6

My nephew brought Dabir and myself to the prow after midday prayers and pointed at the creature; Dabir immediately pulled his arm down.

“Do not draw attention,” he whispered.

A small bird sat atop the forward mast. I could not tell if it was the same sort as the first, not with the sun high and blinding careful view.

“It sits there and does not flit about, nor make outcry,” Mahmoud said. “I saw it land before prayers and watched it for a time. Still it sits.”

Dabir walked away; I followed. “Should we let it be?”

“Nay,” he said quietly. “We must kill it. Or stop it,” he finished, and I felt a chill, knowing that he had changed his wording because he suspected, as did I, that it was already dead.

“Last time you said it would—”

“This time is different. I do not want him to know our position. Firouz cannot have an endless supply of these things, and they must cost him something. He is a man fleeing on a boat—his resources are not unlimited. Have your best archer shoot the thing. We shall arrange a disturbance—”

“Dabir!” Mahmoud called his name as he jogged to join us. “The bird has flown.”

Dabir cursed lightly. “I wasted time in talking. When next it returns, shoot it.”

But it did not return that day, or the next. At least, with Mahmoud now as earnest about the matter as myself, the other men took their orders seriously and also watched the skies. It availed not. After another two days I almost convinced myself that it had been a living bird and not a sorcerer’s undead scout.

The character of the river had slowly changed. The Tigris broadened, and the plants along its banks multiplied. So too did the insects. I had never journeyed this far south before, and the captain informed us that we had reached the marshes. Basra and the ocean lay only a few days off. Between then and now, though, we would have to navigate through a swarm of little islands and lagoons. The already heavy traffic thickened with local boats on their way to and from nearby settlements. The little brown Marsh Arabs poled hither and yon on their rafts from their villages, which were made up of reed houses floating on great reed mats tethered to the palms and poplars. Dogs they kept, which barked at us, and water buffalo, which would graze among the lilies in the shallow channels. Birds of many kinds were thick here, duck, geese—thousands upon thousands of both—as well as teal, pelican, and many other waterbirds. Dabir told me that the bugs would be worse if the birds were not so numerous, and I praised God for sending them to this place, for it had altogether too many insects as it was.

The sunsets were worth praise, too, for they fell glorious and colorful both days we sailed the marshes. The frogs came out and sang, a sound loud enough to waken all the djinn said to slumber along the old banks. It was a disturbing, foreign sound at first, but after the first night it grew to be almost a comfort to hear that cacophony, such an omnipresent noise that one ceased to pay it notice. I think those beasts were pleased the heat of the day at last was over and celebrated in the only way they know, although Dabir said they called for mates.

By day the river was often lost in the chains of lagoons and winding lakes fed by a profusion of channels. Sometimes I knew the bank for a long straight line of palms bordering open water, but we could not have found our way without experienced hands. The captain told me the watercourses changed from year to year, season to season and that only the Marsh Arabs knew their true paths. I doubt any man could have known the whole of it. A maze of alternating water and reeds stretched in every direction, as though the whole of the world was made up of such features. Only the occasional bank of willows or floating village provided variety.

I told the men to make frequent display of their arms and helms. River pirates were well known to prowl this stretch of water. My men sat in shifts along the deck, absently polishing their armor or swords so that they could be seen by the shore, or pretending to do so while playing shatranj or backgammon.

That second evening we heard a muezzin calling, though we could not see him or the settlement. I set Mahmoud and two soldiers to watching while most of the rest of us knelt to pray.

In the midst of our prayers the captain’s son shouted and flung up an arm. I looked up and beheld a flame arcing over the water toward us from a bank of reeds. Then I recognized the hiss of arrows as more spots of flame arched over the marsh grass toward our ship.

“Seek cover,” I cried, pushing Sabirah bodily aft. I snatched up my sword belt and buckled it as I shouted at my men to ready their bows.

The first of the arrows bit into the deck. Two extinguished immediately; a third bloomed along the rail.

More soared after them.

“Fetch water!” Dabir cried. Sabirah called out something at me, but I dashed forward as Captain Ibrahim shouted his men into place. They rushed to obey and bring up the buckets. I spotted the reed bank from where the arrows came some thirty feet out, and cursed my men to hurry, for they were still stringing their bows. Even if our arrows did not tell, their coming would give the enemy pause.

One enemy arrow had apparently struck canvas, for fire raced along the sail. The ship’s captain screamed for a sailor with the first bucket to hurry. He jogged up, water slapping the deck from over the bucket brim. Then fate dealt us a bitter blow. If the sailor had been a moment slower the next arrow would have missed him utterly; but as he raised his arm it struck him in the side. He dropped with a little gasp, the bucket falling with him. The water drenched the deck, not the fire.

The captain himself snatched up the bucket, firelight painting him in flickering reds and oranges. Dabir had organized the sailors into a chain that waged battle with three water buckets. The fire had spread fast.

Finally my men reached the rail with their bows.

Mahmoud, being the strongest, had strung his bow first. His arrow streaked off; on came another ragged volley from the shore. The arrows were striking aft, now, for we had drifted on.

The ship’s captain ordered men aloft to cut the burning sail free.

My men fired together under my command, and there came no answering volley. Instead there was a roar from behind me.

I whirled, only to find flame spread across the desk. It reared up like a living thing and took on the shape of a monstrous human hand.

At first I thought it a fleeting image, a trick of perception, but while its outline wavered, as with any flame, the shape remained well defined. The two bucket men halted before it, gaping. For a moment all was still save for the shifting, crackling fire.

And then the palm slapped down upon the deck and across the captain and the two men with water. They screamed as fire wrapped them, pressing them down, and the deck erupted in lines of flame. The hand rose from the three black and smoking corpses, and then it clasped the main mast. Fire raced up its length even as a second hand of flame rose from the deck fires.

All had transpired in the time it takes to draw two quick breaths. One of the bucket men, wrapped in flame, staggered to the rail and threw himself over. Other sailors leapt after. All about us were cries of consternation and shouted prayers.

And then Esfandiar stood before the second hand, head high. His silvery hair glowed red in the light. He raised one arm and the fire hand paused. What the priest said I know not, but he pronounced it in a sonorous, authoritative voice.

The flames licked on across the planks until nearly the whole of the deck crawled with them, and the first hand rose once more to stand on its wrist beside the second. Esfandiar lifted his hands and repeated the words forcefully.

“Uncle,” Mahmoud urged me, “we must swim for it!”

I glanced about. Dabir stood with Sabirah near the aft portion of the vessel. He called for the priest to run, even as flames ate their way toward him.

The hands backed away and, for a moment, I thought Esfandiar had won. And then his own hands began to shake, as if with palsy. At that moment the fiery hands leapt up and caught him between themselves, as though they clapped. He did not cry out, but was consumed in a blazing blue pillar.

Sabirah screamed in horror.

My men looked at me, their eyes wide as childrens’.

“Jump, dogs!” I shouted to them. I could no longer see Dabir through the rising curtain of flame.

My men leapt over the side. I cast my eyes about once more, saw the poet leaping after the captain’s son. The boat was an inferno. How swiftly do fortunes fly! Moments before we had been masters of our fates, and in the space of a hundred heartbeats our craft was kindling and half of us were dead.

I hit the water and sank beneath the surface.

Now I wished I had looped my sword about my shoulder, for I immediately felt it drag me down. As a matter of fact, everything seemed to drag me down, jubbah, boots, sword belt, knife … but I have always been a strong swimmer. I kicked to the surface. The flaming ship crackled behind me, easily showing the bank’s outline only a bow shot away. I stroked toward it, kicking with my booted feet, which might as well have been leaden weights. Would the archers be waiting on the shore? Possibly. But there was nothing to be done for it save hold on to my father’s sword, even though it pulled me down like an inflexible metal tether hooked through my belt. I managed to keep my head above water and thrash forward.

I saw three of my men’s heads bobbing in the water ahead of me as they too advanced on the shore, all but one of them turbanless like myself. Where were the others? Was Mahmoud among them? Where was everyone else?

It occurred to me then that the sailors had all been dropping off the far side. Dabir and Sabirah, if they’d survived, would have gone that way as well, separated as they were by the line of fire down the ship.

Mostly, though, I concentrated on reaching the shore. Qudamah, the first soldier there, reached down to help me up, his beard and mustache dripping water. More clearly now I heard calls for help over the splashing. The boat still burned upon the water, the timber popping as the fire roared in glee.

Qudamah’s sword was gone, so I thrust mine into his hands. “Watch for the archers,” I said, then pulled off boots and jubbah. Muti was staggering up into the reeds, but Tahir struggled mightily. I dived out and swam for him.

If you ever seek to aid a drowning man, be warned that they are maddened in fear. Tahir grasped desperately at me, as though he thought I stood upon some rock and could pull him to safety.

“Calm yourself!” I cried. Yet he clasped at my arms and I went under, gulping water. His grip shifted to my left arm and I kicked up to the surface. Tahir’s eyes rolled madly, then relaxed after I clouted him in the face. I clasped his collar, keeping his nose above water, and swam one-handed, kicking with my legs. I staggered up with him onto the muddy bank and struggled up through the reeds, wondering where Qudamah and Muti had gotten to, wondering if Mahmoud and Dabir and Sabirah and the rest were already dead somewhere in the water.

I bent down, rolled Tahir over on his stomach, and pushed his back until he coughed and water rolled out.

I did not hear the bandits until they stood in a half-moon behind me. I whirled, and there they were. Two had arrows knocked in bows. Three others had swords drawn, one of which was my own. They were short men with evil smiles and tattered clothes.

Two of the swordsmen moved aside at a word from behind, and out stepped the smaller man I’d encountered in the Baghdad market, the snake who’d commanded the attackers. His gaze was cool, appraising. His face was round, almost boyish, his eyes bright.

Behind him came a tall, turbanless man in fine boots, robed in red. The others moved aside for him, but even without this signal I knew by his commanding presence that he was the one in charge. Was this Firouz? I searched him for obvious signs of Magian heritage, and saw none. His beard was full but well trimmed and he would have been handsome if not for his cold and haughty manner.

“Where is Qudamah?” I demanded.

But the red man did not answer. I rose, and the bowmen tensed.

“No further, foreskin,” said the knife man.

I bristled at the insult; the men about him laughed.

Tahir, meanwhile, had finished coughing, and sat up weakly.

“Diomedes,” the red man said commandingly, and then the thick grasses parted once more and the pop-eyed Greek arrived. He took in the whole scene with distaste.

The fellow in red spoke again, his tone clear and precise. It was an orator’s voice, certain of response. “This is the guard captain?”

“Yes, Firouz,” Diomedes answered.

“Kill the other,” the red one said.

“No,” I cried, but the arrows flew and Tahir died. I bent by him as light faded from his eyes, and anger filled me. I bared my teeth and rose, my hand reaching for my knife.

“Don’t,” said the little snake man, and his own short sword was in his left hand, while a knife glinted in his right.

“Where is Dabir?” Firouz demanded.

Rage and disbelief had stolen my tongue; I made no reply and did not, in that moment, even wonder that he asked for the scholar.

“Kill him and be done with it,” Diomedes instructed.

“Nay,” said Firouz. “There are questions that must be answered.”

“Where are the rest of my men?” I demanded at last.

“Burning in hell with that one,” Diomedes replied.

“You murdered them, too?” I knew the answer, but the words were torn from my lips in disgust.

“As you and your masters have murdered so many,” Firouz said.

“You’re the fire sorcerer? Do you realize you slew your own father?”

Firouz shook his head slowly. “If you practice magic, you must be ready to pay the ultimate price. Besides, it was my father’s blindness that led him to death. It was his choice, not mine. Now, come, tell me where the others are. Have they drowned, or swum to the far shore?”

I only spat.

“Talk!” the snake snarled at me.

“He will not talk,” Diomedes said. “He knows what you plan for him.”

“But you do not,” Firouz answered Diomedes with disdain. He stepped briefly aside with the Greek and they held a swift, whispered conversation. I saw the Greek nodding and looking back at me.

When Firouz returned to me his tone was more agreeable. “We have many things to discuss, you and I, and if you cooperate I shall let you live to deliver a message to the caliph. Who better to testify to my powers than someone who has witnessed them, and who better to be trusted by the listener than a guard captain?”

“I shall tell you nothing.”

“Of that we shall see. Bring him.” He turned his back and stepped away, his boots rustling the marsh grass as he parted the reeds and vanished behind them.