The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  Ghasif shook his head defiantly. “We must let the dust settle, and reevaluate our position.”

  Mukhtar became irritated again. “By which time the enemy will be stronger!” he growled. “Do you not see? The longer we wait, the more time they have to fortify. We cannot allow them to find this Keystone!”

  “We know nothing of this Keystone!” Ghasif argued.

  “How else will we know?” Mukhtar snarled at him.

  Ghasif threw his hands in the air, and Rauf intervened. “What then do you suggest?”

  “We have a name. Haim,” Mukhtar recalled the note he had taken from Ghadan. “Haim Tuma is the slave trader who captured me in the Souk. I know where to find him. We can make him speak, and learn everything we need before the dust settles.”

  Ghasif shook his head. “I will not sanction this!”

  “Then remain here with your head between your knees!” Mukhtar stood up angrily. “I will do this by myself!”

  Ghasif also stood. “You have no right!”

  “I have every right!”

  “This is not your decision to make!”

  “I do not need your sanction, nor your blessing! Nor do I ask for your assistance!”

  “We must await word from Ma’alim before we do anything further!”

  “He is your leader. Not mine!” Mukhtar lifted his cloak from the wall. “It is strange indeed for Assassins to preach freedom, yet they tie their own hands to await authority before doing what is right!”

  Angered, Ghasif took a threatening step forward, and Zaki intervened before a physical battle was fought.

  “Calm yourselves!” He stepped between them. “Our quarrels only strengthen our enemies. As much as our methods may differ, our objectives remain the same. Let Mukhtar and I pursue the slaver, while you await word from Ma’alim, and perhaps we will come to common ground. It is true; we cannot wait and allow them to fortify themselves. We have an upper hand now. We have a lead. Let us make haste.”

  It was not a favorable notion. Ghasif turned a cold shoulder, as did Rauf, and the two brothers left the cabin without another word. There was no sense in awaiting orders from an unknown master when the objective ahead was clear. Besides, Mukhtar had an ulterior motive, and he was not ashamed to show it.

  They arrived at Rayis Street just as the sun sank beyond the horizon. By the familiar alley was Ufuk’s shop of antiquities. Mukhtar and Zaki watched as the man came out, emptied the contents of his pail by the roadside, and returned, shutting the door behind him.

  At this hour, aside from the taverns and brothels, most of the populous was confined to their homes, leaving behind thieves, stragglers, beggars, and the homeless, searching for the warmest, softest corner to retreat to for the night.

  “We haven’t much time,” Mukhtar glanced around as they crossed the street. “Guards will be patrolling these streets soon.”

  Zaki acknowledged with a nod, and they entered the shop.

  “We are closed for the day,” Ufuk announced without looking at them. He was hunched over his floor-desk, scribbling in his ledger. “Return tomorrow. And unless you have coin, do not waste my time.”

  “Coin we do not have,” Mukhtar declared, “but we are interested in a trade of a much valuable nature. You come highly recommended by a mutual friend, Ghadan Lahib.”

  Ufuk looked up, his expression stony. The oil lamp beside him illuminated his wrinkly, furrowed face.

  “Our master is a wealthy son of a prominent family of Khalidah,” Mukhtar went on. “You may have heard the name of Halim Al-Kanaan?” He felt guilty using it, but it was the first name that came to mind.

  Ufuk glanced from one to the other. The suspicion in his eyes was apparent. It did not matter to Mukhtar, however. If subtlety failed, they could always resort to steel.

  “You are a friend of Ghadan’s, you say?” the merchant asked, and both Mukhtar and Zaki nodded. “Then it will grieve you to know that he passed away this morning. Murdered by one of his own men, they say. I hear the traitor was ruthlessly punished, and his corpse was buried earlier today,” he scoffed lightly, “serves him right!”

  “Indeed, we have heard the news,” Mukhtar’s fists clenched. Clearly, it had not taken long for false rumors to spread, and since they did not know who truly killed Ghadan, it was easier for the City Watch to blame Hassin. It angered Mukhtar to hear Hassin’s name soiled as a murderer. He struggled with the turmoil that arose within him, and felt Zaki’s subtle nudge to remain calm.

  They all nodded in silence, Ufuk in solemn sorrow, the brothers in pretense.

  “What is this trade your master seeks?” Ufuk offered them tea and welcomed them to sit.

  “What could be more valuable than human labor?” Mukhtar hinted.

  Ufuk raised his eyebrows. “I see. Well…” he gestured at his display of traditional pottery and a variety of artifacts and instruments, “…as you can see, I am a merchant of antiquities. Not slaves.”

  “Noble merchant, we mean you no insult,” Zaki put up a most apologetic tone. “Like you, we do not wish to draw attention. But our beloved Ghadan could not have been lying when he said that you knew a certain slave trader who could assist us.”

  “I know no such slave trader!” Ufuk shook his head, his tone becoming heavier.

  “Come now, Ufuk,” Mukhtar pleaded in a softer voice. “To call Ghadan a liar would be to insult his memory—” and he immediately noted the guilt on his face, “—but let us not trouble the spirit of Ghadan anymore—”

  “—perhaps we can come to a mutual understanding?” Zaki picked up and suggested. “Were you to merely point us in the right direction, I can assure you, our master will be most gracious.”

  The greed on Ufuk’s face became apparent. Zaki had struck the right nerve, and Mukhtar continued to build on it.

  “Halim Al-Kanaan is a most notable and influential nobleman, and we do not wish to return to him with petty excuses,” he said. “Were we to be successful and benefit from your directive, we would vow to see that you also benefit from our venture. Would it be a portion of the trade, or perhaps valuable clients from one of the most prominent families in Khalidah? We can assure you that these are a people who can make generous acquisitions on our word alone.”

  Upon hearing wondrous tales of the wealth of Halim Al-Kanaan, Ufuk became more and more receptive. He divulged more than what was expected. Mukhtar and Zaki had left him with vows upon vows and false promises of endless fortuitous ventures.

  Ufuk told them of his meeting with Haim the slave trader earlier during the day, and the most likely place to find him would be in a tavern further down the street, drowning in wine, buried in Khat and all other manner of intoxication.

  “Perfect,” Mukhtar stated. “The man does not even have the ability to control his limbs. This will be easy.”

  “Look,” Zaki pointed. Under the canvas tarps of the open tavern were other mercenaries and city guards. “He is not alone. Do not underestimate your opponent. Caution, little brother.”

  “Then we must draw him away,” Mukhtar asserted.

  “Patience,” Zaki assured him. “Sooner or later, he will come out. Let us hope our friends have followed.”

  “They could not possibly have resisted,” Mukhtar glanced over his shoulder for a moment, and turned again to watch the tavern.

  Haim was sprawled on filthy cushions, drenched in wine. Two partially clothed women indulged him in vile and wicked manners, and the brothers waited patiently with disgruntled looks. After what felt like hours, he parted himself from the women and wine, and crossed the street to relieve himself.

  Mukhtar and Zaki silently followed him into a deserted alley. The drunk slaver seemed oblivious to his pursuers, and the brothers waited until he was done before confronting him.

  In a blur of shadows, Zaki drew a dagger and pinned Haim against the mud wall of the alley. Driven by a sudden rush of adrenaline, Mukhtar drew his own dagger and joined his brother.

  “Who are your maste
rs and what do they seek?” Zaki growled. “Speak! Or I will have your head!”

  With two daggers pinned to his throat, Haim seemed to have forgone all intoxication, and for a brief moment, Mukhtar thought that he was truly intimidated. But his expression changed. His gleaming eyes narrowed, his lips curled and parted, revealing yellowed teeth. He was grinning.

  Mukhtar unhanded him and turned, dagger at the ready. Dark figures appeared at both ends of the alley, barring their path. Mukhtar counted two and three on either side.

  Zaki did not move a muscle. His dagger was still pinned against Haim’s throat, their eyes locked with hatred.

  “You should never have come here!” Haim sneered menacingly. “The Red-Guard will reward me handsomely for the head of a traitor, as will Ghuldad when I return your brother’s corpse to them!”

  Haim’s guards advanced menacingly, slowly closing in on them. The air rang with the sounds of drawn swords. Mukhtar held his dagger as firmly as he could, mustering all his strength to keep from showing fright.

  Zaki’s dagger had not moved an inch, neither had his gaze. “Are you that certain, or merely just as foolish, to think that I will withdraw my blade without parting with your head! Speak, slaver! What did Ghadan hope to find in Mika’il Abaraina’s forge?”

  Haim gave a rasping chuckle and yelled, “Kill them!”

  Acting on his order, they advanced, and Mukhtar tensed. He shifted on his feet, trying to pick out his targets.

  There was a swishing sound in the air above them, followed by an umph and a thud. The mercenary closest to Mukhtar, fell to the ground, and his companions froze. Three more arrows were fired consecutively, and three more bodies fell to the ground. Dead.

  If Mukhtar’s expression was bewildered, it was nothing compared to that of Haim. No longer grinning, his eyes darted in every direction, looking from his dead mercenaries to the night sky, and resting upon the last remaining hope he had. The lone mercenary was stupidly gaping at the top of the walls on either side, searching for the unknown archer.

  A gleam of silver flashed before his eyes. There was blood, a horrific gurgling, and the dying man was carefully laid on the ground by none other than Ghasif Majtaba himself. He then walked between the bodies, stopping at each one to shut their eyes and say a silent prayer.

  “Has he squealed?” he growled in a low voice.

  “He will now,” Zaki responded without taking his eyes off Haim.

  Haim’s lips trembled. His eyes, filled with panic and disbelief, continued to dart over his dead companions. Zaki gave the dagger a slight nudge, and the slave trader began to speak feverishly.

  “They seek a Keystone!”

  “What is this Keystone?” Zaki asked harshly.

  “An insignia forged by Harun Zafar. It marks a lost treasure from Arammoria. A weapon of some sort.”

  “Describe it!” Zaki demanded.

  “Two Blades, crossing each other,” Haim began to weep. “This is all I know. I swear it!”

  “And the name of your master?” The softness with which Ghasif spoke was far more dangerous than Zaki’s dagger.

  “Ghulam Mirza!” Haim wept even more. It was strange for Mukhtar to see the very man who had enslaved him and so many others, now at their mercy. “Many mercenaries are in his employ. He has been using them to search for the Keystone, relentlessly. Will you spare me now?” he whimpered. “I have given you everything!”

  “There is much you have yet to account for!” Zaki threatened. He had not taken his eyes off Haim, and Mukhtar knew what he was thinking. In that moment alone, Mukhtar felt more fear than he had all night. He was afraid of his brother’s intent. Zaki would avenge his kin, no matter the consequence. “It is time to meet your maker, and answer for your sins!”

  Haim’s eyes widened in horror.

  It was quick and effortless. Zaki’s dagger ran swift and sharp over skin, through flesh and vein, and Haim Tuma, the Butcher of Aghara was dead before he hit the ground.

  Daybreak was mere hours away. When the sun came up, Khalidans poured into the streets, looking forward to another long day of seeking a means to earn a livelihood. The alley off Rayis Street openly displayed a most horrifying scene.

  Six corpses of mercenaries and slave traders were perfectly lined up with each other, slumped against the wall of the alley, blood and innards sprawled and seeping into the dirt and sand.

  Rayis Street became far more chaotic and aggravated than it had ever been, and by mid-morning, the entire street was flooded with more guards than civilians. Many shops were closed. Trades had been ceased for the day, and by noon word had spread to every corner of the city, mostly in the form of exaggerated rumors.

  With the citizens on edge and a second night of brutal deaths, Immorkaan could not remain silent. By dusk, a citywide curfew had been declared. Any civilian found in the streets after sundown, would be subject to interrogation and open persecution, and the guards had been given limitless powers to enforce this law.

  People rebelled in desperation, as more and more aspects of their lives quickly fell under Immorkaan’s control. In the following days, riots erupted the streets of Khalidah, growing in magnitude. When the rioting showed signs of spiraling out of control, politicians and viziers took to the streets in an attempt to divert the thoughts of the populous. Soon, the finger-pointing turned inwards. Blame was shifted between tribes and clans. Marks against religions were made. Fundamentalists and extremists incited the youth into crimes of hate. Places of worship were raided and desecrated, Clerics and Imams were shackled, and before long, the city of Khalidah had fallen into a state of civil unrest.

  FOURTEEN

  THE STUDY

  Despite their timely intervention, the Assassins would not so easily advocate the brothers. Indeed, they made it quite clear— had it not been for Ma’alim’s strict orders, they would have abandoned him in Aztalaan and left him to his fate with the Red-Guard. Mukhtar did not know whether to feel grateful for that act of generosity, or frustrated that he should have disallowed it when he had the opportunity. To contend with the Red-Guard would have been a trying endeavor, but he would have at least relinquished the Assassin’s hold over him. He was strongly compelled to evict them from the cabin, but could not shake off the guilt of doing so.

  “Get rid of them!” Zaki seemed to be reading his thoughts. “Send them on their way. It is enough that we are housing assassins in Babu’s cabin, but do we have to tolerate them as well?”

  Mukhtar was strongly tempted to follow his brother’s advice, but could not quite come to reconcile with turning away Ghasif and Rauf, not after all they had endured through the wastelands of Arammoria and the mountain pass of Khamur.

  “They saved me from slavery,” he told Zaki. “They saw me safely back home. I owe them this much. We should keep them within reach. If they follow Ma’alim’s orders, then perhaps their mission will soon turn in our favor. I would rather not side with them, but they may yet prove to be useful.”

  As such, the brothers distanced themselves. Communication became limited to sharing news and recent developments when they met. Conversations were short, straightforward, and nearly always belligerent.

  While Mukhtar roamed the city to find work and bring food to the table, Zaki confined himself to home, using the storage room as his own. As a Red-Guard deserter, he was restricted from openly seeking work, and with skills limited to swords he could do little else but spend the entire day napping and lazing.

  Saif had all but cut ties with Mukhtar, or so it seemed. Mukhtar could not blame him. Saif held him responsible for Hassin’s death, and regardless of what had transpired, Mukhtar was unable to deny the fact that had he not provoked him the evening before, Hassin would never have ventured into Ghadan’s den.

  More than once, the brothers attempted to break into the forge and search for the so-called Keystone, but they were heavily outnumbered. After the death of Haim and his mercenaries, the City Watch had been doubled, and suspiciously enough, more gu
ards had been stationed about the forge, which made it difficult for the brothers to approach from any direction.

  Eventually, they decided to prod Mika’il for answers, something Mukhtar had secretly been avoiding lest he be coerced by his uncle into speaking about Hassin.

  Mika’il openly denied any knowledge about the Keystone. “Were it a blemish on the walls of my own forge, I would have seen it. Strange, that you would ask me about such a thing in wake of Hassin’s death. What do you know that I do not?”

  Mukhtar struggled to keep the emotional jolt in his throat under control. Zaki handed Mika’il the piece of parchment, stained with Hassin’s dried blood. “This is the reason he died.”

  “And where did he find this information?” Mika’il’s eyes narrowed. “‘We have searched the forge but found nothing’ ?” he read from the note. “What is the meaning of this treachery? Did Hassin truly know? Did he battle with Ghadan? Is that why he died?”

  “We know only as much as you do, Khal,” Zaki replied. “We wish to follow the parchment and learn the truth.”

  “Their treachery runs deeper than we assumed,” Mukhtar urged. “They claim that Abha had concealed some sort of weapon and marked its location with an insignia which they call a ‘keystone’.”

  “I forbid you to pursue this madness!” Mika’il asserted angrily. “There is grave danger in indulging with these people.”

  Mukhtar raised a silent hand, urging his uncle to calm down and try to understand. “We do not pursue this with recklessness. We are cautious and responsible enough to know where to draw the line. I beg you, Khal, understand why we are on this path. Much of Abha’s life remains concealed, even to his own sons!”

  Mika’il poured them coffee, taking his time as he pondered. “Your father was a curious man,” he said. “He always thirsted for a quest. For knowledge. As noble and virtuous as these goals may sound, such temptations always come at a price. Always. His family suffered, his livelihood suffered, and so did any who called themselves his kin. Distant became his relations, and all that he had acquired was never enough to hold his life together.”