Fickle

Chapter 41

Othman stood at the balcony of the royal palace, gazing over the sprawling capital of Daura as the sun set. The golden light masked the brewing tension within the kingdom, but Othman knew better. He turned as General Mustapha entered, carrying a stack of reports and a grave expression.

“More whispers,” Mustapha said as he placed the documents on the table. “The council member you suspected, Waziri Mahmud, has been meeting with emissaries from neighboring territories. They’re calling for ‘reform’—their polite term for revolt.”

Othman’s jaw tightened. “How certain are we that Mahmud is the ringleader?”

“Certain enough,” Mustapha replied. “But he’s careful. We need irrefutable proof before we act, or we risk alienating the undecided council members.”

Othman nodded, his mind racing. “Then we monitor him closely. If he’s meeting with foreign emissaries, he’ll slip up. When he does, we strike.”

To maintain the illusion of unity, Othman continued to engage with Waziri Mahmud and his allies during council meetings. He offered calm, measured responses to their veiled criticisms, all while ensuring Mustapha’s intelligence network tracked their every move.

At a particularly tense council meeting, Mahmud raised concerns about the Crown Prince’s prolonged absence.

“With all due respect,” Mahmud began, his tone dripping with feigned politeness, “the people are growing uneasy. They need their leader here, not halfway across the world tending to personal matters.”

Othman met his gaze steadily. “The Crown Prince’s temporary absence is a strategic decision to strengthen our ties abroad. The people understand this. What they need is our unity as a council.”

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Mahmud offered a tight smile but said nothing more.

That evening, Mustapha returned with news.

“Mahmud is planning a covert meeting at an estate on the outskirts of Daura. It’s happening tomorrow night.”

Othman leaned forward. “Who’s attending?”

“Foreign dignitaries and several key figures from the council. If we act now, we can intercept them and gather the proof we need.”

Othman considered the risk. A direct confrontation could expose their hand too early, but the chance to dismantle Mahmud’s network was too valuable to ignore.

“We’ll proceed,” Othman decided. “But we must ensure the operation is airtight. No leaks, no mistakes.”

The following night, Mustapha led a small, elite team to the estate. They positioned themselves strategically, ensuring they could monitor the meeting without being detected.

Inside, Mahmud sat at the head of a table, surrounded by foreign emissaries and his loyalists. His voice carried through the thin walls as he outlined his vision for a “new Daura,” one free from what he called the “Maleek dynasty’s outdated rule.”

Mustapha signaled his team, who recorded every word. As the meeting ended and the attendees began to leave, the team moved in.

“By order of the Crown Prince, this meeting is over,” Mustapha announced as the doors burst open.

Panic erupted as Mahmud’s allies scrambled to escape. Mustapha’s men efficiently detained the key figures, seizing documents and communications devices that outlined Mahmud’s plans in explicit detail. 

Othman reviewed the evidence that night, his expression grim.

“This is more extensive than we thought,” he told Mustapha. “Mahmud’s network spans multiple regions. We need to act swiftly to dismantle it completely.”