by Barry Sadler
The scar faced one...
If Yousef ever saw him again he would make him pay dearly.
One of these days...
CHAPTER NINE
Hassan gave Casca his orders as he showed him a map of Apnea and the route the Emir would take on the day of his death. He even had a selection of good sites from which Casca could pick the one that suited the moment. Oftimes it amused the Old Man of the Mountain to advise his victim of the manner of his death. This he did with the Emir of Apnea. It would be by spear. That of course did nothing to relieve the Emir's anxieties for he had spearmen by the thousands under his command. Any one of them could be the instrument of his death.
Taking a good solid horse from the stables of Castle Alamut, Casca rode off across the high valleys toward Apnea. The journey would take some days, but he had to arrive in the city in time for the ceremony which marked the eighth anniversary of the Emir's rise to the throne. For the journey Casca affected the look of a wandering mercenary. There were no shortages of these usually lone men who traversed the deserts and valleys of Central Asia and Persia. Casca had been riding on his journey six days when he first spied the spires of the minarets that stood like sentinels over the walls of the city of Apnea. As he did time and again, he waited for the busiest hours of the day before entering. Once the Golden Dagger had been found in the Emir's bedchambers the sentries had been placed on special alert for any strangers who came into the city. By mixing with the camel and donkey drivers who brought the day's goods to market, Casca looked like just one more of those lonely, hard faced men who crossed the face of the world in search of plunder or death. The guards gave him a curious but cursory inspection. He was obviously not of Persian or Arabic or even Turkish blood. Therefore it was unlikely that he could have belonged to the Shiite faction of which the Assassins were members.
Still he was taken into consideration and upon questioning, the name of the inn at which he was to take quarters was duly noted and, with the changing of the guard, passed onto higher authority for consideration. To them the name and description meant nothing. He was only another of the wandering infidels who sought employment for their swords. And perhaps might even one day be brought into the ranks of the guard the Emir was forming of men who were born outside of the boundaries of the Seljuk Turks' Empire. There was even a name for them. Janissary. Most would come from the ranks of young slaves who had never known any other life and who served their masters as loyal beasts to the death. Though they were technically ferengi they would have privileged status and be made to feel that they were part of a new elite in the world and be totally devoted to serving the interests of their masters.
Casca did not know or care about the new idea of using units comprised totally of foreigners as a fighting force. He just moved easily through the crowded streets ignoring the outstretched hands of the beggars who cried plaintively and piteously for alms, and cast pleading eyes on him as he approached, then cursed him as he passed. For a fleeting second he thought about the beggars of the world and how at one time an edict had been passed stating that thieves would no longer lose their right hands or have a leg chopped off for running away from the authorities. In protest the beggars had banded together in their thousands in the streets of Baghdad and demanded that the punishments be reinstated. If the populace did not feel pity for their mutilated limbs then the thieves would either starve or have to go to work. The state relented and gave in. The old time punishments for transgressions were reinstated.
High on Castle Alamut, Hassan al Sabah held conference with a man who had once opposed him. This man had been part of the former inner council but had not been killed during the purge by which Hassan took control of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. This man, Hakim ben Souk, had fled, not to be found till this time. It was with the understanding that he had no choice but to cooperate or go over the parapets to the distant valley below, that he gave to Hassan the information which the master of the mountain had been lacking concerning the physical description of the one who had slain the Lamb. All this Hassan knew, till Hakim mentioned the scar, which like a bracelet circled Casca's left wrist.
Maybe? Could it be? He had seen such a scar on the left wrist of Kasim and he was a ferengi. It seemed impossible that he should have been that close to the "damned one." Yet he had to know. To Bu Ali, who had returned to his duties with the slave master Mamud, he sent word that it was to be arranged for him to go to Apnea and to observe the actions of Kasim and to make certain the scarred one was returned to Castle Alamut with all dispatch, even if it meant that Bu Ali took over the job which Kasim was sent to do. He had to have the scarred one back. There were too many questions he had to ask. He knew that Kasim had not taken to the Shiite faith with any sincerity and that did not bother him. One used such tools as were at hand or could be molded. He had long known that Kasim was not one to be readily molded, and that presented Hassan with the challenge of finding out what would bind Kasim to him as much as blind faith bound the rest of the Hashassin.
Casca never checked into the inn figuring it was wiser to keep mobile. He went over the events of the past months in his mind. He thought that the Old Man of the Mountain might be a little bit mad, but then who in this country wasn't? He had to admit, though, that he still admired old Hassan al Sabah. He was intelligent but not given to wild flights of fancy. As for the selective removal of those he considered undesirable, as far as Casca could tell, Hassan hadn't had anybody liquidated that didn't need liquidating.
Nizam al Mulk? Well, that one might be a mistake, but on the other hand, maybe there was something about him Casca didn't know. Give Hassan the benefit of doubt. Certainly he had been right about Friar Dilorenzi. Casca smiled to himself. He had been tempted to give Dilorenzi the shegita treatment – kosher slaughtering. But that might have been too much. Hassan might not have had a sense of humor when it came to mixing religions. Most people who took religion seriously did not.
His thoughts broke away from Hassan to the more pressing needs of the moment. There would be a thieves' market – there always was. He might even locate a little wine somewhere, not having had a drink now since that night in the Cafe of the Infidels, and his throat was getting dry.
"To Apnea?" Bu Ali repeated Mamud's words as though he had not heard right.
"Yes. I have just received a purchase order on these three men” – he pointed at the slaves with a horsetail fly whisk – "with the request that they be put in your charge and delivered to a dealer there most expeditiously. For a fee, of course." Mamud was in one of his "efficient businessman" moods, and he didn't notice the lack of surprise on Bu Ali's face.
Times and distances were going around in Bu Ali's mind. They were two days' travel from the Emir's city. That meant he, Bu Ali, would be present at the time when Kasim was to assassinate the Emir.
What if Kasim were not successful escaping? Ah...! Temptation.
However his orders from the Master were quite clear. He would return Kasim even at the cost of his own life, for the failure to do as he was ordered would bring about his death without his just reward. But if he did die following the Master's commands was he not guaranteed a place in Paradise? He would obey.
"What's your name?"
"Yousef, lord."
"Get your ass out of my sight. Do you think I'm fool enough to give alms to a filthy beggar who has all of his parts and eyes, and is therefore capable of being able to work for a living?"
The captain of the Emir's bodyguard aimed a kick at the scruffy little man in front of him, but Yousef scurried out of reach and headed down the nearest alley.
The captain forgot him immediately, his mind on a more important subject; the corner before him where the attack on the Emir was to take place. His practiced eye took in all the possible places from which an assassin could throw a lance. He had already prepared his men for just these places. Observers had been placed strategically so they would be able to observe any who visited these places. Some were housewives and fishmongers, oth
ers soldiers in mufti. All had been ordered to use their eyes very carefully or they would lose them. It was all taken care of. This final trip was to see if he had missed anything.
He hadn't. The trap was set.
The captain smiled. He liked the torture sessions. He wondered what kind of man they would have this time. The tough ones were always the best. The torture lasted longer with them. Like the last one. The source of their information had been one of the Emir's own body servants. An Assassin. Of course they had to torture all the rest of the Emir's servants to get to the right one. But that was a small price to pay and slaves were easy to replace. The now dead body servant had tried to take his own life when they took him to the dungeons below the palace. Only the captain's sharp awareness bad prevented the man from hanging himself before questioning. Stroking his forked beard in pleasure the captain gave a short laugh at the memory of the servant's balls being lowered gently into a pot of boiling water and the exquisite look of agony in the man's eyes. It was positively delicious. Next, the threat of telling the man they were going to make him eat his own cooked oysters had done the trick. He broke. Telling everything in the hope of an easier death. Now they knew the date of the attempt and the general location. The slave was to have accompanied the Emir on his pilgrimage to the mosque. He had been given orders to kill the Emir if the spearman failed. Of course the fool's hope for an easy death was a futile thing. Even now he was hanging from a meat hook in the dungeon, the hook strategically placed between his shoulder blades so it would take some days for him to die. Normally his head would have been placed above the gates leading to the city but that would have warned the accursed eaters of Hashish that their plans were known.
Twilight reddened the dome of the mosque. It reminded the captain again of torture. He turned to go back to the palace. A caravan was coming down the street. Idly, the captain glanced at it.
Nothing remarkable. One man who dodged between the line animals caught his attention for a moment. A foreigner, perhaps a Rh'shan or a Frank. He had the look of a soldier about him. But as with the guards at the gate, he gave him no more than a curious look. Well it takes all kinds, the captain thought tolerantly.
At last finding a tavern which catered to the foreign element, Casca settled in to wait a while, taking a tankard of crude wine cut with water to ease the dryness in his throat. He then called for an Arab hookah, which apparently wasn't on the Emir's forbidden list since every café – and there were plenty of these and plenty of coffee – was full of the Faithful puffing away. After the second pipeful he was feeling very happy, content with a life which had no problems. He felt as though he was floating high up, and that was why he was now out on the street juggling two happy decisions in his mind: whether to look for better wine, or to look for a woman.
That was when Yousef made the mistake of trying to rob him.
Casca saw this scrawny little beggar standing at the dark entrance to the inevitable alley – Arab towns had more alleys per square foot than anywhere else and he would probably have given him "alms" if the little bastard had asked. Casca was feeling very generous. He loved everybody in the whole damned world. But Yousef made the mistake of trying to take him.
Laughing, Casca mildly applied one of the simpler blows Shiu Tze had taught him a long time ago.
"Now, why did you try that, little fellow?” Casca asked. He was floating twenty paces high over the fallen assailant, and some little genie in the back of his mind whispered: "Look there! Somebody trying to assassinate an Assassin!" Casca roared with laughter.
He thought it was a marvelous joke.
Ah... Suddenly it occurred to Casca that not only did he love everybody, everybody in the world loved him. He looked down at the fallen Yousef who by now had the look of a man who had caught the wrong tiger by the tail.
"Mu salam aleikom--Peace be with you!" he said benignly. "Now get the hell out of here before I bust your balls." He raised his foot to kick, but had a little trouble deciding whether he wanted to use his right foot or his left.
Yousef scrambled away. However... There was one moment there when the combination of the dim moonlight, the lamp from an open window, and Yousef's sharp eyes brought recognition to the mind of the ex-bandit.
The gray-blue-eyed Circassian with the scar on his face. The one who had warned the Mamelukes at the raid. The bad luck man. The one Allah had allowed to cause his, Yousef's, problems. By all the djinns of the dark!
Somehow he would get revenge before this one passed out of his sight again and he was reduced once more to disguising himself as a beggar in order to scout out houses. Since their fortune had changed the men remaining in his band were forced to rob or to find a few purses to cut. He, Yousef, who planned one day to be Yousef the Great was reduced to this. He would not stand for it!
There were still remnants of his followers encamped outside the city. This one would pay...
As for Casca he, too, had recognized Yousef but in a different way. Waiting to cross the street that afternoon, he had seen Yousef being booted by the Emir's captain, and the beggar had seemed mildly familiar, someone he had seen before. But Casca had seen many people before, and it just wasn't important to him. Now, tonight, he had a vague feeling about it – but everything was lost in the euphoria of the hookah. At the moment he just didn't give a damn about anything. And that was his downfall....
He found the woman first, a small-breasted, hard-titted young Turkish whore. Casca was never quite sure what took up the next day and night. He was supposed to meet Hassan's spy – a slave in the Emir's household who had planted the Golden Dagger – but something went wrong with that. Casca was fuzzy about the details because sometime in the two-day spread he had gotten his hands on a couple of amphorae of trade wine. The wine and the hashish turned his wait into a very satisfying interlude, but unfortunately he was still a little drunk when it came time to make his appointment with the Emir. He still hadn't gotten in touch with the spy, but he figured that didn't make all that much difference. On his first evening in town he had passed, with a caravan, the place he was to lie in wait for the Emir, and it took only a quick glance to see that there were really only two places he could pick, both of which were adequate. He had good cover in both spots, and, unless the Emir knew where he was to be, the target would never know he was there, even after the lance was in his guts.
Piece of cake...
He got to his ambush site – a gnarled and twisted old olive tree that stood near three different buildings – which would provide him with a choice of routes by which to make his escape. He arrived there hours early, of course, since he went in darkness. His jirad, which had a joint in the center, was carried under a cloak to be assembled later. Since it was going to be a long wait he also carried, in his left hand, a leather bag which held a stoppered jug containing the last of the trade wine. Might as well go first class...
The mood of happiness had not left him. Everything took on the appearance of an omen of success. Casca took the stopper out of the jug....
Yousef the bandit looked at the eight men he had left out of his original band, a sour expression on his face. "There're going to be large crowds at the ceremony today, so I don't think anyone will pay much attention to us if we're careful. It is said that Hassan al Sabah has sent the Emir the Golden Dagger, so don't make any sudden moves close to the Emir. That bodyguard of his will cut us to pieces. If the Assassins want to kill the Emir, let them. What I want is that scar-faced bastard. I am not going to be happy until he's out of the way. So if you can take him alive, fine. It will be a pleasure to kill him myself. To take him out some place and really work on him, make him suffer for the bad luck he has caused us. Perhaps if we can get him alive we'll be able to sell him for enough to get started again. There are sure to be many who would pay well for one with his strength. That would of course be after we removed his manhood to make him into a more docile beast of burden." Yousef's face screwed itself up into a grimace of pleasure at the thought. "I have watche
d him and know he has taste for the grape and pipe. He will be somewhere on the streets today as all of the public houses are closed by the Emir's order. Keep your eyes open and we will find him."
Bu Ali, too, intended to look for Casca – only he knew where to look. But at the moment he had a problem; he couldn't get away from the man who had bought the three slaves. He had already drunk enough coffee to piss the Tigris over its banks, but here came the damn stuff around again.
The host droned on and on.
The hour of the parade was fast approaching... Bu Ali made a silent prayer to Allah to intercede and release him from this long-winded ass. But if the finger of Allah had been in the deal, it apparently wasn’t around this morning. The host droned on and on. The hour of the parade was fast approaching...
By the time the streets had filled with people waiting for the parade, Casca had polished off the last of the trade wine and was feeling no pain. No pain whatsoever. Now from the distance came the sound of the advancing parade. In fact, from up in his olive tree, Casca could see the tops of the banners over the roofs of the intervening houses.
Time to go to work....
Clumsily, he twisted around from his cramped perch in a fork of the olive tree branches and was joining the two halves of the jirad together when something sharp poked him in the ass. Simultaneously there was an identical punch just above his butt, and two more on either side of him – not what one might reasonably expect from an olive tree branch. He looked down at his rear.
Steel. Very sharp Damascus steel. The heavy blade of what looked like an Oriental version of a halberd was getting ready to jab him again.