Kabul sighed and placed a hand upon Krishna’s shoulder, ignoring the look of injury his son wore. “You serve me well in my cellars,” he said plainly. “Never try and overstep your bounds. I would not enjoy having to kill you.”
The blood was draining from Krishna’s face; he kept his gaze locked with his father’s. “Then you will not heed my warning? You disregard this danger?”
“I did not say that,” Kabul answered complacently, “Yes, it would be like her to plan something like this. Perhaps this Russian speaks the truth, perhaps he doesn’t. Either way, it is my concern — not yours. And I shall be the one to handle it!”
The chancellor of the dungeon inwardly seethed, while outwardly he nodded and bowed respectfully. “You may return to your duties,” added the Khan.
“What of the prisoner? Has he served his purpose? Shall I put him to death?”
Kabul mulled for a time, then shook his head. “I think not, Chancellor. Let him live — for now. I plan to test his information. Should he prove truthful, then you may do with him as you like. But if he’s lied...”
“Yes?”
“Then maybe he did so for other reasons...”
The foul son seemed perplexed. The Khan laughed, a sparkle in his single eye. “Ah, Krishna, you truly are a fool, aren’t you? Never mind. You did your job, the rest remains my own.”
With that, he left Krishna standing there at the foot of the stairwell, venom in his eyes, mouth twitching with hatred, determined not to let this episode conclude against him.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Mufiqua lifted himself off the bed in a trance, unaware of the force that guided his every move. He stepped among shadows grim and dancing, crossed from his bedroom and reached the mantel of his fireplace. There, commanded and unable to do otherwise, he picked up the doll.
Stick the pin deeply, came the voice. In the small of the doll’s back. This time, do not remove it. Leave it in place, then place the doll out of sight. Then you may return to your dreams. Sweet dreams this night, Mufiqua. Dreams in which the dancer shall come to you...
“I understand,” Mufiqua mumbled in a monotone. He did as ordered, implanting the fine needle in the doll’s spine. The inanimate figurine seemed to twitch in his hand as the pin bore through its waxen flesh. Mufiqua blindly returned it into the shadows. He bore an unexplainable smile of satisfaction, the face of the girl shimmering before his eyes. He crept back into bed, and pulled the quilt tightly around him.
*
“Eeeeeeeee!”
The scream pierced the night. Hezekiah broke foggily out of his slumber and hurried into the adjoining chamber.
Temugin shot upright like a thunderbolt, hand groping behind.
“What is it, my lord?” cried the soothsayer.
“The pain!” wailed Temugin, shrieking. “I can’t stand the pain!”
Hezekiah peered at the writhing man, aglow with cold sweat. The sight of it churned his stomach when Temugin, out of control, charged from his bed and beat his fists against the wall. He careened from one end of the opulent chamber to the other, staggering, knocking over vases and braziers. “Do something for me!” he wailed. His hands grabbed empty air. “Do something for me!”
The soothsayer’s lips quivered. “I am helpless,” he stuttered. “Helpless against this evil!”
Temugin’s face was twisting like melting wax; he staggered backward, then reeled, stumbling to the floor. “They — they’ve poisoned me again!”
“No, my lord! It’s not possible! Everything you commanded has been done. No food enters or leaves your personal kitchen without five slaves having tasted it first! And then I myself —”
Temugin was thrashing wildly. “Then how, stargazer?” he hissed. “Answer me that! How did they —” He jerked savagely, clutched the seam of his companion’s robe.
“Make it stop!” screeched Temugin. “I’ll do anything — pay any price, only make it stop!”
Hezekiah drew back in horror. Shall I murder Temugin now? It would be so easy to slip a poison pellet in his mouth...But no; the Panther has said the time is not yet come. I must obey her fully, nothing must go wrong. And he watched the writhing lord with a shudder, wishing for the time when he could rid himself of this disguise and walk freely through Samarkand.
*
Tossing and turning in his sleep, Mufiqua’s hands tried to reach her and touch her. But as always the figure of the woman, the dancer Sharon, remained elusive. He could clearly see her before him, twisting, turning, cavorting like a wild gypsy in her seductive dance, hips swaying, breasts heaving, the tinkle of fingerbells enchanting while she drew closer — so close! — yet out of his grasp. He could feel the terrible burning in his loins, the overwhelming desire that quickened his heartbeat. Why does she taunt me so? he wondered. What is it she demands of me before I may possess her? I am a god! How dare she refuse me? How dare she!
The smile upon her honeyed lips remained a mystery to him. Her eyes, those forever black shimmering pools of loveliness, glowed with the knowledge of his rising excitement. Round and round she danced, arms above her head, hands clapping in time with the drums, hair flying in front of, her face, golden skin moist with perspiration. How; he longed to have her! The voice had promised her his night, had it not? Why was he still to be denied? He had done what was asked, each night obeyed totally and stuck the pin into the doll. Where was his reward? Surely the Master had not lied? Surely his promise to him would be fulfilled?
His head was swimming deliriously from the effects of opium. “You gave me your word, Master,” he spoke out in his dream world, his world of altered realities. “Have I not been faithful?”
You have done everything, came the voice, cold as the grave.
“Then why, Master? See how she teases me — how she taunts me with her laugh and the promise in her eyes. Give her to me, Master! Bring me to the place of purpled clouds and sweet dreams.”
Aye, Mufiqua. You have been more than faithful. Thus I swear to fulfill my obligation. Behold, the new world to which only a god may enter!
Mufiqua’s eyes opened wide. He was sitting up on his bed, awake, drenched in sweat. But around his bed was something strange. He had been whisked away from his room, he saw, brought mysteriously into that other world. Everywhere, rising, a thin mist lifted, a violet haze, richly hued. He stared, frightened of the unknown that awaited. He could hear his Master’s voice, soft-spoken assurances that he, Mufiqua, had at last been given his due.
“The Land of Gods,” he mumbled, getting off the bed, stepping into the fog. He held his arms out and pushed into swirling mist. It gave way. Then he took another step, this time gazing wondrously into a glorious landscape, the like of which no mortal man had ever seen. There were mountains in the distance, colossal peaks of such enormity that his breath was swept away. The sky was ablaze in crimson, a dawn perhaps, but such a dawn that his eyes had never dreamed to behold. And billowing clouds scudded closer, the heavenly purpled clouds of which he’d dreamed for so long. Numbed, he watched.
A sweet scent of perfume wafted to him, and at once he knew to whom it belonged, to the only one it could ever belong. Mufiqua turned slowly. There she was, before him, bowing at his feet. The dancer! Sharon!
She raised her gaze and looked at him, unclasping her veil so he could see her face. She was beautiful, more beautiful than he remembered. Not just a woman, no, but a goddess herself — his prize, his reward from his Master for his faithful service.
“Yes, my lord,” the girl whispered, her dark eyes smiling. “I have come to you.”
He hesitated to touch her, afraid this was only another dream.
“Have no fear, Lord,” she soothed, reading his thoughts. “You have passed from the earthly world to this place where you shall reign forever.” She paused, shyly lowering her gaze. “And I shall be at your side as your consort.”
The idea thrilled him, and he bellowed with laughter. “You see, Father,” he shouted down to the unfathomable mists t
hat settled beneath his feet. “I am a god! Immortal!”
“Yes,” said Sharon. “Immortal.”
Soft bells rang as she stood, offering her hand to him. Mufiqua took it, felt her warmth flowing. This world excited him, and willingly he let the woman lead him, brushing aside the haze with her hand, taking him to the threshold of the sky itself.
“Our Master is benevolent to those who have trusted him,” said Sharon, silken hair tumbling over her breasts. “Together we shall face eternity, Lord. You and I, unhampered by the petty dreams of mere mortals.”
It sounded wonderful; Mufiqua nodded, the mist flushed over his body like an elixir, a potent drink of the gods. But then he frowned.
“Has something displeased you, my lord?” asked the girl.
“My...my father’s kingdom,” he muttered. “I was destined to be Khan, to rule the world...”
Her smile pleased him as much as the feel of her flesh. “And so you shall, Lord, and so you shall. The entire world, nay, the universe itself, rests at your feet. For but the asking, Lord Mufiqua. You may rule what you will; the Master has ordained it. Tell me your wish, so that I might fulfill it.”
He regarded her strangely. “You can do...anything?”
“Anything, my lord. You need only ask.”
He grinned demoniacally. “Then take me to my father. Bring me before him this instant so he may see the son he scorned. So he may cringe at my feet and beg forgiveness — before I remove his head. Can you do that for me, dancer?”
She bowed, hands in a pyramid to her forehead. “Yes. You have only to put on the amber cloak and step with me into the clouds.” Then, magically, she was holding out for him the garment, the finest cloak he’d ever seen, threaded with gold, with clasps of silver. He stood rigidly as she placed it over his shoulders and fastened it carefully. All at once Mufiqua felt his stature rise. This was a cloak of the gods, he knew, embroidered for him upon the looms of heaven, awaiting his arrival. Oh, the Master had been good to him, he now realized, and he thought himself a fool for having ever doubted. Yes, he would step gladly with her into the purpled clouds, return to the ugly world of men, and claim once and for all his rightly place. His brothers would kneel before him, kiss his feet, eat the bitter herbs of regret.
He sucked in a lungful of the heavenly air, swelling his chest. “I am ready for our journey,” he told her.
Sharon gestured grandly. Before them two clouds formed together a magic carpet in the sky ready to whisk them down to the mortal world. There was so much to be done, Mufiqua knew, so many wrongs to be righted. It would take time, but then, a god need not hurry. Perhaps he would spend a century as master of the Hun Empire, Sharon at his side. When he tired of it, he would return here, bathe again in the elixir, resume his heavenly role.
The woman closed her hand more tightly around his own, and side by side they left the mists swirling behind, walked boldly into the blazing crimson sky, stepping at last upon the fabled purpled clouds that he’d always known were waiting.
*
Kabul sat resting on a rock, his feet in the cool waters of the pool. Around him the hanging plants of the rock garden blew gently in the early morning breezes, while the new morning sky beautifully lit the city, causing the palace towers to dazzlingly reflect the golden sunlight. He luxuriated in the surroundings of this homage to nature, casting his gaze first to the small, multi-level waterfall that poured majestically beside the arched rustic bridge, then over at the stunted trees with their swaying branches. He was at peace with himself at such a time, delighting in the fragrance of the roses, the apricot-tinted variety of wild flowers that sat in peaceful rows at either side of the walkway. The setting was enough to lull even the barbarian heart of a Hun, and he mused how foolish this would have all seemed to him only a few short years ago. Age, though, had tempered him, enhanced his perception of beauty in the world, and he thought that he would be most happy when he died to be rested in a place such as this.
Birds were singing in their gilded cages, early-risers like he, twittering away at the perfection of the dawn. Sing-Li, the Chinaman, had been responsible for the building of this place, and Kabul never regretted giving him permission even while his sons had scorned and mocked him for it. Yes, there was much to learn from ancient Cathay, and when at last his armies overran Peking, perhaps he would leave Samarkand for good, and set up his capital city there. After, of course, he had finished for once and for all with those desert Kazirs.
He sighed contentedly, and by chance, while shading his eye from the glare of the rising sun, focused his attention at the pinnacle of the highest tower of the palace. Its gray stone tinted blue in the light, high against the sky, some fifty meters directly in front of him. Kabul would have turned away, gone back to his musings, had it not been for the curious sight that suddenly appeared.
There was someone out on the verandah of the tower, someone who walked with his arms spread open wide, holding the edges of a brightly-colored cloak. The Khan watched most curiously, scratching at his head as the figure stepped perilously closer to the low balcony wall, commenced to step over it.
His eye opened wide and he rose from his comfortable rock. The figure, whoever it was, seemed to be attempting to walk into the sky!
There was no scream, no sound at all. The cloak flapped like wings as the man sailed from the wall, for barely an instant carried by the gusts, then plummeted down.
Mufiqua! Kabul’s mouth hung wide, hands shaking in horror. His addicted son sailed in a quickening downward spiral, then hit the ground at the edge of the garden with a terrible thud, his body splattered like an egg, blood spraying wildly, like a fountain, staining the branches and the bird cages, sending the chirping birds into a frenzied terror.
Servants screamed and fled; guards in the towers stared down with lurid incredulity. Kabul felt his belly churn; he turned, leaned against the trunk of a stunted tree, and heaved out his guts.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Sharon felt cold again; although it was late summer, and the hottest days of the year had arrived, a deep chill encompassed her like a frigid blanket.
With a deep breath and a prayer on her lips, she stepped away from the shrubs, glancing momentarily at the arced moon above the treetops, and began her last climb to the mound. She threw back her cowl, worked her way along the trodden path, the path she had come to know so well, the path she knew she would never walk again. The clearing stood before her, the tallest tree seeming more bent and withered than it had been the last time. Twigs snapped harshly beneath her boots. A sparrow lifted from its nest, flew quickly away; a hare picked up its ears, darted its eyes in her direction, then speedily ran for its burrow.
The stalk started to slither around the nearest bough, the veined leaves of the flower stirring and beginning to part. With labored breath she stepped in front of the tree, hands at her sides, and began the ritual of waiting.
As always, one by one the leaves fell away, leaving exposed the inner flower, the magical nightflower that shone through the glum shadows like a lamp. Real, yet not, like a whisper on the lips of the wind the flower lifted its stem and said, “You have come at last, little princess. I have been waiting.”
“We have both been waiting, friend. Now the time has come, the time of truth for which you and I have prepared. And I have come back, as I said I would, to tell you of these things, and to ask for your blessing.”
The flower quivered, a gesture that told Sharon of its own pain at this meeting. “You have no need to ask for that which I have always bestowed. We have seen much together, you and I, little princess, have we not? Faced cruelties and perils, suffered for justice and the cause as none should suffer.”
Her shoulders sagged with the weight of her burdens, her only relief coming from the knowledge that soon it would all be done. Finished and complete, destiny fulfilled. The Prophesy fulfilled.
“All has been done,” she went on colorlessly. “All has been prepared. Four sons are slain, four remain.”
“Four?” There was concern in his tone.
“Karma, friend. We can no longer wait. Karim put all our plans in jeopardy; we acted as fast as we could, and now make the final move.”
A long time passed before he replied, a time in which the sky darkened as a rolling cloud covered the moon, then brightened again when the cloud had passed. “When, little princess?”
Solemnly, Sharon replied, “At the coming of dawn the first wind shall blow.”
The strange plant nodded knowingly. Sharon had the Gift, the knowledge to call but a single time upon the hamsin. And when it was passed into her hands, she vowed with her life and the lives of all she loved that her duty would be done. Unwavering and unyielding, answering the Call of the Kazirs in one swift blow. Meeting her fate without regret or fear, so that at last the desert peoples might once more take their rightful place in history.
“My time is done, little princess. You have no further need of me.”
She suppressed a gasp, unwilling to face this final parting, not after so long, after so much had passed between them.
“You knew this, little princess. Knew from the first day of our meeting that this time, this very hour, would one day be at hand. Would that I could stay and guide you further, but alas, that was not meant to be.” A single dew drop formed near the flower’s petals, and Sharon knew that her friend, so emotionless before, had begun to cry. Tears formed in her own eyes and she tried to push them away, knowing also that far too many tears had been shed in her life.
“Are you afraid?” the flower asked gently.
She pushed a tendril of hair away from her eyes, shook her head. “There is no fear, friend. No pain. Only numbness. For like you, I, too, am prepared for what is to be.”
“And your lover — Tariq?”
She couldn’t face him. Turning her gaze to the grasses hidden in the shadows, she said, “He understands, shares my belief.”
“Now you are not being truthful, little princess. You cannot hide from me the love you carry; it shines like an aura around you, around both of you.”
Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Page 45