Devil's Bargain (34 page)

“I promise,” said Richard. “Is this—”

“Yes,” she said.

His body sagged briefly. “Thank God!”

“Put it on,” she said with the last breath she had.

He slipped the chain over his head and let the Seal fall into hiding beneath his shirt. “How do I—” he began.

She had no answer to give him. She breathed too shallowly; despite the magical snow that did not melt as its mortal kind did, her skin was still dangerously hot. The passing of the Seal had neither helped nor harmed her—to Judah’s relief; he had been in dread that once it left her body, so would what life was left in her. But she clung to it, if tenuously.

“You may go now,” Judah said to the king. “If there is any news, I will send a messenger.”

Richard knew a dismissal when he was firmly presented with one, but he dug in his heels. “Is she going to die?”

“Not if I can help it,” Judah said grimly.

“Keep her alive,” Richard said.

That was precisely what Judah intended to do. He turned his back on the king and set about assuring himself that while she was no better, neither was she notably worse.

Richard lingered for a while, but Judah ignored him. At length he left Judah in such peace as he could have until Sioned either recovered or died.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-EIGHT

A
week and a day after the sultan sent out his summons, all the commanders of Islam who were within reach had come to Jerusalem. The last arrived before the evening prayer, and gave himself up gratefully to bath and food and rest.

That evening after the prayer, the sultan called his council. Tomorrow was Friday, the holy day of Islam. The day after that was the remembrance day of Hattin, five years past: the battle in which the Kingdom of Jerusalem had fallen to the sultan’s armies.

The sultan was determined that the council recall that mighty victory. “I’ll remind them,” he said to Ahmad and to his eldest son Al-Afdal as they prepared to go into the hall. “I’ll bid them remember not only what we were then, but what the Franks were and are and always shall be.”

“Led by an idiot?” his son asked. “Not this time, Father. Everyone says that. This time, the Franks could win.”

“Malik Ric could win,” the sultan said. “Without Malik Ric, they’re led by factionaries and fools.”

“But how do we—”

The boy broke off. He was young and he had a temper, but he was not slow-witted. “Father! You wouldn’t call on
that
one. You hate him.”

“The hatred is mutual,” the sultan said. “No, I would not do such a thing, even to serve my dearest convenience. I’ll look for other and less vile ways to separate the Franks from their king.”

“You are a saint,” Ahmad said. “Pray Allah your rectitude doesn’t destroy you.”

The sultan shook his head. “I’m no saint. I’m a coward. I’m scared to death of losing my soul.”

“Do you know,” said Ahmad to himself, “I don’t think I am. How very strange.”

Neither the sultan nor his son seemed to hear. Ahmad fell in behind them as they walked down from the sultan’s rooms to the hall.

The knights of Jerusalem had held their court here in this grandiose place, with its heavy pillars and its arches that were all dignity and little grace. The lords of Islam had pulled down the crosses and covered the figured mosaics with carpets, but it was still an elusively Christian place.

The council had been seated when the sultan came, sipping sherbet and nibbling bits of sweets. They rose and bowed together, even those so elderly or so obese that they moved with difficulty. It was a great tribute; it brought tears to the sultan’s eyes, which he made no effort to conceal.

One of them stepped forward: a scholar more than a warrior, but well born and well spoken and above all loyal to the sultan. He was hardly a young man, but his eyes shone with a young man’s zeal. “Sire,” he said, “if you will forgive the liberty, we have spoken among ourselves, and we agree: let us gather by the Rock from which the Prophet, on whose name be blessing and peace, was taken up to heaven. Let us stand there and fight until the last of us is dead. Then Allah will take us as He took His Prophet, and we will feast in Paradise.”

They all murmured agreement. The sultan was silent. After a long while he lifted his head and sighed. “You are good men,” he said: “good Muslims. All of Islam looks to you for courage and strength.”

“We are with you to the death,” said one of the Kurdish emirs. Even the Turks nodded; first one and then another leaped up and prostrated himself and swore his life to the sultan.

Their loyalty, their love and devotion, acted on him like rain in a desert. The lines of care and pain receded from his face. He stood straighter, held himself more firmly. He almost smiled.

The smile did not linger past the door of the hall. He was still heartened, still strong, but as he settled once more in his private chamber with his brother and his son, he turned his hand palm up. A bit of paper rested in it, written in a crabbed hand.

Al-Afdal plucked it from his father’s palm and read aloud: “
‘The battalions of the mamluks are against a siege—they fear another disaster such as cost us Acre. They advise battle, as swift and devastating as may be. Then if we have the victory, we gain the lands from here to the sea; if we fail, we have some hope of escape. If you insist upon a siege, sire, the mamluks declare that some one of your kin must remain in the city, or all your forces will break apart—Kurd with Kurd, Turk with Turk, and God forbid that either take orders from the other.
’ ” Al-Afdal looked up from the paper. “Father, are our straits that dire? Who wrote this?”

“It doesn’t matter who wrote it,” the sultan said. “He speaks the truth. But I had hoped to avoid a battle.”

“It would be better if we forced one,” Al-Afdal said. “There’s no water for the Franks, but we have whole cisterns full. If we can lure them out of their lair and keep them in the dry land, we’ll destroy them as we have so many times before.”

“We do keep the advantage of water, don’t we?” said the sultan with the flicker of a smile, which swiftly died. “Still, a siege would wear them down without costing us overmuch blood. They can’t starve us out before they give way to thirst. Who
knows—their own constant sickness of dissension may conquer them even more quickly than lack of water.”

“I can stay,” Ahmad said.

They both looked at him as if they had forgotten he was there. He had been unusually quiet, but then he had had nothing to say.

“I’ll stay in Jerusalem,” he said, “if you judge it wiser to go. The mamluks will follow me in your name—there are so many from Egypt; we get on well together.”

“So you do,” said the sultan. He sighed. “Ah, God; despair’s a tenacious thing. I’m sick of fighting. I’m old; I want to rest. Do you think I ever will, except when I’m dead?”

Al-Afdal’s hand flicked in a warding gesture. “Avert! Father, don’t speak of such things. It’s bad luck.”

“Everything is written,” said the sultan. “There is no luck; only fate.”

“If it’s written that you die,” said Ahmad, “you die. But a man should live his life to its fullest, or it’s all been for nothing. Remember joy, brother. Remember victories. You’ll have them both again.”

“Will I?”

A prickle ran down Ahmad’s spine. He was the only one of his brothers whom God had given the gift of magic. Yusuf was wise, and he was a leader of men—incontestably. But he was neither mage nor seer.

Even the least magical of men could sometimes be touched by the hand of God. The sultan was in a strange mood tonight, sunk in despair and yet, in an odd way, exalted. “It ends here,” he said. “One way or another, tomorrow or a month from tomorrow, this war is over.”

“Maybe so,” said Al-Afdal, “but it’s not lost. We’ll win this, Father. We’re sworn to it.”

“You are good and loyal men,” the sultan said. “Will you stay with me? You can sleep if you like. I’m minded to pray.”

His son nodded. Ahmad reckoned that he could stay for a while; there were things that needed doing, but they could wait an hour or two. A little peace would soothe his soul.

In the end it was nearly dawn before he went back to his lodgings. He had joined his brother and his nephew in prayer; then he had slept a little. He was thinking of an hour in his own bed, then a bath, breakfast, fresh linen, as he passed the mamluk on guard at his door. The man was wide awake, quiet but alert: doing his duty as a good servant should.

The wards of the house were untouched. His young guest had not gone out since Ahmad left that morning; he had not even left the room in which he had lain for the past several days. If the sultan was sunk in despair, Mustafa was buried in the deepest reaches of it.

He was not asleep, although he tried to pretend that he was. Ahmad stood looking down at him. There was little to see but a tight knot under a sheet. After careful consideration, Ahmad plucked the sheet from him.

He was fully clothed, all but the shoes and the turban. “Leaving so soon?” Ahmad asked him.

Mustafa’s body unknotted, creaking as he stretched; he hissed at the pain of healing scars. His eyes were calmer than Ahmad had expected, and clearer. “I should never have come here,” he said. “I was angry; I despaired. God will judge me for it.”

“God judges us all,” said Ahmad.

Mustafa shook his head. He had the humorlessness and the perfect self-absorption of the very young. “He betrayed me, but who’s to say my betrayal hasn’t been worse? I knew what he was, what he would do—how he is a king first and always—and still I gave way to jealousy and spite. I knew better!”

“How have you betrayed him?” Ahmad asked. “You’ve said nothing to anyone here.”

“I came here,” Mustafa said. “I could have chosen any refuge, anywhere. I chose one among his enemies.”

“You were wounded in the heart,” Ahmad said. “You didn’t choose as unwisely as that; you’ve told us no secrets, and you know we won’t ask. We may be enemies, but we are honorable.”

“You are more honorable than the Franks,” Mustafa said
with a twist of the lip. “Please forgive me if I’ve offended. I’ll leave as soon as the gates open.”

“Today is the day of prayer,” said Ahmad. “Stay with us; worship Allah in this holy city, and ask for His forgiveness. Then you may go.”

“Won’t you ask me where I’ll go?” Mustafa demanded.

Ahmad shook his head. “Some things it were best I not know. Will you bathe? Eat with me? It will be dawn soon; we can say the morning prayer together.”

Mustafa bowed. Good, thought Ahmad: he was acting and thinking. He must have made good use of his days in seclusion.

He still had a bruised look to him. It would be a long while before that went away. Perhaps it never would, though Ahmad dared to hope that he was a stronger spirit than that.

The sultan led the midday prayer in Al-Aqsa, the Father Mosque, that sat beneath its silver dome in the vast court of the Dome of the Rock. Far more splendid prayers rose up to heaven from that glorious golden dome, but he was in a mood for quieter devotions.

He had come exalted from his night of prayer, but on the ride across the city from the Tower of David to the Dome of the Rock, all his fears and exhaustion and the weight of despair had come crashing down upon him. He wept as he rode. As he took his place in the foremost ranks of the faithful, tears streamed down his face.

Ahmad caught Al-Afdal’s eye. The boy was scowling. Ahmad was in better control of his face, but he was in no cheerful mood, either. To win a war or to withstand a siege, men needed strength; they needed a certain brightness of spirit. Even the sultan’s most loyal followers could see how beaten down he was. How long could they hold fast, if their lord did not?

He glanced to his right, where Mustafa stood and bowed and knelt with the rest of the long line of men. He was dressed as a mamluk from one of the Egyptian companies, with Ahmad’s device embroidered on the sleeve.

It was courageous of him to join in these prayers. Ahmad noticed which of them he did not share; how he refrained with considerable care from invoking Allah’s blessing on the sultan’s cause.

That was honor, though it had fixed itself on a Christian king. Ahmad could admire it, even understand it. He found himself smiling faintly as he performed one of the many prostrations.

His mind was not on God. Nor, except peripherally, was it on his brother. This place was suffused with sanctity. He focused on small things, mortal things, to keep his mind from losing itself in light.

His wards had no strength here. He was reduced to ordinary means of maintaining vigilance: his eyes, his hands, the force of mamluks whom he had placed discreetly all about the sultan.

There was no warning, no ripple in the pool of holiness. They believed that they were doing God’s work, those mamluks who turned on either side of the sultan. Their eyes were soft as if with sleep; their expressions were rapt. They struck for the glory of God: one for the throat, one for the heart.

The sultan sank slowly down. Ahmad leaped, not caring if he fell on a blade. But the loyal mamluks were faster than he. A scarce heartbeat after they rose up against their lord, the traitors were dead.

The sultan sagged in Ahmad’s arms, dragging him down to the floor. He was still breathing. Certainly he was wounded, but maybe—maybe—

He gripped Ahmad’s hand with all his strength. The bones ground together; the pain made his breath catch. But he did not try to free himself.

“Brother,” said the sultan. “Brother, try—a siege—you must—”