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set on the banks of the sprawling River Walaqa, a tributary of the Blue Nile. The kingdom had been plundered to construct the palace, and to fill its magazines with treasure. And, with such poverty surrounding him, the emperor had no interest in ever leaving the luxurious quarters of his home.
    So, instead, he reclined in his gardens, or in his grand salons, and allowed his retinue of servants to drop peeled grapes into his mouth, one at a time.
    Every so often the secret police caught a group of citizens conspiring against their emperor. The conspirators would be dragged away, hung, drawn and quartered in the main square.
    Then their heads were skewered onto spikes as a warning to others.
    Now, in this land there lived a small boy, about your age. He had never known his parents because they had been imprisoned in the Slate Tower, which lay on an island in the middle of the River Walaqa. Their crime was daring to question out loud why their emperor required so many sacks of loot when beyond his palace walls there wasn’t enough food to eat. So the boy lived with his aunt, a fresh-faced woman with a limp, who was very good to him indeed.
    His name was Rintin, and he was the cleverest boy in his school. He never said much, but when he did say something others listened, because what he said tended to be very clever indeed.
    One day, Rintin was on his way back from school, when he saw his elderly neighbour in chains, being led towards the gallows in the main square. On that day there were so many others in line to be hanged that the neighbour was forced to crouch down and wait his turn.
    Nimbly, Rintin hurried over to the old man, greeted him, and said:
    ‘I will save you, I promise, I will save you.’
    The wizened old man smiled at seeing the boy, then held up his wrists, weighed down with manacles.
    ‘Keep away from me dear Rintin,’ he said softly, ‘before they take you too.’
    The boy charged off into the back streets, and stopped at the first house he could find. A little girl was playing with her doll outside.
    ‘Tell your parents to go to the palace gates at dusk,’ he said. ‘The emperor is going to make an announcement. Your parents must spread the word.’
    Clutching her doll, the little girl ran into the house.
    As for Rintin, he ran on, through the streets, warning everyone he passed to gather at the palace at dusk. Once he had reached the end of the town, he made his way to the banks of the river.
    With the palace itself so heavily guarded, the only way to observe it unobserved was from the water.
    Borrowing a canoe from a fisherman, he pushed out and paddled his way into the middle, halfway between the palace and the Slate Tower, in which his parents were imprisoned.
    Turning his back on the island, Rintin looked carefully at the pleasure dome of the emperor. He scanned the walls, taking in every detail, questioning why it was as it was.
    Now, the lad’s cleverness derived from the fact that he observed very keenly. Almost nothing ever escaped his attention. He knew, for example, when a storm was approaching because he could sense the trembling of the leaves. And he could tell when his aunt was unhappy because her handkerchief smelled very faintly of salt from her tears.
    Rintin’s gaze moved over the blocks of marble, looking for gaps, or for an unguarded window amongst the sheering white walls. The stones were flush together, joined in a zigzag edge so that nothing could ever prise them apart.
    All afternoon, the boy gazed at the palace.
    As the shadows lengthened, he felt a pang of worry, after all the townspeople would be making their way to the gates to hear the announcement. No one would dare stay away, for the emperor was very strict indeed about announcements.
    An hour before dusk, Rintin paddled the canoe a little closer to the wall, which was now deep in chill shadow. Approaching, he noticed something strange. Where the walls disappeared at the waterline, there was a knotted mesh of reeds.
    The