by Oden, Scott
“Merciful Allah!”
Parysatis’s voice grew thick with emotion; tears welled at the corners of her dark eyes and spilled down her cheeks. “He is so close, Grandfather! So close, and I know not how to help him! Even now, I cannot say for certain I am doing the right thing by telling you any of this. But I do not know who else to trust or where else to turn! I risk everything, for you need only say a word to the vizier and it will be as though I never existed. The Caliph will drink their foul poison and all will be for naught…!”
“No, child,” al-Gid said, his face solemn. “You have done the right thing. I owe nothing to Jalal—may Allah’s curse be upon him! The man is a scheming jackal who thinks himself well beyond his station. I do, however, owe my life, and the lives of my daughters, to Rashid’s grandfather. He died before I could repay his many mercies; his son, too. Thus has his grandson inherited my gratitude, and my need to make things right in the eyes of God. I must get in to see him, child. Will you guide me by these secret ways of yours?”
Parysatis jammed the knuckles of her hand against her teeth; she dared not breathe for fear of upsetting the delicate balance. Had she found an ally? “Can … can you t-truly help the Caliph?”
“Inshallah,” al-Gid said, placing his palm over his heart. “I will try.”
Tears cascaded down the young woman’s cheeks; she sobbed and flung her arms around the physician’s neck. “Bless you, Grandfather!”
“Hush, child. We have much to do, yet.” He disengaged from her embrace and nodded. “Dry your eyes. Good. Now, lie back and feign illness. Nothing too dramatic.”
Parysatis sank down and composed herself. Her dark hair was in disarray, her eyes red and puffy, and her skin pale: one could surmise that she perhaps suffered from a fever. Al-Gid nodded again.
“Allah’s mercy upon us,” he whispered. Joints creaking, the old physician gained his feet and made his way to the door. He yanked the curtain aside, revealing a bevy of impatient and expectant faces—the Chief Eunuch prominent among them.
“Well?”
“She is very ill, my friend. The poor girl has a fever which has caused a serious imbalance in her humors.” The physician glanced back over his shoulder in mock concern. “I will need to bleed her.”
“See it done, then,” Lu’lu replied.
Al-Gid touched the eunuch’s elbow and guided him a few steps away from the others. He kept his voice low, his face grave. “My friend, you do not wish me to do this here. Her condition is such that she is liable to produce a copious amount of foul-smelling blood. I need a secluded place, one your slaves may easily scrub afterward, and one that is well away from the other flowers of your garden. Is there not an unused bath near?”
“There is.” Lu’lu snapped his fingers; the gesture brought one of his lieutenants forward, a squat Sudanese eunuch in garish silks. “See she is brought to the old hammam,” he said. He held the lesser eunuch’s eye for a long moment before dismissing him to his task and turning back to face al-Gid. “Find me when you are finished, physician. We must discuss today’s improprieties.” Without waiting for a reply, the Chief Eunuch whirled and walked away, the harem women scattering before him like a flock of frightened pigeons.
Al-Gid’s eyes were cold and narrow slits. “Improprieties. Of course.”
Under the Sudanese lieutenant’s direction, a cadre of guards—muscular black eunuchs in white silk pantaloons and vests of silvered mail, curved swords thrust into leopardskin sashes—hoisted Parysatis’s narrow bed onto their shoulders and carried the frightened woman to the deserted bath. Al-Gid walked beside them, and though she could not see her, Parysatis knew Yasmina would not be far away.
The cortege passed through unbarred doors of polished cedar—tall and ancient and set with delicate arabesques of silver and gold—and into the hammam proper. It was a relic of a time when the Caliph’s women numbered well over three hundred, one for every day of the year; though it had been deserted for a decade, the servants of the palace took great care to ensure the old bath did not go to seed. At its heart stood a vast room, an octagon of polished marble beneath a dome painted to resemble a cloudless sky, its apex pierced by clerestory windows. Motes of dust drifted through shafts of amber light that warmed the mosaic tiles underfoot. The pools and plunge baths were dry, the fountains silent; niches meant for towels and linens stood empty.
The eunuch guards gently lowered Parysatis’s bed to the ground and filed out of the bath, leaving their Sudanese lieutenant behind. Al-Gid motioned him along. “Go. I must have privacy.”
The lieutenant shook his head. “My lord’s orders,” he said. “I am to remain as insurance against impropriety.”
“Impossible.” The old physician straightened; he towered over the intractable eunuch. “Please, my friend. This is not something you should be privy to, especially if the sight of blood sickens you. It is liable to be messy.”
The African’s nostrils flared, his lips peeled back in a sneer of contempt to reveal teeth long ago filed to points. “I was not born a eunuch, Grandfather. My people were flesh eaters before the Arabs came. I used to sit at my father’s elbow and we would drink our enemies’ blood like wine, so save your concerns for those other simpering fools! You are wasting precious time. I will remain, and there is naught you can say about it. Come and let us help the poor dear before—”
As Parysatis watched this stalemate unfold, Yasmina, who had tarried at the door, crept up behind the eunuch. She moved like a cat, lithe and silent, far more predatory than a girl of her years should have been. Parysatis saw her pause, kneel, and heft a thick pottery jar off the floor. Before she or al-Gid had a chance to react, Yasmina closed on the eunuch and swung the jar like a headsman swings his axe. There was an explosion of dust, and Parysatis winced at the sound of pottery shattering against the African’s skull.
The eunuch dropped without a sound.
Al-Gid cursed. “Merciful Allah, girl! What are you doing?”
Yasmina’s eyes were hard as she knelt beside the unconscious eunuch. Quickly, she trussed and gagged him with his own sash. “We can beg forgiveness later,” she said. “Hurry, mistress.”
Parysatis, clad only in a thin linen gown, flung the covers back and leaped from her bed on legs made unsteady by a mixture of fear and hope. “Stay and keep watch, Yasmina!”
Bare feet pattering on the tile, Parysatis crossed to the western corner of the bath, still in shadow. She motioned for the old physician to bring his bag and follow. The walls of the hammam had neither telltale niches nor deep carvings; rather, they boasted a variety of inlays, from enameled lotus buds to traceries of ivy done in gold and precious wood to magnificent birds fashioned of silver with cloisonné feathers and jeweled eyes—an iridescent jungle that should have surrounded a pool of sparkling turquoise water.
Easily, Parysatis found the hidden door’s trigger: an emerald leaf veined in gold filigree. Depressing it caused a chain reaction; the faint creak of a counterweight presaged the opening of a narrow section of wall. Hinges ground together like stones in a quern. Parysatis put her shoulder against the door and forced it wider still.
Al-Gid peered inside; he frowned at the walls of rough-edged brick. Motes of dust drifted through fingers of light seeping in from the spy holes. “This is the way?”
“It will bring us to the Caliph’s courtyard.”
The old man exhaled. “Lead on, then, and may Allah bless us in our folly!”
5
A fretted screen of old teak concealed the Gazelle from casual view. She sat in one corner of the open gallery overlooking her father’s garden courtyard, chafing at the seclusion forced upon her simply because others sought her death. It was unnatural, this hiding, no matter how palatable her surroundings. She wanted to do more than write letters and stamp out rumors. She wanted to do something.
Willows and palm trees rustled in the light breeze. Zaynab stared at the writing material strewn on the table before her. The art of gathering information wa
s difficult even under ideal circumstances; it was virtually impossible through third parties and intermediaries. How could she trust the words of men she did not speak directly to? Still, she deferred to her father’s wishes—Cairo’s streets were unsafe until her enemies chose to reveal themselves. She had little choice but to make the best of it.
Her father had left her neither alone nor unguarded. In the courtyard below, heavily armed Berber mercenaries watched as an endless parade of cutpurses and sneak thieves streamed through the gate, pressed into the King of Thieves’ service as rumormongers and eavesdroppers. Upon returning, they reported their findings to her father’s spymaster, a squint-eyed snake of a man who wore the distinctive blue turban of the Banu Zuwayla, a local Berber tribe long in her father’s association. Slowly—too slowly for Zaynab’s tastes—his reports trickled up to her.
She thumbed through the newest sheaf of papers, a litany of grief written in a startlingly fine hand. Half were petitions brought by her father’s followers: a patriarch complaining of the thieves who had stolen his granddaughter’s dowry; a mother looking for vengeance on the robbers who had beaten her favorite son; a distraught family hoping in vain to find the kidnappers who had seized their two youngest children. She read it dispassionately, seeking some word concerning the men Assad killed in her home or the arrival of the two Templars. She found nothing, save a useless chronicle of half-truths, petty crimes, and innuendo. Nothing concrete! Zaynab cursed and slammed the papers down in mounting frustration. Who are they and why won’t they show themselves?
The sound of footsteps intruded. Zaynab glanced up to see Assad approaching. He wore a simple linen shirt and the cloak of a Sufi—though his bearing and demeanor shattered the illusion that he was a holy man.
“This is ridiculous,” she said by way of greeting. “How can I be effective if I am kept shuttered away from my resources?”
Assad took a seat opposite the slender courtesan. “Your father wants you protected.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman? Ya salaam!” Zaynab made a dismissive gesture. “You can appeal to him. You he might listen to. I need to get out for a while, to hear what my people are saying in the streets—firsthand, and not filtered through the perceptions of others. Am I not the eyes and ears of al-Hashishiyya in Cairo?”
“No. You were the eyes and ears of al-Hashishiyya in Cairo. Whoever betrayed you and killed al-Hajj very effectively compromised your worth to our Master. Our enemies know your identity; it is only a matter of time before the rest of Cairo knows it, as well. Your father’s judgment is sound. You will stay put and stay hidden.”
Zaynab leaned toward him, her full lips curling into a sneer of disdain. “Does it not frustrate you that our enemies seem more audacious than we are? That they kill our brothers and friends with such impunity? Does it not spark desire in your breast to do them one better?”
“This is no game of one-upmanship,” Assad said. “It is a game of patience. I know better than to answer audacity with recklessness. We will wait them out, wait for them to make a mistake. And when they do, inshallah, I will send them straight to hell.”
“You? When do I get to strike a blow?” Zaynab sat back with a frustrated curse. “You’re right, I’m sure, but I detest doing nothing. It makes me feel … useless.”
Assad picked up a loose sheet of paper. “What have you discovered about the godforsaken Nazarenes?”
“Nothing! I have been at this all morning and only gathered two by-blow rumors: one declares them a pair of captured Franks brought to Cairo for execution; the other paints them as renegades seeking to betray their former lord.”
“Prisoners, even men of rank, are rarely allowed to keep their weapons and armor,” Assad said. “And renegades would have doffed those damnable surcoats long before entering Moslem territory. Most likely they are emissaries from Jerusalem on some errand or another.”
“Of course they are, and I could find out more if you would but untie my hands.” Zaynab glanced up, a devilish gleam in her eyes. “I could come with you to the Gray Mosque. It’s only a stone’s throw from the palace gates…”
Assad ignored her. He glanced down into the garden where thieves sprawled in the shade, propped on cushions like men of leisure. After a moment he stirred. “Your best course of action is to wait, and to pray the messages you have sent make it through to your contacts in the palace.”
“A game of patience,” Zaynab spat.
Assad gave her a faint smile. He started to rise when a sudden commotion in the courtyard drew his attention; frowning, Zaynab followed his gaze. She saw Musa practically dragging another beggar through the gate. The mismatched pair hurried up the steps and into the gallery, the one-eyed man flushed and breathless.
“Mistress.” Musa salaamed; he turned to the other beggar, a sun-blackened Egyptian who self-consciously smoothed the front of his torn and filthy galabiya. He reeked of stale sweat, piss, and onions. “Quickly! Tell her what you told me!”
The beggar bowed. Tremors ran the length of his spine, causing his limbs to shudder and his head to twitch as though the fingers of a celestial puppeteer plucked at the strings holding him erect. “Allah’s mercy upon you, mistress,” he managed. “Men came around … around the Nile Gate this morning, asking after you and more.”
“Not just the Nile Gate,” Musa added. “I’m told they visited all of the gates.”
Zaynab nodded. “Who were they?”
“I … I only saw three of them. The man doing the talking had an infected eye and claimed he was an old friend of yours, a carpet seller from Aleppo. Other two were evil-looking villains, mayhap his porters…”
“And what were they asking?”
“If we’d seen you, mistress … or maybe a rough customer carrying a long knife with a djinn’s face on the pommel.”
Assad grunted. “They wasted no time.”
“They must be confederates of the men you killed last night,” Zaynab said, her fingers drumming against the armrests of her chair. Her composure slipped; spots of color blossomed on her cheeks. “He claimed to be an old friend of mine, you say?”
The beggar shuffled from foot to foot. “Aye. He … he offered us a whore’s weight in silver if we knew anything, but we told ’em to bugger off, mistress.”
“You did the right thing, my friend.” Zaynab’s delicate nostrils flared. “Y’Allah! I weary of this game of patience we’re playing!”
Assad smiled, cold and deadly. “Then let us change the rules.”
“What do you have in mind?”
He nodded to the Egyptian beggar. “Listen carefully and take my words back to your brothers at the Nile Gate. See it spreads to the other gates, as well. Tell them we will offer them one better: a whore’s weight in gold to the one who brings this seller of carpets to us!”
“Alive?” The beggar flashed a decaying smile, his head bobbing.
“He is useless to us otherwise.”
Musa, though, shook his head and scratched at his bearded jaw. “Mistress, your father—”
“I do not answer to my father!” she snapped. “Not in this matter! Whoever this seller of carpets is, he and I have business to discuss! And I’d wager Assad has a few things to ask him, as well!”
“Oh, I have, indeed,” the Assassin said. Musa shot him a black glance but said nothing.
“Will you do this?” she asked the beggar.
The Egyptian nodded vigorously.
“Excellent.” Zaynab took up a silver pen, dipped it in ink, and wrote something on a scrap of paper. “Here. Take this down to the man in the blue turban. He will give you a few coins and see you have something to eat before you go. Fidelity such as yours cannot go unrewarded.”
“Thank you, mistress.” And with a clumsy salaam, the beggar backed away, turned, and scurried for the stairs.
Assad grunted. “Can that one be trusted?”
“As much as you or I,” Musa said.
“That’s small comfort.” The Assassin turned and ma
de to leave, pausing only to fix his stern glance on the courtesan. “I will be back as soon as I can. Bide here and do nothing foolish.”
“I will be the picture of obedience,” she replied as he walked away. “As Allah is my witness.” Zaynab watched him go, then turned to Musa. She picked a letter up off the table—the paper triple folded and sealed, a gazelle impressed in the scarlet wax. “Forgive my outburst earlier, dear friend, but this might be the break we’ve been hoping for. If you please, have this delivered to the commander of the Circassian mamelukes, Massoud, immediately. It requires no answer.”
The one-eyed man nodded and accepted the missive.
“I have chosen a safe location in which to meet with him—”
“Your father won’t be pleased.” Musa scowled. “Nor will your Emir.”
“You will come with me, along with a detachment of my father’s Berbers, of course. There is an inn in the Soldier’s Quarter run by an old campaigner called Ahmed the Crippled. Do you know the place?”
“Aye,” Musa said. “The Inn of the Three Apples.”
“Good. Send a man to rent a room in Massoud’s name.”
“I can’t talk you out of going, can I?”
Zaynab shook her head. “No.”
“Then I will see to both tasks myself. Allah grant me mercy if your father finds out.” Sullen, Musa bowed and withdrew, leaving her alone in the gallery.