by Oden, Scott
The niche at the back of the dais was indistinguishable from the others in the Golden Hall, its stone similarly embellished and scalloped, covered in friezework and script. Its function followed that of other doors Parysatis had discovered—deep-cut geometric designs camouflaged the catch. To trigger it, one had only to know what to look for. Parysatis’s hands moved over the carvings, applying pressure until a knot of stone gave way beneath her fingertips; she heard a faint click, and with hardly any effort she pushed the narrow door open and stepped inside.
She gave thanks, for once, at being born a woman—a man, even one of slighter build, would need to stoop and turn sideways to negotiate that tight space. The air was heavy and stank of brick dust and old plaster. From deeper down the passage slices of lamplight trickled through sporadic spy holes, each a tiny slit used to observe hallways and chambers; they did little to relieve the stygian darkness.
Parysatis exhaled. What if I’ve misjudged him? What if the Caliph is in accord with his vizier? She glanced over her shoulder at the gleaming seat of Fatimid power. She could flee easily enough, leave the Golden Hall and make her way back to the harem with no one the wiser. She could put this night from her mind …
… she could, but for her father’s voice, scolding and resolute. Do you want the enemies of God to triumph, little bird? Then do nothing …
Parysatis exhaled and stepped beyond the threshold, suppressing a thrill of terror as the door’s counterweight closed the portal behind her. “Someone must tell him,” she whispered, her voice explosive in the tomblike silence. “For good or ill, someone must tell him.” Merciful God, let it be for good!
The young woman moved with all haste after that, her footing swift and sure as she sidled down the passage. Night sounds seeped in from the various spy holes: the clash of mail and a sulfurous oath as a guard jerked awake at his post; low moans and the rhythmic creak of a divan; a door latch rattling; faint voices. Parysatis frowned. The voices came from on down the passage, from its terminus at the Caliph’s apartments.
Parysatis moved now with exaggerated care, drawing close to the end of the passage, to the smooth stone door wherein a slit was set above the level of her eyes. The voices grew in volume, muffled words sharp with anger; one she recognized instantly—the vizier.
Prudently, the young woman kept her hands clear of the door’s bronze latch as she raised herself on the tips of her toes and peered out the spy hole …
10
From the mosque of al-Hakim, Assad made his way south along the Qasaba—a serpentine street of markets and bazaars which sliced down the center of Cairo, as jagged as a sword cut. This part of the Qasaba between the Gate of Conquests and the square which divided the East and West palaces—called the Bayn al-Qasrayn—doubled as a processional avenue; it was broad and paved, covered by a high ceiling of wood and palm-fiber matting to protect passersby from the ferocious Egyptian sun. At intersections, the ceiling soared into domes of once white stucco, soot stained now and forever flaking.
Though the hour was growing late, merchants yet sat cross-legged in front of their stalls, extolling the quality of their wares to potential patrons—those off-duty soldiers and laborers who sought food, wine, and diversion. The smells of boiling oil, grilled meat, and spices filled the air; Assad heard the tinkle of a sharab seller preparing his sweet concoctions, the fruit juices no doubt ice-cold. Other men hawked crocks of thick Egyptian beer or flasks of khamr, a wine made from lightly fermented dates. Silvery laughter accompanied by the discordant music of flute and sitar came from latticed casement windows, mashrafiyya, overhanging the street, from silk-hung rooms where courtesans plied their trade.
Assad weaved through the crowd. His stained khalat and ragged turban rendered him virtually invisible, another laborer, perhaps a caravan guard to judge from the hand draped over the ivory hilt of his long knife. Either way, a man down on his luck and barely worth notice. Twice, companies of Sudanese mercenaries in swirling black cloaks and glittering mail forced him to the edge of the street; the soldiers roared and sang, swaggering along with no pretense at discipline—like men too confident of their place. Who owns them, the Caliph or his enemies?
Would even al-Hajj have known? Though the would-be merchant might have been a useful asset, Assad didn’t waste time fretting over his loss. Alamut had other eyes in Cairo, according to Daoud—one farther south, a Qur’an copier in the warrens of old Fustat, and another closer at hand, a woman, a courtesan in the Soldiers’ Quarter between the East Palace and al-Azhar Mosque. Either of them could provide the information he needed.
The woman first, then.
Assad veered off the Qasaba and plunged down the tangled labyrinth of side streets and vile-smelling alleys that led into the Soldiers’ Quarter. Here, the bulk of the Caliph’s troops made their homes, living with their families in tenementlike barracks of dirty brick. The ground floors also housed those businesses that catered to a soldier’s needs—ironmongers and leatherworkers, tailors and carpenters, the jewelers who made trinkets for their wives and daughters, and the scribes who recorded their wills.
Despite his long absence from Cairo, his destination was not difficult to find. The name Daoud had given him—al-Ghazala, the Gazelle—was well-known to the men of the Soldiers’ Quarter. Thus, it was only a small matter to ask for directions to the House of the Gazelle. Merchants at the first two stalls shooed him away, embarrassed; the third flashed a sly smile. He was a round-faced tailor, and he glanced about to make sure none of his wives hovered near before directing Assad to the Street of Perfume Makers.
“Beware, my friend,” he hissed. “She is … enchanting.”
The Street of Perfume Makers was a narrow lane in the very shadow of al-Azhar Mosque, its foundations as old as Cairo itself. From behind high walls Assad heard faint music and laughter as families passed the evening in their courtyards; palm trees and sycamores rustled in the light breeze as he padded down the deserted street. He found the House of the Gazelle easily enough—identified by a stone carving of that animal in full flight inset into an otherwise blank wall of mudbrick and golden stucco. Casement windows of fretted mahogany jutted out over the street. No light seeped through the latticework; no sounds save for the silvery tinkle of wind chimes. Assad moved to the mouth of the alley that led to al-Ghazala’s door and paused, his head cocked to one side.
The sensation of hidden scrutiny raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
Assad glanced back the way he had come, saw nothing. His eyes raked the second-floor windows across the street, then sought to pierce the gloom of the lane ahead, and ended up peering into the depths of the alley. Assad relaxed his muscles, unfocused his vision in order to see without really seeing.
Shades of gray replaced the darkness. Wan light trickled in from overhead, a hooded lantern on a neighboring rooftop perhaps; regardless, the narrow alley was empty as Assad crept down it, the hard-packed dirt swept free of refuse. It wouldn’t do to have clients stepping in filth. He reached the darkened entryway, empty iron sconces flanking a red-daubed door.
Assad frowned.
The Gazelle’s door stood ajar.
Carefully, he eased it open and slipped inside. A short hallway cut back to the left, ending in a keel arch that opened on the house’s central courtyard. A night lamp flickered in its niche; the tinkling of chimes was the only sound to relieve the brooding silence. Where were her slaves, her guards? Surely a courtesan of the Gazelle’s supposed influence employed a door warden, at the very least?
Balconies ringed the courtyard, their delicate lattices upheld by marble columns scavenged from across the Nile—lotus bundles carved with animal-headed figures and strange symbols that hinted at immense antiquity. Broken glass crunched under Assad’s booted heel as he descended the trio of shallow steps to the courtyard floor; couches and divans, no doubt meant for entertaining, lay broken and scattered about the edges, their pillows shredded. Near the courtyard’s center, Assad saw splashes of what looked like
dried blood. What the devil…?
He stopped as four figures emerged from an interior room. Three were Arabs, gaunt men in long thread-worn shirts; their dark faces were lean and sharp with the hunger of opium addiction. The fourth was Ethiopian, a shaven-headed giant of a man in ragged trousers and a leather vest. Tribal scars ridged his muscular breast, his cheeks—random whorls and lines that doubtless wove spells of protection across his flesh. He, alone, noticed the stranger standing in the middle of the courtyard, and he silenced the others with a low growl.
“What have we here?”
“The Gazelle,” Assad said. “Where is she?”
The Ethiopian gestured to his companions. The Arabs fanned out around the courtyard, one to the right and the other two to the left. “We ask the questions, dog!” He tugged an iron-headed mace from his belt. “Why do you seek the whore? She is a spy and a blasphemer, a cursed Ismaili, may Allah smite her with pestilence and plague! Are you another one of her followers? Are you a cursed Ismaili spy, too, dog?”
Ismaili, a follower of Ismail, was one of the many sobriquets of al-Hashishiyya. So that was it. Someone must have discovered the Gazelle’s connections to Alamut; perhaps al-Hajj’s as well. But have they slain her? Assad glanced around at the Arabs. They were harafisha—street thugs—useful as extortionists among the beggars and the shopkeepers but ineffective against anyone with a backbone. Predictably, two moved to flank him while the third circled behind. Knives gleamed in their fists as they edged closer. When Assad did not deny his accusation, the huge African’s lips peeled back in a sadistic grin; he slapped the haft of his mace into his open palm.
“Nowhere to run, Ismaili dog.”
“True,” the Emir of the Knife assured him. “There’s not.”
Without warning, Assad sprang to his left. Steel flickered as he swept his salawar from its sheath and, in the same motion, ripped it across that Arab’s unprotected belly. Hatred flowed from the blade. Hatred and fear. The wounded man stumbled, screaming as loops of glossy purple viscera suddenly spilled into his hands. Assad caught him by the scruff of the neck and hurled him at the Ethiopian. Both men went down in a welter of blood and limbs.
Assad wheeled as the two remaining Arabs converged on him, bellowing curses, their bare feet slapping on paving stones and their knives upraised. Another man might have simply put his back to the wall and awaited their onslaught, but not Assad. The blade in his fist sang as he lunged for the nearer of the two.
They met halfway; Assad batted aside the descending knife and rammed his salawar through the Arab’s chest, skewering him like a pig on a spit. Savage exultation poured into Assad; each death brought with it a sensation of invulnerability, as though he were beyond human. Laughing, the Emir of the Knife twisted and flung the dying man to the ground, the weight dragging his salawar free.
The remaining Arab’s eyes went wide with fear. He hesitated, and likely this moment of weakness saved his life: he skidded to a halt as Assad struck. It was a rising backhanded slash, one that should have laid the Arab open from crotch to sternum. Instead, the tip of Assad’s salawar scraped bone as it sliced up through the man’s jaw and into his cheek, bisecting the eye in its socket. The Arab screamed; he reeled away, bloody fingers clutching at his ruined face.
Before Assad could deal the deathblow, however, the enraged Ethiopian gained his footing and barreled into him, a collision of muscle and sinew that sent both men crashing to the ground. The impact jarred Assad’s salawar from his hand; it skittered across the stones of the courtyard and came to rest not six feet away, against the base of a column.
On the ground, the two men thrashed and rolled like dogs scrapping under their master’s heel; they scrambled after Assad’s blade. The Ethiopian spat curses in his native tongue. He grasped and tore at Assad’s throat in an effort to find murderous purchase, iron fingers gouging bloody furrows in the flesh. Assad threw up one arm to protect himself; the other hammered at the Ethiopian’s jaw and neck until blood started from his nose. One blow rocked that shaven skull back, and for an instant the grip on Assad’s throat slackened.
It was the opening he needed.
“Dog!” He broke the stunned Ethiopian’s hold, caught him by the chin and the back of the neck. In one sharp, smooth motion, Assad wrenched the African’s head around, twisting it over his left shoulder until vertebrae snapped like rotted wood.
Assad kicked the twitching corpse aside and spat blood. His turban was gone. Sweat dampened his black hair, stung the wounds the Ethiopian’s fingernails had scored in the skin of his throat. His chest heaved beneath his torn khalat as he cast about for the wounded Arab.
Assad spied him across the courtyard, standing in the keel arch that led out into the alley, a scrap of cloth pressed to his lacerated face. The Arab steadied himself with an outstretched hand as he risked glancing over his shoulder. The sight of the blood-smeared stranger still alive unnerved him. Croaking in terror, the Arab staggered from the House of the Gazelle.
“Damn you!” Assad lurched to his feet, snatched up his salawar, and gave chase.
Fear lightened his quarry’s step; no doubt it even made him forget the agony of his wound, for the Arab had already cleared the alley and was scuttling down the Street of Perfume Makers even as Assad reached the door. Still, the Assassin was confident he could run the man to ground. And take him alive. Though merely a hireling, the Arab doubtless had a few of the answers Assad needed … and the name of the man who hired him would make an excellent start. With a name—
So intent was he on running down the fleeing Arab that Assad missed the sound of footsteps in his wake. He missed the sudden stench of rotting garlic, and the peculiar whistle made by a stave of knotty acacia streaking through the air. The stave, however, did not miss. It smashed into the back of Assad’s skull with terrible force. The blow drove Assad to his knees in the dust of the alley; explosions of light flared before his eyes and his vision swam. Blindly, he lashed out behind him with his naked salawar, felt it cleave flesh. A man screamed and fell back.
Yet, Assad’s reprieve was short-lived. Off balance, gripped by sudden nausea, he struggled to regain his footing. He shook his head to clear it, wincing at the slivers of pain that threaded through his skull. The Assassin glanced up as a darker shadow crossed his path. He had the impression of an eye socket, scarred and empty, even as the crack of a cudgel sent him sprawling into a deeper night.
11
“The Nazarenes are at Bilbeis!”
In a towering rage, the vizier of Egypt paced the rug-strewn floor of the sitting room—the antechamber of the Caliph’s apartments where his chief eunuch held sway. Silken tapestries hung between scalloped niches; a scattering of couches provided intimate spaces for conversation and for plotting. From one such couch—of lustrous ebony with cushions of red and gold brocade—Mustapha’s eyes slid continually to the archway, expecting at any moment for Jalal’s tirade to rouse the Prince of the Faithful. “What? That’s impossible.”
“I thought much the same, but at Bilbeis they are!” The vizier stabbed an accusatory finger at the old eunuch, who flinched as though struck. “Where were your spies, you old fool? How often have you boasted that nothing goes on along the length and breadth of the Nile that escapes your notice? Then you must be blind and deaf! By Allah, a Nazarene army crosses our borders and we know nothing of it until they send messengers! Messengers!”
“Please, Excellency, lower your voice! I beg of you!”
“Lower my voice? Yes, I would hate to wake our lord and master from his much-needed slumber! May God fill his grave with fire! I ask this for the last time: where were our spies?”
“Our spies.” Mustapha spread his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Our spies were where we left them … in the fields or in the markets. Therein rests our folly. Our spies did not fail us, Excellency. We failed them by not plying them as we should, by not offering bounties on information or sending out trusted men to harvest their knowledge. Indeed, so focused are
we on what goes on behind these walls that we have forgotten there’s a much wider world beyond—a world that would not weep if our beloved Egypt came to an abrupt and bloody end.”
Jalal stopped pacing. Spoken aloud, the words of condemnation served as a damper to his anger. The blame was his. He had miscalculated. He had ignored the distant threats of Damascus and Jerusalem as he pursued the mantle of Sultan with single-minded intensity. And he had very nearly been outfoxed.
“Rather than assigning fault,” Mustapha was saying, “we should be concentrating on how best to extricate ourselves from this predicament.”
“Extricate? No. We should treat this predicament for what it is.” Jalal’s eyes narrowed in thought. “A shatranj match.”
The eunuch frowned. “Excellency, this is no game—”
“A shatranj match it is, my old darling,” the vizier said, his tone brooking no dissent. “Between Shirkuh and myself, and that wily Kurd is an acknowledged master. A master sets his pieces for his opening gambit, his tabiya, prior to going on the offensive, but which tabiya is he playing, eh? The Sword? The Slave’s Banner? The Wing?”
“We cannot know for certain until all his pieces are in place.”
“True, but we can divine his plan from previous actions. Twice has Shirkuh come against us in as many years, and twice has that dog of a Kurd followed the same path—he skirts to the east of Nazarene lands, slips past the Frankish garrison at al-Karak, and then rides southwest from the tip of the Dead Sea. By Allah, his cursed horsemen outstrip the wind! Once across Sinai, he’ll make for Atfih on the east bank of the Nile.” Jalal grew more animated as he spoke; his pacing resumed. “At Atfih, Shirkuh will allow his army a day or two of rest. The men of that town will greet him as they always have, as a brother. He will loot their granaries, their markets; his soldiers will take what they want. All the while, that fool Dirgham will make wild promises to the local grandees to ‘free’ them from my tyranny and claim he will restore the Caliph to his rightful place.”