by Judith Tarr
It would have been easier if she could trust Aidan not to do something mad. Not tonight, maybe. He had that much sense. But if he was kept away from her every night, sooner or later he would break, and then there was no telling what he would do.
When this was over, she would go back to Outremer. Ranulf would try to claim her. She was his wife; there was no escape from that. She did not — God help her, she did not know if she wanted to escape from it. She did not want to be Aidan’s wife, even if he would ask it, or expect it. A wife was too much like a servant. She had a duty to her husband’s bed. Duty was no part of what was between her and the witch’s son of Caer Gwent.
He could be all utterly like a man, warm flesh, swift desire, tears when he grieved, laughter when he was glad. He was as devout a Christian as any other nobleman, though sometimes he forgot and swore by the goddess of his mother. He was no devil, or monster, or creature beyond human ken.
But he was not human. He did not, when he let himself be himself, think like a man. Which was why she was knotted with more than wanting him. She feared him. For him. He was as dangerous as a beast of prey, and as unchancy. And men hunted beasts of prey; killed them, and called it justice, because their world allowed no predator but man.
Be human, she willed him — prayed him. Think. Remember the danger to me. Since he would never care for his own.
Maybe he heard. He did not come.
He was wise; and she. But ah, she wanted him.
oOo
He had heard her. He saw what safeguards hedged her about. None of them could be proof against sorcery. And yet, was he? He did not even know what it was that he faced: whether demon or mortal magus, or nothing at all but fear in the night.
Nor could he know, unless he saw it. But to see it, he must lure it; and he would not — could not — use Joanna as the bait.
He sat bolt upright. Perhaps he would not need to. He had his own magic. It was by no means without its limits. But perhaps — perhaps — for this it would be enough.
He sank back with a groan. It needed time for the doing. Time he might not be given. He had dallied overlong as it was, letting the caravan carry him in Joanna’s wake. This city that had opened like the jaws of a trap, this would be the place where the Assassin made his move; and it might be soon. Half Aleppo knew that the House of Ibrahim’s southern caravan had come in. The word would reach Masyaf at winged speed. And then, out of the night, the stroke.
His senses leaped outward in fear. No danger met them. Joanna was guarded; nothing crept in upon her. In the city round about, no malice turned against her.
He did not linger to read what else was there to read, although some of it pricked at his awareness. It was not in him tonight to wander the mind-winds, long though it had been since he had ventured them. He set his strength in the wards and his will on sleep, and settled to endure the night.
oOo
After all his sleepless fretting, he slept well past sunrise. It was Arslan who roused him, looking well and grimly content, and saying as soon as Aidan had opened his eyes, “My lord would do well to rise quickly. He is summoned where he had best deign go.”
Aidan sat up scowling, raking his hair out of his face. “Would my servant deign to explain himself in plain Arabic?”
Arslan grinned, unrepentant. “You’re blessed, my lord. The Lady Khadijah wants to speak with you. I don’t think,” he said, “that she often grants audience this soon.”
Aidan knew that she did not. As lady of the House, she stood somewhat higher than a queen, and she knew it. He was up in an instant, into Arslan’s capable hands. As the mamluk washed him, he said, “The last I knew, the whole pack of you had been herded into exile.”
“So we were.” Arslan wrung the cloth into the basin, laid both aside, began to dress his master. “We chose not to accept our banishment. It never came from you, after all. I shall be your body servant, at which I am somewhat more accomplished than the fool who claimed the office. The rest will guard you, taking turn and turn. May I grant them leave, when they are not guarding you, to go about the city?”
“Only if they — and you — promise the utmost of discretion. And leave your livery at home.”
Arslan dipped his head. “Yes, my lord.”
“Mark you,” said Aidan. “No spying; and no rabblerousing. If you see an Assassin, you let him be.”
“Even if he is murdering a citizen, my lord?”
Aidan’s teeth clicked together. Arslan’s politeness was beyond reproach, but his mind was rather too patently his own. “There will be no heroics while we are guests in this city. We would be worse than fools to betray our hand in assaults against slaves, while the master keeps to his own place, free and strong and all too aware of us.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Arslan.
He was a master of the opacity of servants, was that one. But Aidan had better eyes than most. “On your honor,” he said, “and on your soul, swear to it.”
So compelled, Arslan could not but obey. He was not happy, but his respect for his lord had gone up a notch or two.
Aidan was ready: washed, combed, royally if somberly clad. He did not go armed, although his side was sadly naked without his sword. Arslan followed him. Raihan and Conrad fell in behind.
None of them was admitted to the harem. That was law, and immutable. Aidan went in under the guardianship of a mountainous, soot-black eunuch, hideous as a devil out of an abbot’s nightmare, armed with what could only be a captured Frankish sword. His lowering glances promised application of that blade to a salient portion of Aidan’s anatomy, if Aidan ventured the slightest step out of the way ordained for him.
Aidan did not intent to stray; nor indeed could he have wandered far. He was taken only to the first court, to a chamber just within it, a dim cupboard of a room divided in half by an intricately carved screen. Foreign though it was with its tiles and its carpets and its shelf of silver vessels rimming the whitewashed ceiling, it reminded Aidan of nothing so much as the reception room of a nunnery. There was even a chaperone in black, heavily veiled, with gnarled and age-spotted fingers laced quietly in her lap.
And with her, near but not behind the screen, a figure whose veil might have been smoke for all it concealed of Joanna.
Aidan was trained in courts and among kings. He did not falter. He did not cry out, or leap forward, or seize her and crush the breath out of her. He entered quietly. Half of the way between the door and the ladies, he bowed a low and courtly bow. “Ma dama. You are well?”
Her eyes lowered, as always when she did not want to betray herself; her voice was muted. “I am well, my lord. And you? Have you rested?”
“Well enough, my lady,” he said.
He knew in his skin why she veiled herself against him. Her cheeks were burning. Her breath came quicker than it was used to; he could hear her heart beating.
If he was calmer, it was only because he had a witch’s mastery of his body. There were eyes all about, staring, judging, alert for the smallest betrayal. And most intent of all, the ancient woman in her swathing of veils, no more than a shape of shadow with yellow bird-talon hands and eyes as fiercely steady as a falcon’s. No servant, this; and no fool.
He would not blanch beneath her stare, though it dared him to defend his discourtesy in greeting Joanna first before her. Let her make of it what she would. He was Joanna’s first, any other mortal after.
He bowed as to a queen, a prince’s bow, with no submission in it. “Lady,” he said.
The falcon-eyes glinted. The veils inclined a fraction. “Sir Frank,” she said.
Her voice was younger by far than her hands. It made him think of Margaret: of velvet over steel. “You honor me with your presence,” he said to her, “my lady Khadijah.”
Perhaps she smiled. “I do, yes. My granddaughter names you kinsman; the daughter of my granddaughter speaks well of you. And,” she said, “I had a fancy to see your face.”
“Does it please you?”
She l
aughed, no crone’s cackle but the rich deep laughter of a woman in her prime. “Of course it pleases me! The young moon in Ramadan, indeed. I think I shall not let my daughters see you. They might be tempted from the path of virtue.”
“Surely the ladies of your line are not so easily led astray.”
“Perhaps not; but they might be induced to look on the men whom Allah has given them, and be sadly disappointed.”
“There is more to a man than beauty,” Aidan said.
“But never so evident to the eye.” She beckoned. “Come here.”
He came; he sank to one knee before her, to spare her the effort of craning up at him, for she was very small. Tiny; astonishing, for she towered in the mind’s eye. He could have lifted her with one hand.
She leaned toward him. “Were I even twenty years younger,” she said, “I would cast prudence to the winds and take you to my bed.”
“Twenty years, lady? Why need you be younger at all?”
She laughed again, that wonderful, earthy laughter. “Why indeed, young stallion? Surely you would not be pleased to embrace such a shriveled husk as I am.”
“My first lover was past her third score of years, and though time had had its will of her, it only made her sweeter.”
“Ah, sir,” said Khadijah, “you tempt me. To know again the sweetness of young flesh...” She sighed. “No; I submit; Allah wills it. My eyes take pleasure enough. Thanks be to Him Who is ever merciful, that I have them yet. Your God may not reward you, but mine understands a generous heart.”
“Is He not all one?”
“Some would say so,” she said. She straightened; she met him stare for stare. “Tell me why you have come.”
She knew it as well as he, but she wanted to hear it as he perceived it. He told her. Time and retelling had smoothed the raw edges of his grief. He could speak quietly, levelly, without tremor or evasion. Even what most condemned him: that he had had no foreknowing of either death, nor sensed aught amiss, until the lives were long since fled. He had been blind and deaf and dumb, and foolish beyond belief.
“A fool,” said the Lady Khadijah, “is one who never knows when he has failed. You failed; you have paid.”
“And I continue to pay, and shall, until this war is ended.”
“One might contend that your enemy is not the murderer in Masyaf but my granddaughter in Jerusalem.”
“Or that it is not even she, but the House for which she sacrifices all that she loves.”
“Truly then, I am here, and defenseless, and ripe for your taking.”
“I think not,” said Aidan.
“Truly.”
She was serene, looking death in the face, too long accustomed to its presence to know any fear of it. He bowed to that serenity. “Pride, I can comprehend; and honor; and the defense of what is larger than oneself. But sheer, raw greed...that, I will not forgive. And I fear what my world would be, if Sinan had sunk his claws into its kingdom of trade.”
“I extend more charity. I think that he sees a fair road to the triumph of his mission and his faith. It is our misfortune that he pursues his ends by secret murder. Is he any better, or worse, than the captain who puts every soul of a city to the sword because their lord has resisted his will?”
“That captain has not murdered my sister’s son.” Aidan drew breath in her silence. “Yes, lady. As simple as that. I loved him; he was a son to me, and more than a son. Among our people, the sister’s child is sacred; he is the closest of kin, the heart’s son — the more if one has no son of one’s body. For his sake alone I would level Alamut.”
“Perhaps,” mused Khadijah, “that is what it is to be a Frank. To love one man more than nation or tribe or clan. To see that man’s death as the fault of one man, and one man only. To cut straight to the heart.”
“Better that than to lop off limbs one by one, as he has done to us. I have been called cruel, my lady. But when I can, I seek a clean kill.”
“There is wisdom in that,” she said.
He paused, glanced at Joanna. She was mute, listening, clear as water to his sight. She had been amused, if more than slightly scandalized, by her grandmother’s frank appreciation of Aidan’s beauty; even his confession that he took no account of years in reckoning desire, had almost comforted her. Now she waited for him to say what he must say.
He said it with care, but not with diffidence. “Lady. Would you advise your granddaughter to surrender to Sinan before he raises his vendetta against the whole of your House?”
“I would not,” said Khadijah.
He nodded once. “Have you considered taking the war to him before he brings it to you?”
“We are not a house of war.”
“Even when compelled?”
“When compelled, we avail ourselves of the weapons that come to hand.”
He sat back on his heels. “Are you telling me that I am that weapon?”
“Did I bid you swear your oath against Sinan?”
“Ah,” he said. “I understand. I shall wreak my revenge, and you will reap the profits. And, since I am a western nobleman and therefore no merchant at all, I cannot trouble you by demanding even a sellsword’s pay.”
“Of course you will not.” She was amused, and not at all cowed. “We are merchants, prince, but we are honest merchants. We pay our debts.”
“Is there a debt, then?”
“If you succeed,” she said, “yes. And you are due at least a guardsman’s hire, for bringing our kinswoman safe to us. I think that we can give you recompense beyond your guesting here.”
“Such as?”
“What do you ask? Gold? Jewels? Spices? Silks to adorn your beauty?”
“A part interest in certain of your caravans.” They both turned to stare at Joanna. She had dropped her veil; her chin was up, her face stubborn. She went on in the same hard clear voice. “Ten years’ worth of shares in trade, including the trade with Rhiyana, at family rates of exchange.”
Aidan opened his mouth to protest. Khadijah herself prevented him, turning to her great-granddaughter with what could only be relish. “Ten years’ shares, for the averting of a danger that might never be more than indirect?”
“Would you rather Sinan had my mother’s share, and all that goes with it?” demanded Joanna.
“But — ” said Aidan.
Neither paid him the least attention. They were merchants; haggling was their life’s blood. And they were bent on making a tradesman of him, if only by proxy.
“You need never touch coin with your clean white hands,” Joanna said when it was ended. She was not unduly dissatisfied, although it was evident even to Aidan that she had been outmatched. Two years’ share in five caravans and trading ventures, aside from any that went to Rhiyana; of those he was to have five years’ share. And with that, full guesting in Aleppo, and provisioning for his venture against Sinan, and mounts and remounts for himself and any who went with him. All to be overseen by the House of Ibrahim, through a steward of Khadijah’s choosing and Joanna’s approving. He need do no more than accept what was given him, and use it as he saw fit.
It was no more than royalty ever did. He did not know why he should feel as if he had been led on like a child. He who had done what he might with what his lands in Rhiyana could spare and his hosts in Outremer bestow, now had wealth in his own right: more than he could conceive of.
“If,” said Khadijah, “you turn Sinan aside from the House of Ibrahim, without setting his servants and his sect against us. Aleppo is an Ismali city; we live in Aleppo. We would prefer to continue in peace.”
“That was not what I was swore to do,” Aidan said.
“You swore to exact payment for your kinsman’s murder. You did not specify the nature of the payment.”
“I’ll kill him if I have to. What will you do to me then?”
“What can we do, except revoke the bargain? You will do as you must. So too shall we.”
He could not quarrel with that. But there was still
his pride to think of. “I won’t fulfill my vow for your gold. If I hesitate to do murder, it will be for honor’s sake.”
“Of course,” she said. “You are honorable above all. The gold, if you fulfill the bargain, will be our gift of thanks. Surely you can accept a gift in return for a mighty service.”
He looked hard at her. He could discern no laughter, no mockery of knightly scruples.
After a long moment he said, “As a gift, yes, I can accept it. If I am able to do all as you would wish. That, I cannot promise you.”
“I understand,” said Khadijah. “It is a bargain; it is witnessed. Allah’s blessing be upon it.”
20.
Sayyida stifled a yawn. Hasan was asleep at last on his blanket beside the fountain, flushed with the fever that had kept him awake and fractious through the night; but morning and quiet and the song of falling water had lulled him. She rubbed the breast that he had bitten in his temper, not wanting to touch him and chance waking him again.
She was refusing to listen to fear. How fragile his life was; how many children died in infancy; how easily, how hideously easily, a fever could rise to burn the soul away. Fahimah had wound him with her own blue necklace and its amulets against evil. Mother had prayed. Laila had promised to pray, later, when she was properly purified after her night with Farouk.
None of them had shared the night’s vigil. Fahimah had tried, but she was not as young as she had been, and Sayyida had not had the heart to wake her when she fell asleep.
Sayyida’s yawn escaped at last, wide enough to crack her jaw, deep enough to feign for a blessed moment the relief of sleep. She opened her eyes from it, to meet Morgiana’s.
The ifritah sat cross-legged next to Hasan, looking like a young man of Damascus: slender and beardless, a eunuch, and not one who accepted meekly his condition. The illusion was startling. Maybe there was magic in it; maybe it was only Morgiana in man’s clothing, being Morgiana. “He has a fever,” she said of Hasan.
Sayyida nodded wearily. “I was up all night with him. He’s a little better now, I think.”