Alhazred

by Donald Tyson

  We continued along the corridor of portals to its end. To my disappointment, there was no access into any of the sleeping rooms. They might as well have been in Mecca. Yazid could stand laughing at us on the other side of the screens, and we would be powerless to harm him by physical means since the openings were too small to crawl through. It might be possible to kill him with magic. In my mind, I ran through the spells I had acquired. None of them was ideally suited to kill a man. Pure magic is seldom used to accomplish what can be done with a sword, and with good reason—a sword is more reliable.

  At the end of the curved secret passage, a stair ran down to the lower level and another concealed panel that opened on a richly adorned hall decorated with gilded statues and cloth of gold on the walls. The cool air barely stirred, and the sounds of the women in the bath chamber were so faint that I would not have recognized them for human voices, hearing them for the first time. We moved along the hall, away from the women and into the silence, our swords drawn and ready to strike at an instant, yet we encountered no servants or guards, to my great surprise. I expected our presence to be discovered from moment to moment, and had long since given up our effort to kill Yazid as hopeless although I did not express my pessimism.

  From the end of the corridor came the faint scream of a woman, high and drawn out, like the cry of some strange bird. I hesitated and looked at Altrus and Martala, but there was nothing of value behind us. We must move forward. We reached the end of the hall and passed through an open arch into a chamber unfurnished apart from a splendid Persian carpet that filled almost the whole of the sizable room. Beyond lay yet another broad hallway illuminated by lamps on the wall. We crept along it on our toes, the sounds of whimpering and pleas for mercy becoming clearer at each step. There was the sharp crack of a hand striking flesh, followed by a drawn out shriek.

  At the end of this corridor was another open arch, but the room beyond it was not deserted. On a cushioned couch a naked woman lay on her back, her arms and legs pulled wide by tight chains attached to the four posts that supported the strange bed. Yazid knelt beside the couch on a footstool padded with red satin. In his hand he held a razor, the shining steel of its blade stained with fresh blood. At his elbow, a table supported a crystal decanter and a crystal goblet, both filled with red wine. He leaned forward on his stool and licked along one of the red lines that decorated the golden thigh of the young woman, who was not much older than Martala. Then he reached behind him and drank from the goblet.

  The eyes of the tortured woman grew round as she saw us, standing in the archway, but she did not speak. Yazid had his gaze on her skin, not her face, and failed to notice her attention. Her body was slender, her breasts small and round, but her skin was the most perfect I have ever seen, apart from the bloody cuts that marred its purity. I looked quickly around, hardly daring to believe that we had been so fortunate. There were no servants, no guards, only the Caliph and his lover. The door at the opposite side of the room was shut, and I hoped, locked. Yazid must prefer privacy when he indulged in his more unusual passions.

  “You have a strange taste in wine,” Altrus said in a dry voice.

  Yazid whirled around, a look of incomprehension on his puffy, sweating face. Blood smeared his thick lips and clotted in his sparse beard. He parted his lips in a kind of snarl, and I saw that his teeth were red-stained as well. With a shriek, he jumped to his feet and stared around, as though expecting men to rush to his defense. It was several moments before he realized that he was without protection. He began to back toward the door on the other side of the room, crying out with all his strength.

  “Guards! I am being murdered! Save me!”

  Altrus moved forward and tripped him, so that he fell on his back, and continued to try to crawl away like a crab. Fists began to pound the door behind him. It rattled on its hinges but did not open, and I saw that a brass bolt had been slid into place by Yazid. Privacy would be the death of him.

  His bloodshot eyes fixed on mine and an expression of pure hatred twisted his face.

  “You! I should have had you killed.”

  “We all must suffer the consequences of our errors,” I said philosophically, raising my sword.

  Yazid began to shriek, and the woman chained to the bed joined in with her own screams. I found it difficult to tell which were higher pitched. Altrus stepped close to Yazid. I noticed hanging from the neck of the Caliph a large green stone on a gold chain, and recognized it as the Thugian emerald. The glimmer of an idea came into my mind.

  “Don’t kill him,” I said. “Not with the sword.”

  Altrus looked at me curiously but drew back his blade. I went to Yazid and jerked the emerald from his neck while he continued to shriek. The slender gold chain from which it hung broke easily. I sheathed my sword and used my dagger to pry the stone loose. Pocketing the stone, I cast the empty socket and broken chain on the floor beside the Caliph. With half my mind, I noticed Martala go to the woman on the bed and attempt to sooth her. The woman did not even see her, but stared past her with blank eyes, lost in some maze of horror in her own mind.

  “Hold his arms,” I told Altrus, and drew from the pocket of my thawb the yellow and white scarf that I had bought from the Thugians. I twisted it into a rope, and he saw my purpose. However, Yazid was not an easy man to grasp. He kicked with his satin-slippered feet whenever Altrus bent over him, and twisted his body on the tiled floor to prevent my approach from behind.

  The blows against the bolted door were thunderous. It shook in its frame, yet looked strong enough to resist the attack of the guards for a few minutes. Altrus caught both of Yazid’s feet at the same time, and at last I was able to slip the scarf over his head and around his fat throat. His womanly shrieks changed to gurgles and his eyes bulged even further from their sockets as I set my knee behind his neck and pulled.

  The sweeter the ointment, the more likely it is to attract a fly. I had my attention on the elusive Yazid, and did not notice Ani until Martala cried out.

  “Alhazred, the door!”

  It was too late. The clubfooted procurer had the bolt in his hands. Casting me a murderous glance, he shot it open, and the door burst inward. Armed guards poured through like angry wasps.

  Chapter 57

  Altrus released the feet of Yazid, leaving me to my own devices, and stepped quickly toward the door. Ani was already moving behind the advancing wall of guards, but his club foot made him a little slow. The point of the mercenary’s dagger, thrown with the left hand with unerring accuracy, buried itself in the back of Ani’s skinny neck, and he fell as though hamstrung. At the same time I felt Yazid give a final shudder against my knee and go limp.

  The guards closed on Altrus, who stepped back and danced to the side. One soldier fell clutching his throat, blood spurting between his fingers.

  “Save yourselves,” he cried without turning. “I can hold them.”

  I gave a final vicious pull on the scarf and released its ends, leaving it coiled around Yazid’s neck. Martala matched swords with one of the guards, who beat her back toward the archway with the strength of his arm. Two others approached me, and I fell back before them, hard pressed to avoid both their blades at the same time. From the corner of my eye, I saw Altrus surrounded. Two more guards came toward me.

  Cursing, I whirled and slashed at the exposed back of the guard who cut so viciously at the girl. He screamed with pain and fell as the strength left his legs. She stepped forward and caught a blade on her guard that would have taken off my head, had it fallen free. Together, we backed through the arch, driven along the hallway, unable to advance against the strength of steel wielded against us. Their armor gave them an advantage. Only the corridor, which was not wide enough for more than two men to fight abreast, preserved our lives. Each time one of us cut down an attacker, another came from behind to take his place.

  They almost killed us in th
e empty chamber with the carpet, but we were able to retreat fast enough to keep from being completely encircled. We reached the entrance to the narrow stair that led up to the secret passage on the second level, and encountered another difficulty. It was not obvious how the panel opened from this side. Fighting off our attackers with an arm that was becoming weary, I watched the girl feel around the edge of the panel without success.

  “Use your sword,” I cried.

  She began to hack at the wall. After a few cuts, a hole appeared in the wooden panel and she widened it with the heel of her boot. I watched from the edge of my vision as she slipped through, then in one motion backed and ducked through the hole, to the obvious amazement of the guards, who hesitated to follow me into the darkness.

  We were at the top of the stair before I heard them splintering the remains of the panel away from its frame.

  “Run,” I told her.

  We ran along the curved passage, guided by ribbons of light that leaked through the cracks around the sliding covers of the peep holes. The alarm had not reached this part of the palace. There was no sound of a search from ahead as we darted across the long spy chamber above the bathing pool and out through the open door with the lock. I stopped and drew my dagger. My anxious haste made my fingers clumsy, and it took me twice as long to relock the door as it had taken me to open it. We stood on the other side, breathing hard. The muffled thuds of approaching footfalls came through the locked door, but I heard nothing from beyond the other door at the far end of the passage.

  We had enough time to locate the concealed latch for the hidden panel in the wall. When it closed behind us, I felt relieved. It was likely that not many in the palace knew its secret. At the least, it should delay pursuit. Sheathing our weapons, we made our way down the stair and along the corridor to the outer door. Only then did I remember that Altrus still had the key. It was not difficult to pick the lock with my dagger, but I cursed myself for failing to take the key from him. Yet how were we to know which of us would escape, and which would die in the palace?

  The first hints of alarm began to show in the streets as we made our way to the stable. Bells were rung. Groups of soldiers ran past, keeping a tight formation with swords drawn. They ignored us. The common people began to gather in the doors of the shops and speculate about what was happening in nervous voices. No one noticed a man and a girl walk past with their heads bowed. The stable was deserted when we reached it, apart from the horses. We entered the tunnel unseen, and found the brass oil lamp still burning where Altrus had left it. The taciturn servant of Harkanos was waiting for us at the other end.

  He bowed when I emerged through the little door in the cellar and led us into the large vaulted chamber with the long table, where Harkanos sat in conference with three other men I recognized from the portal ritual. One was the bald Egyptian, another the bearded ancient with the pale blue eyes, and the third a portly man with a cheerful face who resembled a merchant, and who had said nothing the previous night.

  “Only two?” Harkanos asked with sadness, looking from Martala to me.

  “They have your key,” I said. “It was with Altrus.”

  “Ani betrayed us,” Martala added. “Altrus killed him.”

  “What of the Caliph?” asked the Egyptian.

  “Dead. Strangled by a Thugian scarf, and the Thugian jewel he wore around his neck pried from its socket.”

  I dug into my inner pocket and held out the jewel.

  Comprehension came into their eyes. The bearded ancient smiled and nodded.

  “Very clever. Will the jewel be missed?”

  “One of his concubines saw me tear it from his neck. She will remember, if she remembers anything. But if the key is noticed, it may have been for nothing.”

  “Do not worry so much about the key,” Harkanos said. “Others were given similar keys by the Caliph. Now that he is dead, it may not be easy to identify all their owners, who will naturally be reluctant to admit to possessing a means of secret access to the palace.”

  “How did these men come here?” I wondered.

  Harkanos laughed, and the others smiled at the memory.

  “We used your trick with the ladder. But we may not need it again. Shortly before we descended to the cellar, there was the sound of much running in the street. I did not look out my door, but I suspect the guards have departed.”

  “We passed them. The soldiers set to watch over the Lane of Scholars must have been recalled to the palace.”

  This proved to be true when we emerged from the house into the courtyard and unbolted the brown door to peer into the street. It was completely deserted, the soldiers gone, but the population of the Lane of Scholars afraid to leave their houses in violation of the Caliph’s order, for fear that the armed guard might suddenly return.

  “You have done a good work this day,” Harkanos said, putting his hand on my shoulder as we stood together near the street door. “For yourself and for all of us.”

  The other three necromancers nodded. They watched us pass into the street, and Harkanos closed the brown door behind us.

  “Where now? Home?” the girl asked.

  “Presently. I want to learn what the reaction of the city is to the Caliph’s assassination.”

  We walked toward the marketplace, where gossip is always more recent and plentiful. The people in the streets passed hurriedly with nervous expressions, their eyes darting this way and that, but there was a curious sense of elation that grew stronger as we entered the market. The din of voices could be heard for some distance outside the market walls, louder than usual. It swelled to a roar as we passed through the open gate. Trading had almost ceased. Everyone clustered and talked about the current situation at the palace, which was said to be ringed by guards and impossible to enter or leave.

  Some of the merchants had family who served in the Caliph’s guard, and from them we learned that the Caliph was either dead or gravely wounded, having been attacked by a strong force of professional assassins in his private chambers while engaged in the act of love. Two of the assassins were slain, but the others had escaped. Traitors within the palace were suspected, for how else could the assassins have made their way to the Caliph without detection? His chief advisor of state had assumed command of the guard, and at present no challenge had been made to his questionable authority. It was generally agreed that Yazid’s son, Moawiya, would succeed to the throne should Yazid be dead. Moawiya was presently on a hunting expedition in the hills outside the city. A messenger had been sent to find his hunting party and give him word of the tragedy.

  The stories were many and conflicting, which cheered my heart, since it meant that the true details of the attack remained confused. Nothing was said about a key, nor was any connection made in the marketplace between the assassination and the Caliph’s action against the Lane of Scholars. On the contrary, it was generally whispered with nods and knowing looks that his son, Moawiya, was responsible for the assassination. I voiced the rumor that a Thugian scarf had been found on Yazid’s body, and that the travelers in the yellow wagons were well-known to strangle their enemies with such scarves. This proved quite a popular theory, and I found myself repeating it many times around the market. The Thugians were universally despised as thieves and cutthroats. It required no effort to turn the thoughts of the people against them, and it was fortunate for the travelers that their wagons were banned from entering the walls of the city, or they would have been torn to pieces by the mob.

  From a distracted merchant we bought a small amount of brown sugar and some barley flour that the girl said was needed in the kitchen, and carried these home. By this time, a few nervous souls had ventured into the Lane of Scholars on pressing errands, or merely to satisfy their curiosity. I had nothing certain to tell Harkanos, so I made no return visit to his house. The hours passed from afternoon into evening without event, an
d it became obvious that the ire against the Lane of Scholars had been forgotten in the chaos at the palace.

  That night as I lay naked in my bed, the girl in a similar state at my side beneath a white silk sheet, hope for the future predominated my thoughts. The question of the key still troubled me, but there was nothing to be done about it, so I thrust it aside. I felt regret over the death of Altrus, who had given his life to save mine. Even though he had been my enemy, I had never been able to resist an admiration for his reckless daring and sword skill. More than once, I cursed myself for trusting Ani.

  “You were right,” I murmured aloud when we had rested side by side for several minutes.

  “Hmmm?” the girl said, already drifting into sleep.

  “Ani did betray us.”

  “I told you he would.”

  “I am a fool. It’s a wonder I have been able to stay alive this long.”

  “A fool?”

  “The jewel,” I said in disgust. “How did the Caliph come to possess the emerald?”

  “I don’t know,” she murmured softly, her breathing slow and deep. Soon I would be talking to myself in the darkness.

  “Ani saw me sell it to the Roman gem trader. When Yazid presented the emerald to me, I should have suspected Ani at once. Why did I not suspect him?”

  She mumbled something.

  “What was that?”

  “I said you trusted him because you believed him dependent on you.”

  What she said was true. In my vanity I had believed Ani’s future prosperity bound up with my own. It never occurred to me that Ani, in his ambition and greed, might perceive the Caliph a better patron.