Novel 1984 - The Walking Drum (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The change in Mahmoud worried me. He was sure of himself now, for he had a handle on power. He was stronger because of it, and more dangerous. Whatever was in his mind for me could be nothing but evil. At every moment I must be on guard against him.

  First, however, I must find my father and where he was kept. Also, I must discover the routine of the changes of the guards and if there was another way of escape from Alamut. Somehow I must let my father know that I was here, for he would know the situation here better than I, and he would have been thinking of escape.

  Al-Zawila had been torturing my father, and now I knew why. My father had suffered because of Mahmoud’s hatred of me.

  Carefully, I examined my position. Sinan apparently knew nothing of my presence. Suppose Sinan could be made to know? Might not Sinan be interested in my knowledge of alchemy? All alchemists, everywhere, had interests in common and often shared ideas or chemical methods.

  Al-Zawila, I suddenly recalled, was a place on the coast of Africa. Mahmoud must have come from there. That knowledge would not help, but it made the picture a little clearer. He was, I suspected, a Berber. The Berber relationship with the Arab had been tentative, at best. I must think, think!

  The guards here? Berber? Probably not. This was Persia, so the guards were likely to be Persian, Arab, or some other Central Asiatic people.

  Nothing could be lost by informing Sinan of my presence, and it was a rare ruler indeed who liked things done without his knowledge. Mahmoud al-Zawila was not serving his master now, but himself.

  The favorite slave who needed treatment? Was there such? Or was it a mere trick? Once I had treated the slave, if such there was, then I could be eliminated or enslaved myself.

  Blowing out my candle, I went to the window and looked down into the court. A flaring torch showed me a quadrangle of pavement and the castle around it. There were gate towers, and a movement there warned me that there would be guards in the towers, perhaps walking the wall.

  Torchlight reflected on the armor of a man standing guard at a door. Such a guard might be posted outside the apartments of Sinan. Of course, it might be a storehouse, an armory, or the entrance to a treasure room.

  Somewhere among this hive of rooms and passages was the entrance to that secret valley of which rumor whispered.

  Such was the fear of the Old Man’s Assassins that kings of the East paid tribute, and those who incurred his displeasure died.

  Nor was there any place of safety to which such a one might flee, neither a mosque, the center of an army, nor the presence of a priest or king could save the victim from the poisoned daggers of the Assassins. Doped with hashish and promises of paradise if they died in the Old Man’s service, they were absolutely fearless and heedless of their lives. Many died, but rarely before murdering the man they had been sent to kill.

  Some of the most notable who had been slain were Nizam-ul-Mulk, minister of Malik Shah, the sovereign of Persia, then his two sons, in 1092; the Prince of Homs, killed at prayer in the leading mosque of that city, in 1102; Maudud, Prince of Mosul, in the chief mosque of that city, 1113; Abul Muzafar ’Ali, Wazir of Sanjar Shah, and Chakar Beg, granduncle of Sanjar Shah, 1114; the Prince of Maragha, at Baghdad in the presence of the Sultan of Persia; the Wazir of Egypt, at Cairo in 1121; Prince of Mosul and Aleppo, in a mosque, 1126; Moyinuddin, Wazir of Sanja Shah, 1127; the Caliph of Egypt, 1129; Prince of Damascus, 1134; Caliph Mostarshid, Caliph Rashid, and Daud, Seljuk Prince of Azerbaijan, 1135–38; Count Raymond of Tripoli, 1149; numerous attempts to murder the great Saracen ruler, Saladin, in 1174 and 1176.

  My decision was made suddenly. I spoke into the silence beyond my window, into that stone-walled court where sound would carry.

  In a carefully modulated tone, I said, “I want to see Sinan. I wish to speak to Rashid Ad-din Sinan.”

  A voice from below commanded, “Get back inside! Be still!”

  Again I spoke, and somewhat louder. “Do you dare deny me the right to see Rashid Ad-din Sinan?”

  Chapter 53

  *

  MY VOICE WAS clear and strong, a challenge that sounded loud in the echoing court. No guard dared protest, for if Sinan discovered he had been deliberately kept in ignorance, heads would roll.

  My theory was simple. Mahmoud was a man these guards might fear and such men have enemies. He was a latecomer to Alamut, and no doubt, there were some who resented his officiousness. Knowing Mahmoud, he would have been imperious and often disagreeable. Such power as Sinan’s lived through spies, and someone would report what was happening if he did not hear it himself.

  What I needed was time, to learn what lay about me, where my father was, and some means of escape.

  Now I could force the issue, force Mahmoud to explain to Sinan, force him to move in directions he had not planned. If an enemy can be pushed into moving in haste, he may be pushed into mistakes and indiscretions. It was an old policy: Never let an enemy get set; keep him moving.

  Countermeasures, whether in diplomacy or war, are never so good as direct measures. Attack, always attack should be the policy of all men, all nations, when facing an enemy. Attack here, there, somewhere else; always keep the enemy on the defensive and in a state of uncertainty as to where the next blow may fall.

  Word of my presence would reach Sinan, and Mahmoud must be clever indeed if his explanations would satisfy Sinan.

  Sinan, in control of a set of fanatic believers, must know at all times what is happening. He must be a skilled musician of men ready to play on all the strings.

  Mahmoud had planned and acted without him, and I did not believe Sinan would appreciate the fact. Mahmoud was skillful at working himself into positions of importance, but his own conniving methods were sure to defeat him eventually. And I must see that eventually was now.

  The dried leaves of autumn are lightly blown away, still more easily is the fortune of man destroyed. My fortune, or his?

  And then I did what all men must…I slept.

  Dawn came with lemon-yellow light upon my wall, and I went swiftly to the window and peered into the court. Shadows were still deep there, so I bathed, dressed carefully, and rewound my turban. From my saddlebags I took the materials Khatib had gathered for me, the charcoal, sulphur, and the white crystals from the stable walls. These I mixed in their proper proportions and placed in a white bag inside a saddlebag. The mixture filled the saddlebag when completed.

  From the herbs gathered, I prepared several preparations, crushing dried leaves into powder and tucking them away in small papers in the folds of my turban.

  This could be my last day on earth.

  That I must face. If I escaped and rescued my father, it would be nothing less than a miracle. In this place a weapon might help but could not bring victory.

  What had I said that night in Constantinople?

  My mind is my sword.

  And so it must be.

  There was a rush of feet in the passage, and my door was thrust open. In the doorway stood Mahmoud, his eyes hot with hatred. “What have you done? If you think to escape me—”

  Smiling, I remembered a saying: Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.

  My smile infuriated him, as I was sure it would, so I added, “Escape you? You misunderstand the situation, Mahmoud. It is you who shall not escape me.”

  His fury astonished me, and I learned something else about Mahmoud. As he had grown older and stronger he had also become impatient of restraint, impatient to a degree that approached imbalance.

  “What is the reason for this outburst?”

  “Sinan wishes to see you!”

  Could I shake his confidence? “Mahmoud, when will you learn to consider not only what you are doing but what others may be doing also?

  “Sinan is a master of intrigue, you are only the student. You may be sure he knows more of what you are planning than you suspect. If you believe you will ever replace Sinan, you are mistaken.”

  Of course, he had been thinking of that, for t
here was no loyalty in Mahmoud. No matter who his master might be, he would begin at once to try to supplant him. He loved authority, hated to bow to it, yet he was a man who might kill viciously and suddenly, from sheer frustration. I walked a thin line between his ambition and death.

  Rashid Ad-din Sinan was a man noted for the majesty with which he surrounded his position. He never allowed anyone to be present when he was eating. He listened much, spoke little, and then only after careful consideration of the problem. He conducted himself carefully when appearing, ruling more by personality than fear.

  Assassination was used by the Isma’ilis as a means of war, waged in this manner because they lacked a large army. It was carried out with deadly efficiency. Yet Sinan was a diplomat also, managing the affairs of his sect with skill.

  He was also noted for wonders he was said to perform, yet how much was due to second sight, mental communication, or clairvoyance was a question. The same effects could be produced simply by possessing secret information.

  Upon one occasion he was foretold the deaths of a number of his enemies following a dispute on the subject of religion. He told each one the day and place of his death, and all died approximately as he foretold.

  Of those forty deaths none was by dagger, so he was feared even the more.

  My eyes were busy as I was shown into a long room where. Sinan was seated upon a dais. As we approached, he kept his eyes on us, studying us.

  Some fifteen feet from him we were stopped by a guard. Ignoring Mahmoud, he studied me with attention.

  “Ibn-Ibrahim or Kerbouchard, why do you use a name not your own?”

  The Isma’ilis were considered heretic by old-line Moslems, and there had been many freethinkers among them, so I decided upon frankness.

  “To travel with greater facility, and to avoid discussions. I cannot claim to be a Christian, nor yet a true Moslem, although I have studied the Koran.”

  “What are you then?”

  “An inquirer, Your Excellency, a seeker after knowledge. I am something of a physician, a geographer, and when opportunity offers for experiment, something of an alchemist.”

  “You knew Averroës?”

  “He was my good friend. John of Seville, also.”

  “And why did you come to Alamut?”

  Mahmoud started to speak, but my voice overrode his. “I was invited to come. I understood the invitation was from you. I accepted quickly, for I had heard of your great knowledge of alchemy, but when I arrived I discovered that Mahmoud al-Zawila had invited me. He is an old enemy from Córdoba.”

  Sinan gestured Mahmoud to silence. “What was the nature of the enmity?”

  “Your pardon, Magnificence. I did not say I considered him an enemy. It is he who holds enmity against me. Not,” I added, “that I am inclined to forgiveness.

  “We were friends as students in Córdoba until I fled the city with a girl. When we returned we were seized, betrayed to Prince Ahmed by Mahmoud.”

  “Prince Ahmed, you say? And Aziza?” Sinan’s expression had changed. His eyes were suddenly cold and attentive. He glanced at Mahmoud, then back to me. “I have heard the names.”

  Mahmoud was deathly pale. As skillfully as it could be done, I was scuttling his ship, but only by telling the truth. Mahmoud might succeed in having me killed, but now he must be wary of his own life.

  “I should believe,” Sinan suggested, “Prince Ahmed would reward such service.”

  “He did, Magnificence. He gave Mahmoud a position at his side.”

  “Ah?” Sinan’s fingers tapped upon his knee.

  What I had said might warn him of Mahmoud, might even destroy Mahmoud, but there remained my own safety, and I had an idea the interview was about to end.

  “Your Excellency, you are considered among the greatest of alchemists. I hoped to study at your feet, and”—I paused just long enough—“to exchange ideas. Some discoveries of mine have been curious indeed, and of a sort that might interest you.”

  He arose and was taller than I had thought. Also, he was two steps higher, an interesting position strategically, for we must look up to him.

  This man thinks of everything, I thought. He keeps himself ever in a commanding position. It might be nonsense, but it was shrewd nonsense, and effective.

  “You will return to your quarters, Kerbouchard, and I shall send some books from my library. Later, you may visit my place of experiment.”

  He gave a gesture of dismissal, and we turned about and walked from his presence.

  We had reached the door before Sinan spoke again. “Al-Zawila, you will answer for the presence of Kerbouchard.”

  Mahmoud did not speak until outside my door. His face was still pale, but he was in control of himself. “You believe you have defeated me, but know this: Once within these walls, only one of us may leave, only an Isma’ili, and I shall see that if you do leave, you will not be the same man as when you arrived.”

  He was speaking in Arabic, which he evidently knew the guards did not understand. They were Persians from Daylam.

  “He will not move against me, and if he does, we shall see who is master here.” He smiled. “No, I shall not submit you to torture…not yet. There is first the patient you must attend.”

  Only a few minutes later a slave appeared at my door with a book. It was the Ayennamagh, the book requested from Mas’ud Khan, in Tabriz. Was it coincidence? Or did the lord of Alamut’s ears reach so far? No doubt Mas’ud Khan was his man. Yet such a small detail? I was impressed.

  The Ayennamagh was a book written or compiled during the years of the Sassanian Empire of Persia, translated into Arabic by ibn-al-Muqaffa. It was a compilation of history, court annals, government regulations, and laws, containing discussions of strategy in war as well as politics, archery, and divination.

  Yet, no matter how interesting the book, I could not keep my attention on it.

  Restlessly, I paced the room. I was no nearer to discovering the whereabouts of my father, and bribery had no chance of success here.

  Some things I had noticed in my walk from my quarters to those of Sinan. From the top of my window to the roof was no more than four feet, if as much, and my window was long and narrow. A man might, just might, stand on my window’s ledge and, holding himself inside with one hand, might reach up and grasp the edge of the roof with the other.

  He would have to do it without being seen, and would risk a fall to the stone-paved court below. There was always the chance that he could not reach the roof’s edge, nor pull himself up if he did.

  Obviously, for reasons of defense there would be some connection between the roof and other roofs as well as the walls.

  Below me, in the Castle of Alamut, a struggle for power was taking place in which I had no part, yet which very well might mean life or death for me. Nor dared I make any move without first ascertaining where my father was. As yet I had seen no slaves or any women.

  The fortress gave the appearance of being inhabited by men only, and if my father was here, being a slave, he would be at work.

  Had they tortured him? Had they broken his spirit?

  The spirit of a strong man does not easily break, but he must be inwardly strong, secure in his beliefs and in what he is.

  Although my father had often been away at sea, his image had been ever before me, and my mother had led me to assume responsibilities from my earliest youth. There is no miraculous change that takes place in a boy that makes him a man. He becomes a man by being a man, acting like a man.

  Now was the time to show what I was made of. No help would be coming from the outside. I was alone.

  So it ever is in moments of trial or decision. One is born alone, one dies alone, and usually faces the trials and tribulations alone.

  Returning to my book, I turned its pages, reading here and there to acquire as much as possible in the short period of time I would have, struggling to grasp its message while half my faculties were turned to other problems.

  Even had he wished
, Sinan could not save me. Much of the strength of Alamut was that no one outside could assess its strength, and that meant no one must escape.

  Slowly, the day dragged by. My thoughts sought out every possible escape route, every stratagem, every ruse. Nothing happened. By afternoon I could stand it no longer. I must move! I must do something. It had seemed such a simple thing to find my father once inside, but I had seen not one slave, and my food was brought me by a warrior.

  And then the door opened…

  Two guards waited. “The Imam will see you now.”

  The Imam…that would be Sinan. Picking up my bags, I followed them.

  The guards escorted me into a branch of the castle where I had not been. On every side, the walls of the rock fell sheer away. Where then was the mysterious valley? We paused at last before a door. The passage we had followed continued on, perhaps thirty feet further.

  The guard tapped lightly at the door, obviously of oak and bound with straps of iron.

  My eyes fell to the floor at my feet, and for an instant my breath caught. On the stone floor, mixed with a little black loam, was a fragment of a leaf, a pomegranate leaf!

  Nothing grew upon the Rock of Alamut. Nor had I seen a pomegranate within miles, or any fruit that I could remember except for wild pears.

  My eyes, turned to the door at the end of the passage. Was that it? Had I found the entrance to the fabled Valley of the Assassins?

  There were many valleys in the mountains, but there might be no real valley of that name. On the other hand, what lay beyond that door? And where was my father?

  A key turned in the door before us, and the door opened. Beside the door stood a huge, powerfully muscled man with a massive sword. He was naked to the waist, and his muscles shone with oil. He stepped aside for us to pass, but his cold little eyes probed as if to read my heart.

  Across the room near another door stood the twin of this guard, except that if anything he was larger and uglier.

  Seated on a cushion among a pile of books was Rashid Ad-din Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountains.