2

Before I could draw breath, four bold rogues rounded the corner and stopped short at the heels of the wounded man. Three wore fine clothes shabbily treated, as if they liked the look of them but did not know their proper care. More to the point, swords were in their hands.

I slung free my sword; I knew a surge of pleasure as the weapon came clear and sat in my fist, curved and gleaming. It was a blade my father had won from a Turk. In practiced hands, its shape allowed faster unsheathing than the straight blades borne by most folk of the caliphate.

“Back, dogs!” I said.

The first of the ruffians, broad-shouldered and large-bellied, gave way. “That man is a thief,” he said, pointing at the fellow lying before us.

I pressed forward a half step. “Then the magistrate will decide his fate.”

“He has something that belongs to us.” This from the second man, tall and rangy, with a dirty turban. The third, big-boned and surly, was like enough in mien to be his brother.

The fourth of them watched quietly. He was smaller than his companions and dressed simply, but I did not discount him. They were oxen, he was a snake. Angered oxen are dangerous, true, but are mostly bluster and would sooner stand about eating grass or chasing females. A snake kills for its living.

Dabir stepped to my side and drew his own sword. There is, of course, a vast gulf separating the competent from the skilled, but the ruffians could not see that gulf as Dabir took a confident stance; he held his blade well.

Jaffar, behind us, had knelt and was speaking softly to the injured man, but I could not hear, for the fat rogue spoke again.

“He has stolen our property,” he said petulantly. “Give aid to honest citizens and step aside.”

“That may be,” Dabir said. “Let us sheath weapons and consult reasonably.”

This puzzled the fat one, who glanced to his right, where the snake waited.

“Kill them,” the little man hissed.

The fat man bellowed, as is the manner of bulls, and charged Dabir. The tall one leapt at me with an overhand swing. I sidestepped and his blade whished past even as my own sliced through his abdomen. I was certain of the strike and did not watch the impact or subsequent fall, for my eyes were already upon the one with the surly grimace. He, too, charged, and his strike at my head was more skilled than his comrade’s. Almost I threw up my right shoulder, but I remembered I did not wear armor, and dropped to one knee. I felt the wind of the sword’s passage over my head.

There are those who say combat is a whirlwind that leaves no time for thought. I find that the world seems slowed at such moments, also that my thinking is clear and steady, and that my soul sings with life.

Dabir and the fat man traded wary blows to my left while the snake watched.

I sprang to my feet. The big-boned one caught my blow with a desperate swing. There was power there, but no finesse, and I locked blades and forced his down and offside. He was wide open, and his eyes were wide as my sword tip sliced across the front of his throat. Blood sprayed. He clutched his ruined neck with his hands as he fell.

The snake cursed, backed away, and darted off. The fat man sprinted after him, puffing heavily. Both disappeared around a house and I started to follow before recalling my first duty was to safeguard Jaffar.

My master had turned the man over onto his back. Dabir sheathed his unbloodied blade and knelt now at the dying man’s side, seeking for his wound. A simple look at his blood-soaked clothing told me there was no bandage wide enough to save him—surely there was more blood without than within. His face was pale as winter sky.

Yet Dabir exposed a wound in the man’s trunk and was wiping the blood and gore clear with the fellow’s clothing so that he might see the extent of the injury. Jaffar, a kind man, cradled the fellow’s head and pressed a water sac to his lips.

The fellow drank once, then shook his head, agitated. “The door,” he muttered. “You must tell … the caliph…”

“The caliph?” Jaffar asked. “What?”

“The door—the door pulls. Do not let them put them on…”

The master looked up at me, then back down at the man, whose eyes relaxed and looked upon the angels and the glory of God.

While Jaffar considered the dead man soberly, Dabir investigated his satchel.

I do not mean to suggest that I am now, or that I was then, a connoisseur of doors or their ornamentation, but like most folk who have made their home in cities, I have seen many doors, and as an intimate of the powerful, I have passed through or by my share of doorways gilt with decorative patterns and precious things. I remember few details about them, but I still vividly recall the splendid door pull Dabir discovered in the dead man’s belongings, gleaming all the brighter for its rude container. The pull itself was a solid ring of gold, held in the mouth of an exquisitely rendered roaring lion. It was set into a gold plaque bearing three rubies, beneath which was peculiar writing—geometric shapes and lines like chicken scratches. Dabir had once told me that folk in olden days were still perfecting their letters and had not yet designed beautiful script.

Upon finding this pull within the dead man’s satchel Jaffar immediately declared that he wished Dabir to translate the writing, also that he hoped to place it upon one of his own doors. He wondered aloud if a craftsman might be found to fashion its twin. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten that he had dismissed the scholar. Dabir puzzled over the thing only briefly before lowering it back into the satchel.

“All this,” he said, rising and taking in the three bodies with a sweep of his hand, “is part of a greater mystery. He sought for you, Andar.”

“Do you think so?”

“He was one of those who waited outside the palace when we left this morning,” Dabir answered. “I must examine all these bodies before they are shrouded. We may yet learn more from them.”

Jaffar agreed.

A crowd had gathered swiftly after the spill of blood, and I spread enough coins around that no one troubled too much over the renting of a cart, horse, and the rug we threw over the bodies. The master meant us to return immediately.

We reached the palace in late afternoon and grimacing slaves conveyed the bodies to the same workroom where Dabir usually tutored Sabirah.

After the corpses had been deposited upon the old rugs, Dabir put down the satchel and suggested I set to work, saying that he would return soon with books.

“What will I look for?” I asked.

“Study them, Asim! You do not lack wit. See what you can learn. I shall be back soon.”

He departed, and I was left alone with the three dead men and a smattering of flies, busy about the blood. I hoped we would be through the task soon, for the flies were certain not to diminish in number.

I stood at the booted feet, staring down at the bodies. Dabir had instructed that they lie faceup. I scratched my beard and wondered when the slaves would bring the food. I’d had naught but tiny pastries since morn.

I had seen enough death that bodies did not trouble me overmuch. In truth, apart from the corpses and the flies, it was rather a comforting room, paneled with dark teak and decorated with old Persian wall hangings. One I especially liked showed Rostam’s taming of the horse Rakhsh, his lariat depicted with such skill it looked somehow like it had just been flung. A crowd of elders looked on the youth in horror, and one fat fellow was actually chewing his beard in consternation down in the corner of the tapestry. His expression made me chuckle.

I then bethought of the dead men and held off laughing, stepping over to the bank of scalloped windows. Here, too, was a goodly sight, for Dabir’s study looked out on another of the master’s gardens, one floor below. I breathed in the scent of water from the fountain, and took in a faint scent of rose as well.

Still there came no food, so I looked over the other tapestry, considered the scrollwork on the large chests against the wall, glanced at the red and blue glazed game pieces the crones had left to see who was winning, then returned at last to the corpses.

The door opened, but instead of a slave with food I faced the poet, who slid through and closed the portal behind him. His mocking smile disappeared quickly as he considered the grisly display. He tugged on his wispy beard.

“Are you through with your poem?” I asked.

“Almost.” He joined me by the bodies. “The master said many curious things had transpired, and that he was going to write of them. What are these?”

“Dead men.”

“What wit! Did you slay them?”

I only grunted and looked down at the slain men once more. I expected the poet to grow bored and leave me be.

“Why do you stare so? Do you admire your handiwork?”

“Dabir set me to examining the bodies.”

“For what?”

“For information.”

“You seem somewhat far away to learn much information.”

“You seem somewhat sober for a drunkard.”

“Huh. I would see this gold the master spoke of.”

“It is there, in the satchel.”

Hamil stepped around me while I considered what might be learned from the dead. Two were murderers and thieves, one was a victim. I could tell that the victim had once taken greater care with his person than the other two had likely ever known, but his clothing was travel-worn, his face and hair dirty with road dust.

“This is quite a treasure,” the poet said from my right.

“Yes.” I glanced over, saw him slide the pull back in the satchel.

“And Dabir can read the language on the gold?”

“I believe he went to find some books about them.”

Hamil came and stood at my elbow. He was a short, slight fellow, and the height of his turban was barely level with my eyes.

“Have you seen to their money yet?”

“No,” I answered.

“Let’s count it, then. Those money bags look full.”

I couldn’t see how that would help anything, but it was a better suggestion than I had developed, and had been offered without malice. “Very well,” I said, and in a short time we had cut free the coin purses, dumped their contents in a pile, and sorted them. I kept watch on the poet to see that he palmed no coins, but he seemed motivated more by curiosity than avarice.

There was more in those purses than I would have guessed, but the poet and I separated the money into piles in a short time. We were uncertain what to do then, but fortunately for us, the servants arrived at last with food, so we washed, moved the platters away from the bodies, and set to eating. It was one of the few amicable moments Hamil and I had ever shared, united as we were both by the mystery of the events and our own consternation, for we could not imagine that anything useful might be learned from the dead men’s possessions.

We were to be rudely surprised.

As I was wiping my hands on a napkin, Dabir entered, burdened with books and scrolls. I hurried to assist him as the poet rose with a greeting.

I caught one of the scrolls as it rolled about on top of Dabir’s stack. “What did you find?” he asked me.

“More coins than you might think.”

Dabir set the books and papers on a table and walked to the piles of money, which he eyed critically.

“We counted them for you,” the poet told him.

“You mixed the coin purses together?” Dabir sounded horrified.

“Yes,” Hamil answered.

Dabir put his hand to his face.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you trying to ruin me, Asim?”

“What is it?” I was solicitous; I was all too aware that I had put the man’s career in jeopardy by suggesting his name to Jaffar earlier today.

“Which coins came from which man? Do you have any idea?”

The poet and I traded glances. “Well,” I ventured, “the man who had the door pull had few coins upon him at all. The others had a month’s wages.”

“Your pardon—what could the coins tell us?” Hamil asked.

“All manner of things,” Dabir said quietly, “to those who would look.”

“I looked,” I said, “but I did not see anything.”

“Exactly! Those Greek coins, there—from whom did they come?”

“The ones who attacked us,” I answered.

“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? It might be important!”

“I’m sure,” I answered, although now that he mentioned it, I couldn’t be, completely.

“He is right,” the poet said.

“Why do you think these Greek coins were in the possession of these men?” Dabir asked.

“They’re Greeks?” the poet offered helpfully.

“No, a Greek paid them,” Dabir said. He stepped to one of the bodies. “Look here, at these men, and their finery. These are not their normal clothes, judging by their treatment. Do they otherwise seem the sort of men to wear such excellent garments?”

“Do you think them stolen?” the poet asked.

“No—see how well they fit. These are but recently purchased. Someone paid them well to do something.”

“Somebody Greek,” I said.

“Probably.” So saying, Dabir bent over the men who’d attacked us and tore open their jubbahs to reveal old, stained undergarments, as though to confirm his earlier suspicion. He studied their footgear momentarily, then spent a much longer time going over the victim, inspecting boots, belt, sleeve, even his beard. The poet hovered nearby, watching all.

“What do you see?” Hamil asked.

“These two are no more than we supposed. I would we could trace them back to the neighborhood from which they were hired, but I lack the necessary information. This man, though…”

Dabir undid the fellow’s sword belt and opened his robe. Beneath it was a thin white garment. “His sudre. He was Magian. Note also the belt he wears here. I glimpsed it while I was seeing to his wound.”

“A wool belt? It holds nothing up.”

“It is a symbol of faith. Those who revere the fire tie and untie it while praying. It is woven,” Dabir continued, “from seventy-two threads, to honor one of their holy texts.”

“Was it a Magian door pull?” I asked.

“It does not seem to be.” Dabir climbed to his feet. “Hamil, would you call for the slaves? These men must be shrouded. This other—the Magians have different rites.”

“The fire worshippers leave their dead exposed to the elements,” the poet said. “As like we can throw him into the alley.”

“They do not worship the fire,” Dabir said. He sounded faintly annoyed. “Do you worship the rug upon which you kneel?”

Hamil stared at Dabir in answer.

“Send word for a Magian priest. They will want the body. It may be that they will recognize this man.”

The poet bowed his head and left without complaint. I did not yet understand that Dabir could inspire people who might normally be contentious into aiding him because they desired involvement in the unraveling of his mystery.

Dabir carefully rubbed his hands with a cake of soap and rinsed them in the bowl of water the slaves had brought, then considered the food. The sherbet had melted; Dabir selected a wrinkled fig.

“Dabir,” I said, “if you translate the scratches on the door pull, Jaffar will be so pleased he is likely to forget the magic woman’s words.”

“He will not forget. He knows I can translate this, which he desires. If it pleases him, he will pass me on to some other house, likely the caliph’s.”

I smiled. “Then you will wax higher.”

His look was dark and long, and I could not escape the feeling he thought me stupid at that moment. His tone, when finally he spoke, was not welcoming. “The caliph’s household is large; he is surrounded already by courtiers who do not wish for rivals. And I am not especially interested in sparring with them for a place. Besides, I am pleased with my work here. Was pleased.”

I spread my hands. “Allow me to speak with Jaffar, on your behalf. I think I can persuade—”

“You have done enough, I think, today.” Dabir sat down heavily with one of the books and began to read. He made no other sign to me, nor did he speak.

Almost I spoke against his rudeness, but I held my tongue as I departed, though I did not leave off slamming the door behind me. Somehow it did not satisfy.

It occurred to me that the old woman had, indeed, confused the bowls and that Jaffar likely did Dabir a favor that he did not appreciate; moreover, that if it had not been for me, Dabir would not have learned he was destined to die for love of Sabirah. Now he might yet change his fate, if such a thing could be done, and he had me to thank.

I spent the rest of the afternoon rounding through my duties; inspecting the arms of the men, the organization of the barracks, and the overall security of the palace. All the men under my command there were dependable, for Jaffar had given me authority to hire and fire as needed, but that did not mean they were not tempted sometimes to cut corners. I set three to work polishing helmets that had been neglected.

For most of that afternoon and early evening I thought only of my duties, but my mind turned occasionally to Dabir and the bodies and the pull. Would he be able to translate the thing, and what would it say? Were the men I’d slain after it solely because it was gold, or had they, too, valued the words? Would I be renowned as a slayer of monsters? What monsters, and from whence would they come?

What use asking questions for which I had no answers? I put them from my mind.

I was leaning over a shatranj board across from my nephew Mahmoud—my chief lieutenant—just after evening prayers, when there came a knock upon the door. Mahmoud bade the knocker to enter, and Boulos himself stuck in his head and asked for me. The chief eunuch explained why as we walked.

“Mistress Sabirah desires a word with you,” he said.

“What is this about?”

“You do not know?” he asked.

“No.”

“Hmm. I was hoping you did.” He chewed on that thought a moment as we advanced through the shadowy corridors. Here and there torches flickered in cressets set into pillars, but despite them, evening always lent the palace a cavernous feel. Expensive carpets dulled our passage, but every eight feet or so there was a gap, and our boot heels would echo on the flagstones for two paces before we crossed again to fabric.

“Did you really slay two men in the space of a single breath?” Boulos asked.

I thought for a moment. “Perhaps three breaths.”

“Zip, zip, zip!” Boulos brandished an imaginary sword before him, then chuckled. “A Magian priest arrived and spoke with Dabir at length before leaving with the other fellow’s body. I would give much to know what they said! You know how closemouthed Dabir is. And he seems in a mood besides.”

“He said nothing to me.”

Boulos tried prying out more information about our trip, but I was seasoned enough to ask if Jaffar had shared details with him yet, and Boulos was wise enough to admit to me that the master had not.

“The master,” I said, “may intend to surprise the caliph with the story and not wish it spread.”

“You can tell me, Asim, for I am the very soul of discretion.”

“Boulos,” I said, “you are known far and wide as a fine relayer of tales, which is to be commended. But in this instance, it is not to be encouraged.”

Boulos pouted, but fortunately by this time we had reached the harem. Here the halls were not so lofty, and more narrow as well, though decorated with even finer hangings. Gold filagree showed upon some of the door lintels. The floors were of stained wood.

He conducted me through the central hall and into Sabirah’s apartments. She sat beside a screened window, through which fading sunlight shone. A candle flickered upon the sill.

Boulos and I were both permanent fixtures of the house; he the chief slave and me guardian of the family blood, and thus Sabirah did not bother with the veil. Perhaps it was the wan light or her grim countenance, but she seemed older than her eighteen years. One of her serving girls sat in the corner reciting a sura. Sabirah corrected her, then requested she leave off.

“Mistress,” Boulos said, “here is Captain Asim, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Boulos. You may go.”

“You do not wish me to remain?” There was almost a rebuke in the tone of the smiling eunuch’s question.

“Ghadya is here,” Sabirah said, flicking her fingers toward the serving girl.

Still Boulos hesitated.

Sabirah was unexpectedly sharp-tongued. “Do you linger because you did not hear, because you do not trust the captain, or because you are desperate for new gossip?”

Boulos bowed. “Your pardon, Mistress.” He bowed thrice more and backed out, closing the door behind him. Sabirah watched him the while, and so he dared no instructional side looks to me or Ghadya.

Sabirah listened for the creak of Boulos’s feet upon the floorboards as he departed, then turned to the serving girl. “Leave us.”

“Mistress?”

Sabirah pointed to an archway on her right. The servant girl rose and left, with a backward glance at me. She worried, as did I, as to Sabirah’s unseemly behavior.

“Sit, Captain. What? Do you fear my uncle believes me in love with both you and Dabir?”

“I worry as to your reputation and my head.” I reluctantly settled onto the floor in front of the door.

“My uncle has told me that Dabir is to be sent away and that I am to be married soon. What do you think of that?”

“Eh. Congratulations, Mistress.”

She scowled. “I am still in mourning.”

Two years prior her marriage had been but a week off when the would-be groom died on the wrong end of a Greek lance. Sabirah had never met the fellow, but had expressed grief with great alacrity. The charade had been taken up by both Musa and Jaffar as an excuse to further the education the girl so craved, but everyone knew another marriage had been delayed too long. My own look at that moment must have conveyed my opinion on the matter, for she stared sharply at me. “What did you do?” she asked in a fierce whisper.

“Me?”

“This is all your doing!” Sabirah pointed menacingly at me. “Jaffar tells me that it was you who suggested Dabir accompany you to the market. What happened there? Uncle will not say!”

“I do not think—”

“Tell me, Captain!”

“If your uncle would not say, then it is not—”

“Did he forbid you from telling me?”

“Nay.”

“Then I command it.”

God had seen fit to heap troubles upon me that day. “Mistress,” I said slowly, “it is not that simple, and you well know—”

“I command it, Captain. So help me—” She stood up from her cushion and began to pace in front of the window. “You do not want me for your enemy!”

“Indeed, nor do I wish to anger your uncle.”

“Surely it would anger him to hear that you had not obeyed a command from me?”

I said nothing, and her eyes narrowed. She stood over me, glowering, while I considered my options.

“It is true that I suggested Dabir accompany us. The rest was but fate.”

Bit by bit, pacing most of the while, she pried the story from me. My battle held little interest for her. Again and again she asked for details about the bowls and the fortune-telling.

“It is clear to me,” I concluded, “that the magic woman confused the bowls.”

“Is it?”

“Dabir is no monster slayer, and I am no writer.”

“So you trust this woman to read your futures?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“So you believe that she is wise enough to foresee the plan of Allah, yet can become confused about the contents of bowls?” Sabirah seemed almost to be quaking with anger.

“It could happen to anyone,” I admitted.

“You yourself said she was looking right at you as she pronounced these destinies!”

“Yes, that is true.”

“That she seemed to be in a magical trance.”

“Yes. That is probably why she was confused.”

“Or perhaps,” Sabirah countered, “that’s why you should believe her the more! Ah! God help me, but men are idiots.” She faced the window. “Dabir is not in love with me, this I know.” She turned back to me suddenly. “You will make it right! I do not mean to cease my learning and give over my life to child rearing! You will march yourself straight to Jaffar and put things as they were!”

“How, Mistress?”

“Remind him that it was his fate, not Dabir’s. Use the same reasoning that I have just used with you! Is it not reasonable?”

“Can you not tell him your reasoning?”

“He will not listen to me when I speak to him of this.”

“He does not want to think it his fate, Mistress.”

She sank back onto the cushions. “That is the problem.” She curled hair ends about her finger and looked up through her lashes. “You could confess that you are the one who desires me, Captain. Then Jaffar would dismiss you, and not Dabir.”

I blinked at her. “I would not lie to the master.” What else was I to say? Was everyone crazed today?

“Mostly I jested.” She sighed and dropped her hands. “Why did you ask Dabir to accompany you?”

“Because,” I said, “I knew that he would be a better man than the poet to help safeguard your uncle. And,” I added, “because I enjoy his company more than Hamil’s.”

“Have you asked Dabir what he thinks? Surely he can find the words to make this right.”

“He will not talk to me. He says that I have done enough already.” I sighed deeply, feeling the weight of the day’s events rest on my shoulders. “I did not mean to anger either of you.”

“Perhaps the woman could be arrested and proven a fake?”

“That would not be just, Sabirah. Of all things, your uncle believes in justice.”

“So do I.” She groaned. “This is so unfair!”

Sabirah could sound like the wisest of counselors one moment and half her age the next. For a moment I’d forgotten that I spoke still to a young woman.

“I will talk to your uncle,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I will remind him of Dabir’s faithful service. I could suggest to him that the woman was merely playacting. It might be that she recognized us and played upon our hopes and fears.”

“I would not doubt it. It is the way of the souk, to mislead and exaggerate.”

“The problem,” I said, wondering whether or not I should mention the issue, “is that the fortune-teller predicted something important would take place if we left immediately and lo, she was right.”

“So you said. Argue to Uncle that it was coincidence.” She must have seen the doubt in my eyes, for she continued. “Clearly you think well of Dabir—if he is your friend, speak for him.”

I rose and bowed to her.

“Captain, perhaps such a duty requires reward. I have funds at my disposal…”

I bowed once more. “Mistress, Asim el Abbas needs no compensation for right action.”

She bowed her head to me.

“Good evening to you, Mistress. I shall speak with the master immediately.”

“Good evening, Captain, and thank you. Go with God.”

Boulos lurked just down the hall, and fell in step with me as I left. “What was that about, Captain?”

Our shadows were stretched out along the corridor as we left. I listened for the muezzin’s call, knowing it would come soon. “The master spoke to her about his trip to the market today.”

“Whatever for?”

“To make my life more difficult, I’m afraid. I must see the master.”

“This is all quite puzzling,” Boulos said in an attempt at a casual tone. “What could have happened in the market that would so upset the mistress?” He awaited an answer.

“I wish that I could say, Boulos. It does not bode well for either Dabir or myself, though.”

That seemed to whet his appetite for information even more thoroughly, and his neck craned forward, as though to better gauge me.

“I really must see the master, Boulos. Do you know where he is?”

Information was the chief slave’s main source of power, and he nodded, smirking. “He will be in the private mosque, and then means to play backgammon this night.” As if I did not already infer his meaning, he winked.

I sighed. The year before, Jaffar and his older brother Musa and some friends had attended a party where there was much wine and many courtesans. One, a sloe-eyed dancing girl, had painted all visible flesh in alternating triangles of black and brown, and a drunken Musa had confessed to my master—and to any within earshot—that he was determined to learn whether the designs had been painted across the whole of her body. Jaffar joked after morning prayers the next day that his brother must have played backgammon with her the whole of the night, and ever since it had become a euphemism within the palace. A rather tired one, by that point.

The master being occupied, I returned for evening prayers with Mahmoud, asking Allah to send an angel to the dreamland, one with wise words to aid my argument when I spoke with Jaffar. Then I finished a shatranj game with Mahmoud before I lay down to sleep. I planned to make my case with Jaffar just after he broke his fast, when he was always in the best of moods.

It was fated to happen otherwise.