The Lion of Cairo

by Oden, Scott

  And while Ibn al-Teymani, a rustic Sufi from the Hejaz, guided Assad’s physical actions, it was the Emir of the Knife who maintained his sense of predatory alertness, patient and calculating …

  11

  Away from the tumult of the Bayn al-Qasrayn, deep in the maze of narrow alleys stitching the Soldiers’ Quarter, a carpet seller from Aleppo ducked under a crumbling archway. Two confederates followed close on his heels; all three men moved at speed, their dusty robes swirling as they descended a flight of shallow steps. The alley ended in a mudbrick cul-de-sac, where an old wooden gate led to a hidden courtyard long bereft of a gardener’s care. Weeds grew knee-high around an old lotus pool, its basin bone-dry and cracked from the merciless heat; ruptured paving stones allowed a tangled mimosa to take root in the scabby earth.

  With his companions in tow, the carpet seller made no attempt at stealth as he crossed the courtyard and stopped next to a jagged fissure in the wall. As the man favored keeping his head on his shoulders, he dared not step through unannounced. “Askari!” he panted, one half of the prearranged code.

  From inside, a voice answered with the other half: “Al-Din!” Nodding, the man who claimed to be a seller of carpets from Aleppo squeezed through the cleft and into another garden—this one green and pleasant, with shady sycamores around a small pool. Incongruous to this, a black-clad fedayee waited next to the fissure with a naked scimitar cradled in his hands. Others loitered nearby.

  “You’re late.”

  “Is he already here?” The carpet seller, Gamal, brushed dust from his embroidered burnoose. He wished for a clean cloth to blot the tears streaming from his left eye, red and swollen with infection.

  “By Allah, he’s been here for the past hour.”

  “What’s his mood?”

  The fedayee shrugged. “He has but one mood, brother.”

  Cursing under his breath, Gamal left his companions to slake their thirst in the garden pool and entered the house alone. Constructed of stone slathered in a layer of cool white stucco, the place had rooms on multiple levels with arched galleries and broad casement windows—mashrafiyya—its layout meant to foster a constant flow of air. Pots of herbs and flowering plants added their soft fragrance to the breeze. Save for a handful of fedayeen, the house was all but deserted, its owner and his family unfortunate casualties of the clandestine war between Massaif and Alamut.

  The house’s highest point was in the women’s quarters; in the harem reception room, where the master’s wife received her female visitors, a delicate mashrafiyya set with panels of stained glass overlooked the street. Here, Gamal found the man he had kept waiting.

  Garbed in a girdled khalat of somber hue, Badr al-Mulahid reclined on a divan of yellow brocade, his legs crossed at the ankles—Death in quiet repose. He passed the time by dragging a whetstone along the edges of his Frankish dirk; those long rasping strokes punctuated the silence.

  Gamal licked his cracked lips with the tip of his tongue. His eye ached. “Forgive my tardiness, ya sidi.”

  The Heretic didn’t look up; stone and steel grated. “Well?”

  “So far, nothing.” The carpet seller—in truth a captain of Massaif—twisted the heavy ring he wore as part of his disguise. “We spread the offer to the beggars at every gate. If they can’t lay their hands on the bitch, no one can.”

  “What of the Emir of the Knife?”

  “He’s going to be a hard one to run to ground, especially as the only thing we have to go on is a scarred face and the description of his knife. I look for those ignorant wretches to attempt a deception on us—like murdering some poor pox-ridden fellah and tucking an Afghan knife in his belt—hoping we will be stupid enough to hand over the money with no questions asked.”

  “If they try it, kill them.” The Heretic raised his dirk and studied its twin cutting edges. “Cairo does not have enough beggars to bring low the Emir of the Knife. When he gets wind of the bounty, though, perhaps he will be encouraged to act before he is truly ready—and thus reveal himself. I will strike once your men have identified him.”

  “The woman … does she remain our chief priority?”

  The Heretic’s pale eyes transfixed him. “Both are equally important. But yes, we must take the woman first, and soon. Her death will answer the original commission Ibn Sharr laid upon us, to obliterate Alamut’s influence in Cairo, and in the same stroke we rob the Emir of a valuable ally.”

  Before Gamal could respond, another of the fedayeen entered. “There’s movement, ya sidi!” Nodding, Badr al-Mulahid uncoiled from the divan like a steel spring. He sheathed his dirk and moved to the latticed window; Gamal followed in his wake.

  The window overlooked the Street of Perfume Makers, nearly deserted as the noon hour approached. Across the way and to their left stood the House of the Gazelle; from this vantage Gamal could just make out the entryway. A figure stood at the mouth of the alley. Though his aspect seemed ragged and unkempt, he nevertheless moved like a man who knew how to handle himself. “Another of her customers, ya sidi?”

  The Heretic said nothing; he watched the man through slitted eyes. There was something familiar about him, something he recognized though he could not put his finger on it. The figure peered out into the street—Badr could sense his suspicion—then, he turned and swept his gaze across neighboring rooftops, his head cocked to one side to compensate for having but a single eye …

  The gesture triggered recollection, the memory of a place. The Mad Caliph’s Mosque! “I know you.”

  “Ya sidi?” Other fedayeen clustered in the doorway, eager killers ready to strike a blow for Massaif; to die, if need be.

  The Heretic lifted his chin, scowling down his nose at the figure as he faded back from the mouth of the alley. “I have seen that one before. He was one of al-Hajj’s creatures.”

  Gamal swore. “Can it be coincidence?”

  “Does it matter? Take four men and follow him, but keep out of sight. Perhaps he will lead us to the Gazelle’s hiding place.” And, the Heretic thought, where we find the Gazelle, no doubt we will find the Emir of the Knife, as well. “Go!”

  “At once, ya sidi!”

  The Heretic resumed his scrutiny of the street, a shiver of anticipation creeping up his spine. His quarry just came one step closer …

  12

  While the Caliph’s quarters buzzed like a hive of angry bees kicked onto its side by an indelicate keeper, the rest of the palace continued to function at its normal pace. Chamberlains and stewards went about their daily duties, unhurried and unaware of the goings-on of the mighty; courtiers and honored guests arrived by way of a dozen gates, ready to clog the Golden Hall in hopes of getting a moment of the vizier’s time—some to forward their ambitions, others to beg for an indulgence. Through it all, servants like Yasmina moved unseen.

  Her usual avenue of escape, the Emerald Gate in the northeast corner of the palace complex, she found blocked by the arrival of fresh troops—a company of Jandariyah no doubt summoned from their barracks in the West Palace by the vizier himself. At their head strode a powerfully built man clad in gilded steel and linen, the hilt of his great saber jutting from a girdle of rich red silk. He was the captain of the Syrian mercenaries, a wolfish cavalier who had earned his reputation fighting the Nazarenes. Wisely, Yasmina veered away from the Emerald Gate; though it took longer than expected, she found a way out in the kitchens, through an unguarded door leading to the herb gardens; once clear of the palace walls she set off for the Street of Perfume Makers at a dead run.

  Yasmina knew Cairo’s streets better than the Prophet knew salvation; in her ninth year, after the bloody flux took her parents and brothers, these streets had kept her sheltered, fed, and clothed. She found a mentor among the scavengers and the ragpickers, a wizened old drunk called Flea who taught her how to harvest the refuse of the wealthy, how to turn broken pottery and cast-off metal into a few copper coins. By twelve, under Flea’s auspices, she had graduated to slitting purses and burgling homes.


  That was how Zaynab found her: a feral, half-naked child living on scraps and stealing for a man too lazy to steal for himself. She recognized in Yasmina a peculiar adroitness, a velocity of thought which outstripped that of the dregs she associated with. But for all her gifts, the girl had no craft save luck … and luck had a way of petering out. Unless Zaynab intervened, it would only be a matter of months until Yasmina lost a hand or worse to the qadis who dispensed justice from the cool shadows of al-Azhar Mosque.

  So intervene she did. Plucked from Flea’s grasp, Yasmina found safety in the House of the Gazelle; she found a mistress who encouraged her to learn, who challenged her to excel, and who gave her the gift of independence. Under Zaynab’s tutelage the feral child once destined to die a thief before her fifteenth year disappeared, replaced by a young Egyptian woman who blossomed into one of the Gazelle’s most effective spies.

  Yasmina darted through the tangle of narrow streets east of the palace, where ragged tenements stood cheek by jowl with the domed mausoleums of long-dead princes; crossing a tiny square dominated by a public fountain of brilliant blue tile, she plunged down a short alley and emerged on the Street of Perfume Makers, not far from the House of the Gazelle. Already, she knew something was amiss.

  The street was too quiet.

  Where she should have seen dozens of servants scurrying off to the different markets and countless porters returning loaded with purchases, white-shirted messengers flying in all directions bearing missives and responses, and beggars drawn by the promise of charity, Yasmina saw hardly any movement at all. She slowed her pace, her heart gripped by a sudden frost. What’s happened? Could she have left the city for some reason? Would she have left without telling me?

  Farther up the street, a porter lounged against the wall of a neighboring house. Yasmina heard the incessant barking of a small dog, a scolding voice. A hot breath of wind stirred up zephyrs of dust. Walking now, she came abreast of the alley leading to the entrance to the Gazelle’s house and stopped. She heard nothing, saw no movement; yet, the sensation of scrutiny was palpable. Yasmina looked over her shoulder. Her narrowed eyes swept from one end of the street to the other before she slowly edged into the alley.

  Framed in arabesqued stone, the Gazelle’s familiar red door stood open and from within came the coppery-sweet smell of day-old blood. The smell of death. A rising tide of panic threatened to choke the young woman; she fumbled with the hem of her gown, drawing her knife with a trembling hand. Where is she?

  She craned her neck. “M-mistress?”

  In answer, a figure lunged from the shadow of the entry hall. Yasmina’s reaction was instinctive: her knife sliced empty air as she danced back into the alley and dropped to a fighter’s crouch. Raising her free hand to protect her head, she curled her fingers into raking talons. Muscles tensed as she made ready to gut the man who emerged from the doorway.

  It was a one-eyed beggar.

  “Musa?”

  He cocked his head to the side. “Yasmina? What are you doing here?”

  Tension drained from her body. She staggered forward and embraced him. “I came to see Zaynab. Where is she, Musa? What’s happened?”

  “There’s been some trouble, girl,” he said. “Mistress is fine, but she’s been forced into hiding.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  Musa shook his head. “It’s not safe to linger here. Not right now. Come with me. We can talk on the way back to the palace.”

  “No!” Yasmina said. “I must see Zaynab, Musa! It cannot wait!”

  The one-eyed man scratched his wiry beard; exhaling, he glanced in both directions—out to the street and back down the alley. The hiss of air between his teeth turned to a soft clicking sound. “It’s not safe. She’s not expecting you—”

  “Please, Musa! I promise you, the news I bear she’s going to want to hear!” Tears welled at the corners of Yasmina’s eyes. Embarrassed, she swiped at them with the heel of her hand. “Damn you! I have to see her!”

  “Fine, girl. Fine. But we must move fast. It’s a long slog to the River Quarter from here—”

  “I can keep up.” Yasmina bristled.

  “Come, then. Let’s see if you can still outrun old Musa!” The one-eyed beggar gave the street a last glance, then turned and set off down the alley. Yasmina matched his pace, staying close on his heels.

  Neither of them saw Gamal or his four Syrians break from hiding across the Street of the Perfume Makers and plunge into the alley after them …

  13

  Sound roused Parysatis from her stupor; she stirred, tasting bile, and twisted her wrists against the sweat-drenched sash that bound them. Men were coming for her. Soldiers. She heard the clash of their harness and the tramp of their boots, shrieks of alarm and a babble of voices. The Chief Eunuch’s strident call for silence cut through the din; the resulting calm plucked at Parysatis’s nerves. She squeezed her eyes shut and fought the urge to scream, to call the hunters to her.

  You remember very little, she reminded herself. You remember very little. A leaf on the far wall; al-Gid—her breath caught in her throat—al-Gid vanishing. That’s all you remember. That’s all …

  “I do not know how that’s possible, Excellency,” she heard Lu’lu say, his voice rising in pitch. “A trusted man of mine never left the physician’s side. I swear, as Allah is my—”

  A voice she recognized as the vizier’s cut him off. “Then your man has played you for a fool! Move!”

  Parysatis flinched as the doors to the bath banged open, sending the pot shard Yasmina had propped against them skittering across the tiles. Talons of ice shredded her stomach as men pounded into the room, their mail shirts rustling. Sweat and tears stung her eyes. “Fan out!” she heard the vizier growl. “Search every inch!”

  The young woman dared not move, dared not call out for help. You remember very little. Draw no attention to yourself; let them find you. Seen through swollen eyes half closed, figures moved at the periphery of her vision—Jalal, she reckoned, and the Chief Eunuch. They edged closer. Spotting the African’s corpse on the floor, Lu’lu gasped, his face paling; pudgy hands covered his nose and mouth as though in prayer. Jalal glanced over at him. “Your trusted man, I take it?”

  The eunuch nodded. “Allah preserve him.”

  “And the girl?”

  “One of the lesser concubines,” Lu’lu said, golden rings flashing as he made a dismissive gesture. “She was ill upon waking, which is why we fetched that old villain, al-Gid. He wanted her brought here so he might bleed her. Is she…?”

  Scowling, the vizier approached her bedside, careful not to get blood or vomit on his silk-slippered feet. She felt the bed shift as he sat on its edge. “She lives. Why did he bring her here to bleed her?”

  “Tile cleans easier than silk carpets, Excellency.”

  “No, you fool!” the vizier snapped. “Why this hammam? What significance did it hold for him? Why did he choose it?”

  Lu’lu shook his head, unsure of how to answer.

  Parysatis saw an opportunity in the eunuch’s hesitation. Twisting her bound wrists, she groaned piteously, muttering like a sleeper on the verge of wakefulness. It had the desired effect. Jalal leaned closer; his fingers loosened the knots in the silk sash.

  “What did you say, child?”

  “W-wall…” she repeated, eyes fluttering open. “V-vanished … in t-the … wall.” With feigned effort, she crooked a finger toward the west wall. “T-there…”

  “She must be out of her mind with fever, Excellency,” Lu’lu said. “How can a man vanish into a solid wall?”

  “How, indeed. Our physician was something of a magician in that respect.” Jalal rose and walked toward the area Parysatis had indicated. He gestured to the soldiers. “Search along this wall for hollow spaces, for latches disguised as ornaments, anything out of the ordinary!” A few of them drew their daggers and used the pommels to tap the walls; others twisted and tugged every protuberance to no avail. />
  As the search continued, the Chief Eunuch came to sit by Parysatis’s side. He took her hand in his and stroked it, his face a mask of concern. A mask only worn for the occasion. “Did that monster harm you, my flower?” Parysatis shook her head. Lu’lu leaned closer; rank breath mixed with the cloying scent of perfume. “If you were party to this, you would do well to confess now and throw yourself on the vizier’s mercy, for you will get none from us!”

  Parysatis shrank away from him. “C-confess, lord? I h-had no part … n-no part in your man’s murder. I … I am sorry…”

  “Why did you wish to speak to al-Gid alone, then?” The Chief Eunuch pitched his voice above a whisper. Jalal overheard him; the vizier turned, his brows drawn into a suspicious glower. He stepped closer.

  “She spoke to him alone? When?”

  “When he first arrived, Excellency,” Lu’lu said. His continued petting of her hand became an unbearable mockery. “Drove us all out at her request.”

  The vizier’s cruel eyes fixed on Parysatis. “Is that so?”

  She hesitated. Her dictum to draw no attention to herself was failing, and miserably. A misstep, a wrong word, and you will join al-Gid in the grave. She blinked back tears. Tell him something he will believe …

  “Well?”

  “I … I f-feared … poison, Excellency,” she said, tugging her hand from the eunuch’s grasp. She gave him a look of mock condemnation. “The Caliph’s aunts often conspire with the eunuchs of the harem to remove those girls whom they dislike. I am Persian, Excellency. They fear what might happen if I become the principal wife. I have neither allies nor friends—”

  “Lies!” the Chief Eunuch spat, lunging to his feet.

  The vizier ignored him. “You told al-Gid this?”