The musicians played a ragged fanfare, something like the first few notes of a cavalry charge. Bin Zaki cried, “Follow me!” A pair of Qazwini’s stalwarts, their faces still caked with chicken blood, stood aside and we entered the Throne Room. The vassals bowed and we followed their example.

“The Hall of Harmony!” Shakir yelled.

As in the Hall of Fragrance, the structure was ribbed with a proliferation of pillars which jostled each other and, in this case, took the form of serpents. But serpents out of a daunting nightmare, rampant, with miscellaneous permutations. The heads were horned, the mouths slit to the ears. The bodies had manes of stiff bristles, and backbones prickled with spines. They had powerful, scaly legs, feet with cloven hooves, and claws like a vulture’s.

From a rafter hung the provincial flag, a great red-and-yellow bird against a field of white. The powerful wings were spread, the curved beak gaping, the red eyes turbulent. In one yellow talon was a clutch of spears, in the other a gnarly club. The creature simulated all the warlike characteristics of the shrieking, emblematic eagle, so often the metaphor of a nation’s pride. But in this case, possibly unique in the annals of heraldry, the bird was a chicken.

The color scheme found further expression in the throne itself, a sworl of reds (for power, in the chromatic scale of Assama) and yellows (for royalty). On it sat a man with ropy old muscles. He bore a resemblance to Abdul that time could not totally erase, but the hair had thinned and the jowls had grown puffy. A smell came off him, a pungent, old-man smell like a worn-out tire or a decaying rump roast.

“King!” cried bin Zaki. “Supreme Organ of the Land! Greet the ademi chandiperoki smarelaj champungar domkeladi.”

“What’s that mean?” I asked in an aside to Abdul.

“It means ‘Those who wear tight pants.’ Literally, ‘Those who keep their farts in their pants.’” He moved to his father’s side.

Bin Zaki gestured imperiously and bearers came forward with our gifts. The King seemed unimpressed. In a hoarse, muted voice he said something I could not make out. The ministers closest to him chuckled dutifully, nervously, I thought, and Abdul turned as pale as the pigment of his skin allowed.

There was an awkward silence. Grady, our resolute leader, said, “I beg Your Highness’s pardon. Would you mind repeating…?”

The Supreme Organ of the Land did not mind. He smacked his lips and a hush fell over the assemblage. He pointed a finger at Valerie.

“I want her,” he said clearly.