by Oden, Scott
“The Caliph?” Zaynab went to a sideboard and filled two goblets with wine from a stoppered jug. She handed one to Assad and drained the other, using the moment’s respite to marshal her thoughts. Finally, she said: “What is there to know? Though the common people love him, the Caliph is ever a marionette who is oblivious to his strings. Ten years ago, after his father succumbed to illness—though some say it was poison—a vizier named Shawar put little Rashid on the throne, a porcelain toy in gilt robes that he trundled out for festivals and parades. Otherwise, the men of court largely ignored the poor boy until a minor chamberlain, Dirgham, I think his name was, used him to seize the vizierate from Shawar. Dirgham claimed to have Rashid’s best interests at heart—but still he kept him shuttered away and far from even a taste of autonomy. Rumor had it Dirgham planned to do away with the young Caliph and assume the mantle of Sultan, regardless of the chaos it would cause. Fortunately, he never got the chance. He fell victim to a rival of his own, a courtier called Jalal, who engineered a rather impressive coup. A tale went round that Dirgham was slain, but I know he fled to Damascus and there he remains, goading Sultan Nur ad-Din in hopes he will someday take action. Today, Jalal rules Cairo virtually unopposed, though still under the Caliph’s auspices, while the Caliph himself stays, or is kept, in a drugged stupor.”
“What of Rashid al-Hasan’s character? Have the drugs and the indolence left him a degenerate? Could he be trusted to rule well if someone lopped off the hands that were pulling his strings?”
Zaynab paused. “With the proper guidance, perhaps. But why should that be any of our concern? Are the Fatimids not the sworn enemies of our Hidden Master?”
Assad made no reply. What’s more, he knew his silence piqued Zaynab’s interest; he could see it on her face. But, before she could probe further, Abu’l-Qasim returned with Musa in tow. Gingerly, the one-eyed beggar carried the Assassin’s possessions, his face pale and drawn. Assad reckoned he must have handled his salawar; even sheathed, its touch opened a window on ancient bloodshed, ancient sorceries—a waking nightmare that would cause an unprepared soul to question his very sanity. “You were clad in bloodstained rags, my friend,” Abu’l-Qasim said. “I bade Musa fetch you fresh clothing. Nothing else has been disturbed.”
“My thanks.” Assad stood and accepted the bundle from Musa, who looked relieved to be rid of it. “There is an associate of mine, a Persian merchant, staying outside the northern gates at the inn of Abu Hamza. He answers to the name Farouk. Can you fetch him here in the morning?”
Abu’l-Qasim nodded. “Musa?”
“It will be done, effendi.” The one-eyed man bowed and made to leave.
“Wait,” Assad said. From his things, he removed a leather almoner heavy with coin and tossed it to Musa. “A gift to the beggars of Cairo. Tell them it is from the Hidden Master of Alamut, who wishes them long life and prosperity.”
Musa’s good eye widened; he looked to the King of Thieves for guidance. “A most generous gift, my friend,” Abu’l-Qasim said. “Suspiciously generous, in fact.”
“Is alms-giving not expected of the faithful?”
“Alms-giving, yes, but not bribery. Come, my friend, I’ve lived long enough to know one from the other. What do you hope to purchase with this gift?”
“Good will,” Assad said. “And it’s my experience that men are more apt to give it when their bellies are full. So let them dine well, or has Cairo become a refuge of hopeless cynics?”
Abu’l-Qasim paused a moment then nodded to Musa, who bowed once more. “The beggars thank you, O Emir, as they thank your Master.”
Assad turned back to his things. Besides his boots—freshly cleaned—and his sheathed salawar, Musa had brought him a thin white galabiya and cotton trousers of far finer quality than those he had owned. At her father’s insistence, Zaynab averted her eyes while Assad stripped and drew on these undergarments. Next, he donned a khalat of dark green linen, richly embroidered in gold thread, followed by a matching turban and a sash of silky black brocade. Into this, he thrust his salawar—its hatred subdued, like some great beast sated on blood.
“I must speak with al-Hasan,” Assad said. “Soon.”
“How?” Zaynab asked. “The vizier rarely allows anyone to see him, much less speak with him.”
“Ha! The vizier? That son of a whore is a despot,” Abu’l-Qasim said. “Inshallah, he will boil in the stews of hell!”
“Inshallah,” Assad echoed. “Tomorrow is Friday, is it not?”
“It is.”
“I trust al-Hasan has not yet broken with the tradition set by his forefathers of attending noon prayer at, where … al-Azhar Mosque?”
Zaynab shook her head, frowning. “No, at the Gray Mosque, al-Aqmar. It’s closer to the palace.”
“Excellent.” The Emir of the Knife’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Be they beggar or prince, all are equal in the sight of Allah. I would wager the Caliph believes much the same thing…”
16
Weeping blood, the wounded Arab staggered through crumbling archways and down the vile-smelling alleys of Cairo’s Foreign Quarter—the infamous Harat al-Rum—where sounds of brazen revelry seeped from behind tightly shuttered doors. The Arab reeled in half-blinded agony and nearly collapsed in a dank alcove, his face a clotted mask of gore. His heart hammered in his chest; he gasped for breath, tasting blood and sweat as he licked his lips and peered behind him, as he had done countless times since fleeing the Street of Perfume Makers, and watched for any sign of pursuit. He saw no one. “Thanks be to God,” he muttered, and was off again.
His destination lay in a square at the blighted heart of the Foreign Quarter, between a pair of ramshackle tenements assembled from the jetsam of other quarters, from scavenged brick and fire-blackened planks secured with a thick gesso of Nile mud. Their upper stories out of plumb, these tenements leaned together like matrons sharing a secret; stout old timbers cut from a ship’s keel kept them from touching. At their feet, in a weed-choked hollow littered with shards of pottery, a flight of rough-hewn steps plunged into the earth.
The Arab staggered into the square, making for the head of the stairs as a shadow rose from the tall grass. Steel glinted in the darkness. “Nay,” the Arab gasped as the shadow moved to intercept him. “Stay your hand, brother! It’s me … Ya’qub! I must see al-Mulahid! Quickly, for I am wounded!” The man stepped forward and scrutinized the Arab, Ya’qub. He was clad in black, his hands and exposed flesh daubed with lampblack; a fold of his turban hid all but his eyes from view, and these stared unblinking, glassy with the effects of hashish. Reluctantly, the sentry sheathed his curved dagger. He raised two fingers to his lips and gave an eerie whistle.
Trembling, the blood-smeared Arab descended the stairs into another world—one of antiquity beyond reckoning. He felt carvings in the stone beneath his outstretched hand; he had seen them enough by the light of day to know what they were: blasphemous reliefs of men cavorting with animal-headed demons, of salacious women worshiping at their feet and offering the creatures gifts of flesh and wine. Each rotting step bore him deeper into a lightless chasm, its air smoky and alive with unseen menace.
The stairs ended abruptly. Ya’qub’s left hand brushed the edges of a jagged hole hacked into the wall, covered by a curtain of thick hide. He twitched this aside … and yelped as rough hands snatched at him, hauling him inside. “Merciful Allah! Please! I am wounded! Guide me to al-Mulahid!”
In response, a voice growled: “Where are the others?”
“I beg of you, brother: guide me to the master, and quickly! We—”
A lantern flared; quaking, Ya’qub watched a fearsome visage drift into the sullen light: a chiseled face as hard as stone and bronzed by the sun, clean-shaven, with close-cropped hair the color of dark gold and eyes like the pale morning sky. Al-Mulahid! But the man to whom Ya’qub owed his allegiance was no son of the East; he was European—a Frankish convert to Islam—known to his followers as al-Mulahid, the Heretic. “Answer the que
stion.” His Arabic was flawless, his accent Syrian. “Where are the others?”
Ya’qub fell to his knees. “Slain, master! Slain by the Devil himself!”
“You were tasked with watching the woman’s house, nothing more. A devil should not have seen you, much less had the opportunity for bloodshed. How goes that, dog?”
“It was Akeeba’s doing, master. He led us out of hiding and inside—”
Other figures emerged from the inky darkness. Black-clad fedayeen, soldiers of the Lord of Massaif whose mountainous fortress sheltered the Syrian branch of al-Hashishiyya. Their girdles bristled with dagger hilts and rage glittered in their eyes. The Heretic loomed over the cowering Arab, his face a cold and impassive mask. “This devil of yours, what did he look like?”
“I … I did not see him well, master, but h-he was tall,” Ya’qub babbled. “As tall as you, with a … a long s-scar down one cheek, and … and as dark as the pit of hell! He moved like a thing possessed, never still! H-he … He struck the others down with … with a long Afghan knife!”
The Heretic’s head snapped around. “What did you say?”
“H-he had a … a kn-knife,” Ya’qub wailed. “Like the ones found among the tribesmen in the high mountains…”
“This cannot be coincidence,” muttered the man called the Heretic. He frowned, caught the Arab in his baleful gaze. “You say he struck the others down, but not you?”
“No, master. Akeeba distracted him and I was able to get away.”
“You left your brothers to die, you mean.”
Ya’qub started. “N-no, master! I escaped so as to bring word of this devil to you—”
“Devil? He was no devil,” the Heretic said, pale eyes blazing. “He was but a man. Have you forgotten the words of our exalted lord, Ibn Sharr? ‘Go thou and slay,’ that was his command to you when you joined us, ‘and when thou returnest my angels shall bear thee into Paradise. And should’st thou die, even so shall I send my angels to carry thee back to Paradise.’ Why did you not slay this man or, failing that, join your brothers in death? Did you doubt Ibn Sharr’s word?”
The Syrians pressed closer to the quaking Arab, their hands on their knives.
“M-master! I—”
“No! The time for excuses has passed,” the Heretic said. “My command was simple: watch. Ibn Sharr’s command simpler still: slay or die. You, who turned your back on Paradise, have failed both. What’s worse, you may have led our enemy straight to us!”
“Please!” Ya’qub dropped to his belly. Tears mixed with the blood staining his cheeks; he clutched at the hem of the Heretic’s khalat. “I—I beg of you, m-master!”
“He is unworthy. Show him the door to hell, brothers!” The Heretic turned his back as his fedayeen surged in, whetted knives flashing in the dim lamplight.
The Arab’s scream died with him.
17
Once, the Heretic had been a soldier of Christ, one of a thousand young idealists gulled into joining the army of a crusading Frankish king, duped by fiery speeches and the promise of salvation. A man is born in sin, he vaguely recalled the words of his elders, but in Outremer, even the unrepentant can come to Grace. Yet, those wise men—sinners all—had stayed behind, snug in their cathedrals and castles, while their burdensome sixth or seventh sons went off to die in search of God’s grace.
And die they did. In droves. Some succumbed to disease, others to starvation; those whom fate or faith had spared on the long road from Europe instead paid the butcher’s bill outside the walls of Damascus, falling beneath a hail of Saracen arrows.
Twenty years ago, a foolish Nazarene youth died in the dust of Outremer, bereft of faith or salvation, the knowledge of his identity stolen when the sharp edge of a hurled stone collided with his skull; from this empty vessel of flesh and blood, the Heretic was born. His Syrian captors named him Badr, after the full moon shining over Damascus on the night of his rebirth, and set about teaching him what they believed was the one immutable truth under heaven: La ilaha illa’llah. “There is no god but Allah…”
The Heretic, though, knew better.
Stone-faced, Badr al-Mulahid left his men to dispose of the Arab’s body and ventured deeper into the underground warren. Through an open door, a winged scarab carved in the lintel, he passed into a room of mammoth columns, stalks of papyrus rendered in dark sandstone; widely spaced lamps revealed surfaces etched with figures of men engaged in the profane adoration of a seated queen. A temple to old gods, his mentor, Ibn Sharr, called this place, a fitting lair for the Sons of Massaif.
Badr knew this was more than a lair. Ibn Sharr had chosen these ruins for a reason. The Heretic paused near one column, staring up at the dim figure of a hawk-headed man wearing a bulbous crown, surrounded by vertical registers of strange writing. There was something here, something dark and primordial woven into the cryptic glyphs, a wellspring of long-slumbering power that only a cunning mind could unlock. Thus, while Badr spearheaded Massaif’s campaign against the agents of Alamut, as a prelude to consolidating Syrian power in Cairo, his mentor pored over the strange carvings and artifacts in search of … what? Knowledge? Wisdom? Perhaps a weapon of such awesome power as to bring Alamut to its knees? That last was the Heretic’s most fervent hope.
Though the Syrian and Persian sects of al-Hashishiyya shared a hint of common ideology—both followed the precepts of Ibn al-Sabbah—their political goals cast them into bitter rivalry. Alamut sought merely the destruction of the Abbasid Caliphate of Baghdad; Massaif sought the same, along with dominion over the Fatimids of Egypt and the expulsion of Nazarenes and Jews from Syria.
And we will have it, Alamut be damned! Ibn Sharr will see to that!
The Heretic’s mentor exuded a mystery as old as Egypt’s stones and as sinister as his name implied. Was he truly the Son of Wickedness, the devil of legend? No man among them could say with conviction, for about even the most mundane details—his true name, the line of his fathers, his land and people—Ibn Sharr remained guarded; though innocuous, such crumbs of information could still wreak untold malice in the hands of an enemy. Thus, all his followers knew with any certainty was that the man who called himself Ibn Sharr was a magus in a nest of killers, the sorcerous right hand to the Old Man of the Mountain. For the Heretic, at least, that in itself was a sufficient pedigree.
Badr al-Mulahid traversed the long columned hall. At its far end a yawning doorway opened on a smaller room, where the carved visages of dead kings glowered out from niches in the soot-blackened walls. Another room waited beyond this, smaller still, fingers of ruddy light slipping past a curtain shielding its door. Even through the thick hide, Badr caught the salty reek of nitre, the aroma of sweet cedar oils, and an underlying hint of corruption—consequences of Ibn Sharr’s explorations.
Quietly, the Heretic stepped into a chamber which must have served as a sanctuary in the dim and forgotten past. No doubt here infidel priests had sacrificed the blood of innocents to their abhorrent gods. In the wavering lamplight, he could make out a cavalcade of figures covering the walls, animal-headed and profane, forever marching toward a glyph-etched alcove resembling a false door. The Heretic was not a squeamish man, nor was he overly superstitious. Yet, as his eyes fell upon a half-dozen desiccated bodies swaddled in age-blackened linen a supernatural thrill raised gooseflesh on his neck. Furtively, he made a sign of warding against the evil eye.
Among these ancient corpses lay a relatively fresh kill—a naked young woman, a child of the Malabar Coast, her once-brown limbs now pale in death; the scarf which killed her remained knotted around her slender neck. The Heretic did not give her a second glance. She was merely a tool, a vessel, one his mentor called al-saut al-maiyit: the voice of the dead. Through her, Ibn Sharr could speak to the spirits haunting this place.
Low tables held the other implements of Ibn Sharr’s craft—amulets of stone or gold or lapis lazuli, wall fragments bearing deeply incised images, candles, knives of copper and gold, glass vials and bundles of
dried herbs, a mortar and pestle, inkpots and loose scraps of paper. Incense burned in a small bronze chafing dish, its fragrance lost amid myriad stenches.
Ibn Sharr reclined on a silken divan before the false door. Lean and spare of frame, his hairless scalp gleamed like polished mahogany; he had a sharp face, hawkish, with deep-set eyes and a beard more gray than black. He did not look up as the Heretic entered, the weight of his attention focused on a worm-riddled skull cradled in his hands.
“We are as children compared to these ancients, Badr, unlettered and ignorant of what has come before us,” Ibn Sharr said after a few moments. He stroked the skull’s leathery brow; his own face was no less gaunt. “I have spoken with the ghost-kings of vanished Ubar, held congress with the ghuls of the Rub al-Khali, and scaled the treacherous slopes of Mount Lalesh the Accursed for but a fraction of the wisdom that is to be found here, in these forgotten crypts!”
The Heretic glanced about, his eyes narrowing. “You have deciphered these carvings, then? And this wisdom you speak of … all of this”—he gestured at the glyphs and figures—“can be turned against Alamut?”
“These carvings are but stories, Badr. Tales of principled gods and of pious men. No, the true wisdom is locked away here,” he tapped the skull, “in the memories of those who came before us. But the spirits of the dead do not give up their secrets willingly. This one, he was a priest of the Silent Being, a god who loved truth and hated abomination. He has taught me much.” Ibn Sharr let his feverish gaze wander over the carved walls, over pagan gods and enigmatic symbols. “Neferkaptah is the name of the one we seek.”
The Heretic’s brow furrowed. “Is … he here, among these husks?”
“No. His resting place is a day’s journey upriver, in the City of the Dead on the west bank of the Nile. Ta-Djeser, it is called.” Ibn Sharr glanced sharply at his lieutenant, nostrils flaring. “You have the stench of death about you, Badr.”