Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Ever downward the tunnel spiraled, deeper into the palace bowels. Wondering how even a man such as Krishna could stand it down here, he reached the end, turned left and started another march along yet another endless corridor. There were all manner of insects crawling and darting among the recesses of the slimy stone walls. Roaches, spiders, tiny lizards, mice, an occasional rat. It was dark, dank and nauseous. This place wasn’t meant for pigs, he assured himself. No wonder brother Krishna was the way he was. Too much time down here would make any man a raving lunatic. Krishna, if what Khalkali saw of him was to be believed, did not have far to go to reach that status. One day they’d lock him up and toss away the key, just as they had done five years before when their eldest brother, Osklath, had returned home a babbling idiot from his mysterious confrontation with the Kazirs.

  It seemed like hours before he reached the subterranean quarters of the dungeon’s chancellor. Two grim and filthy guards snapped to attention, and Khalkali passed them without a second glance. He lowered his head, stepped across the arched threshold of the keeper’s quarters, straining his eyes in the gloomy light. Krishna sat leaning back in an oversize chair of rotting wood, his enormous legs and unbooted feet on an oaken table. In this light and setting, the chancellor seemed more bear than man, more demon than human being. Grossly large, his muscles bulged in sinewy arms, his chest swelled to bursting in his soiled tunic. Krishna regarded his visitor from a pair of sunken, keen eyes. Icy eyes, the eyes of a man who has seen much suffering and pain, all gladly inflicted.

  Khalkali chewed at his lower lip, glanced around the squalid room. It was little larger than one of the keeper’s cells, he noted. Certainly almost as filthy and as smelly. Krishna was not forced to spend his days and nights down here like this; indeed, there was a fair, spacious apartment always ready for him above. But the chancellor preferred it here.

  Krishna belched; he wiped his hand across his bearded mouth, gestured without speaking for his brother to sit. A scarred, lice-infested chair rested opposite the table. Khalkali looked at it and shook his head. “I’ll stand,” he said.

  Krishna shrugged. “As you like. You can stick your head in the cesspools, too, if it pleases you.”

  Khalkali’s brows arched disdainfully. “I did not come to fight,” he said.

  “Oh? Then what? What brings you here to my domain?” He smiled thinly. “It is my domain down here, you know. I could do with you anything I like. Torture you, kill you, feed you to any number of maniacs. You’d never be missed, you know. My guards swear allegiance only to me. They do what I tell them — quickly and silently.” He swung his feet off the table and turned to face Khalkali evenly. “Nothing can touch me down here, Brother. Not the Khan, not even you. Now speak your business and be off. I find you repulsive.”

  The fourth son of Kabul swallowed both anger and pride. There was no love lost between the two, never had been. Still, Khalkali had been bright enough to realize that Krishna was not the number-one enemy; he only hoped that the chancellor would realize the same about him. It was important to them both

  Khalkali cleared his throat, said, “With Gamal’s assassination —”

  Krishna roared with mirth, his booming voice echoing. Some of the insane prisoners picked up the laugh and started to howl themselves, although they had no idea why. Khalkali grimaced.

  “You think it was assassination, eh, Brother? You think that our mindless, spineless Gamal could have so easily been tricked? You’re a bigger moron than our father.”

  Fuming, Khalkali managed to control his voice. “It was no mere accident, no quirk of fate, if that’s what you’re thinking.” He leaned his arms over the table, hands flat against the wood, his face too close to Krishna’s for comfort. “I tell you without question that Gamal was murdered.”

  “Prove it.”

  “The straps, dear brother. The saddle straps were cut — by a knife.”

  “And the horse?” Krishna chuckled at the thought of the fine Arabian mare of which Gamal had been so fond, enjoying the irony of his beloved horse’s killing him.

  “I believe that the mare had been drugged,” went on Khalkali. “Some slow-acting agent. I don’t know how it was accomplished — but I intend to find out. Oh, Gamal’s murder was clever all right. Very clever indeed; a masterful stroke. Clean — no blood showing on anyone’s hands. In fact, I think we should compliment whoever devised the plan.”

  Krishna wiped his neck with a louse-ridden kerchief, puffed his pockmarked cheeks and blew out a stream of dank air. “You may be right,” he conceded. “But what of it, eh? What care I for what goes on in the palace, eh? Like I said, for all I care, you can all stew each other.”

  “We probably will,” replied Khalkali, demonstrating dark humor.

  “Then get to the point, man. Why are you here now? What do you want of me?”

  Bathed in red shadows, Khalkali’s eyes scanned the room, focused on the slovenly sentry standing duty outside.

  “You needn’t fret,” derided Krishna dryly. “Down here there is little to hide; my men were given their posts because even the Khan considered them the dregs of our army. Cutthroats and murderers all!” He paused, peering intently at the uncomfortable Khalkali. “Should make you feel right at home, no? In any case, nothing they hear shall pass from these dungeons. I assure you.”

  Khalkali shifted his weight, suddenly feeling itchy all over. Lice and ticks, vermin of every nature, were probably eating through his garments and boots, working their way into his flesh and burrowing beneath his body hair. He’d have to take a good, hot bath when he returned to his apartment, he knew. Spend at least an hour scrubbing to wipe away the stink.

  “I am positive of only two things,” he told Krishna, playing his hand carefully.

  “Yes? What’s that?”

  “That I was not behind the murder of our brother — and neither were you.”

  Krishna laughed delightedly, banging his fist on the table. “Well said, dear Brother! Tell me, though, what makes you so certain that I am not the one, eh? How do you know that my own spies didn’t get at poor Gamal’s horse, feed it the poison, slice into the saddle straps just enough, so that they’d tear at the right moment?”

  With a laugh of his own, his eyes grimly dancing, Khalkali said, “Gamal’s death was too simple, too quick. Had your hand been in it, the poor bugger’d still be suffering, no doubt right here, while your hot knife carved his flesh off.”

  “You have little imagination, Brother,” answered Krishna spryly, beginning to enjoy the banter with his rival. He half-rose from his seat. “Had I been the one...” His smile was secretive. “Well, never mind. There are better, more productive ways to deal with an enemy. He wouldn’t even scream...”

  Khalkali looked away with a shudder, not for a minute doubting that a devious death was in Krishna’s mind.

  “Still,” went on the chancellor thoughtfully, “how am I to be certain it wasn’t you, eh?”

  “Merely from the fact that I am here.”

  Krishna resumed his place, again putting his feet on the table, pushing away a buzzing fly with his big toe. “Perhaps, Brother. But even if I admit as much, so what? The point, man! Come to the point! Why are you here? What do you want?”

  “An alliance.” It was simply but dramatically spoken. Krishna looked at his brother cautiously, doubtfully, yet reading a frank and honest openness in the killer’s eyes. Without question Khalkali would slaughter him the moment opportunity presented itself; he would do no less in return. That much, though, was accepted among all the brothers. No, he rationalized, Khalkali was here because he was worried — frightened.

  “What sort of an alliance?” he asked.

  “We each need to guard each other’s flank. We are not fools, Brother; we need what each has to offer. I shall offer you all the protection that I can, while you shall do the same for me.”

  Krishna frowned. “And our brothers?”

  “To hell with our brothers!” barked Khalkali. “D
on’t you see? They may already be conspiring among themselves, seeking allies, breaking former agreements. I’ll be open with you, Krishna; I have no idea whatsoever who was behind Gamal’s assassination — but I’ll say this: I wouldn’t turn my back for a single second on any of them!”

  “Including myself, no doubt.”

  At that, Khalkali reached inside the folds of his garments and whipped out a small, poison-tipped dagger. Krishna’s eyes opened wider as his brother slammed the blade into the table, steel wobbling with the blow. Then he turned, facing the doorway, leaving the blade only inches from his-brother’s grasp. “Go on,” he hissed. “Kill me now if you want, Brother. Do it! You’ll never have another chance, I promise you that.” He waited, heart pounding.

  Krishna scooped up the dagger, toyed with it, admiring the craftsmanship, the exquisite handiwork of Damascus. For a time he actually did contemplate ramming the poisoned steel through his brother’s shoulder blades. Then, on a whim, he shanked it against the wall. The blade clattered, and fell to the floor. Krishna spat in its direction.

  Khalkali turned slowly back, framed by encroaching shadows. “Then we have a bargain?”

  Krishna nodded. “An arrangement, Brother. An arrangement against the others...”

  “And our father as well.”

  Krishna stopped picking his teeth. “You think the Khan may have been behind Gamal’s death?”

  “Perhaps; I exclude nothing. Remember, it was Gamal whom the crowds adored, not he. Gamal that they hailed as a savior. Surely Kabul hated his eldest bastard as much as he does the rest?”

  The chancellor of the dungeons growled low under his foul breath. For all its stink, the world below the palace smelled purer than the world above it. All of Samarkand, the palace no exception, swarmed with traitors and spies — agents of the Khan set to inform on the brothers; agents of the brothers set against each other and the Khan; spies serving Persia; spies serving the Turks; holy men sworn to the allegiance of the Kazirs. An interlocking web of intrigue and double dealing. No, give him the dungeons. Throw him among the wretched, abused, crazed prisoners shackled to the dung-smeared walls. At least they were men of honor.

  Khalkali held out his hand. Krishna studied him, then took the hand in a solid grasp. Khalkali would serve his purpose well for now, he knew. Be his eyes and ears above ground. Later, when matters had calmed, when the courses of action were clearer, he would wrest back that poisoned dagger from his brother — and Khalkali would rue this moment as he burned in eternal hell alongside the rest.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Carolyn, the saya, studied the handful of novices brought this morning to her quarters by Amar’s slaver. There were five young women, ranging in age from fifteen to eighteen. Each was beautiful, each had unblemished, perfect skin, stirred by the sun to a soft gold. It was her duty as overseer of the whores to instruct them, take charge of their training. It would be several weeks before even the best of the lot were put on display before Kabul and his sons. As virgins, the women were considered jewels among the rest. From what she had learned in her month in this exalted appointment, often several of the brothers would be at each other’s throats to claim first rights over the best.

  “That one needs some weight,” Carolyn sternly husked to the effeminate eunuch at her side, a man she’d chosen to be her first-ranking aide because of his obvious dull wits.

  The eunuch bowed, approached the frightened girl. He took her arm, pinching the flesh, frowning broadly. The girl shrank from his touch. “Careful, idiot!” barked Carolyn. “Do you want to bruise her? Damage Amar’s reputation when he brings her before the Khan?”

  Browbeaten, the eunuch stepped back. Carolyn marched before the girls, touching the hair of one, fixing the shoulder fastening of another’s tunic. At the end of the line she paused, gazing into the eyes of the last novice. Brilliant sunlight poured into the spacious hall from the balconies, beaming among the leaves of hanging plants, settling gently across the girl’s soft features. Carolyn indicated for the novice to hold out her hand; it was delicate and smooth, the fingers long and graceful, the fingernails well-manicured. Coal-black hair was neatly pinned above her head, although a few locks fell in front of her wide-set, luminous eyes. It was plain that the girl was frightened, yet throughout this ordeal she managed to keep her poise, holding her head high but not arrogantly so, her shoulders set straight. Her young, firm breasts pushed outward against the thin fabric of her loose-fitting dress.

  “Where are you from?” questioned the saya.

  “The hills, my lady. A poor tribe, my lady...”

  “A slave?”

  “No, my lady. Free. Sold by my parents to feed my brothers, my lady...”

  Carolyn felt a pang of sorrow for her, knowing full well the dire conditions imposed upon the gentle hillfolk by Kabul’s tax collectors. She was not the first to be thrown out into the world like this, nor would she be the last. “What is your name?” she asked.

  “Jasmine, my lady.”

  This could be the one I’ve been looking for, thought Carolyn, careful not to let any of the passing servants note her unusual interest. “Tell me, Jasmine, do you know why you’re here?”

  The girl tensed; Carolyn could tell that she was fighting back the need to cry. “Yes, my lady. To serve the court, my lady.”

  “Obey commands and you will find this to be a rewarding life,” Carolyn told her.

  The girl sniffed. “I know, my lady. I am told that I am honored to be among those chosen to serve.”

  “But it was not your will?” Many others would sell themselves gladly to have this opportunity, to be taken away from a life of backbreaking drudgery. At best, a girl born of the hills would become an old woman by the age of thirty, bent from years in the fields, wrinkled and withered.

  “No, my lady,” whispered Jasmine with both respect for the overseer and regret for her lost life. “It was not my will. But when the slavers came to my village, I was singled out by a man called Karim...” Carolyn flinched. Karim! There was no longer a question but that Jasmine was sent to her for a special purpose. “Go on,” said Carolyn.

  “My parents had no choice but to sell me, my lady. You see, times have been hard on us. I have five small brothers, and three sisters.” The girl sighed; it was obviously painful for her to talk about it.

  Carolyn stepped away, hands on her hips, and addressed them in the same manner that Castus, her predecessor, might have. “All of you here today should fall to your knees and bless your stars for your good fortune. Only one slavegirl in twenty is selected for the palace concubines. And of that twenty perhaps a third remain. You here are to be taught; schooled well in the pleasures of the night; trained to give ultimate pleasure to the Khan and members of his royal household. We take no harlots off the street here. Your studies will be severe — sometimes even painful for you. But in return you are offered a life of every luxury our blessed Khan can bestow. You shall be treated as princesses, kept away from the prying eyes of common men, given as a vessel of pleasure to delight and fulfill the fancies of Samarkand’s noblest rulers.” Carolyn stopped, started to pace back and forth. “You are not whores I Erase that word from your minds! You are, once accepted into service with the hundred and fifty others, no less than concubines of our generous leader, the fearless Kabul. Do you understand?”

  The virgins nodded, bowing their heads.

  Carolyn smiled. “Good.” Then, almost parenthetically, she added, “You are at all times forbidden to leave these quarters. Let me stress the point.” And here she purposely kept her gaze on Jasmine. “Any girl caught trying either to escape the palace or enter another chamber without my personal permission, shall be whipped mercilessly. And a scarred back means withdrawal of all privileges. Then, novices, you will be turned over to the barracks — to serve as field whores for our commanders and their troops. Let me assure you all that within a year of such work your supple bodies will have dried like prunes, useless to any man.”

  The
young women shuddered; Jasmine glanced away from the overseer toward the foolish, effeminate eunuch. A small bullwhip coiled from the strap of his belt, and he seemed not at all to mind using it if the overseer so ordered.

  Carolyn watched the novices with satisfaction. The girls were frightened of the eunuch — as they should be — and she knew there would be no trouble with this batch.

  She let the somber mood linger a moment or two longer, then abruptly said, “Are there any questions?”

  In unison, they replied as taught, “No, Mistress.”

  Carolyn smiled. “Very well, then. You shall all be taken to your new quarters and given —”

  Raucous laughter turned every head. From the end of the hall, where several drooping cypress trees intruded across the opened verandah, a swarthy figure pushed aside the armed guards that stood in his way and boldly strode inside the forbidden quarter. In a quandary, the sentries reached for their weapons, wary of stopping him.

  Mufiqua carelessly padded around the sunken fountain and worked his way closer to the gathering.

  The novices ashamedly fastened their veils and shielded their eyes. From the nearby heated pools and Chinese screens came the sheltered giggles of several other concubines, whose attention had been caught by the intrusion. The eunuch’s face grew stern; he glanced to the overseer, waiting to see what she would command. Son of Kabul or no, this place was expressly forbidden to any man except during hours especially set aside. The Khan had set the rule himself — no one could blame either him or the overseer for dealing with this atrocity severely.