by Oden, Scott
“Secure those gates, brother,” Massoud said as they parted company. “Keep the Sudanese out and Jalal in. If it is Allah’s will, by dawn the Caliph will be in control of Cairo once more.”
“Inshallah, brother,” the Turk replied. “Inshallah.”
Through this exchange, Parysatis noticed Yasmina sitting in the corner on the room’s only stool. Lines of worry etched the girl’s forehead; every time the door creaked open she leaned forward in anticipation, praying for the sight of the Gazelle’s familiar face rather than yet another green-girdled messenger. Parysatis went to her side.
“Something’s wrong,” the Egyptian whispered. “Something must have happened after I left her.”
Parysatis draped an arm around the girl’s trembling shoulder. “I’m sure it’s nothing. She—”
Behind them, the door opened again. Parysatis felt Yasmina stiffen; she turned and followed the Egyptian’s frightened gaze. Standing in the door was Sayeed, the officer Massoud had sent out to find the Gazelle; his face was shroud pale.
The Circassian amir took note of the man’s expression and frowned. “Well?”
“T-the Gazelle, amir,” the officer stammered. “S-she … she’s dead!”
“What?” Massoud recoiled as if struck, his sheathed saber rattling against the table’s legs as he steadied himself against its edge. “What do you mean she’s dead? That’s impossible! When? How…?”
“Sometime after the noon prayer, amir. Murdered by an intruder, I was told.”
In the corner, Parysatis gasped; she turned to comfort Yasmina. The girl’s lips had gone bloodless, and she clenched her hands into fists, whitened knuckles audibly cracking as she fought to stave off her anguish. All to no avail. Yasmina screamed—a bestial cry that was equal parts grief and rage. She came off the stool and shook herself free of Parysatis’s arm. Before the older woman could stop her, the Egyptian barged out the door, shoving the officer, Sayeed, aside in her haste.
“Yasmina! Wait!” Parysatis made to follow, but Massoud caught her arm before she crossed the threshold of the door. “Yasmina!” She struggled in the amir’s grip, her face a mask of desperation. “Let go of me!”
“Give the girl into Allah’s keeping,” the grim-eyed Circassian said.
“She’s liable to do something foolish! The Gazelle was—”
“The Gazelle can no longer vouch for you, can she?” Massoud’s free hand fell to the well-worn hilt of his saber. “Perhaps her murder is as it seems, a tragic coincidence, or perhaps it isn’t. Regardless, there’s too much at stake. You’re not leaving my side until I can be certain this is not part of some elaborate ruse. Allah will keep your girl safe, if that be His will. Come, it’s time we were away.”
Parysatis sagged in his grasp, the fight gone out of her. Maybe this was for the best. Grief-stricken or not, wherever it was Yasmina headed must surely be safer than the palace …
5
Jalal’s footsteps rang against cold marble. The vizier walked the floor, a minuscule speck of life beneath the soaring dome of the Golden Hall of al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah, in the shadow of the Seat of Divine Reason. With each pass, he allowed his eyes to drift up to the Caliph’s throne. My throne! By sunrise, that foolish boy will be dead and I will be Sultan! Sultan Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman of Cairo! Jalal stopped. His chest expanded as a sense of euphoria flowed through his limbs. He could feel it, the breath of much-anticipated victory like a Nile breeze against his fevered skin; its proximity wrapped him in its seductive embrace, granting him the confidence to step forward and set his foot on the lowest course of the dais upon which was raised the hallowed throne.
This was how Mustapha found him—beginning his inexorable climb from vizier to Sultan. “Excellency,” the old eunuch said, bowing.
“Things are in place?”
Mustapha nodded. “They are, Excellency. All our players, those both willing and not, have taken their marks. The Caliph sits with his guest, Turanshah has withdrawn his Jandariyah from their posts, and as we speak a few of my trusted brothers are listening for the sounds of a struggle. Now, it is merely a function of patience.”
“Patience!” Jalal said. He stared up at the white-brocaded throne, its gold fittings and ivory trim gleaming in the light of countless lamps. So close! “Yes, virtuous patience. We’ve come far together, have we not?”
“We have, Excellency.”
Jalal pried his gaze from the throne and turned to face the old eunuch. “And what price for your years of loyalty? What reward would you ask of me?”
Mustapha smiled, lines of age and weariness crinkling his eyes. “To serve you has been reward enough, Excellency. But I would not refuse your generosity if it took the form of a small palace of my own and perhaps slaves to see to my needs, so I might pass my remaining years in comfort.”
“That’s all?” Jalal raised an eyebrow. “A small palace and a handful of slaves? Surely you desire something more?”
The old eunuch shrugged. “Anything more I leave to your discretion, Excellency. Or should I say, Sultan?”
Jalal flashed a shark-toothed smile. “You are as wise as you are cunning, my old darling. But let us not get too far ahead of ourselves. Return to your post and keep me informed. I want to know when the deed is done.” The vizier returned his attention to the Seat of Divine Reason—as cold and gleaming as a distant star.
Mustapha bowed and withdrew.
“Sultan,” Jalal hissed; the word echoed about the Golden Hall, becoming a roar of approbation as the vizier raised himself the next step up on the dais …
6
“Al-Hashishiyya!” Caliph Rashid al-Hasan recoiled from the false Sufi, from the man who called himself Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz. Blood drained from the young man’s features. “You’re … You’re an Assassin!”
Assad laid his disguised salawar across his knees. “I am, but I mean you no harm, my lord. I come in peace with offers of aid and friendship from my lord, the Hidden Master of Alamut.”
At first, the Caliph did not respond. All he knew of al-Hashishiyya came from the lurid stories his father’s ministers had told—tales of wild-eyed daggermen, fanatics who sprang upon their unwitting victims and sliced them to ribbons even as they themselves paid the ultimate price. From their near-legendary fortress of Alamut, agents of al-Hashishiyya sowed terror across the Moslem world, exacting tribute from princes and kings and silencing any opposition with the threat of sudden, gruesome death.
Now, an emissary of that reviled sect sat beside him, presenting a strange contrast to the tales Rashid had heard. This man, this Assassin, had nothing of the fanatic about him; his eyes were as clear and reasonable as those of a trusted jurist, his manner no less calm. Still, as his disguise sloughed away, the Caliph sensed an undercurrent of violence in him, a savage and pitiless nature held in check by the slender bonds of civility. I come in peace, he had said, with offers of aid and friendship. And, by Allah, Rashid al-Hasan believed him.
“I do not understand,” the Caliph said. “Why would your master wish to aid me? The Fatimids broke with al-Hashishiyya in my grandfather’s day.”
“Must that always be the case? For his part, the Hidden Master would prefer to see the animosity between Cairo and Alamut come to an end. Too long have our true enemies united while we have done nothing but revel in our division, fighting a war for succession that no longer holds any meaning. My master believes enough is enough, my lord. You and he are akin in age, and he fancies your goals are not too dissimilar from his own: to cast down your Sunni rival in Baghdad, to drive the Turks back beyond the Black Sea, and to reclaim Jerusalem from the Infidel. Is he wrong in this, my lord?”
“No,” Rashid al-Hasan said; his brows knitted in a contemplative frown. “No, he is not wrong. I would see those selfsame objectives come to fruition, as well. But … how? My vizier—”
“Your vizier,” Assad put in, with heat, “has betrayed your trust, my lord! Do you remember a man called Dirgham?”
T
he Caliph scowled. “He was Jalal’s predecessor, but he is dead these past three years. Killed as he attempted a palace coup.”
“Dead? No, my lord. That’s another of Jalal’s lies. Dirgham has been living in exile at Damascus. As we speak, he marches on Cairo with the full support of Sultan Nur ad-Din … and with the support of his army. Worse yet, Jalal plots against him—and against you—with the Infidel King of Jerusalem, who has dispatched an army of his own. It is only a matter of days until both forces reach Cairo.”
“Allah!” Rashid al-Hasan muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Are you certain?”
“I am,” Assad said. “It was overheard coming from the vizier’s own lips by a woman of your harem. She relayed it to another of my master’s servants, and it came thence to me. What’s more, I believe the man killed in your presence this morning may have been trying to warn you.”
“Harun al-Gid.” The young man looked up, pain and anger clouding his eyes. “Yes, he told me I must not trust my vizier. This is ill news, my friend. How can I fight one army, let alone two? Must I throw myself on Damascus’s mercy to keep the Frankish dogs at bay?”
“Let me remove your most immediate threat, my lord. Give me your blessing and I will dispose of Jalal this very night, along with those army commanders and chamberlains not expressly loyal to you. Once your position is secure then, perhaps, Allah will reveal to you the proper course of action. I need only your approval to set things in motion.”
“My approval?” The Caliph laughed, a grim sound bereft of humor. “Why not? Dirgham has allied himself with Damascus and Jalal with Jerusalem. Why should I not ally myself with the killers of Alamut? Go, then. You have my—”
Assad raised his hand, a curt gesture that prompted the younger man to silence. The Assassin frowned; he cocked his head, listening … and heard the distinct rasp of stone on stone, followed by the rustle of cloth and the thump of boot heels on the springy turf of the courtyard. “Your palace has too many ears, my lord.” The muscles of Assad’s sword arm ridged and corded as he grasped the pommel of his salawar.
“By Allah!” A sudden gust of anger played across the young Caliph’s face. “I am weary of this! You there, out in the courtyard! Stop this slinking about and come forward this instant! Do you hear me? I said—”
In answer, an apparition loomed from the darkness. Rashid al-Hasan had the impression of swirling white fabric, of piercing eyes hidden by a cowl, and of steel flashing in a scarred fist. Assad, however, saw something else, something sewn onto the white cloth that wrenched from him a sulfurous oath.
The bloodred cross of the Order of the Temple.
“Keep still, Saracen!” The intruder’s voice grated as he strode forward, sword rising in anticipation of a killing blow. “God wills it!”
God wills it! Assad remembered that same cry drifting through the scarlet streets of Ascalon, after its gates had buckled and given way. God wills it! He remembered a Templar, his surcoat stained with soot and blood, crowing those words in triumph as he clutched a Moslem infant by its heels and dashed the child’s head against a wall. God wills it!
Vengeance blazed in the depths of Assad’s eyes. He lashed out with one sandaled heel to strike the low table, sending it skittering across the floor and into the Templar’s path. Dishes slid off; porcelain shattered against the marble tiles, spraying bits of untouched food about the sitting room. The intruder backpedaled as Assad sprang to his feet and bared the edge of his salawar. “Infidel!” he growled. “Will your god hear you in hell?”
“A Saracen with spleen? Ha! Your head first, then!” The Templar, Godfrey de Vézelay, gave a wild laugh and kicked the table aside. He came on in silence, his heavier sword slashing lazy patterns through the air. Though he and Assad were alike in height, the breadth of the Frank’s muscular shoulders and his longer reach gave him a natural advantage—and he knew it. Godfrey’s thin lips curled in a sneer of supreme arrogance as broadsword met salawar.
Steel crashed and slithered … and faster than the eye could follow, Assad’s riposte drew a scarlet line across the Templar’s cheek. Wild-eyed, Godfrey leaped back, fingers pressed to the stinging wound. They came away smeared with blood.
The Assassin flashed a cruel smile. “Allah wills it, dog!”
Howling with rage, the Templar hurled himself at Assad in a whirlwind of steel. Hatred backed every blow, hatred and a lust for slaughter that transcended the meeting of mere enemies. Neither man spoke; the only sounds were the scuff and stamp of their feet on the tiles, the crunch of broken porcelain, the hiss of breath between clenched teeth, and the ringing clash of blades.
Stroke followed stroke; in the close confines of the sitting room, the Templar seemed less a swordsman than a blacksmith, hammering out a staccato rhythm on the iron anvil of Assad’s guard. The heavy Frankish broadsword should have snapped the Assassin’s Afghan blade at the hilt. Yet, the salawar’s ancient Damascus steel showed barely a notch while the broadsword was fast losing its edges, its cutting surfaces growing ragged from constant punishment.
The timbre of the fight changed, suddenly. The thunderous crash of steel faded; now, the Templar’s blade only split empty air as Assad ducked and sidestepped, keeping his body in motion—and nullifying the Templar’s twin advantages of strength and reach through sheer predatory quickness. Assad feinted, lunged, and forced his Frankish enemy back to the courtyard door.
“By God,” the Templar panted, “you’re no holy man!” His cowl fell back, revealing a pockmarked visage and black hair heavy with sweat; blood dripped from his lacerated cheek to redden the breast of his surcoat. His gaze flicked to the young Caliph, on his knees and scrabbling through the riot of cushions in search of a weapon. Two long strides separated them.
Assad made no reply; he saw the Frank’s muscles tense, saw desperation gleaming in his eyes. The man sought an opening to make his move—a moment of distraction, anything. Assad obliged him. He shifted his feet, feigning to slip on a patch of greasy tile …
And with a roar like a wounded tiger, Godfrey de Vézelay, knight of the Holy Order of the Temple, sprang for the Caliph; he flung his left arm wide, intent on sweeping his seemingly off-balance foe aside. But even as he surged forward, unable to check his momentum, the Emir of the Knife was in motion. Assad ducked that wide-flung arm and drove his salawar into the Templar’s chest, just forward of his armpit. The Frank grunted as rich red gore spurted down the blade and over the Assassin’s hand.
“For Ascalon!” Assad hissed, his teeth clenching against the surge of raw, incandescent hate that flowed into his body.
Godfrey staggered and swayed. His sword clattered from nerveless fingers; a heartbeat later, he fell to his knees amid the trampled ruins of the Caliph’s dinner. The Templar rolled his eyes heavenward, his face taking on a deathly pallor. “God,” he pleaded, bubbles of blood breaking on his thin lips. “God…”
With a contemptuous shove, Assad wrenched his blade free. The Assassin staggered; panting, he knelt and wiped his salawar clean on the fallen Templar’s surcoat. A moment later he glanced up to see the Caliph, on his feet now and inching toward him.
Wide-eyed, Rashid al-Hasan’s gaze fixed on the Frankish corpse. “Merciful Allah,” he muttered, swallowing thickly. “A … a Templar … in Cairo? In my palace?”
“One of the two who arrived yesterday. Emissaries of Amalric of Jerusalem.”
The young man wiped his brow. “I am in your debt, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz—if that is truly your name.”
Assad straightened. “My enemies know me as the Emir of the Knife, my lord.” The Caliph started, evidently well aware of the reputation associated with that moniker. “But you may call me Assad, if it pleases you.”
“What now … Assad?”
The Assassin padded to the sitting room’s arched doorway and glanced down the long corridor, back toward the antechamber. They were alone and ominously so—thus far, the clamor of violence had drawn no one’s attention, not the eunuchs or the chamberlains
, not the stewards or even the guards. “If that old snake Mustapha heard the clap of your hand earlier, how is it he did not hear the racket this infidel made?”
“Shall I summon him?”
“No,” Assad replied, turning. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “It must be a part of the vizier’s game. How long they plan to ignore sounds of a struggle I cannot say, but I imagine it won’t be much longer. We need to find a safe place for you, my lord. Somewhere beyond Jalal’s reach.”
Rashid al-Hasan exhaled. “Does such a place even exist?”
“Outside these walls,” Assad said, softly yet in earnest, “men of every stripe revere you as Caliph, my lord. They praise you as the Prince of the Faithful, and consider your voice to be the voice of the Prophet. If I can get you out from under the vizier’s thumb, then I have little doubt the multitudes of Cairo will protect you from harm—at least long enough to allow me to finish my sworn task. And after I’ve disposed of Jalal and his faction, his ministers and his sycophants, these selfsame multitudes will make short work of any who hasn’t sworn allegiance to you. First, though, we must quit the palace.” Assad stepped into the courtyard, pausing to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. The sickle moon lent the night a faint sheen of silver. “Keep an eye on that corridor, my lord.”
“Wait,” the Caliph called after him. “There’s no way out through there. The only other door leads to my bedchamber.”
“That may be, but the Nazarene got in somehow and I doubt he planned to linger once the deed was done. Nor can I see a dozen Jandariyah, plus assorted menials, being trusted to keep the truth of your murder a secret. No, my lord, his escape is somewhere in this courtyard. Bide a moment.”