'At once,' said the innkeeper, hurrying away.
Within moments, wine was pouring from tall pitchers into cups and bowls. The Muhammedans did not drink the wine, but continued to sip their shardbah, an infusion of violets in sweetened water; the knights, however, more than made up for the Muslims' restraint by quaffing the luscious dark liquid in deep draughts until it ran down their untidy beards.
As night drew in around them, casting the company into deep shadow, the innkeeper brought torches which he placed in jars of sand around the courtyard; the resulting flames cast all in a rosy glow, allowing Cait to study her ragged band of knights.
There was Yngvar, first chosen, a big man, tall, with hands easily twice the size of her own. His fair hair was long and looked as if it had been gnawed by rats. As she had noticed in prison, he favoured his left side somewhat-wincing now and then when he laughed. But that did not stop the laughter. His face was open and honest, and his deep-set eyes seemed like chips of northern slate beneath the overhanging ledge of his brow.
Next to him sat Svein: darker, more thoughtful, genial, but reserved. Cait suspected that however much he might nod and laugh with the others, the greater part of him remained aloof and watchful. The weight of his captivity lay heavy on him; his broad shoulders drooped from carrying the burden of that long oppression. And although he said little, Cait could tell from the wry, knowing expression when she talked that his understanding of Latin was better than his fellows, and perhaps equal to her own.
Beside Svein was Dag, whose knowledge of Latin appeared to extend only so far as the end of his well-shaped chin. Nor, Cait suspected, was he troubled by an overly energetic intellect. But, where the others looked like they had been pulled fresh from the hostage pit, he appeared as hale as a man who had just woken from a long nap. Younger than the others, he was undeniably handsome, and enjoyed the confidence his dusky good looks bestowed. Even so, Cait was pleased to see he displayed none of the conceit that good-looking men so often cultivated. He was easy with himself and the others, his smile at once genuine and effortless. Beside Dag sat the unknown knight, guarded, silent, happily making himself an unobtrusive, humble presence.
And then, next to her, Rognvald. Tall and gaunt, his flesh seemed to hang on his bones, but the bones were strong. Cait imagined that a few weeks of good food, clean air, and rest would restore his former strength and chase the prison pallor from his face. And it was, she decided, a good face-a true Nordic face with generous features and a long straight nose. He was past the first blush of youth-his sand-coloured hair had begun to thin somewhat, and the lines were beginning to deepen on his face-but, just sitting next to him, she sensed a steady and resolute spirit, and his quick blue eyes hinted at hidden depths.
While she might have hoped for a more imposing bodyguard, Cait was satisfied. They were near kinsmen, after all; with their familiar Scandic features they might have been brothers, uncles, or cousins, and she felt she understood them. In the strangeness of this foreign land, she found their presence comforting and reassuring and she was confident that once they had exchanged their prison clothes for attire more natural to their rank, they would begin to resemble something more impressive than the moth-eaten coterie she saw before her now.
After the first pangs of hunger were appeased, the meal took on a more cordial atmosphere. The warmth of food and wine and the pleasant surroundings of the courtyard worked a charm of peace and calm. Conversation became more cheerful, filling the evening with an amiable companionship which expanded to embrace them all.
In their elation over the extravagant and sumptuous fare, the Norsemen completely forgot their qualms about eating with Arabs, and the sedately dignified merchants gave every appearance of enjoying the company of the raucously enthusiastic northerners. Though they could not speak to one another, save through Abu's mediation, the Arabs offered their boisterous guests choice morsels of succulent lamb, or tiny spiced sausages. For their parts, the knights loudly acclaimed the virtues of their hosts with endless salutes of their cups. All around the circle, smiles came easier and laughter more frequent – even Alethea, from the security of her place beside old Haemur, had shaken off her embarrassment and was enjoying herself.
As she sat watching the others eat and drink and laugh, Cait felt the hard-twisted knot she had carried within her for many days begin to loosen and unwind. She found herself wishing Duncan could be there to enjoy it. Papa would have loved this, she thought, and suddenly the grief which she had succeeded in stifling since Constantinople rolled over her in a great fathomless wave. Tears welled suddenly and unexpectedly in her eyes. To hide them, she bent her head over her cup and let them fall.
'Lady,' murmured Rognvald beside her, 'are you well?'
She nodded, dabbing the tears away with the back of her hand.
'Celebrations always make me cry, too,' he confided. She glanced up quickly to see if he was mocking her, but could not tell from his thoughtful expression.
'I suppose I am just a little tired,' she said.
'It has been an eventful day for all of us.' He raised his cup, held it up to her, then drank a silent health in her honour, before filling his bowl with more roast lamb.
As the moon rose above the finger-thin tops of the cypress trees lining the courtyard and showered the company with its gentle glow, a man in a white turban and long black cloak appeared in the arched doorway. Instantly, Ibn Farabi rose from his place, and clapped his hands for silence. Gesturing for Abu to join him, he made a formal announcement in Arabic, which Abu translated:
'Friends and esteemed companions,' the merchant said, 'I have now the very great pleasure of presenting to you the renowned seer and conjurer, Jalal Sinjari, who has kindly consented to perform for us this evening a few of his legendary feats.'
The innkeeper and his family, and several of the other guests at the inn, slipped in through the door to stand along the perimeter of the courtyard and watch the dark magician who stepped forward, bowed, and made a fluttery movement with his hands. Suddenly there was a blinding flash of light, and two small boys appeared beside him, one on either side. Dressed in white tunics and trousers, barefoot, their hair shaved to a single thick knot which hung from the back of their heads, they knelt and touched their foreheads to the ground. Sinjari stretched a hand over each of the boys and, still kneeling, they floated up into the air.
Then, producing two large squares of blue silk cloth from beneath his cloak, he covered first one boy and then the other. He lifted his hands and the boys drifted higher still, and then hung there, suspended in the air while Sinjari, his arms spread wide, walked beneath them to the chorused murmurs of his small crowd. He stepped back, holding his hands high, turned his face heavenward, drew breath, and gave out a mighty shout. In the same instant, he leapt forward and, seizing a corner of the silk in each hand, whipped the coverings away.
There was a popping sound and a flurry of white flower petals whirled and spun around the magician. Cait felt a puff of warm air on her face and was bathed in the fragrance of roses. The unexpected marvel delighted even as it astonished, and Cait laughed out loud. She laughed again when the conjurer turned around and… there were the two boys clinging to his back!
They somersaulted to the ground and, while the diners and onlookers applauded and rattled their cups against the brass trays, the boys ran off to fetch a large, urn-shaped wicker basket which they dragged forward between them. One removed the basket's lid, and the other retrieved a small pipe-like flute which the conjurer began to play with a raspy, low, droning sound. The noise, while not entirely pleasant to Cait's ear, nevertheless made her feel as if a subtle movement was taking place in the earth beneath her, and all around; the trees and walls and air seemed to quiver with the sound.
For a long time nothing appeared to be happening, but as the buzzing notes from the pipe began to quicken, there came a movement from the basket which drew gasps and shrieks from the onlookers as what appeared to be the head and thick sinuous form
of a gigantic serpent rose slowly above the rim of the basket.
But it was not a snake-it was a heavy braided rope, the end of which had been knotted and bound. Up it went, slowly undulating as it rose ever higher, as if drawn upward by unseen hands. Eventually, the top of the rope reached up beyond the small sphere of torchlight, and there it stopped, stretching itself taut. Without taking his lips from the pipe or interrupting the strange low melody, Sinjari nodded to the boy beside him, who began to climb, wrapping his arms and legs around the rope and gripping it with his bare feet.
Higher and higher he climbed until he reached the top. Cait could see his small form dimly outlined in the moonlight as he clung there above the courtyard. Only then did the conjurer cease his playing. He called up to the boy, who answered him, his small voice drifting down to them. Handing the pipe to the other boy, Sinjari took hold of the rope with both hands and began to shake it, shouting angrily at the boy above.
The frightened child cried out, but the conjurer paid him no heed. Indeed, the more he cried, the more Sinjari shook the rope, each jerk growing more violent until those looking on were shouting, too-for the magician to desist and let the boy descend.
Their pleas were too late, for Sinjari gave the rope a final terrible jolt and the hapless child shrieked and lost his grip, plummeting to the courtyard like a stone, the rope collapsing over him. But when Cait looked, she saw only an empty tunic and pair of trousers. Of the boy there was no other sign.
The spectators gaped in amazement and declaimed to one another in voices thin with shock as the other boy picked up the crumpled clothes and threw them into the basket, and then fed in the rope, coiling it round and round. Sinjari meanwhile walked to one of the torches and pulled it from its container. Returning to the basket, he pointed to it, and the boy with the rope climbed inside, pulling the last of the rope in with him.
The magician replaced the domed lid and, taking up one of the blue silks, covered the basket with the cloth. He called out to the boy inside, who answered. He called out again, and the boy answered likewise; he called a third time, and before the boy could make his reply, Sinjari whipped away the cloth and, throwing off the lid, thrust the torch inside.
Cait, fearing the boy would be burned, threw her hands before her face. Otti leaped to his feet and prepared to charge to the boy's rescue – and was restrained with difficulty by Haemur and Abu-while the others cried out in dismay for the child's sake. But the magician, impervious to their anguished shouts, stirred the torch around and around, filling the basket with flames.
Then, withdrawing the torch, Sinjari placed his foot against the basket, and kicked it over. The wicker vessel rolled lightly aside. Both boy and rope were gone-and in their place, a real, living snake, its skin glistening dully in the torchlight as it slithered slowly into the courtyard. The crowd gasped and drew back in fright.
Stooping to the serpent, Sinjari seized the beast by the tail and picked it up. Holding it at arm's length as it writhed in the air, he began to spin it-gently at first, but with increasing speed, he spun the creature, its sinuous length blurring in the flickering torchlight. Then all at once, he stopped and… Behold! It was a serpent no longer, but a handsome wooden staff, which he tapped on the ground three times with a solid and satisfying thump.
Next, he raised the staff and held it across his outstretched palms. He elevated it heavenward once, twice, three times, whereupon there was a sharp, resonating crack. The staff snapped in two, spouting sparks and plumes of flame from the broken ends. The flames showered tiny glowing embers of gold which bounced on the ground with a fizzing sound, creating a curtain of white smoke. And when the smoke cleared, there, standing before Cait's astonished eyes were the two small boys, unharmed and neatly dressed as before.
The gathering cheered and applauded, and Cait laughed and clapped her hands with delight. Otti dashed forward to examine the two young lads and their mysterious basket, as al-Farabi congratulated the renowned conjurer on his extraordinary feats. Cait turned to speak to Rognvald and found him looking, not at the spectacle before him, but at her.
For an instant his eyes held hers, and then he smiled and glanced away, leaving the distinct impression that he had been subtly appraising her. Before she could think what to say to this, al-Farabi clapped his hands for silence. 'My friends!' he called, with Abu's help, 'Jalal Sinjari has kindly consented to apply his skills as a seer for us this evening. Please, remain seated and he will come among us.'
The magician bowed and proceeded to the reclining diners. Pausing before one of the merchants, he said, 'You wish to know whether your sojourn in the city will bring an increase in fortune. I tell you, friend, it already has!'
There were murmurs of approval from the others in the party, and he turned to the man beside him, and said, 'Your wife will not thank you for bringing home the servant girl. Unless you marry her and make her a wife, you will not have a moment's peace.'
The man sputtered with chagrin, but his friend roared with laughter. 'He has seen through your cunning plan, Yusuf!' he cried. 'Marry the girl!'
The magician moved on, and was soon standing before Cait. Pressing his palms together, he bowed respectfully to her. 'Most noble lady,' he said, speaking through Abu, 'you are as lovely as the jasmine that blossoms in the night. Please, give me your hand.'
Enthralled, Caitriona extended her hand to him. Taking it in both of his own, Sinjari pressed it, and then turned it over. He traced the lines of her palm lightly with a finger and Cait saw the merriment die in his eyes. He stared at her palm and then looked into her face. His touch grew instantly cold.
'Your other hand, please?' he said, glanced at it, thanked her, and stepped away abruptly, saying, 'A long and happy life awaits you, good woman. Allah wills it.'
Dismayed and confused by this brusque dismissal, Cait felt the colour rising to her cheeks. Aware that the others were watching, she smiled weakly and tried to shrug off the waves of distress rising around her. After all, she told herself, it was only a ruse, a trick for entertainment's sake-like the snake and disappearing boys-the sly deception of a practised performer.
And yet, despite all that reason assured her, she could not shake off the feeling that Sinjari had seen something in her future that had caused him to abandon what he had been about to say.
The magician moved on, foretold a few more futures – the innkeeper would have another son before the year was through, and one of the merchants would become an amir-and then quickly thanked his audience for their most gratifying praise and attention, and dismissed himself. Ibn Umar al-Farabi walked with him to the doorway and bade him farewell. While the two men talked together, Cait, unable to resist, summoned Abu and, when Sinjari took his leave, she followed him out into the yard.
'A word, sir, if you please,' called Abu on her behalf.
The conjurer turned. 'Ah, I expected as much.' He smiled wanly. 'Accept my humble admonition: do not persist in your enquiry. Sometimes it is better not to know.'
'I understand,' replied Cait, through Abu, 'but I must know.'
'Noble lady, a seer glimpses only shadows, nothing more. What can I tell you that you could not guess?'
'Please.'
Sinjari sighed. Taking her hand once more, he turned up the palm and gazed into it. After a moment he began to speak in a low, solemn voice that caused Cait's skin to tingle with stark apprehension. 'You have placed yourself in great jeopardy,' he said. 'Already the forces of chaos and destruction gather about you-they soar like vultures circling in the air, waiting for their feast.' He regarded her sadly. 'If you persist in the way you have chosen, death will mark you for his own. Death is a shrewd and pitiless hunter. None escape his snares.'
She pulled her hand from him as he finished, and thanked him for telling her, then bade him good night and turned away.
'It is not too late to turn aside,' the magician called after her. 'The future is written in sand, not stone.'
CHAPTER NINE
'Forget th
e woman, I say. She is nothing to us.'
Commander de Bracineaux regarded his companion with a stony basilisk stare. 'She has stolen the pope's letter.'
'She might have stolen the pope's golden chamber pot for all the good it will do her.' Felix d'Anjou leaned his long frame against the stone rail of the balcony and, eyeing the fruit in the glass bowl on the table before him, drew a knife from its sheath at his belt. The red-and-blue striped sunshade rippled lightly in the breeze, as if it were struggling to exhale in the stifling heat of the day.
'She has the letter and she has gone to Damascus.'
'My point exactly,' replied Baron d'Anjou, spearing a ripe pear on the point of his dagger. He cut a slice from the soft flesh, and lifted it to his lips on the edge of the blade.
'Are you finally insane, d'Anjou?' enquired the Templar commander. Inert in his chair, his white tunic open to the waist, sweat was rolling off him in drops that spattered the dusty tiles like fat raindrops on hard desert pan.
'Perhaps,' allowed the baron judiciously. 'But it occurs to me that if she has gone to Damascus it can mean but one thing.'
'Which is?'
'She does not have the slightest idea what she has stolen.' D'Anjou cut another slice from the soft fruit, ate it, and tossed the rest over the rail into the garden below. 'That is to say, the woman has no idea of the letter's value, or what it means. She is nothing but an opportunistic thief-and not a very clever one at that. Probably she cannot even read.'
'That is precisely why we must get it back,' de Bracineaux pointed out.
'Why?' The baron picked his teeth with the point of the knife.
'Before someone else finds the letter and realizes its worth. My God, d'Anjou,' he blurted in frustration, 'what have we been talking about?'
The Baron of Anjou sniffed. He stabbed a fig and raised it on the end of his knife. 'All the more reason to forget the girl and go for the treasure instead-before someone else gets there first.'
The mystic rose cc-3 Page 9