The Lion of Cairo

by Oden, Scott

  “He was, though I had long acknowledged him as a friend,” Rashid said, casting a sidelong glance back at the knot of grandees who awaited him. “He was slain almost at my feet, and I later learned he was embroiled in a plot to assassinate me.”

  “Do you believe this to be true?” Assad’s eyes narrowed at the familiarity of the scene the Caliph described. He had heard a similar tale yestereve, from the lips of the old merchant Umar.

  “I do not know,” the Caliph replied. “As Allah is my witness, I do not know if Othman was coming to speak to me or to kill me. But speak to me about what, I cannot say.”

  Assad’s eyes flicked from the Caliph to his fuming vizier. “Who sits with you in this dream, my lord? Are the men at your side known to you?”

  “Indeed, they are,” Rashid replied, stroking his jaw. “Chamberlains and hangers-on, the familiar faces of my court. Men I would expect to join me in such entertainment.”

  “Does this Circassian single any of them out? A glance, an importuning look, anything?”

  “I … I do not recall.”

  Assad nodded. “When next this dream occurs, my lord, endeavor to study how these fellows react. If your instincts prove true, then the dying Circassian is obviously a harbinger of violence—as betokened by the blood pouring from his mouth. And if in life he was the victim of another’s ambition, then perhaps his dream-self can identify the culprit without the need for words. Regardless, tread with care, my lord. There is something afoot. We have an old saying in the Hejaz: render blind trust only unto Allah and the Prophet; all others must earn your trust anew every day.”

  “Wise advice,” Rashid said, grief clouding his eyes. “And you are the second man to counsel me thus, today. I shall not waste such precious guidance.”

  “I hope my predecessor was a man of great erudition, so I might be counted as an equal in his presence,” Assad said. Perhaps the boy had sense, after all. He had seen enough to recognize a rift between Caliph and vizier—large enough that he doubted Rashid would mourn Jalal’s murder. But a long road yet existed between sanctioning the deeds of one Assassin and embracing an alliance with Alamut. Will he be amenable to the Hidden Master’s offer, I wonder?

  The Caliph glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve kept them waiting long enough.” He staggered to his feet; a servant scurried up, followed by the vizier. Jalal’s face had a stern cast to it, but he wisely kept his tongue between his teeth. “I thank you, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz, for the generosity of your time. Ask anything of me in return, and if it is within my power I will grant it.”

  “There is one thing, my lord,” Assad said, his thoughts racing. Mindful of his disguise, the Assassin followed Rashid’s lead and hobbled to his feet, the pommel of his hidden salawar couched in his palm. Contact sent fresh jags of rage twisting through the muscles of his forearm, bombarding him with images of violence and slaughter. It wants blood. Assad’s nostrils flared. “I … I would beg an hour of your time to tell you of my master. You and he share many of the same traits, my lord, and perhaps the tale of his life and travels would be a balm to your own.”

  The vizier made to speak, to answer on the Caliph’s behalf, but Rashid cut him off. He nodded to the false Sufi. “Granted, and easily so. Come to the palace tonight, my friend, after the evening prayer, and dine with me so that I might learn of your master and his travels. Jalal?”

  Through gritted teeth, the vizier said: “As you wish, Great One. I will arrange for an escort to meet him tonight at the Emerald Gate, after the evening prayer.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to further discourse, my friend.”

  Assad sighed inwardly and salaamed. “As do I. May the many blessings of Allah be always upon you, O Prince of the Faithful.”

  With a smile and a nod of thanks, the Caliph withdrew from the Gray Mosque, his harried cortege flogged along by the growing wrath of the vizier. Assad watched Jalal through slitted eyes. “Enjoy your last day under heaven,” he muttered.

  For Assad knew in his marrow that, by the end of the night, Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman would be a man marked for death …

  19

  Musa stepped into the street outside the caravanserai of Abu’l-Qasim and shivered despite the midday heat. His empty eye socket ached and his head swirled like the Nile at full flood, brimming over with schemes others had entrusted to him. Him! A simple beggar, by Allah! Still, he had no choice; he was in it, now—neck-deep in this business of caliphs and killers. He would do what he could and leave the balance in God’s hands.

  And when this is over, he thought as he hurried up the street toward the Qasaba, when this is over I’m going back to the Mad Caliph’s Mosque and to minding my own affairs, as Allah is my witness!

  Distracted, Musa did not see Gamal and a pair of fedayeen drift into the street behind him …

  20

  “There’s no call for you to endanger yourself, lady,” Farouk said again, as Zaynab made ready to leave the caravanserai. “If your girl needs an escort to the palace, then I will gladly do it.”

  Trailed by a maidservant, he and the Gazelle emerged onto the third-floor gallery where Yasmina awaited them—the Egyptian’s black hair damp from a quick plunge in her mistress’s bathing pool. Clad now in a gown of pale blue cotton, she sat on a divan and polished off a handful of dates, her eyes restless.

  Zaynab stopped a moment to bind her hair beneath a gray silk scarf, fringed in gold. “My mind is made up, Farouk,” she said, selecting a plain veil—a hijab—from among those her maidservant held out for display. “Yasmina will guide me into the palace, where I might speak with Parysatis about these matters. It’s imperative she know she’s not alone in this. I will linger at the palace to pay court to my contacts, then go straight to my rendezvous at the Inn of the Three Apples. I think I can find the Caliph’s staunchest allies among the White Slaves of the River. Besides, with all that’s going on there’s no time for caution, my friend.”

  Yasmina stood as they approached, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “By what route should we go, mistress?”

  “What is the most direct route?” Zaynab replied. Frowning, she ran her hand through the young woman’s hair, shaking it free of knots. Yasmina flinched away.

  “Most direct of all would be the Road of Eagles.”

  “Then that’s our road.” Zaynab took note of Farouk’s confusion. She said: “For a small donative, the guards at the Nile Gate will grant you access to the parapet atop the city walls; for a larger fee, they will guide you along the parapet to a different gate—the Road of Eagles, it’s called.”

  The Persian shook his head. “A sieve would form a better perimeter around Cairo! Why bother with these trappings of intrigue if, in the end, the army of Damascus will simply buy their way in?”

  “Perhaps our toils will make the price too steep,” Zaynab said. “And we can always pray God has mercy upon us.”

  “Pray or not, it makes no difference.” Farouk’s voice dripped resignation. “God does not listen…”

  But before Zaynab could respond, one of her father’s white-turbaned Berbers hurried up the stairs and across the gallery. The man’s henna-stained beard bristled; he wore a jazerant, a mail shirt sewn between two layers of cloth: the inner layer padded, the outer layer richly embroidered in gold and silver thread. His sheathed saber rattled on its tooled leather baldric as he came to a halt and salaamed.

  “Yes?”

  “Two beggars have come, lady,” the Berber said. “They say they’ve brought you a prisoner. A seller of carpets.”

  Zaynab glanced sharply at the man, then went to the railing and looked down in the courtyard. A pair of ragged beggars waited alongside another Berber; on his knees in front of them was a man whose hands were bound—a clean-shaven fellow with close-cropped hair who wore a soiled and torn burnoose. Pale eyes glared up at her.

  In return, the Gazelle graced him with her most predatory smile. “Take him down to the old hammam,” she said. “I’ll be along shortl
y.”

  The Berber nodded and withdrew.

  Farouk raised an eyebrow. “Have we time for this, lady?”

  “For this?” The Gazelle’s eyes were cold and savage. “For this, we make time!”

  “Who is that man, mistress?” Yasmina asked.

  “One of those who have been hunting me.” Zaynab turned to the young Egyptian, one hand cupping her cheek. “I must beg your patience, child. I know you’re anxious to return to Parysatis, but this man has information we need. Inshallah, he must be made to talk.”

  Yasmina watched the men below drag the prisoner away; her face hardened like a concrete mask, losing all hint of youth. “I have learned a great many things in the palace, mistress,” she said. “Perhaps one of them might serve to loosen his tongue.”

  21

  As Ibn al-Teymani, Assad rested his weight on his walking stick as he hobbled from the cool shade of the Gray Mosque. He did not plunge into the chaos of the broad square outside the mosque, the Bayn al-Qasrayn; rather, he skirted it and entered a narrow lane which ran along the mosque’s eastern side. Façades of stucco and carved stone thrust into the street, creating an undulating path for traffic to follow. Higher up, awnings and latticed windows from opposing buildings nearly touched, casting pools of shadow on the pavement below. Down the way, a merchant sold melons and pomegranates from the back of a pushcart.

  A sharp left brought the would-be holy man into an alley which ran behind the mosque. Here it was darker, still; a thin runnel of sewage gave the heavy air a nigh unbearable stench. The false Sufi picked his way carefully. Ahead and to his right, he caught sight of a familiar face, age seamed and russet bearded, poking around the corner of a recessed doorway: Ali abu’l-Qasim.

  “Y’Allah!” the King of Thieves muttered. He leaned against a tightly shuttered door, cutting slices from a pomegranate and eating them with his dagger. Sweet juice dribbled into his beard; a few drops spattered a sack at his feet. “I was beginning to think you may have fallen afoul of the vizier.”

  Assad grunted. “Bastard’s as blind as he is ambitious.”

  “It went well, then?”

  “Well enough.” The Assassin stripped off his cloak and dropped it on the ground; next, he kicked off his sandals and removed his belt before retrieving the sack from Abu’l-Qasim. From it, he took his trousers and his boots, his khalat and his turban, his sash and his empty sheath.

  Abu’l-Qasim bore witness to a curious transformation as Assad reversed the physical changes he had adopted as Ibn al-Teymani. He straightened his leg, massaged the kinks from the muscles of his thigh; he cracked the vertebrae of his upper back and neck, stiff from adopting a stoop-shouldered pose, and drew himself up to his full height. Within moments, the crippled holy man of the Hejaz was gone and in his wake stood a penniless freebooter, scarred and cruel. The older man shook his head in wonderment. “Did you have opportunity to present your master’s offer?”

  Assad dressed as he relayed to the King of Thieves the news of his invitation to dine at the palace. “Rashid al-Hasan has more spine than I gave him credit for. Neither is he the passive puppet from your daughter’s description. Whatever put a fire in his belly may also have caused a rift between Caliph and vizier, perhaps something wide enough to exploit.”

  “The Emerald Gate, after evening prayer,” Abu’l-Qasim said, giving a low whistle. “By the Prophet! You had far better luck than I.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Nothing.” Abu’l-Qasim spat a pomegranate seed across the alley. “I found nothing, as Allah is my witness! The man you marked must have been a djinn, for he has truly vanished like smoke on a desert wind. No flesh stitcher I know, and I know them all, has bound such a wound in the past day.”

  Assad gathered up the remains of Ibn al-Teymani and thrust them into the empty bag. Last of all, he slipped his salawar free of the walking stick. Tendrils of rage and despair crawled up his arm. Gritting his teeth, Assad eyed the blade for any damage, then returned it to its accustomed sheath and settled it into his sash. “It seems the Gazelle’s attackers will remain a mystery a while longer,” he said, nodding toward the opposite end of the alley. “I’m famished. Come.”

  “What of this?” Abu’l-Qasim gestured to the bag holding the detritus of Assad’s disguise, to the hollow walking stick.

  “It has served its purpose. Besides, one cannot dine with the Prince of the Faithful looking like a vagabond. But the stick…” Assad looked around until he found a long horizontal crevice running along the base of the alley wall—one easily enlarged by gouging his booted toe into the mudbrick. Whole chunks crumbled and flaked away. Kneeling, Assad tucked the walking stick into the crevice and replaced the shattered bits of brick. “I will return for it tonight.”

  Nodding, Abu’l-Qasim shied his half-eaten pomegranate down the alley and sheathed his knife. He wiped his hands down the front of his khalat. “I wonder what Zaynab and your Persian have discovered, eh?”

  “Allah only knows.”

  22

  The stifling heat of midday did not reach into the heart of the King of Thieves’ sanctuary; here, beneath six generations of stone, brick, and stucco, the vaults of the old hammam remained cool and moist. Farouk shivered, his nose wrinkling at the stink of pigeon droppings and mildew. High above, a chink in the stone allowed a shaft of sunlight in—and gave egress to the birds nesting in the rafters. In hurried whispers, Zaynab recounted how men had been asking after her, and how Assad had trumped their offer of a bounty by proposing one of his own. Ever greedy, Cairo’s beggars moved fast.

  Their prisoner sat in that diamond of pale light, in a straight-backed chair with his hands bound at his back. Farouk watched him closely. He had a clean-shaven face as hard and angular as a bronze mask but he was no eunuch, and the dark gold of his close-cropped hair hinted at origins other than Aleppo. Frankish blood, Farouk decided. But it was the prisoner’s manner—cold and collected—that gave the Persian pause. He has no fear. Another man would be begging for his life. Why not this man?

  A pair of Abu’l-Qasim’s Berbers stood near; with them, the two beggars who brought the man to Zaynab. Both were barefoot and clad in ill-fitting rags. They bowed gracelessly at the Gazelle’s approach.

  “You have my thanks, my friends,” she said, and gestured to one of the Berbers. “Follow him and he will take you back to the courtyard. Partake of some wine, some food, and I will be up shortly so that we might settle our accounts.” The men murmured their assent; as they left, their eyes slid to the prisoner. One of the beggars grinned, no doubt finding macabre humor in the poor fellow’s plight.

  Zaynab turned to the prisoner. “I am pressed for time, so let us cut to the chase: who sent you? Give me a name, my old friend—for you said we are old friends, did you not? Give me the name of the man you serve, give me his location, and your end will be swift and painless.”

  Nothing. The man simply looked at them each in turn.

  “Fetch irons and a brazier of coals,” Yasmina offered. She matched his blank stare with one of her own. “Start with the left eye. By the time you move to the right, you will have all the answers you require, mistress.”

  “Obstinate fool!” Zaynab snapped. “Do you understand the boon I’m offering? You will not leave this place alive! Answer truthfully and I will have my man dispatch you with all the mercy you would have denied me! But, play games and I swear—as Allah is my witness—she will make sure you linger for days! What say you, now?”

  Still, the prisoner made no response; he stared at her, pale eyes lit from within by the fires of fanaticism. Pale eyes … eyes … of course! His eyes! Farouk leaned closer to Zaynab. “Notice his eyes, lady,” he said.

  “What about them?”

  “You said your informant made special mention of them, that one was infected. Look at him. This man’s eyes are healthy. Those beggars are playing you for a fool, lady. He cannot possibly be our Aleppan seller of carpets.”

  Zaynab frowned. “Then who�
��?”

  “You have a keen sense for detail, Persian,” the prisoner said, lips curling into a sneer. “Your Emir should be commended. Where is he? Where is the Emir of the Knife? I would speak with him.”

  Farouk cast an uneasy glance at Zaynab. “How do you know I am not the Emir?”

  “Like recognizes like, Persian. You are no killer, nor are these two.” He nodded to Zaynab and her Berber guard. “The girl, though…” His hot stare traveled up and down Yasmina’s body, bringing a flush of color to her cheeks. Zaynab stepped in front of the prisoner.

  “Which means you are a killer, I take it?”

  “Ask al-Hajj. Ask the Angel of Death, for you will see him soon enough, my little Gazelle.” His patronizing smile widened.

  “You will see him before me, you murdering son of a bitch!” Zaynab whirled and snatched a curved dagger from the Berber’s sash; she lunged at the bound man. Farouk, however, caught her before she could strike him down.

  “Calm yourself, by Allah! The dog is baiting you! Think! Even if he is the one who killed your companions, will slaying him out of hand get us any closer to the answers we crave?” Unable to argue, Zaynab wrenched free of his grasp and turned away. Farouk looked at the prisoner. “That’s the question, dog! Who are you and whom do you serve?”

  “Dog, is it? I am surprised you have not pieced the answer to that together yet, brother. Let me help you. Who else besides Alamut employs men skilled enough to hunt their prey with such stealth and cunning? Who else would slay the followers of a feckless boy but the followers of one who seeks to supplant his leadership? Who else, brother…?”

  Farouk’s face grew pale; he cursed.

  “Yes,” the prisoner gloated. “You see it now, don’t you? You merely needed a nudge in the proper direction.”

  “Cursed swine!” Farouk hissed, tearing the knife from Zaynab’s fist. “I’ll take care of this one! Send your father’s men to kill the other two, the ones claiming to be beggars! Quickly, before it’s too late!”