As Fatima crushed these feelings into a small, tight ball, the tide of humanity swept in and out and through the tapas bars across the street. None of the mortals passed near her. Those that started in her direction happened to turn aside to take a circuitous route around the spot where Fatima leaned against a building in shadow. None of the mortals noticed her, nor, she was certain, did any of the weak-minded Sabbat who moved among them.
But Fatima noticed someone.
She noticed motion. A body, there and then not there, among the throng of people. Space that a moment before was occupied, now empty. Fatima’s attention shot fully back to the here and now. She scanned the fluid crowd but saw nothing unusual. Then movement again, off to her right. Did someone weave through the crowd out of sight, or had she imagined it?
Now Fatima was instantly in motion—she was not one to imagine things.
She brushed past the nearby humans, none of whom seemed to have noticed what she thought she saw, and none of whom took undue notice of her. The tourists and bar patrons seemed to sense where each of Fatima’s next steps was about to take her, and without realizing it, they made way for her. Not parting in huge waves like the Red Sea before Musa, but each going his or her own way, individual rivulets making their separate ways down a pane of glass. Fatima darted through the spaces they vacated, soon clearing the thickest concentration of mortals and increasing her pace to a near-sprint.
She stopped at the next corner. Wherever she looked, mortals strolled in small groups, unconcerned. There was no flash of motion to lead her on, no phantom in her peripheral vision. There was, however, something she could feel, something she could almost smell—a disturbance in the air, the small wake of someone that had just passed that way, and quickly. But no one was close enough to have created that ephemeral trail. No one mortal.
Fatima turned to her left and continued along that long, twisting block. She made her way among the clumps of people, which were growing less frequent away from the tapas bars. The path, the trick of the air, was still there. It too wove through the mortals as if they were stationary obstacles. If Fatima could keep pace, if she could follow the breath of the passing before it dissipated and smoothed back into the calm Madrid night, then she could find whomever—or whatever—had unwittingly caught her attention.
Or perhaps not so unwittingly.
She continued northward across a large avenue. The names of the streets no longer held any meaning. The mortals were little more than blurs. Fatima no longer concealed herself from their minds. They would not know what shot past, and she was completely focused on the shifting eddies of air that wouldn’t last more than seconds. She had to be close. Very close.
The necessary speed of her advance created a great danger. Ambush. Whatever she followed could be leading her into a trap, but Fatima was confident that she could deal with even the most lethal of traps. And she could not turn her back on this thing, this presence. It was certainly not mortal, nor of the rabble Sabbat. It didn’t have the feel of something to do with the cardinal or his shadowmaster minions. Not even Lucita was capable of such rapid and stealthy movement. Few of Fatima’s brethren could have followed this trail. Fatima could not ignore this threat. Not knowing what it was would be too great a risk to her mission. So she followed. Trap or no trap. The blood of Haqim would prevail.
The presence—whether it was hunter or prey—led her along a twisting route through narrow, cobbled alleys. It turned back southward, down streets parallel to those it had just traversed. Then it veered again and took her westward. Each step of the way, with each corner she turned, Fatima felt that she was about to catch up. But always it was just beyond her, just out of sight, out of reach. The air swirled as if someone had, a second before, passed. Someone had passed. Yet there was no one.
And then the trail was no more.
Fatima thought she’d merely missed it for a second, but as she reached out with all her senses, the eddies were gone. The air was not completely still, but the particular telltale stirrings had evaporated.
It took Fatima a few seconds to recognize her immediate surroundings, for her concentration—which had been so totally focused on minute environmental stimuli—to draw back to awareness of the buildings, the streets, the handful of automobiles. She was standing on the wide Calle de Bailén, directly across from the Sabatini Gardens, not far from the grand Palacio Real.
She wasn’t sure whether she had lost the trail or if it had simply ended. She suspected the latter, but even if she’d misstepped somehow, it was too late to reorient. The trail had only existed in any one place for seconds. She had been so close.
Was it possible, she wondered, that her prey had suddenly disguised its passing? Or perhaps it sped up and increased the distance between them? For a single individual, the air would settle just as quickly. The wake was more a function of mass than speed. If her target had intentionally thrown her off that way—if it had been able to all along but had led her this far—that did suggest a trap. But as Fatima scanned up and down the street, she couldn’t see that this brightly lit main thoroughfare was a good spot for an ambush.
A few cars darted here and there; none of them appeared suspicious. Fatima seemed to be the only pedestrian within blocks, but she couldn’t quite believe that. The more she thought about it, the more convinced she grew that she’d been led here—but by whom and why?
Calle de Bailén not offering any answers, Fatima strode purposefully across the street and, without breaking stride, hurdled the iron fence and juniper bushes that enclosed the Jardines Sabatini. She landed and took up a defensive crouch. In the darkness, the mingled scents of the various flowers, trees, and shrubs were more pronounced than the muted colors. After just a few seconds of observation, however, the most noticeable aspects of the gardens were the intermittent flurries of movement among the plants, and the chilling sounds—drawn-out wails as of infants in lingering pain, being tortured.
Cats. The gardens, home to perhaps a hundred strays, were full of them, each deathly jealous of its territory, which of course overlapped with that of several others. Their nocturnal battles transformed this place meant as a serene refuge into a cauldron of churning, howling blood and disfigurement. Where Fatima knelt, she could smell the blood. She could track by smell this feline with ragged ear, or another with its eye practically gouged out.
The gardens and their special brand of carnage did not disturb Fatima. She had been here before. She had brought fida’i to places like this to train. Stalking and catching a feral cat was infinitely more difficult than hunting a mere mortal, and a few strays were never missed. There was, as well, the added benefit that even a successful hunter, if not careful, could end up with a painful gouge or bite to sharpen his concentration for the next hunt.
Alert to every sound and movement, Fatima carefully moved more deeply into the gardens. She didn’t alarm the cats. They continued with their nightly stalkings, completely unaware of her presence. She stayed low, edging silently forward along the path. Just as the cats were blind to her, Fatima was blind to that which she’d been tracking. There was no sign of it, yet Fatima felt in her bones that it was here, that it was waiting for her. She had survived long enough to know to trust her instincts; she had survived so long because, often, she had trusted her instincts.
Again, her instincts proved correct.
Ahead in the path lay one of the scrawny cats—head stretched back and neck laid open. A tuft of white and brown fur floated in the still-expanding pool of blood beneath and around it. Fresh kill. Fatima could smell the blood from many yards away.
Instead of continuing on the path, she slid through the hedges to her right and circled wide of the unfortunate cat. If Fatima were being led into an ambush, the dead animal would be the final bait. Whoever was after her wanted her to inspect it more closely. Did they really underestimate her that badly?
As Fatima circled around, the continuing cat sounds were farther off in the distance. Those nearby sensed what ha
d happened to their neighbor and scattered. Instinct and fear. They were one and the same for the felines; for Fatima there was only the former.
She was alert for any other signs of disturbance: anything moving, plants bent or trodden upon, footprints in the rich soil, twigs snapping. The scent of the cat’s blood overpowered any other smells. Fatima’s arc became a half-circle. She stood on the far side of the path from where she’d begun, and still nothing. No sign of who or what had led her here and slaughtered the hapless stray.
Strange. Fatima thought she’d followed a single individual from Plaza Mayor, but if anyone wished to take her, they’d most likely need the advantages of both surprise and numbers. Yet she could find no trace of anyone.
She continued around, slowly making her way along the opposite half of a broad circle, back to her original position. No one. Nothing. She stood where she had several minutes ago, the smell of blood thick in her nostrils. Above all else, she knew that she must discover who was responsible for all this. She must make sure they were not a threat to her mission.
And so she moved ahead on the path toward the cat’s carcass. Carefully. As hyper-alert as she’d been following the wake to this place. The blood of Haqim revealed for her every sound; her eyes took in the gentle bobbing of every leaf. The smell of blood washed over her as if there were gallons poured out at her feet.
She reached the carcass, stood over it—then whirled about, jambia instantly in hand. There stood her prey-turned-pursuer in the spot where she’d first paused.
His arms were relaxed at his sides; the hands, nimble and deadly, empty. Strangely enough, he wore modern clothing, though not suited to the coolness of the evening: a sleeveless white shirt, jeans, bare feet. His chin, as Fatima remembered, seemed too narrow and sharp to go with the rest of his wide face. His sloped forehead and broad cheeks were smeared with blood—cat’s blood. The red was incredibly dark against his skin, blackened as it was after so many years from its original Egyptian hues.
“Thetmes,” Fatima spoke his name. After the initial shock of seeing him, she was again alert for any type of trick.
He nodded to her, almost reverentially. “It is I.”
Fatima edged closer, regarding him warily. This person before her had the manner of her sire. If this was a disguise of some sort, it lacked any visible failing. Posture, expression, tone and inflection of voice—all perfect. And the blood. Beneath the vulgar odor of cat’s blood, already she could sense it. The blood of Haqim. The blood of her sire.
Fatima stepped toward him, sure now of his identity. This was indeed the elder who, so long ago, had ushered her into the brotherhood. She sheathed her blade, placed her hands together. “Salaam.”
Thetmes nodded again. His body was lean and hard. His shoulders and elbows were like knots on an old gnarled tree—one that was tested by time, surviving flood and fire and drought. There was strength untold in those arms, in that body.
“I did not know you had returned to us,” Fatima said.
“I never left you,” Thetmes said. His eyes were black as night.
Fatima didn’t know what to make of this. He had surrendered to torpor, withdrawing into that numb sleep as elders sometimes did. “Each of the brethren is with us always.” Fatima voiced the mantra, but something was not right. The barest hint of a smile crossed her sire’s lips. “You were not speaking of the scriptures,” she said.
“No.” That was all he said, as he stood there. Watching her.
“Then what?”
“I did not give myself to the sleep,” Thetmes said.
His voice rang in her ears as if some strange echo had suddenly taken hold in the gardens. Only slowly did the words settle and their meaning came. But even then, they raised more questions than they answered.
“But you…” Fatima stumbled, searching for her own words to counter his, which made no sense. “You were caliph. You stepped down.”
“I was. I did.” Again the answers that did not answer.
“Why?”
“It was necessary.” The hint of a smile was gone now. Fatima’s confusion apparently had amused him for only a short time. “I have been busy these past few years.” His expression hardened somewhat as Fatima still stared at him in disbelief. “Do you question your elders?” he asked with an edge of harshness.
“I trust them,” Fatima said. “I do not always understand them.”
“Do the fida'i always understand you?”
Fatima nodded, granting his point.
“You know what you must,” Thetmes said. “You know what you need to know.”
Fatima nodded again. The words were as familiar to her as those of the salah. How many times had she reproached an inquisitive fida’i for asking that which he did not need to know? Still, she had always found it easier to question her sire than any other elder, and in subtle ways he had encouraged her independence. Perhaps he indulged her. Or perhaps, considering her achievements, such was her due. Just as the amr granted her some leeway that he would not extend to others, even other elders senior to Fatima.
Thought of al-Ashrad brought to mind Elijah Ahmed, who had taken Thetmes’s place as caliph.
“Does Elijah Ahmed know?” she asked directly. This subterfuge that Thetmes had undertaken was unheard of. The caliph of Alamut did not simply step down. What could have caused such a thing? Surely the current caliph must have known, and the amr….
“Elijah Ahmed is no more,” said Thetmes.
For a moment, to Fatima’s ears, her sire’s voice blended with the distant mewing and wailing of cats until the sounds were indistinguishable—noise intended to convey meaning, but unintelligible to her.
She could not respond. What he said was too greatly at odds with what she knew was, with what she believed was.
“You did not know,” Thetmes said. It was not a question. And his statement carried an unspoken conclusion: You did not know. You had no need to know.
“Elijah Ahmed…destroyed?” Fatima’s words drifted weakly into the night, $he couldn’t have been sure that she’d actually spoken them aloud if not for Thetmes nodding silently in response. “How?”
“The road of the hijra is long,” said Thetmes, “but we approach its end. Mighty Alamut was but the first castle of three along the road. The herald has returned to us, and by his hand the second castle is ours.
Tajdid,” said Fatima. Revival of the blood, the breaking of the Tremere curse. “But al-Ashrad—
Labored for hundreds of years so that the curse might be broken,” Thetmes finished her thought. “Yes. And great sorcerer though he is, he could not defeat the might of the warlocks in that to which the children of Haqim submitted willingly. Great sorcerer though he is, what he attempted for centuries the herald completed in hours.”
“Ur-Shulgi.” The herald. To Fatima, his was a name from legend. But if the second childe of Haqim and not al-Ashrad had indeed been the one to break the Tremere curse, why the pretense? Why did the brotherhood not know this? Fatima did not bother to ask the question, for she already knew too well the answer: You did not know. You had no need to know.
But Thetmes was telling her now. Whatever his reasons, he was telling her. Fatima felt her moorings pulled from beneath her. She was no longer elder rafiq but ignorant fida’i, and her sire was imparting knowledge to her. Every word revealed secrets that had been hidden from her, and with each secret she learned, she became increasingly and painfully aware of how much she did not know. Even now.
“Then, it was…ur-Shulgi…?”
“That reclaimed the caliph’s blood for Haqim,” Thetmes said.
“But why?” Fatirrta had known Elijah Ahmed almost as long as she’d known Thetmes. She was trying to fight her unbelief, to draw on faith that did not require understanding, but she could see no reason. No reason that Elijah Ahmed should have perished, no reason that she, an elder, should feel so ignorant. How could she ably serve Haqim when so much was hidden from her?
“Why?” Thetmes repeated. H
e gestured to the lifeless cat behind Fatima. “Why was that creature forfeit?”
“Because its life served your purpose,” Fatima said. “Because the smell of its blood masked your presence.”
Thetmes nodded appreciatively. “Well spoken. Its life served my purpose. Each of our lives serves the purposes of Haqim—as long as he suffers us to serve. The time has come for the faithful to prepare themselves, to make themselves worthy—”
“So that they might endure,” Fatima said. They were al-Ashrad’s words that he had spoken to her.
“Yes,” said Thetmes. He stepped toward Fatima, reached out his hand and placed it on her shoulder, touched her for the first time in years. “So that the faithful might endure.”
“And Elijah Ahmed was not faithful?” Fatima’s question had a bite to it. Never before had she spoken in such a tone to her sire, to any elder.
Thetmes drew his hand back from her shoulder, not as if he were stung, but slowly. It was a cautious gesture. “Elijah Ahmed’s faith was…misplaced.”
Fatima choked down harsh words. She knew that to be untrue—at least as she considered faith and as she defined misplaced. The caliph—the destroyed caliph, by Thetmes’s account—was as loyal as she was. His existence was devoted to Haqim.
“Elijah Ahmed placed too much stock in the teachings of Muhammad,” Thetmes said. “As did Jamal, as do…”
Jamal. Fatima did not think that she could be shocked so many times in one night. Jamal. Master of Alamut. The Old Man of the Mountain. Jamal found lacking in faith? Jamal destroyed, his blood reclaimed for the Eldest? Impossible. As impossible as Fatima being attacked within the hallowed chambers of Alamut by a maddened Kurd.
Fatima’s gaze latched onto Thetmes’s mouth, the movement of his lips, his tongue. Her mind took his words and raced ahead on the path he was following. “As do I,” she challenged him.
Thetmes watched her evenly, expressionless. His hands, again, hung relaxed at his side. “Others, I was going to say. I am sure that you are strong of heart and unwavering in your faith. The Final Nights are at hand, Fatima. There is no longer room for Muhammadans among—”
Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga Page 13