The Amulets of Sihr

by Abu Bilaal Yakub

  “What information is this?” Ghasif enquired. “Are we to torture it out of him, or will the simple search of his dead corpse suffice?”

  “You did not listen, when I said ‘listen intently’,” she frowned at him hysterically, as though thinking him rather dimwitted. “Do what you must. Retrieve this information for me, and redeem your lives. Kazimi will arrange for you to mingle with the guests as servants, and I will arrange for Ghulam to be alone when he needs to be.”

  “What foolishness is this?” Zaki snarled at her, and Kazimi stepped forward menacingly. “You do not command us!”

  “You will do as you are instructed, Red-Guard,” she scoffed blatantly. “Or should I say ‘traitor’?”

  “Say what you will,” Zaki remained unmoved. “We do not answer to you or your ilk!”

  “Perhaps we can come to an agreement,” Rauf attempted to bargain. “You may find that our interests are aligned, and we can achieve so much more as allies.”

  “You are in no position to negotiate, assassin!” Kazimi growled.

  Again they fell silent. Ghasif flashed a look of warning at the others, informing them that they should accept the aide’s terms.

  “Do as you are instructed, and you will live,” she continued. “Refuse, or try to squirm your way out…” she glanced at the parapets above with narrowed eyes, “…I believe we understand each other.”

  She turned on her heels and left, flaunting the same arrogant stride with which she had first approached. Mukhtar watched her go, piercing the back of her bejeweled head with hateful eyes.

  Kazimi ushered them into the chaotic kitchen, past steamy, brewing pots over fiery flames, and into a back room where he handed them uniforms just like the one worn by Zaki.

  “Are we your prisoners then, Kazimi?” Zaki rounded on the large man.

  Kazimi did something no one would ever dare do. “Silence, traitor!” he swung his arm and struck Zaki on the back of his head. Under different circumstances, he would have lost both his hands. Zaki’s ears reddened, but much to Mukhtar’s surprise, he did not erupt into the dangerous temper he was known for.

  “You and the Ladyship seem to have thought everything through in this little ploy of yours,” he said, rather calmly and with a tone that suggested praise. “How, I wonder, did you know who we truly are?”

  One would have expected Kazimi to swing his enormous arm and hit Zaki again to silence him. Instead, he put up a smug face and said, “Did you think your frequent comings and goings were unnoticed? As soon we suspected something, we had you tailed. We knew exactly who you were when you returned to the House of Zafar. From then on, it took very little to learn of your desertion from the Red-Guard.” He wiped off a build up of sweat on his brow from the heat of the kitchen. “Your brother, however... I had heard that a son of Zafar had been taken captive and sold as a slave to Ghuldad,” he smirked at Mukhtar. “It was only until I saw him today did I realize the day he was chased in the Souk like a chicken! He had run into me, capsizing my basket of supplies.”

  Mukhtar stared at the large man with disbelief. This coincidence was so bizarre, he was rooted to the spot, unable to sense his limbs.

  “You are prisoners of your own motives,” Kazimi’s smug voice brought Mukhtar’s senses back and he continued to gape at the man. “The guests have all arrived. You will mingle as servants and offer refreshments, all the while keeping a civil tongue and stature. When your target has been drawn away, you will be alerted. Now move!”

  When they were dressed and armed with their clever contraptions concealed under their sleeves, Zaki and Rauf were handed a rag and sweeper each, and guided out of the kitchens to their delegated duties. Mukhtar was given a silver tray with several porcelain bowls filled with a variety of olives, dried fruit, and nuts, among various other refreshments for the guests. He glanced at Ghasif, who was the only one left without a duty that would disguise his true self.

  “He will work in the kitchens where I can keep an eye on him until your task is complete,” Kazimi responded to Mukhtar’s concern. “If you fail, or stray but a little, he will be executed without mercy. None will question the death of an assassin.”

  Mukhtar wanted nothing but to use his dagger and wipe the smirk off his face. Instead, he clenched his sweaty fists and exerted all his effort into maintaining calm. There was a task that needed to be done. Kazimi and that arrogant aide could be dealt with after. He caught a glimpse of Ghasif’s reassuring nod, before he was forcefully evicted from the kitchen and into the courtyard beyond.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE FEAST

  The festivities were already underway. Mukhtar navigated his way around the guests in the main courtyard, feeling ridiculous in his navy-blue uniform, tall hat, and silver tray. They felt shabby and dirty, compared to the elegant outfits of the guests, who wore finery imported from faraway lands. Their trailing robes were intricately embroidered with expensive silk threads, and unlike the majority of Khalidan residents, they looked well fed and very healthy.

  They were chattering loudly, and laughing even louder, over the sounds of Uds, Santurs, Rebabs, and Tefs. Certainly, there was no shortage of food and refreshments, spread in lush variety and mountainous quantities in large golden dishes upon velvety cloths, set at regular intervals around the courtyard. Servants maneuvered between the guests, carrying silver trays like his, offering refreshments such as sweetbread, olives, and various delicacies along with assortments of wines and Sherbets.

  Unlike the steamy kitchen, the courtyard was open and airy. The marble floor spread evenly across, interrupted by the occasional island of a flowerbed or an exotic sprout. Polished stone columns held up intricate archways and balconies, above which more guests mingled and feasted. In the center was a large fountain that made Mukhtar’s look like the village borehole. Stone pedestals were erected in the pool of water around the fountain, supporting exotic dancers who were twisting and turning their bodies to the music.

  There were dancers all around the courtyard, women, pirouetting and revolving to the tunes played by musicians stationed below a grand balcony. Mukhtar’s gaze moved up the balcony where a familiar figure overlooked the courtyard. Abunaki, a former customer of Mika’il. So, he was in charge of the evening’s security. His eye was transfixed on a particular dancer who was moving faster with the tempo, glistening with perspiration below her sheer silk outfit, as the guests around her raised their hands, cheering the instruments into a crescendo that built and built, until the very air seemed to vibrate.

  Disgusted at the sight, Mukhtar turned away. He spotted Rauf, looking disgruntled, mopping up after a guest had just spilled the contents of his wine glass.

  “Try holding the liquid in your glass or in your belly!” Rauf complained loudly.

  “You cannot speak to me that way!” the man declared defiantly. “Do you know who I am?”

  “A pompous fool who never learned to drink out of a cup?” Rauf retorted.

  Mukhtar reached out and hastily pulled Rauf aside before the matter escalated. “Take it easy, brother,” he whispered, cautiously glancing at an archer above them.

  He caught Zaki’s eye, and nudged Rauf. His brother was tucked away against the inner wall of the courtyard, where the light from the elegant lanterns barely touched the stone. Mukhtar and Rauf split up to give a false impression, blended in with the crowd, and made their way to Zaki.

  Rauf looked like he wanted to punch him. “See what you have brought upon us?” he growled.

  “Watch yourself, assassin!” Zaki warned.

  “We are exposed!” Rauf hissed and glanced around to ensure no one was listening in. “You had but one task— to find us a way into the feast, undetected. I told you, we cannot trust that aide!”

  “Think, Rauf!” Zaki argued angrily. “She has ensured that the guards will keep out of our way. Not only has she eased our task, but she has also unknowingly surrendered herself to our mercy!”

  “How can you possibly think that?” Rauf sc
offed.

  “Did you not listen?” Zaki explained. “Kazimi betrayed their secret. They are acting solely on selfish motives, which means we have every advantage at our disposal.”

  “How foolish can you be?” Rauf retorted. “Do you honestly believe that they will allow us to stroll out of here once Ghulam is—” he lowered his voice upon Mukhtar’s caution, “—Ghulam is dead?”

  “Which is why we need to be two steps ahead of them,” Zaki stated. “How were we to know of her deceitful intent? This was an unforeseen circumstance, and we are caught in it. She, and that overgrown servant of hers, do not know our true intent. They only want to take advantage of our presence here. Should we disband our unity and quarrel amongst ourselves, or should we focus on our task? Let that pompous aide live under the illusion that she has control. We will do what we came here to do.”

  “And then what?” Rauf enquired.

  “I will pierce Kazimi’s gut with my blade!” Zaki growled angrily.

  Rauf became infuriated, and Mukhtar pulled him away from Zaki before daggers were drawn. They parted and vanished amidst the feasting guests.

  Ahead of him, by the fountain, a squabble had broken out between two drunken men. It appeared as though they were quarreling over one of the dancers. The dancer was disheveled and frightened, as the squabble mutated into a fistfight, and two guards had to leave their posts and intervene.

  Rather than carry on with his menial task of serving refreshments, Mukhtar lingered to watch the comical fight. The drunken men attempted to throw misguided punches at each other, somehow eluding the grasps and pleas of the guards, while a small crowd gathered and cheered on.

  “Ghulam is here,” Rauf spoke close to his ear, and he jumped.

  Following his gaze, Mukhtar spotted the Chief of the Souk As-Silaah over the way.

  “The aide has sent a messenger to draw him away from the feast,” Rauf said. “We are to meet her in the Grand Hall.” He pointed to a set of large oak doors open on the far side of the courtyard. “She will show us where to strike.”

  “Not ‘us’,” Mukhtar corrected him. “You and Zaki must find a way to free Ghasif from the kitchens!”

  “What about –?”

  “I will meet you at the cabin,” Mukhtar assured him. He knew Zaki would not give in to blackmail, nor would he back away from a fight, but he also knew that his brother had made a grave mistake, and he no other choice but to do what was necessary to rectify it. Be it to risk his own life to save theirs. “Nabiha Altaf will regret the day she threatened us!”

  “What is the matter with you?” Rauf snarled. “What if something goes wrong?”

  “If anything does,” Mukhtar gave him a stern look, “I trust you and the others to complete the task. Make haste to find an escape. I will handle the rest!”

  Rauf became red with anger. “Damn you!” he growled. “Your stubbornness will be the death of you! You and your brother!”

  “I did not endure the tribulations of Ghuldad to be coerced by the likes of that woman!” Mukhtar responded with equal cruelty. “Nor do I appreciate being patronized by you, your Captain or your rebellious leader. I will further my quest alone if I have to!” He walked away without a second glance and made his way to the Grand Hall.

  The Grand Hall greeted him with lush rugs spread over the entire dark-marble floor. Puffy cushions of vibrant colors served as comfortable accommodations for the guests. The large, domed-room was brightly illuminated by overhanging chandeliers and ornamental lanterns, while Mabkharas emanated the sweetly scented smokes of incense, Oudh, and Bakhoor.

  The feast here was several elevations higher than the courtyard. The music was more elegant, soothing, and ecstatic, designed to enhance and intensify the inebriation and intoxication of the Hashish, wine, and Khat served in abundance. There was certainly no shortage of exotic dancers, wearing minimal clothing, covered in what appeared to be gold paint, so that they looked like animated golden statues. The guests wore robes so rich, so immaculate that he felt himself diminish with every step he took.

  Maintaining his focus, he gently navigated his way past the guests, and up the large marble staircase. With a clear view of the Grand Hall from atop the balcony, he scanned the entire crowd, his eyes searching for any familiar faces. He spotted Thamir’s aide, Nabiha, mingling with the guests while keeping a hand over the feast’s running. She caught his eye and gave a curt, subtle nod.

  Thamir was sprawled on a large puffy cushion, entertaining three men. The multiple folds of his chin quivered up and down, a thin stream of grease drooling out of the corner of his lips, as he chewed on his food. His left arm, as thick as a club, occasionally reached up to his lips with a golden goblet of wine, while his other arm clutched a glistening piece of roasted meat. He was wearing a silk waistcoat over his meaty inflated torso and when he laughed, his stomach wobbled like a large bag of water. Standing beside them, looking utterly miserable, a servant worked a large peacock-feathered fan to keep them cool.

  The man responsible for humoring him was General Aarguf Babak, whose deep booming voice carried over the sound of music. He was laughing along, looking respectable in richly embroidered robes of a sky-blue shade, sporting a long white turban with a gleaming, roundish, red gem highlighting its facade. It was a stone widely known as the Sacrament of Sovereignty, an adornment boasted by those deemed worthy successors to the throne. In their company sat an older, gaunt man whom Mukhtar knew to be the High Chancellor Laban Varda. There was a fourth man whose back was turned, and he looked much younger than the other two. He emptied his wine goblet and turned around to signal a servant for a refill. Mukhtar held his breath.

  General Aarguf Babak’s only son, and nephew to the King, Adil Babak was dressed in a similar manner to his father, but for a jewel on his turban. He had not yet earned that right. It felt strange to Mukhtar, seeing Adil in rich and immaculate robes. Perhaps it was because Mukhtar never really saw him as royalty, but as a friend with whom he always shared his own thoughts and ideologies. His lip curled bitterly as he looked upon his best friend, suddenly realizing the immense distance that had grown between them.

  From where he stood, Adil seemed just as aristocratic as all the other noblemen he sat with. A split second passed during which he looked up, and their eyes met, but the moment passed impassively, and Adil did not seem to recognize Mukhtar in his tunic and ridiculous hat.

  There was a small cough behind him, and he turned sharply. “You are alone?” Nabiha asked.

  “He is one man,” he responded.

  “Quite confident of ourselves, are we?” She eyed him dubiously, then gave a small nudge for him to follow, and led him further into the mansion, holding a single candle to illuminate the way.

  “Why us?” he asked simply. “With a host of guards, the unmatched skills of Abunaki, and all the political power and influence of Thamir at your disposal, eliminating Ghulam is as simple as a finger-click for you. And yet you choose to blackmail us to do your dirty work for you.”

  “Do you really need to ask?” She gave him a cynical look and continued to lead him along a wide corridor with hanging drapes and lush rugs, much like the ones in the Grand Hall.

  Mukhtar scowled at the back of her head. She did not care. They were expendable. Her response confirmed one thing— the chances of escape after the deed was done, were very thin. He had done right by instructing Rauf to leave with the others. Within him rose a conflict. How would he escape?

  They arrived at the end of the corridor, and she stopped. To her left was a room and to her right hung a large tapestry of intricate patterns. “Ghulam will be here shortly. He has been asked to meet an anonymous prospect with a promising trade. You will be that prospect. Kill him however you wish, search his body, and bring me what you find.”

  “What do you expect me to find?”

  “Do not ask stupid questions,” she threw him an irritated look. “Focus on your task.”

  Mukhtar rolled his eyes. “I need to know what I sh
ould look for!”

  She gave a small sigh. “A piece of parchment containing names of slave traders in Khalidah and Din-Galad.”

  Mukhtar frowned. “Why would you be seeking such information?”

  “Every slaver on that list will face his death,” she replied coolly. “I believe you would approve of that, would you not? Now, get on with your task. Find me when the deed is done.”

  He watched her stroll away in an almost casual manner, as though the feat of what she hoped to achieve, hardly troubled her conscious. As though such things came to her as naturally as breathing. The glow of the candle vanished with her as she turned a corner, and Mukhtar was left alone, submerged in the darkness of the corridor. He reached out with his free hand and groped his way into the room. When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he was able to make out his surroundings.

  A thin beam of faded moonlight, tearing through the dark, painted the opposite wall with a shadow of a tiny window’s architectural pattern. The room was small and simple, furnished with a spindly table, plain rug and a wardrobe. He placed his tray on the table and took off his ridiculous hat so he could move with flexibility. After calculating his options, he decided to hide behind the door. He released the dagger under his sleeve and caught it before it fully escaped, ready to strike. The air was still and quiet, and if he could hear his own heartbeat, he was sure to hear any footsteps approaching, which would give him the moment’s notice he needed to prepare.

  The minutes swam by as he waited patiently in the dark room, all the while calculating what was inevitably approaching, and how he would escape the aftermath of it. Had Rauf heeded his stern instructions? Had they escaped? He doubted that very much. If anything, he was sure that the Assassins and his brother may have only gotten into another meaningless squabble. His wandering thoughts were brought back to his environs when he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. He steadied his breathing, remembering everything he had learned from their reconnaissance trips on Ghulam.