Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  He motioned Vanoo to him and drew her down to kiss her full lips. She glanced at me with an expression of complacent satisfaction as she held her mouth to his.

  “Fetch my father. Say only that his son needs to have words with him.”

  She bowed her head slightly, answering him with the hand sign language of the order, and slipped out the door into the public corridor, closing it behind her.

  “She can neither speak nor write, but her skills in the arts of love are unsurpassed,” Dru said, drinking from his cup.

  “A valuable servant.”

  “Just like your little Martala. She is young, that one. I don’t sleep with children.”

  “She has other talents that serve me.”

  “Too intelligent,” he said, laughing softly to himself. “You can’t trust a servant with wits.”

  “Indeed.”

  When Feisel followed Vanoo into the chamber and exposed his head, his disordered gray hair and inconvenienced expression said that he was not happy at being summoned to his son’s rooms like a servant. To curb his irritation, I told him my suspicions at once while Dru sat in silence. Feisel’s face became somber. He seated himself beside his son and nodded as I made my points.

  “Your reasoning is sound, if the records bear out your speculation.”

  “They do.”

  He put the tips of his index fingers together and pressed them to his upper lip beneath his hawk-like nose, deep in thought.

  “You are the agent of the dark god. Therefore I am yours to command in all things. What do you require?”

  “To be present as scribe at the interrogation tonight. Along with my servant,” I added, as an afterthought.

  “But you do not know the ancient tongue.”

  I told him that I had acquired it in the course of my private studies. He regarded me with surprise, and something more, a trace of fear.

  “You are a man of many talents, Alhazred.”

  I described the rest of my plan, simple as it was, in a few words.

  “It shall be so,” he said.

  The interrogation was set to commence at midnight. Neither Dru nor his father would be there, since it was not the custom, and I did not wish to alarm the thief by changing the natural order of things too greatly. Feisel went to arrange that I should replace the scribe scheduled to record the words spoken during the questioning. In all other respects, the interrogation would unfold in the usual way, save that this time it was no shivering matron who faced the ordeal of hot iron, but a potent magician well versed in all the black arts.

  When I returned to my chambers, Martala prepared to wash me before bed, as was her custom. She became alert the moment she noticed my haste.

  “Gather our possessions and conceal them somewhere near the cedar door that leads to the hall of pillars.”

  “Are we leaving this place? Thank the Goddess.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. If events fail to unfold as I anticipate, you can retrieve our things before morning, and no one will know they were ever there.”

  Once the thief was exposed and captured, my purpose beneath the Sphinx would be at an end. I had little reason to believe that Feisel would allow me to live. Why should he, when my silence would be assured by my murder? It was with this consideration I wished to prepare for the possibility of escape. It would have been wiser, I reflected as I shoved my dagger in its sheath into my right boot, to have allowed the thefts to continue, yet when faced with such a puzzle, who could resist seeking its solution? I had already learned as much as I would learn from the practices of the order. It seemed a good time to think about leaving.

  Chapter 24

  The torturers eyed Martala curiously when she entered the interrogation chamber with my writing instruments and blank scroll in her hands. It was not usual for the scribe to be accompanied by his servant, but the commands of Feisel were never questioned. She laid out the scroll along with my pens and ink on the ledge of the angled surface of the small wooden writing desk while I seated myself on the stool, then stood behind my left shoulder, hands folded before her groin in the manner expected of a female servant of the order.

  Events proceeded as they had for the other resurrection I had witnessed, but with significant differences. Brothers and servants alike were armed with swords and daggers at their waists. There were seven brothers present, and five servants, all standing near enough to rub against each other, The closeness of the many bodies made the air stifling, an impression not helped by the heat that radiated from the glowing coals in the brazier on its iron tripod. Perhaps for this reason, a larger room had been selected than that in which I had witnessed the previous resurrection.

  The senior brother poured the salts of the necromancer upon the stones before the chair and made the sign, then spoke the words. I had described to Martala what would follow, so she was able to control her terror. The sound in her throat was faint enough that only I heard it.

  The wizard’s flesh reconstituted itself as had the flesh of the matron, but he was neither frightened nor confused. He stood instantly with the agility of a cat and seemed to take in and comprehend his situation at a single glance. A tall man of cadaverous thinness, his ribs showed clearly on his chest and the muscles in his arms and legs stood out like ropes beneath his swarthy skin. His shaven head had the nobility of royalty, but cunning lurked in his wide-set dark eyes. As the servants stepped in from either side to seize his arms, he made a gesture with the spider-like fingers of his right hand. One of them fell back clutching his throat and collapsed to his knees. Another instantly took his place. Before the necromancer could act again, his arms were forced behind his back. One of the brothers held the point of a naked sword to his throat as a leather gag with a projection that was covered in a wad of linen was roughly jammed between his teeth. They thrust his hands into leather gloves and bound them behind his back. Rendered impotent by these measures, he could only glare as he was compelled to sit, then tied into his chair.

  A brother took a glowing iron spike from the brazier. He used his thumb to peel back the necromancer’s eyelids, and with efficient jabs poked out both eyes. The necromancer did not scream but endured it stoically. Heat from the iron cauterized the wounds so that they remained black holes when he raised his eyelids. A dagger was held to his throat until he felt its bite against his skin, and the gag on his mouth loosened just enough so that he would be able to speak around it. While all this was going on, the servant who had fallen holding his throat had become a corpse, and been dragged from the room without ceremony.

  Apart from this single death, the interrogation of the ancient magician went smoothly. I copied down the questions, and the words that came from his lips, translating them into Greek as I wrote as was the usual practice. Each time the gag was loosened, the dagger was pressed to his throat, and he knew that any aggression would bring about his immediate death. He seemed resigned to his fate, with the calmness of a philosopher. He told his secrets freely, and only on a few occasions needed the prompting of the hot irons. At the conclusion of the affair, he was not reduced to his salts, but led away to some holding place with his arms still bound behind his back and the gag in his mouth, presumably to be questioned again on the following night.

  The scroll never left my hands. This had been my purpose in asking Feisel to make me scribe. The ink had not yet completely dried upon its yellow-white surface of closely pressed papyrus strips as I carried it up the steps to the main level of the chambers and along the corridors to the entrance of the scriptorium. Martala walked beside me, her feet making even less noise than my own on the carpets that covered the stone floor. She carried my writing instruments, a pretext for her presence. I did not anticipate attack, since this was not the manner of the traitor, who worked by stealth rather than force. Even so, the skin of my back prickled and I listened for the slightest sound of a following footfa
ll. Due to the late hour, the corridors were empty.

  Since the beginning of the thefts, guardians had been assigned to stand watch at the entrance to the scriptorium at night when it was otherwise deserted. The cauled man who lounged beside the archway with back against the wall and crossed arms received my identifying hand signs impassively and allowed us to enter the outer chamber. On his right hand he wore the leather harness that supported the tiny poisoned dagger extending from his index finger, the usual weapon of the guardians beneath the Sphinx, who were few in number but who fulfilled their tasks with scrupulous attention. He turned to watch us through the archway as we crossed the main chamber, where the copying was done on rows of angled tables, to the iron-bound door of the locked rear room where the scrolls were stored.

  I took out the key Feisel had given to me and unlocked the door, leaving it wide open as we passed into the vault. The scrolls were stored in sturdy wooden racks ranked along the stone walls. From where he watched, the guardian saw me slide the scroll I carried into one of the numbered niches in a rack. Locking the door behind us as we left the room, I crossed to the central writing table and gestured for Martala to open my ink well and hand me my pen, so that I could note the name, date, and location of the scroll in the record book. I ignored the guard, who laid his hand on the side of the arch and tapped the stone with the tip of his little poisoned dagger, as though impatient for us to be gone. The tapping sound was familiar, and I paused and smiled to myself when I recognized it.

  Martala gathered up my writing instruments and put them away with care. As we left the scriptorium I made the sign of parting. The guard responded indifferently with the same sign. Martala did not look at him, but I saw a slight tremble in her shoulders as she passed. We walked the length of the corridor under his gaze and turned in the direction of the personal chambers.

  Feisel and Dru waited for us in the archway to an empty room just around the corner, as we had prearranged. Both carried naked swords. I drew my dagger from my boot, and Martala made her little blade materialize from somewhere within her white servant robe. We had not long to wait. The sound of a single set of boots echoed distantly from the corridor we had just quitted. I heard a faint murmur. After a few moments, two pairs of feet made the carpeted stones speak, moving in the opposite direction.

  “We have only a minute or two,” Feisel whispered through his caul.

  On our toes we made our way back to the scriptorium. The guard was absent. What subterfuge Feisel had arranged to draw him briefly from his post, I did not know, but it was essential to my purpose that he return quickly, so that his suspicions would not be aroused. I unlocked the sturdy door to the rear room, and we entered it together, all of us holding our breath to better hear the sound of approaching feet. I locked the door behind me, leaving us in complete darkness.

  Due to an irregularity in the floor of the room, the storage racks along the walls did not touch them, but stood away from them a few palms. I had verified to my satisfaction earlier that there was enough room to squeeze behind the racks along the rear wall, although the space was tight. Feeling my way, I found the rack I had chosen and slid my shoulders against the wall until my chest pressed the wooden back panel of the rack. As arranged, Feisel did the same on the opposite side. Dru and Martala hid behind a second rack also located along the rear wall. I could hear Martala’s excited breaths, but although we stood only a few feet apart I could see nothing in the darkness, nor could I even turn my head, so tight was the space.

  The guardian returned almost before we were completely settled into our hiding places. I listened to his heavy footfalls on the stone floor of the outer chamber as he entered and walked around it. They came nearer, and the lock on the storage room door rattled. He was not supposed to possess a key. Feisel hissed softly when the door opened, spilling lamplight upon the wall. I stilled my own breath. It would be a poor time for a sneeze. The guardian cleared his throat harshly, so that I knew he stood directly in front of me, separated only by the thickness of the rack. I had deliberately hidden myself behind the niche where I had placed the latest scroll.

  The rustle of fingertips against papyrus and the slide of the scroll against wood informed me when he took it from its place. So silent was the room, I distinctly heard the sound of the ties that bound it released, and the scroll unrolled as he examined its contents. Soft footsteps echoed from the other chamber, growing louder as they approached.

  “Here it is,” the guard said in a deep voice. “I watched where he put it.”

  “Give it to me,” said a lighter voice. “Here is the false scroll. With luck, it will be a few days before the fools notice the theft.”

  “Now,” I said calmly, and stepped out from the edge of the rack.

  My three companions did the same, and before the two traitors could think to act, our blades were at their backs and throats.

  A choked curse exploded from Feisel, as he glared at the slender man who stood at the point of his sword.

  “When Alhazred voiced his suspicion, I refused to believe it.”

  His servant Tanni rubbed the short stubble of hair on his head and smiled in mock apology.

  “Who is better placed to learn the secrets of the order than the servant of its leader?”

  “How did you anticipate us?” the guardian demanded through his caul.

  “Every theft was discovered within a few days after the interrogation of a wizard,” I told him. “I reasoned that enemies of the order would seek its most precious secrets, the forbidden ways of commanding gods, which only were known to magicians of the black arts. It was easy to deduce that the thefts took place at night, since there are always brothers working here during the day, and because the scriptorium is guarded at night, that the guardian must be involved.”

  “I still don’t understand,” Dru said, keeping his sword between the shoulder blades of the veiled traitor. “The guardians never go to the surface. Tanni is forbidden from leaving, as are all servants. In any case, everybody is searched before we are permitted to depart. How did they get the scrolls out from under the Sphinx?”

  Tanni stared at Dru with a silent sneer.

  “Is it true that all are searched?” I asked Feisel.

  His body stiffened as understanding came to him.

  “All but the leader of the order. I am not searched. I alone pass out unchallenged.”

  Tanni laughed, enjoying the moment. I could not help but admire his coolness in the face of certain death.

  “It was so easy to sew the scrolls into the lining of your robes. You carried them out yourself, old fool.”

  “Your confederate in my father’s household will die,” Dru said.

  “We do not fear death,” rumbled the sentry. “Our cause is righteous. You do the work of an alien demon from beyond the seventh sphere.”

  “You will both die,” Feisel said in a voice like rasping steel. “Before you die, or after you die, you will tell us everything.”

  Tanni spun deftly away from Feisel’s blade and plucked a dagger from beneath his robes.

  “Ishtar protect us!” he cried out in a loud voice that echoed from the stones.

  Dru laughed.

  “No one will protect you.”

  “Drunken rake,” Tanni said as he backed toward the archway. “Did you think we came alone?”

  The cry from his lips was echoed by other voices. In moments the sound of many feet pounded in the corridor, and I heard the scrape of steel on stone. They fell upon us almost before we could turn to confront them. Four in number, all wearing the white robes of servants, they attacked like fiends from hell. For the next several minutes all my attention was occupied with avoiding the many blades that flashed in the dim lamp glow from the other room. The close quarters of the storage chamber worked to my advantage. It was too small a space to conveniently swing a sword, but ideal for
the use of a dagger. I killed one man outright with a thrust through his heart, and disabled another with a cut across his forehead, which gushed blood and blinded him.

  In the grappling madness I heard Dru scream in rage, and Martala’s unending stream of curses. From outside the scriptorium came the sounds of running feet and the clash of weapons. For an instant my mind registered that the traitors had been prepared for discovery, and that they were far more numerous than anyone could have imagined. Then I was occupied dodging a vicious sword thrust that would have disemboweled me. I slipped in blood, and from my bent position saw Dru on the floor with his throat cut. Martala fought like a wildcat, spinning, leaping and slashing with her little blade. Tanni had lost his dagger. Feisel held his servant before him with an arm around his throat, using him as a shield while he fought with his free right arm.

  A random sword cut knocked my dagger from my bloody grasp. There were others in the chamber fighting, but whether loyal members of the brotherhood or traitors was not evident in the chaos. I turned at a shadow of movement in the corner of my eye and saw the cauled guardian rush toward me. In desperation I pulled up the hem of my robe and wrapped it around my left forearm. It was a poor shield but better than nothing. He cut at me with his venomous right hand, trying to scratch my face, and I knocked it aside with the wadding of my robe.

  The butt of a flailing sword hit me in the temple. I reeled backward. My shoulders and head struck the stone wall between two racks of scrolls, and I slid in a daze to the floor, numbness in my limbs. For a moment I thought of crawling behind a rack, but my body would not obey. The guardian bent over me. He ripped aside his silk caul to reveal his triumphant bloodlust. His youthful features were handsome beneath his shaved scalp, but neither Egyptian nor Arab. I had never seen one of his race, and had an instant to wonder at his origins.