In the Palace of the Khans by Peter Dickinson Page A

pulsed continuously across the roofs of Dahn and the massed buildings of Dara and the hills beyond, all beneath a layer of bulging cloud so dense that not even the glare that fell from it could lighten its blackness. A house had caught fire down by the river in Dahn, a blob of smoky orange on the bleach-white scene. Then the rain sluiced down again, sifting out shape and distance and leaving only the glitter of refracted dazzle.
    They woke to a still, brilliant morning and breakfasted with the windows open so that they could relish the freshness of the rain-rinsed air. The telephone rang while they were eating. Nigel’s father answered it, listened for a while and said “I think that should be possible. Hold on a moment.”
    He cupped his hand over the mouthpiece and said “It’s the President’s secretary. Apparently this is only a break in the storm but there would be time for us to fly up to the hunting-lodge now and then stay an extra night so that you can see the fish-owls tomorrow. Back by mid-day Monday. OK with you two? Great.… Hello. Sorry to keep you. Yes we can certainly do that. It’s very generous of the President to suggest it … Right, we’ll be ready. Good bye … Well, we’re going to have to get a wiggle on. There isn’t much of a window. A car will be coming to fetch us in three quarters of an hour.”
    Three helicopters were waiting side by side in the rain-washed courtyard of the palace. The two smaller ones were painted purple, green and gold, the colours of the Dirzhani flag. In the glittering sunlight they looked like expensive toys compared to the big drab military chopper beyond them. The President, with Taeela at his side, was waiting in front of them. Two lines of uniformed soldiers were drawn up to one side. Some of them were women.
    â€œAll very formal, by the looks of it,” muttered Nigel’s father as the car slowed. “I’ll go first and hand you out, Lou, and introduce you to the President. You just tag along, Niggles.”
    It all went smoothly. Taeela curtseyed neatly but shyly to Nigel’s mother when they were introduced. Then they separated into the helicopters strictly by gender, Nigel’s mother and Taeela and three woman soldiers in one of the smaller ones, Nigel with his father and the President and three of the men in the other, and the rest of the guards in the big chopper.
    Nigel had been in helicopters before, but never as luxurious as this. There was a big comfortable seat either side of the aisle in the front two rows of the cabin and more normal seats for the three soldiers behind. The President and Nigel’s father took the first two and Nigel settled into the one behind his father and put on his padded headphones. The engine woke with a roar, the rotor doubled the clatter and the palace floated away beneath them. He found a station playing an odd sort of ethno-rap and cocooned himself in solitariness. Soon he could see on his right the last of last night’s storm as a dramatic layer of darkness, edged with brilliant silver, blotting out the northern mountains. On the other side the next instalment was already massing on the horizon.
    For a while he watched the landscape sliding away beneath them. They were following the line of the river valley, almost due west to judge by the position of the sun. A guard came round with drinks and Dirzhani-style nibbles. He was hesitating over the drinks when the President twisted in his chair and pointed at a flask. The yellow-green fluid was cold, oily, and sweetish, with a dry aftertaste that made you want to sip again. Good choice, he thought. Typical. He doesn’t miss anything.
    Dazed with the luxurious comfort and the steady drub of the rotor and the remains of jet-lag he wasn’t aware of falling asleep, but then woke with a start to find that the sun had moved dramatically and was now almost directly behind them, which meant the river must have