The parchments were filled with scribblings of hieroglyphs, occult symbols, and strange languages. They looked no different than most of the texts they had unearthed in the cabin and Mukhtar felt his insides recoil, knowing full well that it was all associated with sorcery.
“I have studied them as much as I could,” Ghasif continued. “The symbol of the Amulet continues to make an appearance. This circle with a dot in its center, represents the Sun God, a symbol of worship to some of the Arammorian Sect. I believe the same symbol is associated with the image of the eye, which relates to an ‘all-seeing God’; a pagan belief. This here, however, is the most intriguing image I have ever seen. It was placed under an idol of the very same image, adorned with all manner of pagan ornamentation, bones and skulls of small animals.”
Mukhtar stared at a drawing of what appeared to be part goat, part man, with tall horns. The creature’s hands were long, horribly extended into lethal-looking claws. The outline of a hand with an eye on its palm was drawn on its scaly chest. Around the entire figure, each limb touched a tip of a large pentagram star, and a smaller pentagram was etched on its forehead.
It seemed strange to Mukhtar, seeing that image. Not strange in the sense that he was frightened by it, but that he had seen it before, almost in its entirety. The creature had peered at him through shifting sands. He was not sure how he knew, or how deeply it concerned him, but its name lingered on the very tip of his tongue.
“The Hand of Azazil,” he whispered to himself.
SIXTEEN
THE FLAW
With just under nine days to prepare for their mission, Mukhtar was overcome with a strange sense of determination. He slept late but rose early, worked hard, and barely spoke more than a few words at a time.
He resumed his training with Ghasif. Zaki, determined to outshine his assassin counterpart, offered to teach him his own skills. There was no denying the air of competition between the two, and Mukhtar continued to humor himself for hours each day, as both Assassin and Red-Guard struggled to outwit each other. Regardless, Mukhtar benefited from the best of both sects. He followed their every instruction, honing his skills and learning new ones. His body, strong and sculpted by pushing the wheel in Ghuldad, required nothing more than to be taught the right moves. Within a short span of time, he had become accustomed to the use of twin short-swords and throwing-knives, and was more than capable of clearing an obstacle course without difficulty. He wished he had the same agility and speed on the day he was captured in the Souk.
Without Mika’il’s knowledge, Fariebah scrambled a handful of his personal tools for them. She was very suspicious at first, but Mukhtar and Zaki managed to convince her that they needed the tools to do some repairs at home.
Rauf surprised Mukhtar when he showed proficiency with hammer and anvil. “I worked the forges of Ghuldad during my early years as Ghasif’s apprentice,” he replied when Mukhtar enquired.
Together, he and Mukhtar managed to restore most of their weapons to usable conditions for the mission. They diverted from conventional methods of weapon-making, redesigning their daggers to cleverly fit and remain hidden in their sleeves. A dagger would be strapped to a leather band around the forearm and held in place under spring tension. When triggered, the mechanism would release the dagger and the wielder would have to catch it before it escaped. It was not the perfect build nor the most elegant design, considering the limitation of their resources, but it would serve their need, and facilitate an easier way to smuggle their daggers into the feast.
Stealth and precision became everything. They needed to infiltrate, remain invisible, do what needed to be done, and vanish. With what Mukhtar had discovered, Ghulam had many personal and well-trained guards protecting him. The Feast provided the perfect opportunity to face him alone. They only needed to draw him away from the rest of the guests, and execute him in isolation. They would have vanished long before anyone would realize he was dead. They took all the time they needed to tail and learn their target, investigating all his strengths and weaknesses.
In addition to Ghulam, Rauf also kept watch over Rasha bint Sumrah, while Mukhtar and Ghasif focused on Yusri Abdi and Nizaam ibn Jalal. They had agreed only to target Ghulam, but if the opportunity presented itself, they wanted to be prepared to face the others. Zaki had infiltrated Thamir’s mansion, disguised as a servant, and returned every night with fresh details about its layout and occupants. It was also his task to establish a way into the feast, as none of them could qualify the guest list.
On the night before, Mukhtar could hardly shut his eyes. He lay on his mat, staring at the dark ceiling, visualizing every step of their mission, and the more he thought about it, the more agitated he became. He eventually fell asleep to the steady and rhythmic croaking of frogs outside the cabin. After a mere three hours of restless sleep, he was up again, only to find that he was not the only one.
An unoccupied mat to his left meant that Rauf was also awake, and judging by the scraping sounds of stone on metal, he was outside, sharpening his daggers. Mukhtar wrapped himself in a cloak to shield against the crisp chill of dawn, and joined him by the steps on the porch. “Is it that you lack faith in my skills?” he asked.
“I have yet to meet a blacksmith to match your skills,” Rauf replied, and Mukhtar gave an appreciative grin.
“And I have always shown to be a skilled and experienced assassin,” he said.
“What are you implying?”
“That you are restless,” Mukhtar replied simply. “I did not think this mission would agitate an assassin like you.”
Rauf gave a small sigh and gazed into the trees. “Our mission was to leave you at the gates of Murfaqat. Had I any choice, I would never have partaken it in the first place.”
“You made that abundantly clear,” Mukhtar commented, recalling Rauf’s numerous complains during their journey.
“I did,” Rauf chuckled, “and I beg your forgiveness.”
Mukhtar placed a hand on his shoulder.
“In all honesty,” Rauf continued, “I was displeased with Ma’alim’s agendas. But now I realize, I was wrong. He did what was necessary to stall the enemy’s vile ambitions.”
“But that is not what vexes you?”
“As resolute, honorable, and determined as Ma’alim may be,” Rauf explained, “I still cannot unravel his thoughts and intentions. He strongly cautioned us to avoid any conflict, any form of exposure. Now he furthers a mission to assassinate prominent Khalidans whose deaths are bound to draw attention, and we have no defenses, no reinforcements. Everything can go wrong and we have only enough to take care of a tiny handful.”
“You make it sound like a strange game of chance,” Mukhtar stated.
“Strange indeed,” Rauf looked at the shimmering sky above. “Stare at the stars, and allow your thoughts to disperse among them. Across any realm. Beyond any horizon. In a complex paradox, limitless iterations of infinite populations strive to achieve the illusion that has been created for them, and very few ever realize that they are nothing but pawns in a much larger and stranger game of chance. Those were his final words to Ghasif and I, before we escaped Ghuldad.”
Their day passed quickly but productively. Zaki left for the mansion at sunrise, while Rauf and Ghasif assisted Mukhtar in cleaning the cabin and preparing for the night. As the afternoon wore off, they began their short journey out of the tiny fishing village, through the forest, and up the Sultan’s Pass to the harbor. Thamir’s mansion loomed into view in a magnificence of architecture against the setting sun, one of the few structures in the city to adorn an elegance to match the Royal Palace.
The streets were thinning, but for a few stragglers and last-minute shoppers, as merchants closed their shops and stalls earlier than usual. Most of the populous was making their way to the mansion, even though none were formally invited. It may have seemed odd to an outsider, but Khalidans knew what to expect when the wealthiest man in the city threw a feast. No doubt, food would be sent out fro
m the kitchens to the people, even though they were not welcome to join the dignitaries inside. Thamir was one of those aristocrats who always looked to maintain popularity among the citizens by boasting benefaction.
The streets displayed obvious signs of anticipated festivity. Several more guards and archers were posted along specific routes to Thamir’s mansion, safeguarding the processions of dignitaries attending.
The three managed to slip past the guards by detouring through alleyways and over rooftops. Just before sunset, they climbed over the mansion’s perimeter walls, crossed the gardens, and arrived at the large, open doors of the kitchens.
Thamir’s mansion overlooked the Gulf of Shabb with a magnificent and breathtaking view. They could hear the waves crashing upon the shoreline, as the seagulls made every effort to make their presence known, squawking and screeching endlessly.
Unlike the magnificent marble front, the rear was built of bare, graying stone, adorned with and structural indentations and strategic wooden parapets above. Just like their frequent reconnaissance trips, there were no guards about, nor archers on the parapets. It may not have seemed odd before, but it certainly called for concern, considering that some of the most prominent figures of the Empire would be attending the feast.
The bolstering aromas of sweet and spice wafted through the air, as large pots brewed on huge fires in the open kitchen, which was so vast, four of Mika’il’s forges would have comfortably squeezed inside. Mukhtar counted about fifteen different cooks and servants, moving about with chaotic coordination, which told him they were well-trained and experienced in this sort of thing. The heat coming from the kitchen was so steamy and overwhelming, they had to stand several feet away from the door in order to breathe comfortably.
Mukhtar tugged at the collar of his yellowing thaub, and complained loudly about how hot it was. Rauf was wearing a brown tattered one, while Ghasif wore tattered trousers and a stained shirt held in place by his white sash.
“The deserts of Alhram are far more treacherous,” he responded. “This heat is bearable. It is the smell of food I cannot endure on an empty stomach.”
“I hear you,” Rauf agreed. “Just look at all that rice! How many people does Thamir intend on feeding tonight?”
“The entire city, it seems,” Ghasif suggested, “judging by the throngs of peasants at the front gates.”
“What a waste though,” Mukhtar shook his head in disapproval.
“Is it a waste?” Rauf glanced at him.
“Is it not?” Mukhtar countered. “All this, just for the sake of keeping his image? All the coin he has spent on this one night, if he was just a shade more humble, generous and sincere, by distributing even a small portion of his wealth, he could have easily improved the lives of many poor families.”
“If he has spared no expense for the celebration feast,” Rauf stated, “I have yet to see how much he will spend on the actual wedding. I can hardly even begin to envision it.”
“Why would you be thinking about the wedding?” Mukhtar sneered. “Did you merit an invitation?”
Rauf scowled at him. “You certainly would not merit an invitation!”
“And you would?” Mukhtar scoffed. “You make a beggar look like royalty!”
“You are not so charming yourself, in those rags!” Rauf countered. “Never have I seen a more ridiculous attire!”
“Stop bickering, you two,” Ghasif sighed. “Look, Zaki is coming.”
Zaki was almost a ghostly silhouette amidst the smoke and steam pouring from the kitchen. He was accompanied by a large, bald-headed man with a bushy mustache. Mukhtar frowned at his brother’s outfit, a navy-blue tunic adorned with threaded embroidery, and a tall white cap with a large peacock feather fluttering in the breeze. “What is he wearing, and who is that man with him?”
“I stand corrected,” Rauf muttered, eyeing Zaki’s apparel.
“Salaam,” Zaki greeted when he came closer.
“Salaam,” they replied in unison.
“Are these your kin?” the large man asked with a deep growl. A large apron was drawn tight over his round belly, and his bushy mustache made him look like an overgrown walrus.
“Yes,” Zaki replied. “Sons of my uncles. Strong and loyal. I will be very grateful if you would give them work for tonight. It would feed their poor households.”
The large man scratched his cleanly shaven chin ambiguously. “Palace work will need to be approved by her Ladyship.”
“Please, be merciful,” Zaki pleaded.
The man’s gaze rested on Mukhtar, and remained there for a long while, as if he was recalling something from his past. “This must be your brother,” he said. “He bears your likeness.”
Zaki exchanged a brief glance with Mukhtar. “Yes,” he nodded.
Feeling rather uncomfortable, Mukhtar was urged to break away from his somewhat dazed look. He focused his gaze on a stray seagull by the kitchen doors, attempting to sneak in.
“Wait here,” the man said, turning and returning to the kitchen.
As soon as he was gone, Rauf took a menacing step forward and demanded an explanation, “Who is that man, and who is this ‘Ladyship’?”
“Kazimi is in charge of the kitchens,” Zaki replied, “and her Ladyship is Nabiha Altaf, Thamir’s personal aide.”
“Are you mad?” Rauf glared at him. “Why would you involve them personally?”
“How else are you to gain entry into the feast?” Zaki asked simply. “I slipped in unnoticed, but three more faces will certainly draw suspicion, considering they might be expecting an imminent threat.”
“Are they already expecting a threat then?” Rauf retorted angrily.
“What is your problem?” Zaki argued back. “I have scouted every possible way in, and this is the only way. If you have an alternative, please share!”
“Rauf is right,” Ghasif defended his lieutenant.
“Of course he is!” Mukhtar defended his brother. “You would side by Rauf if he was speaking backward!”
“Listen to yourself!” Ghasif snarled. “If they are already expecting a threat, then we must turn back. It’s too risky!”
“No!” Mukhtar retorted blatantly. “We do not turn back. We focus on our mission and see it through!”
“If Thamir’s aide suspects us in the slightest, we will be dead before we even begin!” Rauf argued.
“We need a way in,” Mukhtar declared. “She will grant us a way in, and we will do what we came here to do! Have our guests arrived?” he asked Zaki.
Zaki shook his head. “I witnessed Yusri Abdi conversing with Thamir a short while ago, but have yet to see the others.”
“Is that the aide?” Rauf nodded toward the kitchen doors.
Zaki turned. “It is.”
She was tall and slim, looking no older than Mukhtar or Rauf, and she walked with a stride that construed condescension. Her hair was sleek, a deep shade of black, rich with streaks of light henna, loosely held back with embedded jewelry. It fluttered in the breeze to adorn her glowing porcelain-like skin, rosy cheeks, and full lips. Her walk was elegant and proud, and even though she had to lift up the hem of her immaculately embroidered robes to avoid the dirt, her stride did not break nor falter. Her head held high, she approached them with a handful of her robes covering her nose to ward off the steam and smoke from the kitchen. Her almond-shaped hazel eyes were lined with dark Kohl, imposing a tenacity expected from someone who bore the responsibilities laid out for her by the wealthiest merchant in Khalidah.
As she came closer, the air around them smelled not of food or spice, but of an unprecedented, sweet scent of exquisite Bakhoor. “You have done well, Kazimi,” her lips curled into a minacious grin.
Mukhtar suddenly realized a most crucial flaw in their plan.
“I recognized this one,” Kazimi pointed a fat finger at him, “when they chased him through the Souk.”
A sudden image of a large man tumbling to the ground with a basket of vegetables, crossed Muk
htar’s mind, and he could do nothing but stare with disbelief.
“Give me a reason why I should employ Assassins of Ghuldad,” her eyes shifted from Ghasif and Rauf to Zaki, “a traitor of the Red-Army and…” her gaze rested on Mukhtar, “… an escaped slave!”
Mukhtar held his breath. Beside him, Ghasif stiffened, and Rauf choked and immediately coughed to cover his reaction.
“Yes. I know who you are,” she stated with an air of smugness. “I know where you hail from. My agents have followed your every move.”
Zaki made an instinctive gesture to draw the dagger under his sleeve, but the aide did not seem in the least intimidated.
“Draw that blade, Red-Guard,” her voice lashed like a whip, “and you will be rained upon by a thousand arrows before your stroke fell!”
Shadows slithered across the grounds, and Mukhtar glanced at the parapets above. Several archers filed the deserted parapets, bows held steady, arrows drawn and targeted at them. He could tell from the navy-blue tunics under their armor, that these were not city guards.
Ghasif’s shoulders tensed, and aside from a twitch on his temple, Zaki remained impassive, but the disbelief in their eyes was undeniable.
“Nothing to say?” she mocked, and indeed they could do nothing but blink back. “Very well,” she stated after a long empty silence, filled only with the cries of the seagulls circling overhead, drawn by the aroma of food. “Then you will listen. And you will listen intently,” she looked at each of them as she spoke. “Your presence here at the feast, attempting to sneak in through the kitchens like mongrel slaves and servants, is of no concern to me. Perhaps you are here to steal something, perhaps you are here to prey upon one of Thamir’s gluttonous guests, I care not. Here is my proposal; I will allow you to leave here tonight—alive— and in exchange, I want you to kill someone for me.”
Their bewilderment could only be escalated. They all spoke at once.
“What?”
“His name is Ghulam Mirza,” she replied, her beauty undiminished by her sudden malignity. “He is a guest tonight, and he has crucial information. Information which he will only divulge over his dead body. Need I elaborate more?”
The Amulets of Sihr Page 22