Chapter 57

Altrus released the feet of Yazid, leaving me to my own devices, and stepped quickly toward the door. Ani was already moving behind the advancing wall of guards, but his club foot made him a little slow. The point of the mercenary’s dagger, thrown with the left hand with unerring accuracy, buried itself in the back of Ani’s skinny neck, and he fell as though hamstrung. At the same time I felt Yazid give a final shudder against my knee and go limp.

The guards closed on Altrus, who stepped back and danced to the side. One soldier fell clutching his throat, blood spurting between his fingers.

“Save yourselves,” he cried without turning. “I can hold them.”

I gave a final vicious pull on the scarf and released its ends, leaving it coiled around Yazid’s neck. Martala matched swords with one of the guards, who beat her back toward the archway with the strength of his arm. Two others approached me, and I fell back before them, hard pressed to avoid both their blades at the same time. From the corner of my eye, I saw Altrus surrounded. Two more guards came toward me.

Cursing, I whirled and slashed at the exposed back of the guard who cut so viciously at the girl. He screamed with pain and fell as the strength left his legs. She stepped forward and caught a blade on her guard that would have taken off my head, had it fallen free. Together, we backed through the arch, driven along the hallway, unable to advance against the strength of steel wielded against us. Their armor gave them an advantage. Only the corridor, which was not wide enough for more than two men to fight abreast, preserved our lives. Each time one of us cut down an attacker, another came from behind to take his place.

They almost killed us in the empty chamber with the carpet, but we were able to retreat fast enough to keep from being completely encircled. We reached the entrance to the narrow stair that led up to the secret passage on the second level, and encountered another difficulty. It was not obvious how the panel opened from this side. Fighting off our attackers with an arm that was becoming weary, I watched the girl feel around the edge of the panel without success.

“Use your sword,” I cried.

She began to hack at the wall. After a few cuts, a hole appeared in the wooden panel and she widened it with the heel of her boot. I watched from the edge of my vision as she slipped through, then in one motion backed and ducked through the hole, to the obvious amazement of the guards, who hesitated to follow me into the darkness.

We were at the top of the stair before I heard them splintering the remains of the panel away from its frame.

“Run,” I told her.

We ran along the curved passage, guided by ribbons of light that leaked through the cracks around the sliding covers of the peep holes. The alarm had not reached this part of the palace. There was no sound of a search from ahead as we darted across the long spy chamber above the bathing pool and out through the open door with the lock. I stopped and drew my dagger. My anxious haste made my fingers clumsy, and it took me twice as long to relock the door as it had taken me to open it. We stood on the other side, breathing hard. The muffled thuds of approaching footfalls came through the locked door, but I heard nothing from beyond the other door at the far end of the passage.

We had enough time to locate the concealed latch for the hidden panel in the wall. When it closed behind us, I felt relieved. It was likely that not many in the palace knew its secret. At the least, it should delay pursuit. Sheathing our weapons, we made our way down the stair and along the corridor to the outer door. Only then did I remember that Altrus still had the key. It was not difficult to pick the lock with my dagger, but I cursed myself for failing to take the key from him. Yet how were we to know which of us would escape, and which would die in the palace?

The first hints of alarm began to show in the streets as we made our way to the stable. Bells were rung. Groups of soldiers ran past, keeping a tight formation with swords drawn. They ignored us. The common people began to gather in the doors of the shops and speculate about what was happening in nervous voices. No one noticed a man and a girl walk past with their heads bowed. The stable was deserted when we reached it, apart from the horses. We entered the tunnel unseen, and found the brass oil lamp still burning where Altrus had left it. The taciturn servant of Harkanos was waiting for us at the other end.

He bowed when I emerged through the little door in the cellar and led us into the large vaulted chamber with the long table, where Harkanos sat in conference with three other men I recognized from the portal ritual. One was the bald Egyptian, another the bearded ancient with the pale blue eyes, and the third a portly man with a cheerful face who resembled a merchant, and who had said nothing the previous night.

“Only two?” Harkanos asked with sadness, looking from Martala to me.

“They have your key,” I said. “It was with Altrus.”

“Ani betrayed us,” Martala added. “Altrus killed him.”

“What of the Caliph?” asked the Egyptian.

“Dead. Strangled by a Thugian scarf, and the Thugian jewel he wore around his neck pried from its socket.”

I dug into my inner pocket and held out the jewel.

Comprehension came into their eyes. The bearded ancient smiled and nodded.

“Very clever. Will the jewel be missed?”

“One of his concubines saw me tear it from his neck. She will remember, if she remembers anything. But if the key is noticed, it may have been for nothing.”

“Do not worry so much about the key,” Harkanos said. “Others were given similar keys by the Caliph. Now that he is dead, it may not be easy to identify all their owners, who will naturally be reluctant to admit to possessing a means of secret access to the palace.”

“How did these men come here?” I wondered.

Harkanos laughed, and the others smiled at the memory.

“We used your trick with the ladder. But we may not need it again. Shortly before we descended to the cellar, there was the sound of much running in the street. I did not look out my door, but I suspect the guards have departed.”

“We passed them. The soldiers set to watch over the Lane of Scholars must have been recalled to the palace.”

This proved to be true when we emerged from the house into the courtyard and unbolted the brown door to peer into the street. It was completely deserted, the soldiers gone, but the population of the Lane of Scholars afraid to leave their houses in violation of the Caliph’s order, for fear that the armed guard might suddenly return.

“You have done a good work this day,” Harkanos said, putting his hand on my shoulder as we stood together near the street door. “For yourself and for all of us.”

The other three necromancers nodded. They watched us pass into the street, and Harkanos closed the brown door behind us.

“Where now? Home?” the girl asked.

“Presently. I want to learn what the reaction of the city is to the Caliph’s assassination.”

We walked toward the marketplace, where gossip is always more recent and plentiful. The people in the streets passed hurriedly with nervous expressions, their eyes darting this way and that, but there was a curious sense of elation that grew stronger as we entered the market. The din of voices could be heard for some distance outside the market walls, louder than usual. It swelled to a roar as we passed through the open gate. Trading had almost ceased. Everyone clustered and talked about the current situation at the palace, which was said to be ringed by guards and impossible to enter or leave.

Some of the merchants had family who served in the Caliph’s guard, and from them we learned that the Caliph was either dead or gravely wounded, having been attacked by a strong force of professional assassins in his private chambers while engaged in the act of love. Two of the assassins were slain, but the others had escaped. Traitors within the palace were suspected, for how else could the assassins have made their way to the Caliph without detection? His chief advisor of state had assumed command of the guard, and at present no challenge had been made to his questionable authority. It was generally agreed that Yazid’s son, Moawiya, would succeed to the throne should Yazid be dead. Moawiya was presently on a hunting expedition in the hills outside the city. A messenger had been sent to find his hunting party and give him word of the tragedy.

The stories were many and conflicting, which cheered my heart, since it meant that the true details of the attack remained confused. Nothing was said about a key, nor was any connection made in the marketplace between the assassination and the Caliph’s action against the Lane of Scholars. On the contrary, it was generally whispered with nods and knowing looks that his son, Moawiya, was responsible for the assassination. I voiced the rumor that a Thugian scarf had been found on Yazid’s body, and that the travelers in the yellow wagons were well-known to strangle their enemies with such scarves. This proved quite a popular theory, and I found myself repeating it many times around the market. The Thugians were universally despised as thieves and cutthroats. It required no effort to turn the thoughts of the people against them, and it was fortunate for the travelers that their wagons were banned from entering the walls of the city, or they would have been torn to pieces by the mob.

From a distracted merchant we bought a small amount of brown sugar and some barley flour that the girl said was needed in the kitchen, and carried these home. By this time, a few nervous souls had ventured into the Lane of Scholars on pressing errands, or merely to satisfy their curiosity. I had nothing certain to tell Harkanos, so I made no return visit to his house. The hours passed from afternoon into evening without event, and it became obvious that the ire against the Lane of Scholars had been forgotten in the chaos at the palace.

That night as I lay naked in my bed, the girl in a similar state at my side beneath a white silk sheet, hope for the future predominated my thoughts. The question of the key still troubled me, but there was nothing to be done about it, so I thrust it aside. I felt regret over the death of Altrus, who had given his life to save mine. Even though he had been my enemy, I had never been able to resist an admiration for his reckless daring and sword skill. More than once, I cursed myself for trusting Ani.

“You were right,” I murmured aloud when we had rested side by side for several minutes.

“Hmmm?” the girl said, already drifting into sleep.

“Ani did betray us.”

“I told you he would.”

“I am a fool. It’s a wonder I have been able to stay alive this long.”

“A fool?”

“The jewel,” I said in disgust. “How did the Caliph come to possess the emerald?”

“I don’t know,” she murmured softly, her breathing slow and deep. Soon I would be talking to myself in the darkness.

“Ani saw me sell it to the Roman gem trader. When Yazid presented the emerald to me, I should have suspected Ani at once. Why did I not suspect him?”

She mumbled something.

“What was that?”

“I said you trusted him because you believed him dependent on you.”

What she said was true. In my vanity I had believed Ani’s future prosperity bound up with my own. It never occurred to me that Ani, in his ambition and greed, might perceive the Caliph a better patron.

The breaths of the girl lengthened into sleep. In a few minutes my thoughts became random, and I drifted into a similar state. The dark man waited for me in my dreams. He stood in the chamber of the palace where I had killed Yazid. The body of the Caliph lay twisted on the floor, his tongue purple where it hung from his mouth, his eyes staring into oblivion. Otherwise, the room was unoccupied.

The dark man stood over the corpse and stared down at it in silence. He turned the shadow of his hooded face toward me and pointed a bony black finger at Yazid.

“You have deprived me of one of my servants.”

A chill of dread passed over my heart, but I gave no sign of it.

“How was I to know Yazid served you?”

“True. I neglected to tell you. Yet how was I to imagine that you possessed the audacity to take his life? By the time I realized what you intended, the deed was accomplished.”

“In what way did Yazid serve you?”

The dark man kicked the corpse gently in the ribs, so that it rocked. It was almost a gesture of affection.

“His mind was weak, and his lusts made him easy to control. I fear the next Caliph won’t be so soft.”

“He planned to kill all the necromancers in Damascus,” I said.

The dark man shrugged beneath his black cloak.

“What do I care about the fate of necromancers? Your kind are an irritation to me, nothing more.”

“Then have you finished your dealings with me?”

He chuckled, the hollow rasp in his voice making my teeth clench.

“On the contrary, Alhazred, I have come to reward you.”

He stepped over the corpse and walked toward me until he stood near enough to touch. I looked into his hood but as usual saw nothing.

“It is within my power to restore your manhood and your face.”

“You would do this?” My heart quickened.

He nodded, then raised his bony ebon hand with his index finger extended.

“In return for one trifling additional service from you.”

I took an involuntary step backward, my suspicions aroused.

“What is this service?”

“I want you to murder Harkanos. He defies me, and he is leader of the necromancers in Damascus. I find his scruples an obstruction to my purposes.”

A dizziness threatened to engulf my mind, and the darkness of his cloak expanded until I could see nothing apart from the corpse of Yazid, its face turned to me with an obscene leer. My thoughts raced. To achieve the end I had sought with such longing for so many months, for the life of a single man. It seemed a small price to pay. Yet Harkanos had offered me friendship and treated me with trust. To kill him would be to cast aside any remaining shred of honor I might possess and be forever damned. A part of my mind argued that I was damned in any case for my dealings with the Old Ones, but this argument did not convince.

What Nyarlathotep asked of me was so base, I wondered if the death of Harkanos could be his only motive. To submit my will so completely to his purposes, and defile myself beyond redemption, would be to place my soul under his power. At present I was his unwilling servant, but if I did this vile thing I would become his slave. I thought of Martala’s contempt, should she learn that I had done such an evil deed, and to my surprise the opinion of the girl mattered.

The darkness withdrew, and I found myself standing naked in the desert beneath the light of the moon. Nyarlathotep pointed at my groin.

“Consider well, fool, for I will not make this offer twice. Serve me in this one small act, and I will restore your beauty and your potency. Deny me, and you will remain as you are now forever, the contempt of men, the mock of women, the horror of children.”

“I know what I am.”

Turning my back upon him, I walked without haste across the blowing sands. My heart grew serene within my breast as I left all doubt behind me in my footprints. I heard his roar of rage, was buffeted off my feet, and awoke in the darkness with a jerk, all my muscles rigid and my naked body covered with sweat. My heart raced as though I had been running. I drew deep breaths and waited for it to slow before relaxing my head upon the pillow. The girl continued to sleep. She was accustomed to my nightmares.

Morning brought the news from the marketplace that young Moawiya had returned to the palace during the night. There had been a brief battle between his personal guard and a small force of the palace guard loyal to Yazid’s chief advisor, after which several of those closest to the late Caliph had been put to the sword. The new self-proclaimed Caliph declared the day to be a day of celebration. A feast was to be held in the evening on the palace lawn for the leading men and women of Damascus. Prisoners in the city jails had already been set free as a display of clemency. I was told by Harkanos that this was not uncommon when a new ruler assumed the caliphate.

“It bodes well for us,” he said, passing me wine. “If Moawiya wishes to make a show of kindness, he is less likely to have our houses burned.”

I sat beside Martala on the padded divan in his study. He had dismissed his solemn servant after the man brought the silver tray with the wine, and both doors of the chamber were shut.

“There is quiet rejoicing along the street,” he said, sipping the golden liquid with appreciation. “With the threat of Yazid ended, we will be able to resume our more serious studies.”

“What do you know of magic that can restore lost limbs?” I tried to keep my voice careless, but the tremble in my hand as it brought the smoky glass goblet to my lips betrayed me.

He set down his own glass and regarded me with gravity. There was pity in his eyes.

“I know nothing of such magic myself,” he murmured. “I will make inquiries, and consult my texts.”

I nodded and drank to hide my eyes beneath lowered lids. It was the answer I had expected.

“There is one thing that may interest you,” he said. “When you have finished your wine, I would like to show you something.”

We followed him from the study and into the cellar with silent curiosity. He led the way to the vaulted chamber. A linen-wrapped bundle lay upon the long table, stained with earth and wound tightly with hemp cord. My nose told me that it was a corpse before my eyes made sense of its shape. It smelled of soil and damp, beneath which hung an odor of putrefaction.

Harkanos took a knife from a shelf and began to cut the loops of cord, loosening the linen as he went. When he had cut midway down the corpse, he unfolded the linen to expose its head and shoulders. Martala drew a sharp breath. On the table, Altrus lay as though asleep, his face bloodless but unblemished. The same could not be said for his shoulders and neck, which had suffered several wounds.

“Uto brought this to me last night. The new caliph, Moawiya, had it buried without ceremony or marker in the graveyard where the White Skull Clan dwells. It is my belief that he wished to remove all traces of the assassination as quickly as possible, so that its details could not by any artifice of his enemies be turned against him.

“They didn’t even bother to remove his clothing,” Martala murmured as she gazed down at his face. “But they stole his sword and armor.”

“May I have the knife?” I asked.

Harkanos passed it over and watched while I cut the remainder of the cords, exposing the corpse to its knees. I parted the mercenary’s blue cloak and felt along its inner lining. There were several pockets. In one I found the key. I held it up and smiled at our host.

“Either they never bothered to search his body, or they thought this key of no significance.”

He took it and put it on the key ring at his waist.

“I doubt I shall have occasion to use it again, but who can foresee the future? The new caliph may prove unsatisfactory.”

“Is the body intact?” Martala asked, excitement in her voice.

“So far as I am aware. Let us examine it.”

We removed the linen shroud and stripped the corpse. Apart from the many wounds that had caused his death, the body of Altrus was unmutilated. I touched the shoulder of the girl. She turned with a smile, and I knew what was in her mind.

“He may still try to kill me,” I reminded her.

“Perhaps, but I doubt it.”

“We will need to acquire a number of things.”

“That is the advantage of living in Damascus,” Harkanos said. “All things may be obtained, for a price.”

“Very well,” I told her. “We will attempt it.”

“Any assistance that I or my colleagues can provide, you need only ask,” Harkanos said.

“I have made many enemies in my travels,” I murmured, staring at the face of the mercenary. “I will need a trustworthy bodyguard if I am to continue to live in this city in peace.”

“You could not find another more capable,” said the girl.

To my surprise, I realized that in some indefinable way and without my awareness of the change, Damascus had become my home. The desire to wander the world was gone from my heart. Here I chose to live, and here I would pursue my studies. The fancy came that at some future period in my life, I might even write down the events of my travels in the form of a book, for the benefit of other seekers after arcane knowledge, and as a warning to fools. I had acquired much curious lore that would be of interest to serious students of the necromantic arts.

My enemies would continue to search after me, and would never cease to make attempts on my life. It was dangerous to remain in one city, and dwell in one house. My identity would eventually become known to those wishing my death, and I would need to take stringent precautions to defend myself and my household. I gathered my resolve. So be it. Whether my remaining years were long or short, here I would stay and live the life of a necromancer, enslaved neither to men nor to gods, my own master until the end.