidden by his body, then bring forth the spoon laden with powder, which he sprinkled upon the water in the Shah’s cup. They saw him pick up the waiting napkin, wipe the spoon with it, and replace the spoon upon the table before relocking the box, and carrying both key and cup to his master.
The Shah accepted the key with one hand and the drink with the other, absently draining the glass.
“What did the Marshal say, again?” he called impatiently.
“He said he was going to check the sentries,” murmured the officer from outside the door. “And he went up onto the dunes. That’s the last anyone’s seen of him.”
The Shah did not speak. The minister remained bowed at his side as he gently dropped the extra spoon from his sleeve into the side pocket of his robe.