by Oden, Scott
“Do you believe what you say,” a voice said from the darkness behind him, “or do you simply parrot what others have told you?”
The young soldier wheeled, his hand going to the worn hilt of his sword—a fine Turkish saber that had once belonged to his father. Unlike his mail hauberk, looted from the body of a dead infidel, the sword was well tended. “Who’s there?”
The man who emerged from the shadow had the woolen cloak of a Sufi wrapped around his thin shoulders; his beard was sparse and gray, and from beneath a tattered green turban a tangle of silver hair fell to his shoulders. His eyes were sharp but not unkind.
“You should not be up here, old father,” the soldier said. He relaxed his guard but his hand remained perched on his saber’s pommel.
“Answer my question. Do you believe what you say?”
The young soldier exhaled; he glanced through an embrasure at the lights of the Nazarene camp below and spat. “I would not say such things if I did not believe them.”
“You are not like these others, are you?”
The soldier’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You appreciate the artistry if it. Of this. The artistry of death. Nay, boy, do not look at me so. I have seen this appreciation enough in my life to recognize it for what it is, though it has never plagued me as it must plague you.”
The young soldier turned fully toward the embrasure. On the plains below the walls the hellish machines of the Templars swarmed with workers; lanterns and torches bobbed as Genoese engineers inspected ropes and capstans, gears and winches, preparing for the Infidel king of Jerusalem’s order to resume the bombardment. Above their heads, the black-and-white standard of the Temple fluttered. “I cannot control this, these machines. They kill without rhyme or reason. But in the breach, facing the blades of my enemy, I am in control. When the spears shiver and the swords clash, my fate resides here”—he raised his right fist—“and not in the lap of some uncaring God.”
“I have seen you at the walls, boy,” the old Sufi said. “Where you go, men die. But it is not enough for you, is it?”
The soldier looked away from the Nazarene camp, turning around to face the torn and bloody heart of Ascalon. The near-constant bombardment from the Templar machines had toppled minarets and cracked open domes; once pleasant gardens yet smoldered, embers gleaming like the eyes of ghuls amid the wreckage. “What honor is there in death when it serves no higher purpose?”
“My master believes in the same things. Oh, he could make much of you, my boy. From you he could forge a weapon that would strike fear into the enemies of Islam, both within and without. He could give you such a purpose as you have never dreamed of.”
“Who is your master?”
The Sufi leaned closer. “He is a shaykh of storied lineage who dwells on a mountaintop by the shores of the Caspian Sea, and he would very much like you to live, my young lion…”
5
“Assad?”
The Assassin’s eyes snapped open, his hand falling to the pommel of his salawar. The tang of hatred flowing from the ivory hilt brought with it a sense of crystalline awareness. He reclined still on the divan, on the dead vizier’s favorite portico. Outside, night had fallen …
“Assad? Are you here?” He recognized the voice. It belonged to the Circassian amir, Massoud. An instant later, the man’s silhouette loomed in the open archway of the portico.
“Aye,” Assad replied, forcing his hand to let go of the blade. “I’m here.” He swung his long legs off the divan and stretched, rolling his shoulders and cracking the tendons in his neck. He reached for his sash and turban. “What goes? Is there something wrong with the Caliph?”
“No, the Prince of the Faithful is resting, finally. The Lady Parysatis watches over him, and the White Slaves of the River guard his chambers, as well they should.” Pale light flared as a slave shuffled in front of Massoud, carrying an oil lamp of blown glass and gold to a low table by the divan—a table strewn with pieces from a shatranj board. The slave set the lamp down, but the Circassian waved him away before he could gather up the fallen game pieces. “Leave us.”
“If all is well, then why are you here?”
“I bring a message.”
“From?”
Massoud tugged at a scrimshaw bead woven into the end of his mustache. “Ali abu’l-Qasim. You know him?”
“The self-appointed King of Thieves,” Assad said, a faint smile touching his lips. “Yes, I know him.”
“One of his Berbers waited most of the day to get into the palace, and he was only allowed through al-Mansuriyya Gate because my name was invoked. When I went to investigate, he told me he carried a message from Abu’l-Qasim for the Sufi, Ibn al-Teymani.”
“Where is this message?”
Massoud fished a square of paper from inside the breast of his jazerant and handed it to Assad. It bore a seal of red wax, pressed with the face of a dirham minted in the name of the Caliph. “Did you know Abu’l-Qasim’s daughter, Zaynab, whom men called the Gazelle?”
Assad broke the seal on the paper; yet he paused before unfolding it. “I knew her only in passing, but well enough to know she thought highly of you.”
“And I of her, despite her father’s unsavory reputation.”
“Her … calling, it did not give you pause?”
Massoud’s gaze softened. “I am a slave, the bastard son of a Circassian outlaw and oath breaker. Who am I to cast aspersions? No, I would have taken Zaynab as my wife if only she had permitted me. As Allah is my witness, I will miss that dear woman.” He paused. “She was…”
“Enchanting.” Assad finished for him, brows knitted in a deep frown as he remembered the silvery sound of her laughter—heard once, but impossible to forget. “She was enchanting.”
A bitter smile twisted Massoud’s thin lips. “Exactly so.” He turned and made to quit the portico for the quiet of the garden beyond, nodding to Assad. “I pray I am not the bearer of bad tidings.”
“Massoud,” Assad said. The Circassian paused, glancing over his shoulder. “Zaynab al-Ghazala’s murder will not go unanswered. You have my word on this.”
Massoud studied Assad’s scarred face. “Who are you? Not a Sufi, surely. I have never known a holy man with your skill. Nor have I known a Sufi to hate the Nazarenes with a zealot’s passion or to promise retribution for a slain courtesan. So who are you, Assad ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz, if indeed you are a true son of the Hejaz…?”
“It is enough that I am a friend.”
His gaze inscrutable, Massoud stared at Assad for a moment longer before simply shrugging and stepping out into the garden.
By the light of the oil lamp, Assad read Abu’l-Qasim’s message. The script was formal, a scribe’s hand, and the missive itself was predictably terse and without embroidery:
More blood has spilled.
Return to the caravanserai with all possible haste.
Assad’s eyes narrowed to slits of cold black fire. He read it once more, then reached out and touched a corner of the paper to the flickering flame in the oil lamp. Its edge blackened, charred, and crumbled to ash. He let the burning note fall to the stone flags and finished dressing.
Massoud tarried in the garden, leaning against the bole of a willow tree and staring off into the star-flecked heavens. He turned at the sound of Assad’s approach.
“I have business I must attend to outside the palace,” Assad said, settling his long Afghan blade into the sash about his waist. He clapped Massoud on the shoulder as he passed. “Can I expect trouble at the gates?”
“I will ensure the guards know your name, and know not to restrict your comings and goings. For now, use al-Yazuri Gate; it is closest and my own men command it this night. Is there aught else I can do?”
Assad stopped, turned back to the Circassian. Dappled moonlight filtered through the willow boughs, shadow and silver light playing across the hard planes of the Emir of the Knife’s visage. There was no compassion in his dark eyes, n
o sense of warmth or human empathy. “Guard the Caliph as though your life depends upon it.”
6
From al-Yazuri Gate, which opened on the neighborhood of Barqiyya, Assad made his way south and west, crossing the nigh deserted Qasaba even as the final adhan of the evening drifted out from the minarets of al-Azhar Mosque. The sonorous call to prayer echoed from quarter to quarter; it whispered down wide streets and noisome alleys. It rang across empty rooftops and off shuttered windows, through souks and stalls where on any other evening merchants would have clamored for the night’s last custom. As Assad reached the road leading to the Nile Gate, the final stanza of the adhan faded and Cairo fell silent once again, a city afraid to move, afraid to breathe—afraid the slightest misstep would spark a holocaust of bloodshed and retribution among its factions. Cairo, Assad reckoned, had grown afraid of itself.
Sullen light, like the glow of banked embers, seeped from a handful of windows in the upper stories of the caravanserai of Abu’l-Qasim. Its tall doors were open despite the sense of imminent doom gripping the city, and to the right and left mail-clad Berbers stood sentinel. Others walked the roofline—hawk-eyed mercenaries whose skill with the bow was second only to that of the Turk. Their vigilance gave Assad the impression Ali abu’l-Qasim was bracing for an attack. More blood has spilled, the message had said. But how much more?
The Assassin approached the door wardens, ignoring the spears they leveled at his breast. “Fetch your master,” he snapped. “Tell him his guest has returned.” The guards relayed his message and without delay he was ushered into the courtyard, where the pillow-strewn carpets and divans were devoid of their usual complement of beggars—though Assad counted a score of armed Berbers, marking time like men awaiting orders to move. Abu’l-Qasim’s blue-turbaned spymaster hustled out from an interior room and greeted Assad with a flurry of hand-wringing and exhortations to Allah. He was a squint-eyed son of the Banu Zuwayla, local Arabs who had lived in the shadow of the Muqattam Hills long before the first Fatimids had arrived.
“Come quickly,” he said, as breathless as a sprinter. “You were expected much earlier in the day! Hurry, effendi, I beg of you! Inshallah! Perhaps there is still time!”
“What goes?”
“Hurry! La ilaha illa’llah, Muhammadun rasul Allah!”
The Arab retraced his steps, nigh dragging Assad through the carpeted halls to a closed door near stairs leading to the upper floors. He rapped once then pushed the door open, revealing a small, bright chamber—a sitting room with reed mats and carpets, lit by three copper stands wrought to resemble the trunks of trees, their branches holding half a dozen glass-paned lamps apiece. The room stank of blood and sweat.
A man lay on an old divan, writhing in agony as a gray-bearded doctor carefully peeled pads and bandages of blood-soaked linen away from his abdomen, replacing them with fresh ones from a stack at his side. Abu’l-Qasim stood behind the doctor, the tick of ivory worry beads through his fingers like a metronome, marking the injured man’s final hours. The King of Thieves turned as Assad entered, a look of relief spreading across his weathered face.
“By God, man! I thought you had forsaken us!”
“I only received your message a short time gone. Did the killer return?” Assad moved closer to get a better look at the wounded man, at the ragged laceration in his belly, and found he recognized the fellow’s blood-streaked visage.
“Musa? What the devil happened, Abu’l-Qasim?”
“My guards found him like this before dawn this morning, on the street outside the caravanserai. He would not say much beyond that he had to speak to you. Though I fear you’ve come too late.”
“Give us a moment.” Nodding, Abu’l-Qasim helped the old doctor to his feet and guided him to the door. Assad knelt by Musa’s side and grasped the beggar’s gory hand. “Musa. Who did this to you?”
Musa’s one good eye fluttered open. “A-Assassin?” he whispered.
“I’m here. Who did this?”
“The girl—the girl, but no matter—listen, Assassin! I found it! I found—found the Heretic’s lair! I found it!” Musa shivered. The words came with tremendous effort; his narrow face was pale as a winding sheet, and a froth of blood and spittle matted his beard. “F-found … it!” The beggar snagged a handful of Assad’s khalat, using it to pull himself closer. “F-found—found him in the—in the F-Foreign—”
“In the Foreign Quarter? Yes?” Assad said. “But where?”
Musa nodded. His breath was coming in ragged gasps now. The resolve that had kept him alive throughout the day was rapidly fading. He muttered something. Assad leaned closer. “M-Maydan … al-Iskander! D-do you … do you k-know it?”
“I do.” Assad remembered the place from his childhood—a square in the heart of the Foreign Quarter where his mother once washed linens for the wife of a Greek merchant.
The beggar drew a racking breath. “B-beneath … look beneath…”
Assad frowned. “Beneath?”
“L-look … beneath!” A spasm racked Musa’s tortured frame; he exhaled, bubbles of blood breaking on his lip, and abruptly the hard pain-etched lines scoring his face softened as he gave in to Death’s embrace. Assad eased Musa’s body back down on the divan and stood. Abu’l-Qasim rejoined him.
“May Allah bless and preserve him. He was a good man.” Abu’l-Qasim glanced sidelong at the silent Emir. “What were his last words?”
“None of your concern. Bury him, Abu’l-Qasim. Mourn him, mourn your daughter, and live out the rest of your days as you will. I thank you for your hospitality, but our business is done.” Assad turned for the door. Bristling with menace, the King of Thieves stepped into his path.
“No, our business is far from done. What did Musa say? Did he tell you who killed him? Was it this Heretic? It was, wasn’t it? By Almighty God! I will have the swine’s head!”
“I said”—Assad’s eyes narrowed to slits—“it’s not your concern.”
“Where is he? You said earlier he was in the Foreign Quarter! Where?” Recklessly, Abu’l-Qasim touched his hand to the pommel of his curved knife. “I will not ask you again! A word from me and my Berbers will—”
The Emir of the Knife moved like the flicker of summer lightning. Without warning, he drove one iron fist into Abu’l-Qasim’s belly. Air whuffed from the Arab’s lungs; wide-eyed, the older man staggered and fell against the wall. Steel rasped on leather. Before the King of Thieves could recover, before he could draw his own dagger, the cold touch of Assad’s salawar at his throat wrenched a gasp from his bearded lips. Sudden terror robbed Abu’l-Qasim of his voice. His limbs froze; it was all he could do to meet the Assassin’s gaze, dark eyes smoldering with volcanic fury.
“Another word from you and you’ll take your next breath in hell. I have been patient with you, Abu’l-Qasim, out of respect for your daughter. But my patience has its limits. For the last time: forget the Heretic. I say my master’s claim on him far outstrips the claim of any grieving father. He has spilled the blood of al-Hashishiyya, and for that—for that alone—he will pay.” Assad bore down on the blade until a thin ribbon of blood welled up beneath its edge. “And if you cross me one more time, if you interfere in my business, by my oath to Alamut—the next time we meet will be your last day above the earth. Do you understand?”
“Y-yes,” Ali abu’l-Qasim managed, his tongue cleaving to his palate. He sagged, shaking visibly, as Assad withdrew the blade from his throat. The older man’s legs gave way and he sank to the floor with a desolate sob, head cradled in his hands. Abu’l-Qasim was as brave as any three men, but the kiss of age-haunted steel unmanned him. He understands, now, that there are things worse than death.
Nodding, Assad sheathed his salawar and turned again for the door. “I bid you farewell and long life, O Malik al-Harami.”
7
Seven men. Seven devils, their foul breath hot against her skin. Seven twisted faces blurred by the rank sweat dripping into her eyes. Features engorged with lust,
they grunted and howled like beasts as they violated her in every way. Again and again she felt their callused hands clawing at her breasts; they slapped her, their nails tearing and ripping as they wrenched her thighs apart. Again and again they drove into her, filling her with white-hot agony, pounding her bruised pelvis until the last dram of their molten seed spilled across her belly …
“What is your name?”
The sorcerer’s voice cut through a haze of pain. Yasmina lay on her side, naked and shivering on the cold stone floor. One eye fluttered open; the other was matted shut with blood. She saw the hem of a man’s dark robe enter the periphery of her vision. “Please,” she whimpered. “N-no more…”
“Then answer me without fail. What is your name, child?”
“Yas … Yasmina.”
“Sit up, Yasmina,” he said.
The girl raised herself up on one elbow, stopping as sharp jags of pain flared in her hips and lower back. She sobbed. “I c-can’t.”
“You must. If you cannot sit, you cannot stand; if you cannot stand, you cannot walk—and if you cannot walk, what use are you to me? I may as well call my men back and let them resume their sport…”
“No,” Yasmina said. “P-please, no more.” She bit her lip against the agony and slowly levered herself into a kneeling position, like a supplicant, her weight supported on her arms. Her thighs were slick with blood. Pale and sweating, she glared at the sorcerer through the black veil of her hair.
The man nodded. “Good. Have you become acclimated to your new life, Yasmina?”
“W-what?”
“This … your new life. Do you find it agreeable?”
Yasmina cringed, squeezing her eyes tight against a fresh flood of tears. “No…”
“A shame.” The sorcerer tsked. “They will return, those men, and they will not leave until they have slaked their lusts. What will you do, child, when the act of rape grows too commonplace for them? What will you do when they decide to explore new and more inventive ways to sate themselves—to practice on you such obscene perversions as to make the fabled whores of Babylon hide their faces in humiliation?”