4

We left Mosul just after morning prayers and Tarif’s funeral, presided over by a visibly mournful governor. He impressed upon us the importance he now gave this mission, specifically as regards to the wizards. They were to be executed on sight—this would have to serve for justice, he said, for he wanted no more of his people killed.

With Tarif dead, I was given command of the forces. I handpicked the twelve men I knew best, including Kharouf, who begged to be given a chance to redeem himself. The lieutenancy I awarded the stolid veteran, Abdul. He lacked Kharouf’s wit and speed, but was efficient and experienced. He and I made a final check of equipment, animals, and men, then I gave the order to move out. Folk in Mosul waved at us in the streets as we left, which always lightens a man’s spirits, but before long we were outside the walls and into the countryside, rendered stark and unfamiliar under the blanket of snow.

Owing to the weather we passed only two heavily bundled groups moving south that morning. Harran, the town where Dabir’s scholar lived, lay upon the main western trade route, and so, while we knew that we would journey many miles in the cold each day, the road was well marked and we knew also that there would be shelter each evening. All manner of caravanserai dot the road up and down which merchants ride every day the greater part of the year.

In addition to all else he had supplied, the governor gifted Najya with a fine chestnut mount, and loaned me a mare so that Noura would have time to heal. The animal was more willful than mine, but responsive enough. I was most thankful, though, for my new hooded robe and gloves, along with the warmth of the horse’s body against my loins, for the incessant wind was cutting and sent the vapor from our breath blowing westerly. Ice crystals soon collected in our beards and the scarves we wore over our mouths.

The wind rendered conversation a challenge, but come afternoon it had died down and Dabir called Najya up to ride beside him. I listened for a time to her answers. She was composed and formal, as I had come to realize was her natural inclination, and, moreover, sat her saddle with the ease of a cavalry officer. It was no wonder she’d wanted a better horse.

I left the two talking and took point from Ishaq, who had good eyes, for a while. Once we were through with afternoon prayers I put another soldier, Gamal, in the lead, and fell back beside Dabir. We rode in companionable silence for a long while.

“I see now,” I said after a time, “that it is spear practice you need, not sword work.”

Dabir had looked just as dour as I’d felt all that day, and it was a pleasure to see a smile cross his face, however briefly.

“I packed The Iliad, you know.”

“Huh. That is strange, for I won the bet.”

“I am not so sure. But I think more time spent on sword work may be in order in any case.”

“Good enough. All joking aside, Dabir, can Gazi be killed?”

“He can be hurt,” Dabir said, “that we know. Presumably if he can be hurt quickly enough to overwhelm his ability to preserve himself through changing form, he could be brought to an end.”

“Good.”

Dabir looked sidelong at me. “I am sorry,” he said, “about the death of your friend.”

I did not wish to dwell on that, though I had sworn to myself that I would see Tarif avenged. “I have another question. Koury can breathe life into wood, and Gazi can take any shape he wishes—”

“I’m not sure that’s true,” Dabir interjected.

I interrupted before he could distract me with a long exposition. “Regardless, these are powerful wizards. Why would they need Lydia? Or have you decided the Greek sorceress wasn’t her after all?”

“Oh,” Dabir said, “I’m more certain than ever that Lydia is involved. Najya tells me she remembers a short, dark-haired woman with large eyes, very pretty, well-dressed with an enameled necklace of some sort. Now while there are surely other Greek magic workers, some of whom are women, how many of them are powerful and beautiful? And do you recall her locket bearing the image of Saint Marina?”

I did not, but Dabir spoke on. “Jaffar remarked on it when he suggested it would pair well with a set of emerald earrings he’d been given by the jeweler Namad in payment for a market infraction.”

“You still have not answered.”

“Just as no warrior is good with every weapon, or no artist good with every medium, no wizard is master of every spell. Take a poet, for example. He’s unlikely also to be a fine drummer or sculptor.”

I grunted. “So she’s better at something than they, who have had a thousand years to study their craft?”

“More years than that, probably,” Dabir corrected. “But yes, and her expertise may be crucial to their aims in this instance.”

“How do you reason that?”

Instead of answering, Dabir considered the frosty distance and reached down to brush something from his horse. He glanced behind us and I understood he looked to see where Najya was. She rode a full two horse lengths back, among the supply animals. Kharouf was immediately behind, but even he was some paces off.

When Dabir faced forward again, I assumed he meant to answer me in the instant, but he frowned instead, then demurred in hushed tones, “I do not like to speculate.”

“Aye, instead you like to madden me. You must tell me what you are thinking.”

His head tilted minutely from side to side as if he held an internal argument, then finally gave in, his voice low and intent. “We know Najya has been ensorcelled to compel her to track these bones. We know Lydia’s expertise is with spirits, and we saw her put one in another person’s body.”

I did not like where he was going with this. “So?” I prompted.

The breath from his long sigh misted in the air before him. “I fear the spirit of the creature that once used these bones has been bound to Najya, and that is why she sometimes has lapses in memory and strange behavior.”

“What! Are you saying that Greek witch deliberately infected Najya with some demon?” I made the sign against the evil eye and fought against the impulse to look back at the woman. The men riding before us didn’t turn at my outburst, but I whispered back in any case. “Can she be saved?”

“It’s my hope Jibril can safely ‘break’ the spear and cast out the spirit. That should render both woman and weapon useless to the Sebitti.”

“If that is the solution, why can’t we just break the spear now?” I asked.

“No.” Dabir looked at me pointedly. “If it’s some kind of magical tool, that is the last thing we must do.”

“Why?”

“It would be like unblocking a canal while you were standing in its bottom. The water would rush in and surely drown you.”

“I see,” I said, though I didn’t, entirely.

“I can’t predict exactly what would happen,” Dabir explained further, “but it wouldn’t be good for whoever happens to be near the spear. And if something’s locked inside, then … that something would be free.”

“You mean like a ghost? Or a djinn?”

“Something other,” Dabir said. “Something that we do not want to meet.”

“Bismallah. Is this ‘something’ going to kill her? Will it drive her mad?”

“I don’t know.” Dabir measured me with his eyes before deciding how to continue. “Right now she seems to be in control. But I cannot say if that will last.”

“Is your wizard friend powerful enough to fix her?”

“He is more a bookseller than a wizard, but he is well-read.”

“A bookseller?” I felt a stab of worry. I hoped I had not oversold his prowess to Najya.

A smile played at the corners of Dabir’s mouth. “If you expect him to have a long white beard and a turban with woven images of constellations, you will be sorely disappointed. Jibril makes his living as a bookseller, but he is one of the most educated men in the world. And he knows a great deal about magic.”

“What is so great a scholar doing in Harran? You called it a heat-blasted hole.”

“It is a heat-blasted hole, though it may seem less so this season. But fine schools have flourished there since ancient times. I studied at the largest one before being accepted at the House of Wisdom.”

“With Jibril?”

“Jibril and I became friends because one of my teachers sent me to purchase titles.”

“But he knows all about the Sebitti and their magics?”

“Yes.”

I nodded, not entirely satisfied, “I know we’re up against great wizards, but do you think that perhaps they just name themselves after the old Sebitti? Koury did not look thousands of years old.”

“No, he didn’t,” Dabir admitted. “But part of their legend concerns immortality.”

“I thought you said Gazi could be killed.”

“I’m hoping ‘immortal’ merely means ‘ageless.’”

“What is the legend?” I knew only what Dabir had mentioned in passing about the Sebitti that first day.

“Keep in mind the stories are very old.” We stopped briefly as my horse paused to relieve herself. Once we were in motion again Dabir said: “Actually, there is not so much a coherent story as scattered pieces.”

“Well, let’s hear the pieces, then.”

“Fair enough.” Dabir cleared his throat and gathered his thoughts. “Well, there were seven sages whom the ancients thought had been sent by the gods to bring civilization to man. Their leader was Adapa. The Assyrians relate that he had broken the wing of the bird of the south wind, and was brought before the gods for punishment. Some of the gods spoke in Adapa’s favor, reminding them of great services the Sebitti had performed already and swaying the decision of the others.”

“How can any of this be true?” I interjected. “There are no gods but Allah.”

“These stories come from a very long time ago,” Dabir reminded me. “Details get garbled in the telling. It is like the story of the urchin and the gossip.”

I looked at him blankly.

Dabir obliged with an explanation. “One gossip saw a boy stumble in the road, and the tale passed through her, to another, to another, all about the square and down the street, until the boy’s mother came running out from her home, weeping, for she was told that her son was struck by a wagon and lay dying with his leg crushed.”

“The story changed from mouth to mouth. Aye. Men lie and exaggerate, and forget details. So it was that Allah had to inspire so many prophets over the years, may peace be upon them all, for men could not properly remember his true word.”

“Exactly. Perhaps what the old storytellers describe as gods were kings. The problem is learning which parts of any such story are true, and which parts are embellishment. I had always assumed that the Sebitti were a group of long-dead, especially capable warriors, but, well … here we are.”

“You were going to tell me more about them.”

Dabir frowned faintly. “Jibril is the real expert. I cannot remember all the specifics. I do know that Adapa was offered the food of immortality, and that he refused. The others, though, accepted. So that there were in truth only six immortals.” He raised a gloved hand and folded down one thick beige thumb. “Gazi, the heart-taker, was said to steal the shape and physical prowess of any whose heart he devours, though not the mind, so that he grew in cunning but not in wisdom. There is one story about a clever widow who eluded him by feigning dismemberment.” He folded down his first finger, and continued to curl the others as he worked through their names. “There is Erragal, master of the unseen, who was said to dwell in a deep cave beneath the tallest mountain. He used to enslave men to build great walls and palaces, but grew tired of that, and summoned dead men to work for him instead. There is the hideous Lamashtu, dark mother and mistress of the earth’s hidden knowledge. She is said to be torpid and slow, but vicious when roused. When a child died in the night, or when a man was found with his throat slit, folk would whisper it was Lamashtu’s doing. Enkidu was lord of beasts, roaming the woodlands and plains. In some stories he protected travelers from fierce beasts; in others he ran with the lions who hunted men.” Dabir, having run out of digits, lowered his hand. “There is Koury, the master shaper and artificer, who brought a kind of life into clay and wood. It was said he used an army of stone men to build a fantastic bridge across the Tigris. Finally there is Anzu, the watcher of men, the spy and ferreter of secrets. He was the ear of the Sebitti, said to be the most generous of all, sometimes coming among men to bear gifts. One legend names him as a wise man who gave presents to the prophet Jesus, may peace be his.”

“And you think we face all of these?”

“Allah preserve us if we do,” Dabir said softly. “Two would be quite enough.”

To that I could only agree.

We traveled until sunset that first day and went straight to bed after prayers. Late during the second day’s travel Dabir pointed out a distant, white-capped peak where, he told me, Nuh’s ark had come to rest after the flood. I had never realized it was so close to Mosul, and I fell to wondering if there might be anything left of it upon the mountainside. Dabir remarked the whole thing had likely long since rotted, but we agreed that in the summer it might be interesting to look for it.

Now those of you who are not travelers may wonder as to what a caravanserai looks like. There are all kinds, large and small, but the best are walled rectangles that can house large numbers of men, horses, and goods, and can be sealed off for the night with thick wooden doors. Many are built around wells, and the very best are manned with guards and staffed with merchants.

The caravanserai that night was of the better sort, and it had a little shop selling both chickens and eggs, which we put to good use, though the prices were high. The shopkeeper, a fat man with a lazy eye, actually sounded sincere when he apologized for the price, saying that his fowl were simply not laying as well in the cold, and he gossiped with anyone who would listen about the bad weather’s effect on business.

Our meal was subdued until Kharouf spoke up from the fireside and asked for a story from me. Without too much reluctance I fell to describing my journey with Dabir through the Desert of Souls. The men all thought this a fine tale and praised me. Afterward, I portioned out the night’s sentinels. There were enough of us that two could be spared for each of the three watches on one night, and sleep the next, so that none of us would suffer overmuch. Najya was excluded from this calculation, of course. You may think me overcautious setting sentinels inside a high-walled caravanserai sealed with thick doors and a great chain, but Dabir and I were uneasy as to the power of the enemies we faced, and there were at least a dozen strangers behind the walls with us.

Dabir was brooding and turned down my offer for a game of shatranj, so I checked over the arrangements while most of the men readied for sleep. They had erected a small tent between our three campfires for Najya, who sat quietly near Dabir. My friend remained close to our largest fire, looking over one of his scrolls. The spear, wrapped in a long dark package beside him, had not left his sight.

I took off my belt and set my sheathed sword close to hand before sinking down onto my bedroll to remove my boots. It was then I found Najya before me.

The cool wind set her veil rippling and her hair blowing. She pushed a strand from her fine-featured face. “Captain, I heard you say that you had brought your shatranj board.”

“I have.” I set my boots down side by side, in easy reach should I need to slip into them quickly.

“I had hoped we might play tonight. A quick game, before sleep.”

I had never before played shatranj with a woman; indeed, it had never crossed my mind that a woman might know the rules. But then it was growing clear that Najya was a different sort of woman than those I had known before. I was not yet tired and the thought of spending time in her company did not displease me.

“I would welcome that,” I told her.

I retrieved the board and the bag of pieces from my saddle gear, after slipping back into my boots. Najya and I unrolled our prayer rugs to sit upon, then placed pieces. I allowed her the black, so that she might move first, then asked how large a handicap she desired.

“A handicap?” Her eyebrows rose.

“I might give over my vizier,” I explained, “or an elephant, or a knight, even one of my chariots, before the start of the game.”

“Do you not think I can play you, Captain?” she asked.

The habits of women are confusing, for they take offense sometimes even when you mean only to be kind. “I did not say that,” I said.

“I grew up playing shatranj across from my father, and my brother. And I bested them both.”

I nodded once to her. “No handicap, then.”

I could not quite read her look, but her voice was cool when next she spoke. “I have a thought, Captain. Let us make a wager.”

Gambling for money is forbidden, as all right-minded know, but her manner gave me pause and I did not manage to frame a response before she continued.

“You look so sour. If you win this match, then you need not bother with my company in the evenings. I see that I make you uncomfortable.”

I could not imagine how she had been left with that impression. She spoke on before I could protest.

“If, however, I win, you shall spar with me tomorrow evening.”

The notion that I, the expedition leader, should trade blows with a woman under my protection struck me as comically absurd.

“Are you afraid I’m going to best you?” There was a challenge in those eyes now.

“No!” My response was louder than I planned. I managed to lower my voice, but not to frame more than a short expression of my bewilderment. “Why?”

“It is simple. I find myself in danger and since I … since my maturity, I have had no more training. My brother no longer would duel with me, and my husband always refused. I thought I would profit from renewed practice.”

I found myself nodding slowly, unwilling to disappoint her but unsure how to proceed. “Well, I suppose that might be helpful,” I said doubtfully. I thought then I might suggest someone else work with her—maybe Dabir would know how to teach her—but she did not give me the chance to speak on.

“Let us play, then, Captain.”

So we did. I let her begin, and then, as is usual, we spent a long while taking turns maneuvering pieces into our battle arrays. She did not make the mistake of moving without watching me, as the young and inexperienced will do.

For a time our play took all our concentration. When she snatched my pawn with a knight one square from the far side of the board, I saw that she had the focus of a hawk and decided to better my chances by distracting her. “Tell me what your father was like,” I suggested.

Her voice was soft, reflective, as she replied. “He was a good man, and brave. Gentle with his children and friends, but a lion when roused to anger.”

I asked more about him, and anything she might know of his campaigns, and was surprised to hear that she knew far more about tactics and troop movements than many soldiers. She said it had pleased her father to speak of such things, and that she had first listened because she loved him. “And then I listened because I found such matters of interest. I used to beg him to tell me again of Iskander’s battles at Gaugmella or Granicus, and he would set out stones and sticks to show me how the units moved.”

Surely most fathers would not have discussed such matters with their daughters, nor allow them to spend so much time in the saddle. She had continued to ride, even after marriage, and she lovingly described journeys near the mountains outside her estate.

“I have been looking forward to the spring,” she said, “and the bloom of the flowers as the grass turns a deep green upon the slopes. You should come and ride there then. You would enjoy it, I think.”

“I’m sure I would. You sound as though you spend many hours in the saddle.”

“I had little else to do once I married.” Her eyes settled on her pieces. “The household was run by the servants. And we had no children,” she added.

That she was barren struck me like a heavy blow and I could not think how to respond. Should I offer condolences?

She seemed not to notice my discomfiture as she brought out her right chariot. “Bahir was very handsome, and clever,” she continued. “My father loved him, for he was a brave officer and a fine swordsman. But when he was not on duty, he seemed always to be out with his friends. He never had time for me.”

She arched one slim eyebrow meaningfully. I understood then that she knew exactly what I had first assumed. Although I could not for the life of me imagine why any man would keep from Najya’s bed, I had known soldiers who sought only the company of their fellows.

“That is unfortunate,” I managed, lamely.

“I do not want you to think he was a bad man. I would not have wished that death for him.” She then pushed forward her other chariot and her eyes flashed with impish glee. “You have become distracted, Asim. Check.”

I was as startled by her use of my name as my sudden reversal. I could hear the smile in her voice as she addressed me. “I think that I shall triumph.”

Most men know that to keep good grace with a woman you must not always strive to win, but I do not think I could have gotten myself out from the trap she had laid regardless. In a few more moves I was forced to concede. It being dark, I could not see through her veil, so the only sign I saw of her delight was the shift of her eyes.

“That was well done,” I admitted. “I should like to watch you play Dabir sometime.”

“I would rather play you,” she said, and then froze for a moment, as if she regretted the words. “He is quite intense,” she added. “I feel always as if he is watching me. Judging me.”

“Surely not,” I said, though I suspected she was right. “In any case, I underestimated you, and now must pay the price.”

“I trust our wager is not too weighty for you?” she said thoughtfully.

“Nay,” I said, “you beat me fairly.”

“Very well.” She sounded quite satisfied with herself. “Tomorrow evening, then. Good night, Captain.” She bowed her head formally to me, and then withdrew.

After she retired I stowed away the board and pieces, thinking about the coming bout. The men would laugh at me, I thought, unless I was careful to make it a teaching exercise and not a contest, and they might tease me in any case. Yet I found that I did not care, and I was smiling when I crouched down beside Dabir, still sitting with a scroll by the fire.

“She is a fair player,” I told him.

“That is good,” Dabir replied without interest.

I decided not to tell him that she had beaten me. I glanced over to her tent, then lowered my voice. “I think she is feeling a little better.”

“The gaps in her memory trouble her more than she is letting on,” Dabir said, without pause from his reading.

“Eh. I think you may be making her uncomfortable.”

Now he looked up, and the long, fire-cast shadows aged his face. “How so?”

“Well. You know how you are. Intense. That is the word she used.”

Dabir toyed with the ring glinting on his finger. “I see. What do you suggest I do differently?”

“Perhaps you should not watch her as though she were an object of study.”

Dabir deliberated before responding. “Asim, I think it is good of you to entertain her. The happier she is, the stronger she is likely to remain against the spirit. But you should not forget that there is something powerful within her that could take control at any moment. It’s … unwise to…” He seemed to reconsider whatever he was about to advise. “I’m sure you are not suggesting that I relax my vigilance?”

“No,” I answered reluctantly.

“But I will strive to be more cordial. I don’t want to add to her burdens.”

“That would be nice.”

He nodded once and returned his attention to the scroll.

“What is it you are reading?”

“Passages from the Christian stories of the prophet Jesus, may peace be upon him. He cast demons and spirits out, but the writers do not say how.”

I clapped Dabir on the shoulder. “If anyone can learn the answers, it will be you. But we should turn in, for it is already late. Sleep well, Dabir.”

An amused smile stole over his features. “And you.”

I strode back to my blankets, and burrowed in.

I did sleep well, as it happened, though I was roused before even the predawn call to prayer when those within the caravanserai began to bustle. There were only two small caravans that had taken shelter that night, but you would not have known it from the amount of peddlers who crept forth that morning. They hawked waterskins, wineskins, and the means to fill both. They called out about whetstones, kindling, horse feed, knives, cloaks, gloves, even perfumes, to take back to the ladies at home. Children scurried from campfire to campfire, bragging about the excellence of their mother’s, aunt’s, or grandmother’s candied nuts.

There was altogether too much chaos to please me, so I posted Kharouf and another man to stand watch. I stood back to supervise the loading of animals and gathering of gear, and it was thus that I noticed a small boy passing through with a sack bulging with breads. He was turned away by Abdul, but ducked low, came around a horse, and made straight for Najya.

I might have done the same thing if I were ten or eleven, for young women were easier marks, and better to look at in any case. However, I didn’t want any complications or delays. I stepped around Abdul, gruffly urging another peddler from our midst, and almost ran into Dabir, who stood watching Najya, the wrapped spear held still in one hand like a walking staff.

He met my eyes and I understood immediately that something about the situation had alarmed him. Najya was bent a little to talk with the boy, who was proffering her a sweet bread. She said something we could not hear, and then he giggled. It was not the sound of his voice so much as the quality of the giggle, its length, the way his shoulder shrugged. We had heard it from a grown man trying to slay us in the astronomer’s tower.

“Ya Allah!” I dashed forward, hand to my hilt. “Najya, get back from him!”

The boy turned instantly. A normal youth would have been frightened to see a soldier bearing down, but this one grinned. His form blurred and shifted even as he pulled a blade from somewhere within the pack that slid from his shoulders. His robe ripped as he grew, his skin lightened, and before I reached him I faced a huge redheaded Frank with a thick beard.

“This time my sword is curved,” he crowed in a surprisingly thin voice, and leapt at me, his eyes alight with joy. His clothes were all but shredded, and his feet were bare as he dashed through the churned and muddy snow. Yet, from his grin, you’d have thought he frolicked in the spring grass.

Najya shouted for me to be careful even as horses began to neigh wildly on every side, and men’s voices rose in consternation and fear. I had no chance in that moment to learn what troubled them, for I was fighting for my life. I parried Gazi’s strike at the upper end of his arc, before he built full strength, and even so he nearly overpowered me.

The Sebitti recovered fast and came with a sidewise slash at my head. I ducked, sidestepped, parried again. Around me soldiers drew sword against cloaked figures suddenly in our midst, but also against huge wooden serpents that had whipped up from the snow near Dabir. It was these, apparently, which frightened the horses.

I heard Najya’s voice rise in a scream but was too busy to risk a backward glance. Gazi came on, his teeth exposed in a hateful smile. He feinted an overhead chop but I sidestepped and blocked the expected torso thrust. He rushed with a flurry of blows that included some strikes I never before had seen and barely kept off my flesh. His mouth slid into an arrogant sneer. Kharouf darted in to aid me and nearly had his head shorn off for his trouble; he threw himself to the side and still took a cut to the arm that sent blood flying.

I took the opening to slice mid-torso, but Gazi beat my strike aside. His grin widened, white teeth shining under his red mustache. “Too predictable,” he told me. I think he meant to say more, but he glanced suddenly to his left and his eyes widened almost comically. He parried another of my blows dismissively, then, as a frightened horse dashed past, the madman vaulted onto the beast. Gazi’s balance was obscenely perfect; not only did he land astride the mare, he somehow switched sword hands in the process to swing out at me. I dropped, and I heard his laughter as he galloped away. I shot to my feet and started after, but something frigid slid by and the sight of it stopped me short. It was a transparent woman all in white, radiating cold, her tattered garments and hair gliding out behind her as though she flew into a gusting wind. The ghostly form raced after him with outstretched arms even as Gazi fled through the open caravanserai doors.

I knew not what to make of that, but raised a hand warding off the evil eye and spun around to take in the scene.

Shouting soldiers strained at lead lines of curveting horses while strangers pointed and stared from a safe distance. Najya’s tent lay trampled near Kharouf, who struggled upright holding one blood-soaked sleeve, his eyes glazed with shock. I shouted for Abdul to tend him. It was then that I saw the black wooden ram with its spiraling horns, straining against ice that encased it from the shoulder down. And beyond that, gliding over the surface of the snow toward Najya, was a second snow witch. Najya pointed at it in fear with a shaking hand, gasping long and loud, and stopped just short of another scream.

It was easy to see why. The ghost’s face was her own, as if a sculptor had shaped it from snow and ice.