Even as close as this, there was no hint of the nauseating odor of decay, nor could the Captain detect any perfume that might have covered it. His repugnance lost in curiosity, the Captain bent down and peered inside the first litter.
His eyes opened wide.
Lying in the most peaceful attitude of repose, his hands folded over the jeweled hilt of a splendid sword, was a young man of perhaps twentyfive years of age. He was handsome, with black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. A helm carved to resemble the severed snake device lay at his feet, along with a broken sword that belonged—presumably—to the enemy who had vanquished him. Dressed in shining black armor, whose breastplate was decorated with the same design that appeared on the banners of Auda ibn Jad, the young man seemed by outward appearance to have just fallen asleep. So smooth and unblemished was the flesh, so shining black and lustrous was the hair, the Captain could not forbear stretching forth his hand and touching the white forehead.
The flesh was cold. The pulse in the neck was stilled, the chest did not move with the breath of life.
Stepping back, the Captain stared at the man in black in astonishment.
“How long has this man been dead?”
“About a month,” ibn Jad replied in grave tones.
“That—that’s impossible!”
“Not for the priests of our God, sidi. They have learned the secret of replacing the fluids of the body with fluids that can delay or completely arrest the natural process of decay. It is quite a fascinating procedure. The brains are taken out by drawing them through the nose—”
“Enough!” The Captain, paling, raised his hand. “Who is this God of yours?”
“Forgive me,” said Auda ibn Jad gently, “but I have taken a sacred vow never to speak His name in the presence of unbelievers.”
“He is not an enemy of Quar’s?”
“Surely the mighty and powerful Quar can have no enemies?” Ibn Jad raised a black eyebrow.
This statement left the Captain somewhat at a loss. If he pursued the matter of this man’s God, it would appear that the mighty and powerful Quar did indeed have something to fear. Yet the soldier felt uncomfortable in not pursuing it.
“Since your priests have conquered the effects of death, Ef- fendi,” said the Captain, hoping to gather more information, “why have they never sought to defeat Death himself?”
“They are working on it, sidi,” said ibn Jad coolly.
Nonplussed, the Captain gave up and glanced back down at the corpse of the man lying in state in the litter. “Who is he and why do you carry him with you?”
“He is Calif of my people,” answered ibn Jad, “and I have the sad task of bearing his body home to his grieving father. The young man was killed in the desert, fighting the nomads of Pagrah alongside the Amir of Kich—a truly great man. Do you know him, Captain?”
“Yes,” said the Captain shortly. “Tell me, Effendi, why is a Prince of Simdari fighting in foreign lands so far from his home?”
“You do not trust me, do you, Captain?” said Auda ibn Jad suddenly, frowning, a look in the cold eyes that made the soldier—a veteran of many battles—shudder. The Captain was about to respond when ibn Jad shook his head, putting his hands to his temples as if they ached. “Please forgive me,” he murmured. “I know you have your duty to uphold. I am shorttempered. This journey of mine has not been pleasant, yet I do not look forward to its ending.” Sighing, he crossed his arms over his chest. “I dread bringing this news to my king. The young man”—with a nod toward the corpse—”is his only son, the child of his old age at that. And now”—ibn Jad bowed gracefully—”to answer your most reasonable question, Captain. The Calif was visiting the court of the Emperor in Khandar. Hearing of the fame of the Amir, the Calif rode to Kich to study the art of warfare at the feet of a master. It was by the vilest treachery that the savage nomads killed him.”
Ibn Jad’s story seemed plausible. The Captain had heard rumors of the Amir’s attack on the nomads of the Pagrah desert. It was wellknown that the Emperor of Tarakan—a man who thirsted after knowledge as another thirsts for strong drink—encouraged visitors from strange lands who worshiped strange Gods. Yes, it was all nice and neat, so very nice and neat. . .
“What do you carry in those other two litters, Effendi?”
“Ah, here you will see a sight that will move you profoundly, sidi. Come.”
Walking over to the two litters that rested behind the first, the Captain saw—out of the corner of his eye—that his troops had almost completed their search of the caravan’s goods. He would have to make a decision soon. Admit them into the city or keep them out. Every instinct, every twitching nerve fiber in his body warned him—keep them out. Yet he needed a reason.
Glancing inside the litter, expecting to see another soldier— perhaps a bodyguard who had sacrificed his life for his master— the Captain caught his breath. “Women!” he stated, looking from one litter to the other.
“Women!” murmured Auda ibn Jad in reproof. “Say rather ‘Goddesses’ and you will come nearer the truth, for such beauty as theirs is rarely seen on this wretched plane of mortal existence. Look upon them, Captain. You may do so now, though to have set eyes upon their beauty before the death of my Calif would have cost you your life.”
A white gauze veil had been drawn over the face of each woman. With great respect and reverence, ibn Jad removed the veil from the first. The woman had classic features, but there was something about the pale, still face that spoke of fierce pride and stern resolution. Her long black hair glistened blue in the sun. Bending near her, the Captain caught the faintest smell of jasmine.
Auda ibn Jad turned to the other woman, and the Captain noticed that his touch grew more gentle. Slowly he drew back the veil from the motionless body. Gazing at the woman lying before him, the Captain felt his heart stirred with pity and with admiration. Ibn Jad had spoken truly. Never had the soldier seen a woman more beautiful. The skin was like cream, the features perfect. Hair the color and brilliance of dancing flame tumbled down over the slender shoulders.
“The wives of my Calif,” Auda said, and for the first time the Captain heard grief in the voice. “When his body was brought into the palace at Kich where they were staying, awaiting my lord’s return, they hurled themselves upon him, weeping and tearing their clothes. Before any could stop them, the one with the red hair grabbed the Prince’s sword. Crying that she could not live without him, she drove the blade into her own fair body and dropped dead at his feet. The other—jealous that the redhaired wife should reach him first in the Realm of Our God—drew a dagger she had hidden beneath her gown and stabbed herself. Both are the daughters of Sultans in my land. I bear them back to be buried with honor in the tomb of their husband.”
His head whirling from his glimpse of the beauty of the women, combined with a story of such tragedy and romance, the Captain wondered what to do. A Prince of Simdari, a friend of both the Emperor and the Amir, the body of this young man should by rights be escorted into the city. The Sultan would never forgive his Captain if, on his yearly visit to the court of Khandar, he was asked by the Emperor if he had received the funeral cortege of the Calif with honor and the Sultan was forced to reply that he knew nothing of any such cortege. In addition, was the Captain to deny his Sultan—who was always on the verge of perishing from boredom—the opportunity of meeting exotic guests, of hearing this sad tale of war and love and selfsacrifice?
The only metal the Captain had to set against all this glittering gold was plain, solid iron—an instinctive feeling of dislike and distrust for this Auda ibn Jad. Still pondering the matter, the Captain turned to find his lieutenant hovering at his elbow, the leader of the goums standing at his side.
“We have completed the search of the caravan, sir,” the lieutenant reported, “with the exception of those.” He pointed at the litters.
The leader of the goums gave a shocked yelp that was answered swiftly and sternly in their own language by Auda ibn
Jad. Even so, the leader of the goums continued to talk volubly until Auda silenced him with a sharp, angry command. Redfaced and ashamed, the goum slunk away like a whipped dog. Auda, pale with fury, yet with his temper under control, turned to the Captain.
“Forgive the outburst, sidi. My man forgot himself. It will not happen again. You mentioned searching the corpses. By all means, please proceed.”
“What was all that about, Effendi?” the Captain asked suspiciously.
“Please, Captain. It was nothing.”
“I insist on knowing—”
“If you must.” Auda ibn Jad appeared faintly embarrassed. “The priests of our God have placed a curse upon these bodies. Any who disturb their rest will die a most horrible death, their souls sent to serve the Calif and his wives in heaven.” Ibn Jad lowered his voice to a confidential whisper. “Accept my apologies, Captain. Kiber, the leader of my goums—while he is a good soldier—is a superstitious peasant. I beg you to pay no heed to him. Search the bodies.”
“I will,” said the Captain harshly.
Turning to his lieutenant to issue the order, the Captain saw by the carefully impassive, frozen expression on the soldier’s face that he had heard ibn Jad’s words quite clearly. The Captain opened his mouth. The lieutenant gave him a pleading look.
Angrily, the Captain marched over to the body of the Calif. “May Quar protect me from the unknown evil,” he said loudly, reaching forth his hand to search the mattress upon which the corpse rested. Any number of objects could be concealed in it, or beneath the silken sheet that covered the lower half of the body, or even inside the armor itself. . .
An eerie murmur, like the low whistle of a rising windstorm, caused the Captain’s hair to bristle. Involuntarily, his hand jerked back. Looking up swiftly, he saw the sound had come from ibn Jad’s goums. The men were backing away, their horses—affected by the fear of their masters—rolled their eyes and danced nervously. The slaves huddled together in a group and began to wail piteously. Auda ibn Jad, with a scowl, rounded upon them and shouted at them in his own language. From the motion of his hand, the Captain gathered he was promising them all a sound thrashing. The wailing ceased, but the slaves, the goums, the horses, and even, it seemed, the camels—beasts not noted for their intelligence—watched the Captain with an eager, anticipatory thrill of horror that was most unnerving.
Ibn Jad’s face was tense and strained. Though he was endeavoring hard to conceal his emotions, apparently he, too, was a superstitious peasant at heart. Abruptly, the Captain withdrew his hand.
“I will not disturb the honored dead. And you, Auda ibn Jad, and your men have leave to enter Idrith. But these”—he gestured at the rattan litters—”must remain outside the city walls. If they are indeed cursed, it would not do to bring them into the sacred precincts of Quar.” At least, the Captain thought grimly, he had solved that dilemma! Perhaps Auda ibn Jad and his men will take offense at this and leave.
But the man in black was smiling and bowing graciously, his fingers going to heart, lips, and forehead in the graceful salaam.
“I will order my men to guard the dead,” the Captain offered, though—glancing at his troops—he knew such an order would be unnecessary. Word of the curse would spread like the plague through the city. The most devout follower of Benario, God of Thieves, would not steal so much as a jeweled earring from the corpses.
“My grateful thanks, Captain,” said Auda, bowing again, hand pressed over his heart.
The Captain bowed awkwardly in return. “And perhaps you would do me the very great honor of accompanying me to the Sultan’s palace this evening. Affairs of state prevent His Magnificence from seeing the world, and he would be much entertained by the stories you have related to me.”
Auda ibn Jad protested that he was not worthy of such attention. The Captain patiently assured him that he was. Auda insisted that he wasn’t and continued to demur as long as was proper, then gave in with refined grace. Sighing, the Captain turned away. Having no legitimate reason to keep this man and his goums out of Idrith, he had done what he could. At least the corpses with their unholy curse would not pollute the city. He would himself take personal charge of Auda ibn Jad and order his men to keep a watchful eye upon the goums. After all, they numbered no more than thirty. The Sultan’s wives alone outnumbered them two to one. Amid the thousands of people jammed into Idrith, they would be as a single drop of rain falling into a deep well.
Telling himself that he had the situation under control, the Captain started to remount his horse. But his uneasiness persisted. His foot in the stirrup, he paused, hands on the saddle, and looked for one last time at the man in black.
Beneath hooded lids, the eyes of Auda ibn Jad were glancing sideways into the eyes of Kiber, leader of the goums. Much was being said in that exchange of glances, though probably nothing that was not of the most innocent nature. The Captain shivered in the noonday sun.
“I am,” he said grimly, “a superstitious peasant.”
Pulling himself up into the saddle, he wheeled his horse and galloped off to order the city gates be opened to Auda ibn Jad.
Chapter 2
The Sultan was—as the Captain had foreseen—charmed with Auda ibn Jad. Nothing would do but that the Sultan and his current favorites among his wives and concubines must leave the palace and traipse outside the city walls to pay homage to the dead. The women cooed and sighed over the handsome young Prince. The Sultan and the nobles shook their heads over the wasted beauty of the women. Auda ibn Jad told his story well, bringing tears to many eyes in the royal court as he related in heartfelt tones the final words of the redhaired wife as she fell dead across her husband’s body.
Following this, there was a sumptuous dinner that lasted long into the night. The wine flowed freely, much of it into the Captain’s mouth. Ordinarily, the Captain did not take to strong drink, but he felt he had to warm himself. There was something about Auda ibn Jad that chilled his blood; but what it was, the Captain couldn’t say.
Deep into his sixth cup of the unwatered vintage that came from the grapes grown in the hills above Idrith, the Captain stared at the man, seated crosslegged on silken cushions opposite him. He couldn’t take his eyes off ibn Jad, feeling himself caught by the same terrible fascination a cobra is said to exert over its victims.
It is Auda ibn Jad’s face, the Captain decided muzzily. The man’s face is too smooth. There are no lines on it, no traces of any emotion, no traces of any human feeling or passion—either good or evil. The corners of the mouth turn neither up nor down. The cold, hooded eyes narrow in neither laughter nor anger. Ibn Jad ate and drank without enjoyment. He watched the sinuous twistings of the dancing girls without lust. A face of stone, the Captain decided and drank another cup of wine, only to feel it sit in his stomach like a lump of cold clay.
At last the Sultan rose from his cushions to go to the bed of his chosen. Much pleased with his guest, he gave Auda ibn Jad a ring from his own hand. Nothing priceless, the Captain noted, staring at it with bleary eyes—a semiprecious gem whose glitter was greater than its worth. Auda ibn Jad apparently knew something of jewels himself, for he accepted it with a flicker of sardonic amusement in the cold eyes.
In answer to the Sultan’s invitation to return to the palace tomorrow, ibn Jad replied regretfully that he must not tarry in his sad journey. His king had, as of yet, no knowledge of the death of his son and Auda ibn Jad feared lest it should reach his ears from some stranger, rather than a trusted friend.
The Sultan, yawning, was very understanding. His Captain was overwhelmed with relief. In the morning they would be rid of this man and his wellpreserved corpses. Stumbling to his feet, the Captain—accompanied by a cold sober ibn Jad—made his way through the winding passages of the palace and stumbled drunkenly down the stairs. He narrowly missed tumbling headfirst into a large ornamental pool that graced the front of the palace—it was ibn Jad’s hand that pulled him back—and finally weaved his way through the various gate
s that led them by stages back into the city.
Once in the moonlit streets of Idrith, Auda ibn Jad glanced about in perplexity.
“This maze of alleys confuses me, Captain. I fear I have forgotten the way back to the arwat in which I am staying. If you could guide me—”
Certainly. Anything to get rid of the man. The Captain lurched forward into the empty street; ibn Jad walking at his side. Suddenly, inexplicably, the man in black slowed his pace.
Something inside the Captain—some old soldier’s instinct— screamed out a desperate warning. The Captain heard it, but by then it was too late.
An arm grabbed him from behind. With incredible strength, it wrapped around his neck, choking off his breath. The Captain’s fear sobered him. His muscles tensed, he raised his hands to resist. . .
The Captain felt the stinging pain of the knife’s point entering his throat just beneath his jaw. So skilled was the hand wielding the blade, however, that the Captain never felt the swift, slicing cut to follow. There was only a brief tremor of fear. . . anger. . . Then nothing.
The Captain’s body was discovered in the morning—the first in a series of grisly discoveries that left the city of Idrith in the grip of terror. Two streets over, the body of an old man was found lying in a gutter. Ten blocks to the north, a father woke to find his young, virgin daughter murdered in her sleep. The body of a virile, robust man turned up floating in a hauz. A middleaged mother of four was discovered lying in an alley.
The disciplined guards surged outside the city walls to question the strangers, only to find that the funeral cortege of Auda ibn Jad had disappeared. No one had heard them leave. The sunbaked ground left no trace of their passing. Squadrons of soldiers rode out in all directions, searching, but no trace of the man in black, his goums, or the bodies in the rattan litters was ever found.
Back inside the city, the mystery deepened. The dead appeared to have been chosen at random—a stalwart soldier; a decrepit old beggar; a beautiful young virgin; a wife and mother; a muscular young man. Yet the victims had one thing in common—the manner of their dying.
The Paladin of the Night Page 5