Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  The youth tensed; veins bulged in his neck as though he was struggling within himself to stay his temper. Tall and as scrawny as a will-o’-the-wisp, he was nevertheless muscular, Sharon saw — a lean frame ruggedly formed, very much the product of hillmen whose sparse existences left little room for fat.

  The captain stepped back a pace, his eyes never leaving the eyes of the peculiarly bold stranger before him. “Theft is a serious crime in Samarkand, hillman,” — he said the last word bitingly, sarcastically — “punishable by death.”

  “I did not steal.”

  The soldier snapped his fingers. Without turning around, he said to the perspiring merchant still standing out of breath behind him, “Do you still say that this hillman robbed your stall?”

  The merchant stood firm: “I do.”

  The youth shot him an angry glance. “Liar!”

  The captain gritted his teeth and snarled, “Haram’zada!” (“Son of a bastard!”) He drew back his arm, letting his balled fist lash out powerfully, catching the unaware hillman squarely in the solar plexus. The youth doubled over in pain and coughed for breath, tears streaming down his eyes.

  “Off with his head!” rasped the captain. “Hold him down! We’ll teach this scum a thing or two!”

  Sharon, shocked to see this brutality, tugged at Hezekiah’s sleeve. “Minister, please,” she pleaded. “You’re not going to let them do this, are you?”

  The Hebrew shrugged. He was a worldly man, had seen this and far worse than this many times during his long years of service to the emir and the empire. Although it might seem unjust, he also knew that Samarkand must never bend its laws, rigid though they might be. The hillman had been accused of a crime, and as a criminal he must be punished. “There is nothing I can do, Sharon,” he said, shaking his head with a single, sorrowful gesture. He took her arm again. “Come, let us leave. An execution such as this is not meant for such eyes as yours. Let the guilty pay for their deeds.”

  She looked up at him, revolted. “But how do you even know he’s guilty? How can you be sure?”

  “The merchant has sworn —”

  With a grimace of disgust, she pulled away and marched forward. The youth had already been brought to his knees, hands bound behind his back. A butcher’s block of wood had been brought and placed before him, that the executioner might more easily sever his head from his body. The merchant stood by gloating, while other observers numbly pressed closer to get a better view. Pickpockets, whores, thieves, and criminals themselves, they all seemed nevertheless eager to watch a fellow criminal spill his blood.

  “Are you ready?” said the captain to his executioner. A huge soldier with the neck of a bull nodded slowly. The captain’s thick lips spread in a grin. “Pray, hillman. You don’t have much time to let Allah hear your sins.”

  To the shock of everyone, the youth, although trembling as two other soldiers held him fast, peered up at the captain of the guard and spit in his face. The enraged soldier turned crimson. “I can make you sorry for that,” he promised. “Cut off his fingers one by one, then his ears, then his manhood. Let him watch while he dies. I want him to enjoy it.”

  A cruel smile crossed the executioner’s face as he put down the scimitar and drew from a scabbard at his side a razor-sharp double-edged knife — a far better tool for such delicate work. He wiped the side of the blade several times on his tunic, admiring the weapon as he turned it over in his hand. Then he kneeled beside the prisoner and yanked his head back by the hair. The youth grimaced and pressed his lips tightly together as the executioner lifted the blade to the side of his ear.

  “Stop this at once!”

  Her shrill scream left them all startled. The executioner stared up; the captain of the guard put his hands to his hips and watched disbelievingly as the young princess pushed her way inside the circle and purposefully strode to the center. “Release him!”

  The captain was astounded. “My lady?”

  “You heard me: Release him. Untie his hands and let him stand on his feet.”

  That the woman who confronted him was the princess Sharon, daughter of Lord Amrath, the perplexed soldier knew full well. As a member of the royal family she must be obeyed at once, her word unquestioned. Yet, she was demanding something far from her own realm, well removed from a woman’s understanding.

  He made the respectful pyramid with his hands, bowing so that his fingertips touched his forehead. “Forgive me, mistress,” he said haltingly, “but this man … this man is a thief and must be punished. You heard for yourself —”

  Sharon turned from him and confronted the merchant: “You, are you certain that this is the man who stole from you?”

  The merchant bowed as well, more deeply, his palms spread before her as he said, “That is the one, my princess, I swear it. May Allah strike me if —”

  She moved slightly toward him, her stare making him uncomfortable. “And how can you be so positive?”

  “The thief wore exactly the very clothes this man wears now.”

  Sharon smiled slyly. “What clothes, merchant — a filthy lungi?” Then she laughed, looking past the sullen soldiers to the crowds behind. “See there, merchant, how many others are garbed in identical garments? And could you single out one from the next?”

  The merchant mopped his brow and bit tensely at his lip. Among the onlookers, there were at least twenty men dressed no different from the prisoner.

  “And did you see the face of the man who stole from your stall?” Sharon asked.

  “No; mistress, only a fleeting shadow behind the hood.”

  Sharon scoffed. “Then how are we to know that this hillman here has committed the crime?”

  While the merchant sputtered, unable to answer, the captain of the guard glared at the girl angrily. “Would you mock our justice, my princess, and allow this rabble to run wild through our streets without fear of punishment? Free this man and word will spread of it. There will be no controlling the beggars and thieves —”

  Sharon waved an imperious hand, her eyes narrowing as she boldly met the soldier’s angered stare. “Samarkand is a land of laws and justice, captain, and justice is all I seek. Prove the hillman to be guilty and I shall applaud his beheading; otherwise, free him.” It was a demand, not a request. The captain clenched his teeth and turned to Hezekiah.

  “I beg you, minister, don’t interfere with our duties, don’t allow the rabble to have a free hand. The man is guilty. Look at him.” The youth, although still on his knees, glared at the captain and those around him with contempt, displaying a cocky defiance that almost dared them to mete out the punishment. “Give me a moment more and I’ll make him talk,” added the soldier. “He’ll admit his crime, all right, even if I have to break each of his bones one by one.”

  Hezekiah said nothing; Sharon stepped forward and confronted the youth herself. “Did you commit the crime?” she asked tersely.

  The young hillman shook his head, his gaze fixed on hers. Cunning eyes, Sharon thought as she looked at him — devious, calculating. “No, mistress, it was another. It was my misfortune to be nearby when the merchant sought out the real thief.”

  “He lies,” growled the captain. “Every word out of his mouth is a lie. I know these hillmen well enough, having served along the Steppes for years before gaining service within the palace.”

  “What do you say to that, stranger?” said Sharon. The youth let out a deep breath, shaking his head again. “I am innocent. By the Prophet, I give my word of honor.”

  The captain of the guard snickered. “The word of a hillman is the word of a thief — worthless. From which part of the Steppes do you hail, beggar?” he asked. “Speak quickly!”

  “I am not of the Steppes.”

  “Oh, no?” The soldier, unconvinced, drew closer to the youth, kneeling, so that his breath was hot on his, face. “I wonder. You have that look about you … that look I’ve seen before.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

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nbsp; The soldier stood, a triumphant smile parting his lips. “This man is not a hillman,” he announced. “I stake my life on it. Everything he’s said here is a treacherous lie. Let me take him to the dungeons for further questioning.”

  Hezekiah spoke for the first time: “What are you saying, soldier?”

  The captain pointed a long finger at the man on his knees. “This one is a Kazir; I’m sure of it.”

  There were gasps from the crowd. A Kazir loose in Samarkand!

  Sharon looked over at the Hebrew. “Is this possible?”

  The tall minister shook his head doubtfully. “I … I cannot say. The Kazirs are a strange people, vowing never to cross inside the city’s gates until this prophesy of theirs has been fulfilled.”

  “Talk for fools,” shot back the captain. “Kazir spies have been causing us trouble for years. And this man is one.”

  The young man peered up at Sharon with plaintive eyes. “I did not steal from the merchant,” he repeated. “I am blameless.”

  “Well, someone must pay for my goods,” growled the rotund owner of the stall. He turned to Hezekiah: “I am a poor man, my lord, with many mouths to feed.”

  Sharon frowned; she snapped her fingers and pointed to the merchant. “Pay him, minister.”

  At that, Hezekiah reached inside his belted pouch and threw to the waiting merchant three small pieces of silver. They clattered at his feet, and he swept them up, tucked them safely away, and bowed deeply before the lady of the court. “May the Prophet’s blessings be upon you, mistress. May this kindness be repaid by Allah a thousandfold and more.”

  “You may return to your stall now,” she said curtly in dismissal, not watching as-he back-stepped slowly, humbly repeating his blessing again and again. Then she turned to face the captain of the guard. “Payment for the stolen merchandise has been made. Are there further charges against this hillman, or can he be released?”

  The soldier squinted; his dark brows furrowed downward at a slant. His contempt for the young princess was plain, even if unspoken. “You care not, then, that this man may be a Kazir?”

  “A tortured man will admit to many things,” she observed. “Rack me in your dungeons and I too shall freely swear to being a Kazir — aye, and a Hun as well.”

  “You mock me, my lady.”

  Sharon waved her hand expressively. “No, captain, I told you before: I wished only to see justice served, and now I have. Get about with your work. Enough time has been wasted on this matter.”

  The soldier bowed politely, her arrogance sticking in his throat like a pointed bone. “Untie the hillman,” he commanded.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, several of his men slit the heavy cord and freed the youth of his bonds. The young man raised himself and rubbed at the rope burns on his wrists as he followed Sharon’s movements with slowly shifting intense eyes. To his surprise, the royal princess held out a hand to help him back onto his feet. He reached for it, then winced when he saw the open palm, its deep lines crisscrossing from her fingers to her wrist. Momentarily he drew back, reluctant to take her hand, but then he reached for it thankfully, and for the second time during this encounter their eyes met.

  “I owe you my life,” he told her emotionlessly.

  Sharon’s face remained cold and impassive. She felt strangely drawn to this dirty-robed youth, although she couldn’t say why. Something about him, though, intrigued her, something she couldn’t quite explain.

  “You owe me nothing, hillman,” she replied. “I believed in your innocence, nothing more. But heed my warning: Tarry not too long in Samarkand lest the same fate befall you twice. This time you may not be as fortunate as the last.”

  The young hillman nodded, the fires in his dark eyes burning as strongly as before; he dusted off his lungi and stood his place, studying the girl far too boldly for a man of such low rank, and even Hezekiah’s glare at his insolence did not deter him.

  The crowd had all but dispersed, the holy men come again to the balconies of the minarets to issue the call for evening prayer. Hezekiah drew close to Sharon and took her by the arm. “The hour is late, my princess.”

  She nodded, her eyes still locked with those of the stranger. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “My father called me Tariq.”

  “Death to the emir!”

  The cry resounded everywhere. Sharon spun to see an ox of a man come leaping down from a nearby roof. Bounding from the tiles, the hooded assassin pulled a long curved dagger. Screaming, his eyes wild and ablaze, his mouth frothing with dark spittle, he spread his arms, as if trying to fly and, with his loose robes flapping madly behind, lunged for the Hebrew minister.

  Sharon stood frozen; citizens were fleeing amid screams and wails and the dreaded cry of “Assassin! Assassin!”

  The knife glinted in the sunlight; Hezekiah, caught off balance, tumbled to the ground as the weight of his attacker smashed solidly.

  “Death to all traitors!” wailed the mullah-garbed crazed murderer.

  Hezekiah rolled as the blade slashed down; the tip of the knife cut deeply into his shoulder, causing a smear of crimson to spread across the collar of his robe. Straddling the minister, the assassin pulled back his weapon and made to lunge again. Three snub-nosed arrows twanged, archers on nearby roofs taking dead aim; they hit with terrible impact, catching the attacker squarely in the small of the back. His curved blade tumbled from his hand; his eyes rolled in their sockets, scarlet and glassy from the effects of hashish. A low gurgle emitted from his throat as he made to choke the minister, thick hands almost dosing around his neck.

  The last arrow sailed a straight course and pierced through the assassin’s throat. He reeled backward and sprawled dead across the ground, pools of blood oozing from the open wounds.

  With the speed of lightning, palace guards were clambering all over, forming ranks three deep and scurrying from one end of the square to the other. Sharon knelt down beside the stricken Hebrew and stared at his ashen face. He was not dead — at least not yet — but in his shock he could not recognize her or anyone else.

  “Seal the area!” barked a soldier. “Post more men at the gates! We don’t know how many more assassins are loose!”

  Trumpets were blasting in every direction, mounted palace soldiers thundering into the open, swords in their hands, horses rearing, while thousands of pilgrims and citizens began to run, insanely, mindlessly, unaware of what had happened or what was yet to come.

  “Protect the princess!” someone was shouting, although Sharon could not tell who. In the blur of events, all she knew was that soldiers were suddenly all over her, shielding her from harm and protecting her person with their own lives to ensure her safe return to the palace.

  She stood slowly, looking down at the blood on her hands and not realizing it had splattered across her quamez. Dizzily she watched as Hezekiah was tended to and carefully lifted.

  “Sharon! Sharon, are you all right?”

  Frantically Amrath was pushing his way forward, disregarding the efforts of his own bodyguards. She saw him and flew into his arms, sobbing. “Father, it was terrible. It was —” He hushed her and tried to lead her away. “It’s over,” he said. “Everything is going to be all right.”

  “My lord.” A green-tunicked officer nearby beckoned to Amrath. “This man, this assassin …” Other soldiers were kneeling beside the corpse of the killer, an awesome figure even in death.

  “I don’t understand it,” mumbled the shaken Amrath, joining them. “This man was a mullah; look at his robes. But why would a holy man have done such a thing?” Such a brutal killing defied comprehension.

  “But he’s not a holy man, my lord. Look.” And the officer ordered his men to throw off the dark hood. The head was shaven, face dark and swarthy, a small jade earring protruded from the lobe of his left ear.

  Amrath gasped. “A Hun!”

  “Aye, lord,” said the officer darkly. “A Hun spy, disguised as a holy man to deceive us.”


  The implication was too clear for any of them to ignore. Sharon looked at her father with the growing realization that the worst was true. Zadek had been right: Samarkand would have to fight her battles not only upon the field but also right here, against an enemy that was unseen yet everywhere — perhaps even observing them right now.

  The thought made her shudder and she glanced painfully around the square as if seeking someone or something out.

  “What is it, Sharon?” asked Amrath with concern. “Is anything wrong?”

  She shook her head, using a bloodied hand to push her unkempt hair away from her eyes, and said nothing; but in her mind she could think only of the strange youth whose life she had saved moments before. Could he too have been a part of this plot? she wondered. Had he been the one to somehow signal the assassin while he hid from view? And was she herself partly to blame for all these events by freeing him?

  She would never know for certain. One thing was sure, however: The young man who called himself Tariq was gone, nowhere to be found. He had disappeared into Samarkand’s back alleys as quickly and mysteriously as he had come.

  Chapter Four

  Over the darkened hills rode the messengers, a midnight ride that had begun a hundred leagues away at the border of the river. For two full days and nights the riders had made their journey, braving both elements and dangers, pushing their fine stallions to the very limit of their endurance along the gullies and ravines, across treacherous desert sands, and through the parched hills of the Steppes, where their movements were monitored continuously by bold Kazir tribesmen jealously guarding their mountain passes. Nothing must stop them; no one must deter them from reaching the city of Samarkand with the greatest speed.

  Straight through Grim Forest itself they galloped, oblivious of the secret eyes that observed them closely as they passed, giving no thought to the dire warning that never must the unholy wood be crossed by night, for their message was too important. There was no time to travel the safe roads or even to pass the word along by caravan; they must reach the city sparing no haste. There was no time for meals or for sleep or for any of the luxuries men take for granted. These were dark times — as murky as the overcast skies that had followed them every step of the way — beclouded by bleak events and altramentous prediction of worse yet to come. But these noble soldiers of Samarkand gave no consideration to what had been or might yet be; they knew only that they had a duty to perform, an obligation to meet. The emir must be reached no later than this very night, or truly all might well be lost.