The Lion of Cairo (22 page)

A shiver cascaded down the young woman’s spine as she felt the vizier’s eyes on her, contemplating her fate. She was at his mercy. A mere word, a gesture, and she would cease to exist. Parysatis dared not move.

“Yes, what of her?” Jalal said. “Al-Gid could easily have sliced her delicate throat, and yet he did not. Why, I wonder? Clean her up, Lu’lu. Make sure no harm comes to her. I will return later, when she and I can continue our conversation.” The vizier turned back to the now-exposed passage.

“As you wish, Excellency.” Parysatis detected a note of triumph in the Chief Eunuch’s voice; returning to her side, Lu’lu stared down at her and smiled, thin and cruel. “Oh, my dear flower,” he said with a sadist’s glee. “You should have confessed to us when you had the chance…”

14

Through the winding streets of the River Quarter, southwest of Cairo’s twin palaces, Gamal and his Syrians dogged their prey. With every step, he developed a grudging respect for the one-eyed beggar: on at least three occasions, if Gamal had been alone or working in tandem with but a single fedayee, the cunning dog would have given him the slip. Nor was the girl he traveled with any less astute; indeed, she seemed predisposed to suspicion and fixed a wary eye on their back trail. Her vigilance forced Gamal to change tactics. He and his men kept their distance, using impromptu markets and foot traffic for cover. They moved along parallel paths where they could and leapfrogged down alleys in order to keep up.

But keep up they did.

At the intersection of two streets, one leading to the Nile Gate, Gamal watched their quarry duck through the keel-arched doors of a sprawling caravanserai. Four stories high, its façade studded with
mashrafiyya
windows, the building was a relic of a time when the canal beyond Cairo’s walls—now little more than a reed-choked ditch—brought goods from the Nile into the city. Whatever purpose the caravanserai served today, Gamal knew it was well guarded: mailed Berbers in etched-steel helmets stood to either side of the gate; others patrolled the roof.

Covertly, he signaled his men to fan out, to watch from the corners of the building in case this was another of the one-eyed beggar’s ruses. Gamal himself took up a position across the street, under a frayed awning and out of the ferocious sun. He noticed a curious thing, then. Beggars. Dozens of them, coming and going under the cursory glances of the Berbers at the caravanserai’s gate.

A water seller in a ragged blue galabiya trudged down the street, the brass cups tied to his bloated goatskin bag clinking like cymbals. Gamal motioned him over. “The Prophet’s blessing upon you,” the water seller said, his wares sloshing as he hurried into the thin shade. Gamal passed him a copper coin, a Damascene
fals;
after a moment, the seller handed him a cup of water.

“I am lost, my friend,” Gamal said, thickening his Syrian accent. He nodded at the caravanserai. “Tell me: is that the house of al-Suhaymi?”

The seller chuckled and shook his head. “Al-Suhaymi? No. That’s the palace of Ali abu’l-Qasim.”

“Abu’l-Qasim, eh? And who is he to have such a magnificent palace? A great merchant? A cavalier? A friend of the Caliph?” Gamal drained his cup and handed it back to the man.

“A king,” the water seller replied.

“You jest!”

“Allah smite me if I lie! Abu’l-Qasim is a king among thieves, men say.”

“Cairo is a wondrous place, indeed,” Gamal said, grinning, “if even the thieves have a king. But, indulge me, my learned friend: is there a woman who dwells within?”

“I would know this? I am a seller of water, stranger, not a pander.”

Gamal dipped two fingers into his sash and drew out first one golden dinar, then another. “Of course you’re no pander, my friend. But I can see you are an observant man, and this woman … she is lithe as a gazelle and her beauty has no equal. Perhaps you have seen her?”

The water seller licked his lips. His eyes flicked from the coins to Gamal’s face, seeking some hint of deception; he glanced around, suddenly unsure of himself. Two dinars would keep his family fed for a month. What was the harm…? Again, his tongue darted out. “Such … such words could be spoken of Abu’l-Qasim’s daughter, Zaynab. Though she makes her home nearer the palace, I have heard she visits her father on occasion.”

Gamal added a third coin. “And is now such an occasion?”

The water seller nodded. “So I have heard.”

Smiling, Gamal pressed the coins into his callused palm, then produced a fourth. “For your silence.
Alaikum as-salaam
.” With that, Gamal left the water seller in the thin shade of the awning and crossed the street to where one of his fedayeen loitered, crouching with his back to a rough mudbrick wall.

“They are still inside?” the fedayeen asked.

“Of course they are.” Gamal glanced back to see the water seller shoulder his sloshing burden and hurry off, no doubt bound for the fly-infested hovel his family called home. “Go, fetch Badr. Tell him we’ve found the Gazelle’s hiding place.”

15

Zaynab read the scrap of paper a third time before passing it to Farouk. “I can make nothing of this,” she said. “It says something about a death in the palace … is that ‘this morning,’ perhaps?”

“Who is it from?” The Persian held the missive, torn from a sheet of fine Samarkand paper, up to the light and studied the cramped handwriting. Whoever penned it was either barely literate or in a tremendous rush.

“A courtier from Alexandria who owes me—well, my father, actually—a substantial amount of money. He repays it by keeping me apprised.”

“Lady, you would do well to school your informants in the art of decent penmanship.
Bismillah!
A death, but he doesn’t say who? If this is his idea of ‘apprised,’ then I’d say this poor courtier from Alexandria is not a worthwhile investment.”

Zaynab snorted. With the last remnants of intelligence her people had managed to gather, she had repaired to the roof of her father’s caravanserai, to a comfortable divan under a loggia of stone and wood. Farouk joined her there after he had made his morning’s inquiries. He, too, had come up dry. The Persian had adopted the dress of a native Cairene: a long white galabiya and a small turban wrapped around a red tarboush—nothing ostentatious and no outward signs of affluence. Though Zaynab had only spoken to him twice before now, she sensed a kindred spirit beneath his garrulous and disarming façade; a fellow purveyor of information. She took the scrap of paper from him and held it up again, her brows knitted.

The loggia faced north to better catch the breeze. Diamond-shaped holes pierced its roof and walls, allowing shafts of light in to brighten the interior. “My courtier is actually a fine investment, brimming with such innate suspicions as you would expect of a native Egyptian, but this passing of notes is not the most efficient way of handling him. He prefers a quiet word spoken in an intimate embrace.”

“Obviously, because he cannot make letters with even the facility of a child.”

Zaynab shook her head and smiled. Away in the hazy distance, over the rooftops of the River Quarter, the domes and spires of the twin palaces glittered in the broiling sun, the minaret of the Gray Mosque all but lost among them. “It is almost noon,” she said. “Do you think Assad will be successful?”

Farouk exhaled. “I have not known him long, nor do I know him well, but if any man can slip through the vizier’s defenses it is Assad. I have heard stories about that man that would make the Prophet tremble.”

“I’m more interested in the truth than in a collection of fanciful tales.” Zaynab shifted on her divan, suddenly uncomfortable. “Have you ever asked him how he acquired his name; if it were true he fought a djinn?”

“I have never given it much thought. I assumed there was some truth to it, like the stories in
The Thousand and One Nights,
but that it was something far less fanciful. Still, I imagine it’s easier for men to believe the unbelievable than for them to believe God could create such a perfect killer.”

“I think God has nothing to do with it. His knife…” Zaynab shivered despite the sun’s warmth.

“His knife is merely a tool, lady,” Farouk said. “Albeit a powerful one. Without it, Assad is no less dangerous. Imagine a lion—cold and predatory, a man killer possessed of speed and strength. Now imagine that lion acquiring a man’s intellect, a saint’s patience, and a conqueror’s drive. Can you imagine it, lady? Good. Then, I ask you, what mummery could make it any more frightening?” Farouk looked at her for a heartbeat. “What did he tell you?”

A faint smile touched Zaynab’s lips. “Am I that transparent? Oh, Assad spun a fine, mundane tale about slain emissaries, a madman, and a duel to the death. Not a djinn or afreet in sight.”

“But … you do not believe him?”

“I laid a hand on the hilt of that knife,” Zaynab said, shuddering at the memory. “The blessed Qur’an tells us, in no uncertain terms, that we share the earth with beings created from smokeless fire, with djinn and women-stealing afreet and
ghuls
that slink through the wastes. Thus, it must be so. But this was something else … something ancient and foul.” She shook her head. “I cannot explain it.”

The Persian shrugged. “Then simply accept it and give thanks to Allah for making the Emir of the Knife our ally and not our enemy.”

“I do, my friend. I do.” Zaynab glanced up at the sound of footsteps coming from the flight of wide, worn stairs that ascended from the caravanserai’s fourth-floor gallery to the roof; she peered through the loggia wall and saw Musa approaching, with another figure, small and quick, close on his heels. The Gazelle rose to greet him.

“Did you have any trouble delivering the message to Massoud?” she asked as he rounded the corner of the loggia.

“None, mistress,” he replied. “All is prepared. What’s more, I went by your house to check things over and found this ragged scrap of bones loitering outside your door…”

Musa grinned and stepped aside; the girl in his shadow hesitated before hurtling forward, all but tackling the older woman in her eagerness to embrace her. Zaynab rocked back. Her face lit up in a genuine look of delight, and she laughed aloud. “Yasmina!”

“Mistress! I heard there’s been trouble! Are you all right? Why have you been forced into hiding?”

Zaynab kissed the top of the Egyptian girl’s head. “Trouble? Pish! Merely the price of a woman doing business among men. Sometimes, one must lie low. But, what goes?” She disengaged from Yasmina’s grip and held her at arm’s length. “How is Parysatis? Have you been causing her trouble again?” A scowl darkened Yasmina’s brow; she glanced warily at Farouk, trying through slitted eyes to pigeonhole him as friend or foe. The sight of such a sober expression on the young woman’s face banished Zaynab’s levity. She stepped closer. “It’s all right. This is Farouk. He’s a friend. What has happened, Yasmina?”

The young woman shook her head. “Things are not at all well in the palace, mistress. Parysatis has stepped in a viper’s nest; aye, stepped in it with both feet.”

Zaynab motioned to one of the guards. “Bring us food and drink.” Then, draping an arm around Yasmina’s brown shoulder, she guided the girl into the cooler shade of the loggia. She bade Musa follow, motioned for the one-eyed man to sit. Zaynab took note of Farouk’s questioning glance. “Yasmina serves as my eyes and ears in the Caliph’s harem,” she said with no small measure of pride in her voice. “And I trust her word without reservation. Her mistress, Parysatis, is a lesser concubine with a surfeit of curiosity for the outside world.” Further conversation paused as a servant bustled up bearing a tray of honeyed dates, bread and cheese, and four cups of rose-water
sharab
. After he left, Zaynab turned to Yasmina. “Now, start from the beginning.”

The young woman exhaled, collected her thoughts. “It began with the two Nazarenes who arrived last night—Templars, Parysatis called them—and the message they brought from their king in Jerusalem.”

“Assad was right. They
are
emissaries,” Farouk said, then leaned forward. “Do you know why they are here?”

Yasmina nodded. “To warn the vizier. An army from Damascus is marching on Cairo. The Nazarenes have decided to cast their lot with us, rather than the Sultan’s dogs. These Templars and their king have become the vizier’s allies. They are sending an army of their own to aid him.”

The pronouncement stunned Farouk to silence.

Musa scratched and tugged at his beard in consternation. “Two armies? Impossible! News like that would set the streets afire!”

Zaynab answered for Yasmina. “Not if the vizier is suppressing the information—which would be sensible, if only to delay the inevitable chaos. Likely he’s sequestered the Templars in some out-of-the-way corner of the palace and ordered his own people to spread rumors that they’re nothing but renegades.”

Farouk stood. He wanted badly to pace, but the cramped interior of the loggia precluded it.
“Bismillah!”
He took a step in one direction, then the other, and finally sat down again. “This changes everything! We must get word to Assad before he makes contact with the Caliph. The young man is liable to be in on the deception with his vizier. If Assad reveals himself…”

“Does the Caliph know?” Zaynab asked Yasmina. “Does he know any of this?”

“No, mistress. After Parysatis found out she tried to warn the Caliph, but she discovered the vizier has been keeping him drugged. That vile old bastard plans to poison the Caliph and have himself declared sultan.”

Farouk nodded, tugging at his lower lip with his thumb and forefinger. “Another reason to suppress news of an imminent invasion: there’s nothing like the threat of war to rally support for a ruler. The vizier will not be able to put the Caliph quietly aside if the people are clamoring for him. I’m surprised his enemies didn’t do away with him last night.”

“They tried,” Yasmina said. “Parysatis thwarted the attempt by replacing their poisoned wine with water. Then, this morning, we found an ally in the old physician, al-Gid—”

“Harun al-Gid,” Zaynab said suddenly. “Yes, I know his daughters. He is a good man.”