Tales of Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

“What did he call up?”

  “That, I don’t know, Alhazred. I swear that I would tell you if I did. I arrived at his house one night, expecting to aid him in his ritual work, and found him almost dead. Something had blasted him with hellfire and burned more than his skin. His mind was gone as well. I have some leech-lore, gleaned from the Druids of my birthplace when I was a boy, and I know the use of a healing spell that few know. I felt it was my duty to try to bring Fayyad back from the brink of death. I worked over him for two days, and I was successful. His reason returned and his skin healed.”

  “You should have reported Fayyad’s crime to the Council,” I told him. “What he did was dangerous. Surely you must know what could have happened, if he chanced to call back into the body a mage of ancient Egypt.”

  “I know that there is no necromancer alive today who has even a fraction of the power of the ancients. I know that if the essential salts are old, the risk is great. But I was in the man’s debt.”

  “Why did you have words with Fayyad outside his door?”

  He grunted with uneasy laughter, and met my gaze shamefully. “I learned from the merchant’s guild that someone is asking the dealers to procure unlabeled salts, and the more ancient the salts, the more that person is willing to pay.”

  “So you think Fayyad went back to his reckless experiments?”

  He shrugged. “Who else?”

  “What did Fayyad tell you?”

  “As you would expect, he denied it all. He swore to me he was no longer attempting the Egyptian ritual. There was something in the way he said it that almost persuaded me to believe him.”

  “What was that?”

  “He was terrified. I have never seen a man in the grip of such abject, shaking panic. Something has happened to him that made him fear not only for his flesh, but for the fate of his soul.”

  6.

  The contrast between Dannu’s house and that of Fayyad al-Majid was striking. The Merchant had lived in Damascus for two decades, and had prospered greatly. His house was one of the most splendid in the Lane of Scholars. It almost merited the title of palace.

  The street door was black and had no design upon it. Only the best houses in the Lane had doors painted with simple colors. The doors of the lesser houses bore additional designs, since the number of colors was limited, and there were not nearly enough colors for all the doors in the Lane.

  The grounds in the front of the house were landscaped with shade trees and flowering shrubs. They were more extensive than my entire property. A marble fountain bubbled up a constant stream of clear, pure water, fed by who knew what occult device or mechanical contrivance. Birds sang from the trees. I looked at them more closely as I walked past and realized they were made of metal, not living. Then I noticed that the flowers were made of colored paper. The entire initial impression of the courtyard bursting with life was an illusion. Even so, it was impressive; perhaps even more so than if the birds and flowers had been alive.

  I was led into a bath chamber. The floor and walls were lined with marble slabs of the most delicate pinks, polished until they shone like mirrors. The center of the room was occupied by a square pool that was large enough to accommodate a dozen men. In it Fayyad al-Majid sat alone with the steam rising around him from the heated water. I could smell the mineral salts in the water, sharp and unpleasant.

  “Would you care to join me, Alhazred?”

  “I think not today.”

  He regarded me with shrewd dark eyes. “You sound so serious. I take it this visit is connected with your continuing investigation of the matter the Council has asked you to arbitrate.”

  “The theft of the salts.”

  He cupped his hands and raised them to pour water over his closed eyelids. “As I already told you, I know nothing of this theft.”

  “New evidence has emerged that requires me to interview you again.”

  “Very well. I have nothing to hide, as you see. My house is your house. Ask what you will.”

  I began to walk slowly around the pool. “Did you raise an ancient one from unlabeled Egyptian salts?”

  He laughed. “Who has been talking to you? The Lane is filled with such malicious gossip.”

  “I cannot reveal the names of those who provided me with my evidence.”

  “No matter, I can guess his name. It is that thankless, ungrateful Celt, isn’t it? I should have known better than to trust him.”

  “As you know, Fayyad, raising the dead from unlabeled salts is strictly forbidden by the Council.”

  “Don’t quote Council rules to me, young man. I was aware of them before you were born. Will you stop walking behind me and come where I can see you? You are making my neck cramp.”

  “Forgiven me, but pacing helps the flow of my thoughts.”

  “If you had any real evidence, you would be talking to the Council, not to me.”

  “Fayyad, I came here to appeal to your honor. If you have committed an indiscretion, I’m sure the Council will forgive it, but we must know what you have done.”

  “One necromancer schooling another about honor. That is a scene as rare as it is ridiculous.”

  I stopped in front of him and met his eyes. “Did you try to have my servant killed in the marketplace?”

  He frowned at me, and his surprise appeared genuine. “Of course not.”

  “Did you make an apparition appear in my bedchamber?”

  “No. What in all the realms are you talking about?”

  In addition to his obvious confusion there was fear in his voice.

  “I know you raised an ancient from his salts. If you persist in denying it, I will go to the Council with the recommendation that you be banished from Damascus.”

  This silenced him. Beneath the skin of his bravado, he was a badly frightened man.

  “If you tell me the truth now, I will speak on your behalf in front of the Council.”

  I could see him weighing in his shrewd mind the courses of action I had laid before him. The facade dropped from his face. He looked at me as a man looks at another man.

  “The salts were not labelled, but I was assured by the seller that they were no more than two centuries old. Why would anyone sell ancient salts for common salts, when the ancient salts are worth five times the price?”

  “When the salts are unlabeled, such errors are inevitable.”

  He nodded heavily, his double chin jiggling under his stringy, water-soaked beard. “I was imprudent, I admit that. The price was so favorable, Alhazred. It was a gift from Fortuna herself. I ask you, would you have declined to buy?” He named a price that was absurdly low for essential salts, even those bearing no labels.

  “I used the salts to perfect my working of the Egyptian ritual. I wanted to expand my horizons as a necromancer. As you know, the sale of health potions to the sick or dying is a rewarding trade, but it commands little respect among my peers. Do you think I don’t hear them, speaking words of contempt about me behind my back? Fayyad the brewer. Fayyad the pill-peddler. Fayyad the charm merchant. Do you think I have no pride?”

  “Just tell me what happened.”

  He sagged in upon himself, his shoulders slumping and his back rounding, so that his chin touched the surface of the bathwater. He stared at the water, eyes unfocused. “I achieved success with the ritual. He arose from his salts fully formed, a tall man, lean and hard. As you know, most of the dead who are returned to bodies reconstituted from their essential salts are confused and in great pain.”

  The memory of my own agony when Martala had raised me from the dead with my essential salts came strongly into my mind. It was like a second birth. The pain was indescribable. “So I have been told.”

  He shook his head in bewilderment. “This man was not confused. He was not in pain. From the first instant he knew exactly who he was and where he was. I perceived my danger and threw up a spell of containment around him. He walked through it as though it did not exist. He did not resist the spell, Alhazred, he seemed not
to even notice it. Then I knew fear in my heart, and wondered what I had done.”

  “If he was so powerful, I’m surprised he didn’t kill you.”

  “So am I. Why he let me live, I don’t know, unless it was that I was too insignificant to notice, just as the containment spell had been.”

  “Did you summon your household staff to restrain him?”

  He giggled and shook his head. “I tried to cry out but my voice would not work. Nor could I move from my place. Truly, I don’t know if it was some spell that bound me, or only my own terror. He passed me without a glance and left the cellar. I never saw him again.”

  “Do you think he may still be in Damascus, stealing caravan shipments of essential salts?”

  He lifted his hands out of the water. The tips of his fingers were wrinkled. “How can I know of such things? I know nothing about the theft of the salts, Alhazred. I told you that before, and it was the truth.”

  “Still, it cannot be coincidence that an ancient mage is raised up from his salts, and then salts begin to go missing.”

  “I know nothing of these matters. When you speak to the Council, tell them I intended no harm, only to deepen my skills as a necromancer. They will understand that.”

  I nodded agreement, but inwardly I was not certain the Council would be in an understanding state of mind when they learned of Fayyad’s astonishing lapse of judgment.

  “There is one more thing, Fayyad. May I take a walk around your back garden?”

  “My garden?”

  I nodded.

  He shrugged. “By all means, tour my garden. You will find the fragrance of the orange trees delightful.”

  I found my own way to the back door of the house and explored the walled garden. It was much larger than my own, but not so well laid out. All the trees and plants were trimmed and tended to perfection. I looked in every corner, but there were no Egyptian jars.

  7.

  “Did you know that someone is whispering rumors about you to the Caliph?”

  I looked at Uto with surprise. In the dimness of the deserted street only the ghoul’s large eyes were visible, reflecting the crescent of the waning moon. His naked black skin was hidden in shadow, even to my keen sight. A ghoul’s skin has no sheen. It is a flat black, like black velvet. A citizen of Damascus could pass within touching distance of him and never know he was there.

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “That you secretly hate the Caliph and are plotting to kill him, as you killed his father.”

  “Absurd lies,” I said, trying not to let my surprise show in my posture or movements.

  It was true that I had killed Moawiya’s father, Yazid, but only Martala, Altrus and my neighbor Harkanos knew of this.

  “What would be the purpose of such a rumor?”

  “To cause the Caliph to turn against you and order your arrest.”

  “Moawiya will never believe such a lie.”

  “I hope you are correct, Alhazred,” Uto said. “After the great service you rendered to the White Skull Clan, I would regret to feast on your decapitated corpse.”

  He referred to my help in exposing a shape-shifting creature from another reality that fed upon the life-force of members of his clan, and would eventually have destroyed it had I not intervened.

  “I, too, would regret feasting on your flesh, my friend.”

  He laughed the rasping laugh of ghouls that is sometimes heard in the night by lone travelers through graveyards or along remote pathways. Even though I was well familiar with it, still it chilled my blood.

  “Where are you leading me?”

  “We must approach the house from the back, along the access lane that allows for the removal of its refuse.”

  “Are you certain this house is the house I seek?”

  “It is the only house in or near the Lane of Scholars that fits your requirement.”

  The rear wall was high and lined with iron spikes along its top. Fortunately, pieces of mortar had fallen from chinks between the large stones of the wall, allowing access for fingers and toes. I took off my boots.

  “I will leave you now, Alhazred,” the ghoul murmured. “I would accompany you, but I cannot afford to involve my clan in a feud between necromancers.”

  “I understand, Uto. You have a first responsibility to your clan. I thank you for locating the house.”

  “Have a care, my friend. If what you told me is true, I may yet have the honor of feasting on your dead flesh.”

  His voice faded as he spoke, so that the last words were almost inaudible, and I knew I was alone by the wall. I climbed the stones, eased over the spikes, and dropped to the lawn. The waning crescent of the moon was high above, indicating that dawn must not be far off. It enabled me to see outlines of the trees and bushes. The enclosure had a wildness to it. The grass was as high as my knees and its dryness indicated that it had not been watered for many days and was in all probability dead.

  Following Uto’s instruction, I moved toward the rear door of the house. Not far from the door I found the Egyptian jars. There must have been a thousand of the clay vessels, stacked on their sides in rows and piled one atop the other. The thought flitted through my mind on bat wings that Altrus should be at my side. I thrust it away. It was necessary that he protect Martala from further attacks, be they natural or unnatural.

  I picked up one of the jars and examined its lead seal. Without a label, there was no way to know where the essential salts had been prepared, or the identity of the grave of the corpse from which they were extracted. Rolling the jar between my hands, I heard what sounded like fine sand shifting within it. That was all that remained of a human being, after the corpse had been completely prepared and rendered down. It was a sobering consideration, particularly under the present circumstances.

  The back door of the house was unlocked. This was not unusual for houses in the Lane of Scholars. No thief was insane enough to try to rob the house of a necromancer. I entered the rear hall, moving silently as only ghouls can move. Had there been a dog, it would not have barked. The glow of an oil lamp drew me deeper into the house. I approached the open doorway of the illuminated room with caution and peered around its edge.

  It was a small study, filled with books, scrolls and untidy clutter. At a writing desk sat the Celt, his broad back to me. His full red beard made him easy to recognize.

  I eased into the room. “Dannu, I have seen the Egyptian jars in your back garden. There is no point in trying to deny them.”

  He did not respond. I edged closer, my hand on the hilt of my dagger. He was a large man with vast reserves of physical vitality.

  Even when I stood beside him, he did not stir. I touched him on the shoulder. It was like touching a corpse, save that the flesh was warm. I waved my hand several times in front of his face, then grasped the back of his chair and forced him partway around so that I could look into his face in the light of the lamp.

  His gray eyes were open but stared into infinity. There was a slackness in his mouth, and his breaths came slow and shallow.

  Only when he moved did I notice the tall figure of the Celt’s manservant, seated in the shadows beyond the circle of the lamp. It puzzled me that I had not seen him. As a ghoul I had learned to see into the darkness with a keenness that was more than human. Yet I had not seen this man.

  He leaned forward, and for a reason I could not have articulated, his calm gaze sent a chill along my spine.

  “Welcome to my house, Abdul Alhazred,” he said. His voice was deep and carried a strange accent.

  “This is the house of Dannu the Celt,” I pointed out.

  “This was the house of Dannu, before I took it for my own, even as I took the mind of Dannu.”

  A horrible suspicion arose within my mind. “Who are you?”

  “At one time, very long ago, men called me Hemiunu. I was vizier for the Pharaoh Khufu, and did a trifling service for him as architect of his tomb. He found reason to question my loyalty and had me strang
led in my bed as I lay asleep. Yet here I am.” He spoke these words with a sadness that was almost poignant.

  “What have you done to the Celt?”

  “Very little.” He made a gesture upon the air. “You may speak to him, if you wish.”

  “Dannu? Can you hear me?”

  He turned his head to look at me.“Greetings, Alhazred. It is good of you to visit my house again, so soon after our last meeting.”

  I stared into his eyes. His pupils were tiny black spots on fields of gray.

  “Dannu, do you know what has happened to you?”

  “Nothing has happened to me,” he said calmly.

  “This man has entranced you,” I said, pointing at his servant.

  The Celt looked across the room, then back at me. “What man? We are the only ones here.”

  I stared at the man who called himself Hemiunu as though at a viper that had suddenly appeared in my bed. His thin lips quirked into a faint smile.

  “You are the ancient mage whom Fayyad al-Majid raised from unlabeled salts.”

  “Indeed. It suited my purposes to pass unnoticed for a time in this city. It was a simple matter to take possession of this fool’s mind and pose as his manservant.”

  “What are those purposes?”

  His narrow countenance darkened. “Do you know why my Pharaoh built a great tomb of stone over the resting place of his dead flesh?”

  I shook my head, wondering if I dared to lunge at him with my dagger. He did not appear powerful of body and I could see no weapon at his waist, but his complete ease of manner disquieted me.

  “He did it so that his body should be undisturbed for eternity.”

  “Then he was a fool. No man can preserve himself forever.”

  The ancient Egyptian seemed not to hear my response. “The preservation of our honored dead is the most sacred duty of my countrymen. What the necromancers of your barbarous age have done is an abomination so monstrous that my mind recoils from its contemplation.”

  “You have been buying up and stealing the Egyptian salts so that they cannot be used to resurrect the dead,” I said with sudden understanding.

  This focused his attention on me, and I wished I had held my tongue. The malice deep in the blackness of his eyes was the same malice in the eyes of a serpent when it strikes its prey. I knew how the rat feels under the eye of the cobra.