by Oden, Scott
Nothing.
Then, nodding to himself, he bared the edge of his salawar …
13
“Amalric…”
The King of Jerusalem stirred on his divan and jerked awake, drawn from his exhausted slumber by … by what? By a disembodied voice? Or was it simply the soft cry of a bird coming from somewhere outside his pavilion? Regardless, the blond-bearded monarch yawned and rubbed his bloodshot eyes.
The silken walls of the king’s pavilion soughed and sighed; poles of carved cedar creaked in the soft night breeze. A small golden lamp, its wick burning sweet-scented oils, cast a flickering glow over carpets and velvet tapestries, over a desk laden with books and papers and a wooden stand supporting the royal panoply. Impenetrable shadows danced in the corners of the pavilion.
Seeing nothing amiss, Amalric was on the verge of rolling over and surrendering once more to sleep’s embrace when a tiny imperfection—a thing out of place—caught his attention. He blinked, looked again. If his thick-nasaled helmet, with its circlet of gold, was resting atop the wooden stand, then what was that sitting on the edge of his desk?
The King grunted and clambered to his feet, naked but for a long shirt. He shuffled over to his desk. Rubbing his eyes once more, he stared down at the object someone had left for his perusal.
An object that dripped blood.
Amalric recoiled. “Christ and the Saints…!”
It was a man’s head. What’s more, the King recognized its waxen countenance, though slack and colorless in death: Arnaud de Razès. A cry of alarm rose into the King’s throat, but before he could give tongue to it a shape boiled from the shadows at his back. It struck him across the shoulders, a massive weight that drove him to his knees. Amalric felt iron fingers knotting in his hair … and he felt the cold touch of steel at his neck.
Something clawing and horrible fluttered down his spine, something that did not care that he was a king of men—something that stripped away his courage even as it settled in the pit of his stomach. He dared not utter so much as a whisper for fear of angering it even further. The King’s eyes rolled heavenward.
“Speak,” a voice hissed in his ear, “and Jerusalem will be poorer by a king. I bring you a message and a warning from my master, a shaykh of storied lineage who dwells on a mountaintop by the shores of the Caspian Sea. He bids me tell you, Malik al-Morri, that Egypt is not for you. Leave here. Cease your foolish struggle and be content with what lands you possess. That is my master’s message. His warning is thus: should you force his hand, should you ignore his wise counsel, should even the least of your siege engines come within sight of Cairo’s walls, then he will send me unto you once more—and the head I take then will not be the head of some God-cursed Templar, but rather one of royal blood. Perhaps yours … perhaps your son’s. Do you believe I speak the truth?”
Amalric swallowed hard; slowly, he nodded.
“Pray, then, O King of the Latin Franks. On your son’s life, pray your God grants you wisdom and health, for if I return you will have neither.”
The King felt the steel lift from his neck; he felt the fingers loosen their hold on his scalp. Velvet hangings rustled. On the soft carpets, faced by the severed head of the Master of the Temple, Amalric remained kneeling, not daring to move until the unaccustomed spasm of fear passed.
Quietly, he prayed …
14
The splash of water, louder than the familiar burble of his fountain, easily roused Rashid al-Hasan from his bed. A tomblike silence had settled over the East Palace during the night; the White Slaves of the River did their diligence, patrolling its halls and arcades, its plazas and gardens. Handpicked cadres stood rigid guard over the gates while, across the Bayn al-Qasrayn, the West Palace was ablaze with light and raucous noise. Turkomans mingled with Sudanese, with Syrians. They drank to the shades of the dead, to the health of the wounded, and to the victory of their commander.
Already, the Prince of the Faithful sensed the walls of ambition rising around the hero of the hour, the swaggering Kurd, Shirkuh. Let him have his triumph, Rashid had decided, retiring to his apartments where an anxious Parysatis awaited him. They passed the night in conversation, only withdrawing to their separate beds when her kohl-rimmed eyes became heavy with sleep.
Rashid’s own slumber had been fitful, at best—his dreams haunted by the faces of men slain in his name, by the groans and pleas of the injured soldiers who returned by the wagonload from the field of slaughter. Not even Parysatis’s soothing presence could allay his nightmares.
Now, repeated splashing piqued the Caliph’s curiosity. He rose and drew on a silken robe. Gray light filtered through the lattice-worked doors leading out to his garden; tendrils of morning mist drifted under the threshold to dampen the tiles of his floor. Shivering, Rashid al-Hasan eased open the doors and stepped into a world of fleece and velvet.
Dawn was not far off, and a heavy fog reeking of the Nile lay over the domes and minarets of Cairo. The Caliph walked barefooted in the wet grass until he could see the stone basin of the garden fountain.
“Assad? Is that you?”
The figure sitting on the fountain curb turned at the sound, water dripping from his fingers. “Aye, my lord. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
The younger man waved off Assad’s concern. “My sleep was disturbed long before now. Are you injured?”
Assad chuckled. “Scrapes and bruises, my lord … and a gigantic thirst.” He leaned down and scooped water into his mouth.
“I’ll have something brought—”
“Don’t bother. This water is cool enough for my needs.” Assad sighed and splashed a handful in his face, sluicing the dust from his beard. His fingers lingered over his jagged scar.
Rashid al-Hasan walked to the fountain’s edge and sat. He looked up, watching as the sky above grew light, the fog glistening and opalescent. After a moment, he said: “Your task … was it successful?”
“It was. I expect the visit I paid to Amalric, and the gift I brought him, soured the sweet nectar of victory on his lips. Unless he’s more a fool than I imagined, I suspect the Nazarene will trouble you no longer after this night.”
“Shirkuh will be crestfallen.”
Assad raised an eyebrow. “Ah, Shirkuh. And what should we do with the Kurd now that his importance to Cairo’s well-being has become moot? Should I pay him a visit, as well?”
“Not yet. I would prefer to try and deal with him myself before I resort to other means. If I could win as staunch a Sunni as Amir Shirkuh of Damascus to my cause … well, what better way to prove my worth in the eyes of Allah—and in the eyes of your master?”
Slowly, Assad nodded. “As you wish, my lord. But I will be watching him, and if Shirkuh makes one untoward move against you, then I shall do my master’s bidding and send the bastard to hell.” And with him that elusive necromancer, the Heretic’s master, he added to himself.
While either man lived, the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt was in jeopardy, body and soul. In truth, Assad reckoned the young man at his side more imperiled now than when he was at the mercy of his vizier. No longer was he merely an empty robe, an ornament waiting to be put on display by ambitious men; he was Caliph in fact as well as in name. He wielded the power in Cairo, and that alone would draw in conspirators against him as a lamp draws insects. To keep him safe, Assad would need to call upon every ounce of cunning he possessed, every trick and instinct. Everything. His hand dropped to the hilt of his salawar. Hatred coiled and seethed; tendons cracked as ancient rage threaded through muscle and sinew. I am Death incarnate, it whispered.
So am I, the Emir of the Knife replied. So am I …
Epilogue
Wheels creaked in the mist …
A laden donkey cart plodded down a narrow road, little more than a rutted trail that followed the overgrown banks of the Nile. Two men walked alongside, ragpickers from Cairo clad in tattered galabiyas, their skins burned as black as an Ethiopian’s by the relentless sun. Both were fur
tive; their eyes slipped from palm trunk to sycamore bole as if every shadow held unseen menace.
Still, for all their wariness, neither man saw the dark-cloaked figure step into the middle of the trail until their donkey balked and brayed. A second figure joined him, slender and childlike.
“Merciful Allah!” swore the taller of the two ragpickers, a man whose past transgressions had earned him a slit nose. “That’s how you get your precious throat cut!”
The newcomer ignored him. “You have brought the body.” It wasn’t a question. The ragpickers exchanged worried glances. Slit-nose shrugged; the other scratched his scraggly beard.
“Well, it’s like this: we didn’t know which body you wanted, so we just brought them all.”
“All?”
“Seven of ’em. That hole-in-the-ground you sent us to was a regular slaughterhouse.” Slit-nose shuddered. “Allah’s mercies, but I wouldn’t want to meet the devil who did that.”
“Let me see them,” the cloaked figure said.
Working in unison, the two ragpickers peeled back the splotched canvas covering the bed of their cart. The donkey shied at the sudden stench of blood, at the reek of bladder and bowel. Stacked haphazardly in the cart were seven corpses clad in black, their exposed flesh pale and waxen; one, sprawled ignominiously on top of the others, lacked a head and part of an arm, a horrible wound gaping in its chest.
The cloaked figure cursed softly, shook his head.
“This is the one. He had a knife … a Frankish dirk…”
Slit-nose grumbled and spat as he fished the hilt-shard of a broken blade from the small of his back. From his sour look it pained him to hand it over. In turn, the cloaked figure motioned for his smaller companion, who mechanically stepped forward and accepted the broken knife hilt.
“You’ll pay extra for the others?”
“You will be rewarded,” the figure said, turning away. Again, the ragpickers exchanged glances; a look of greed flickered between them. “Yasmina.”
At the mention of her name, the slender Egyptian was in motion. Her cloak fluttered from her shoulders as she darted forward, the hilt-shard a blur as it passed beneath Slit-nose’s stubbled jaw. A rooster tail of blood fountained from his now exposed jugular. Wide-eyed, he sank to his knees and clutched in vain at his slashed arteries. The second ragpicker bellowed, clawing for his knife; as his blade cleared its sheath, the girl danced close and brutally rammed the jagged shard into the hollow of his throat.
She held him upright, impaled, while he gagged and sputtered on his own blood. After a moment the ragpicker toppled, the knife-shard tearing free of his flesh. Yasmina turned to the cloaked figure of Ibn Sharr.
“Was that enough, master? Have I not proven myself…?”
Ibn Sharr stared dispassionately at the two still-quivering corpses. “Not yet, child. Perhaps in time you will have proven your worth. For now, though, we must find Ta-Djeser. Come, child.”
“What about the bodies?”
“Leave them,” Ibn Sharr said, a cryptic smile spreading across his grim countenance. “I have what I need.”
Yasmina paused. She looked back over her shoulder, past the cart and its grisly burden, past the riven corpses, and imagined she could see the gleaming palaces and mosques of Cairo. The nighted streets of the Mother of the World had taken both the mother of her flesh and the mother of her soul. And for what? Yasmina sighed. There needs must be a blood-price. A reckoning.
As Zaynab suffered, so must I … and so must they all. It is Allah’s will.
Turning, she followed the necromancer into shadow …
Also by Scott Oden
Memnon
Men of Bronze
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.
THE LION OF CAIRO. Copyright © 2010 by Scott Oden. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com
Maps by Darren Cox
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Oden, Scott.
The Lion of Cairo / Scott Oden.—1st ed.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-312-37293-4
1. Caliphs—Fiction. 2. Cairo (Egypt)—History—Fiction. 3. Assassins—Fiction. 4. Egypt—History—1250–1517—Fiction. 5. Egypt—History—1517–1882—Fiction. I. Title
PS3615.D465156 2010
813'.6—dc22
2010035896
First Edition: December 2010
eISBN 978-1-4299-2772-7
First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: December 2010