The Lion of Cairo (24 page)

The Ethiopian kicked his last; Gamal shoved the corpse away, straightened. After a moment’s respite he shrugged out of his linen burnoose. “What do you have in mind,
ya sidi
?”

“She seeks the seller of carpets alive, does she not?” Badr al-Mulahid replied, stripping off his
khalat
and passing it to Gamal. The Heretic’s eyes lost none of their murderous fire. “Then that’s what she will get, the gods’ mercy upon her!”

18

From the pulpit of the Gray Mosque, the venerable cleric from Upper Egypt preached of Hell’s fires and damnation; he preached of past Fatimid glories and the need for unification against the Infidel invaders from across the sea. He preached of salvation through holy war. By and large, Assad reckoned his exhortations fell on deaf ears. He read skepticism on the faces of those men around him. Men who believed the sun had set on the Caliphate of Egypt; men who believed the wars in Syria and the Lebanon had little to do with them. True, the fire to reclaim holy Jerusalem from the Nazarenes yet smoldered in their breasts, but the flames were not what they used to be and it would take more than impassioned rhetoric from an old cleric to renew the call for jihad.

More surprising than their collective apathy, however, was the Caliph’s reaction to it. Assad watched him with all the subtlety his art would allow; he watched a shadow of confusion flit across young Rashid’s pale features, followed by bewilderment and even a flash of anger—like a man who discovers the cherished truths of his childhood are nothing more than convenient lies.
He wants to believe,
Assad thought,
and he wants others to believe, as well.
He recalled Daoud’s judgment of the young Master of Alamut—
brimming with dreams and ideals not yet tarnished by disappointment or grown faint with age
—and wondered: could he say the same of Rashid al-Hasan? Was the Caliph an idealist, hobbled by a pragmatic and ambitious vizier, or a dilettante who is appalled today and jaded tomorrow? Assad had no answer either way.

The service ended with fresh prostrations and an invocation in the Caliph’s name; aided by his son, the elderly cleric hobbled down from the pulpit and made his way to where Rashid sat, to make his obeisance to the descendent of the Prophet. Others pressed close, too, though more to pay their respects to the vizier than to the Prince of the Faithful. The rest trickled out into the Bayn al-Qasrayn.

Assad kept his place as the crowd around the Caliph slowly thinned. The grandees chattered amongst themselves while the vizier stood to one side, exchanging low words with a black-clad mullah. He needed to make his move and soon, before the opportunity escaped him. He was on uncertain ground, now: he had never targeted a man for
conversation
before …

Unexpectedly, the Prince of the Faithful got to his feet. Consternation rippled through the bedizened eunuchs as Rashid stepped through their ranks to survey the mosque’s corners and colonnades as though seeking something. His sunken eyes lit on the false Sufi, Ibn al-Teymani; with a resolute nod, the young man started across the courtyard, his servants scrambling in his wake.

Jalal cut short his audience with the mullah. He moved to intercept the young Caliph, gestured back toward the entrance. “The palace beckons, Great One.”

“The palace can wait a moment,” Assad heard the young man reply. As he neared, Assad bowed low at the waist.

“Peace be upon you, O Prince of the Faithful,” he said.

“May I sit and partake of your shade?”

The vizier rushed up, glaring at what he took to be a crippled holy man. “Great One, I—”

The Caliph silenced him with a look that could curdle milk. “Did I not tell you last night that I wished to talk with a Sufi?”

“You did, Great One.”

“Then have done and go wait with the others! I will speak with this man alone.”

“As you wish, Great One,” Jalal replied, offering a deep salaam—no doubt to hide the murder dancing in his eyes—as a gesture of reconciliation. He backed away. The Caliph returned his attention to Ibn al-Teymani. “May I?”

“I would be honored, my lord.” Assad allowed a look of open curiosity to cross his face even as he thanked Allah for this stroke of good fortune. “How can I be of service?”

Pearl-sewn linen rustled as he sank down on a cushion one of his quick-thinking servants set into place. It was plain the young man was exhausted; one hand twitched uncontrollably and the muscles of his jaw clenched and unclenched; sweat soaked the collar of his
khalat
. All were telltale signs of a man emerging from an opium haze. “I seek the benefit of your wisdom. How are you called, my friend?”

“Ibn al-Teymani, my lord,” Assad replied. “Of the Hejaz.”

“Does the path you follow place much stock in dreams, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz?”

“All men who seek the benefit of wisdom should listen to their dreams, my lord,” Assad said, slipping deeper into his role as a holy man. “Who is to say our dreams do not bring us closer to Allah?”

Rashid leaned forward, his brow furrowed. “Have you any facility at their interpretation? At reading the dreams of others?”

Assad pursed his lips. “I have not practiced the interpretation of dreams in many years, O Caliph, but there was a time when it was my consuming passion.”

“Indulge me, then, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz. Will you listen to my dream and render without fear your learned opinion?”

“I am not so learned as the sages of Cairo, my lord,” Assad said, bowing. “But if the simple wisdom of the Hejaz can bring you solace, then who am I to refuse you? Speak, O Caliph, and I shall listen.”

“It is a strange dream,” Rashid said after a moment, his voice low. “I am sitting in the Golden Hall of my forefathers watching a grand gala unfold. Around me are courtiers and scholars, men of rank who share my admiration for the fine dancers leaping and twirling to the music of the flute and the tambourine. Other musicians fill the air with silvery birdsong. It is a fine evening, and I am content.

“Suddenly, a man staggers through the dancers, a Circassian—one of my
mamelukes
—and he is wounded unto death. There is a sense of urgency about him as he fights his way through the crowd and up to my seat. He is frantic to tell me something. But when he opens his mouth to speak, all that comes forth are gouts of black blood. Afterward, darkness falls and there is naught but chaos and screaming.”

“This Circassian, was he an enemy?”

“He was, though I had long acknowledged him as a friend,” Rashid said, casting a sidelong glance back at the knot of grandees who awaited him. “He was slain almost at my feet, and I later learned he was embroiled in a plot to assassinate me.”

“Do you believe this to be true?” Assad’s eyes narrowed at the familiarity of the scene the Caliph described. He had heard a similar tale yestereve, from the lips of the old merchant Umar.

“I do not know,” the Caliph replied. “As Allah is my witness, I do not know if Othman was coming to speak to me or to kill me. But speak to me about what, I cannot say.”

Assad’s eyes flicked from the Caliph to his fuming vizier. “Who sits with you in this dream, my lord? Are the men at your side known to you?”

“Indeed, they are,” Rashid replied, stroking his jaw. “Chamberlains and hangers-on, the familiar faces of my court. Men I would expect to join me in such entertainment.”

“Does this Circassian single any of them out? A glance, an importuning look, anything?”

“I … I do not recall.”

Assad nodded. “When next this dream occurs, my lord, endeavor to study how these fellows react. If your instincts prove true, then the dying Circassian is obviously a harbinger of violence—as betokened by the blood pouring from his mouth. And if in life he was the victim of another’s ambition, then perhaps his dream-self can identify the culprit without the need for words. Regardless, tread with care, my lord. There is something afoot. We have an old saying in the Hejaz: render blind trust only unto Allah and the Prophet; all others must earn your trust anew every day.”

“Wise advice,” Rashid said, grief clouding his eyes. “And you are the second man to counsel me thus, today. I shall not waste such precious guidance.”

“I hope my predecessor was a man of great erudition, so I might be counted as an equal in his presence,” Assad said. Perhaps the boy had sense, after all. He had seen enough to recognize a rift between Caliph and vizier—large enough that he doubted Rashid would mourn Jalal’s murder. But a long road yet existed between sanctioning the deeds of one Assassin and embracing an alliance with Alamut.
Will he be amenable to the Hidden Master’s offer, I wonder?

The Caliph glanced over his shoulder. “I’ve kept them waiting long enough.” He staggered to his feet; a servant scurried up, followed by the vizier. Jalal’s face had a stern cast to it, but he wisely kept his tongue between his teeth. “I thank you, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz, for the generosity of your time. Ask anything of me in return, and if it is within my power I will grant it.”

“There is one thing, my lord,” Assad said, his thoughts racing. Mindful of his disguise, the Assassin followed Rashid’s lead and hobbled to his feet, the pommel of his hidden
salawar
couched in his palm. Contact sent fresh jags of rage twisting through the muscles of his forearm, bombarding him with images of violence and slaughter.
It wants blood.
Assad’s nostrils flared. “I … I would beg an hour of your time to tell you of my master. You and he share many of the same traits, my lord, and perhaps the tale of his life and travels would be a balm to your own.”

The vizier made to speak, to answer on the Caliph’s behalf, but Rashid cut him off. He nodded to the false Sufi. “Granted, and easily so. Come to the palace tonight, my friend, after the evening prayer, and dine with me so that I might learn of your master and his travels. Jalal?”

Through gritted teeth, the vizier said: “As you wish, Great One. I will arrange for an escort to meet him tonight at the Emerald Gate, after the evening prayer.”

“Excellent. I look forward to further discourse, my friend.”

Assad sighed inwardly and salaamed. “As do I. May the many blessings of Allah be always upon you, O Prince of the Faithful.”

With a smile and a nod of thanks, the Caliph withdrew from the Gray Mosque, his harried cortege flogged along by the growing wrath of the vizier. Assad watched Jalal through slitted eyes. “Enjoy your last day under heaven,” he muttered.

For Assad knew in his marrow that, by the end of the night, Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman would be a man marked for death …

19

Musa stepped into the street outside the caravanserai of Abu’l-Qasim and shivered despite the midday heat. His empty eye socket ached and his head swirled like the Nile at full flood, brimming over with schemes others had entrusted to him. Him! A simple beggar, by Allah! Still, he had no choice; he was in it, now—neck-deep in this business of caliphs and killers. He would do what he could and leave the balance in God’s hands.

And when this is over,
he thought as he hurried up the street toward the Qasaba,
when this is over I’m going back to the Mad Caliph’s Mosque and to minding my own affairs, as Allah is my witness!

Distracted, Musa did not see Gamal and a pair of fedayeen drift into the street behind him …

20

“There’s no call for you to endanger yourself, lady,” Farouk said again, as Zaynab made ready to leave the caravanserai. “If your girl needs an escort to the palace, then I will gladly do it.”

Trailed by a maidservant, he and the Gazelle emerged onto the third-floor gallery where Yasmina awaited them—the Egyptian’s black hair damp from a quick plunge in her mistress’s bathing pool. Clad now in a gown of pale blue cotton, she sat on a divan and polished off a handful of dates, her eyes restless.

Zaynab stopped a moment to bind her hair beneath a gray silk scarf, fringed in gold. “My mind is made up, Farouk,” she said, selecting a plain veil—a
hijab
—from among those her maidservant held out for display. “Yasmina will guide me into the palace, where I might speak with Parysatis about these matters. It’s imperative she know she’s not alone in this. I will linger at the palace to pay court to my contacts, then go straight to my rendezvous at the Inn of the Three Apples. I think I can find the Caliph’s staunchest allies among the White Slaves of the River. Besides, with all that’s going on there’s no time for caution, my friend.”

Yasmina stood as they approached, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “By what route should we go, mistress?”

“What is the most direct route?” Zaynab replied. Frowning, she ran her hand through the young woman’s hair, shaking it free of knots. Yasmina flinched away.

“Most direct of all would be the Road of Eagles.”

“Then that’s our road.” Zaynab took note of Farouk’s confusion. She said: “For a small donative, the guards at the Nile Gate will grant you access to the parapet atop the city walls; for a larger fee, they will guide you along the parapet to a different gate—the Road of Eagles, it’s called.”

The Persian shook his head. “A sieve would form a better perimeter around Cairo! Why bother with these trappings of intrigue if, in the end, the army of Damascus will simply buy their way in?”

“Perhaps our toils will make the price too steep,” Zaynab said. “And we can always pray God has mercy upon us.”

“Pray or not, it makes no difference.” Farouk’s voice dripped resignation. “God does not listen…”

But before Zaynab could respond, one of her father’s white-turbaned Berbers hurried up the stairs and across the gallery. The man’s henna-stained beard bristled; he wore a
jazerant,
a mail shirt sewn between two layers of cloth: the inner layer padded, the outer layer richly embroidered in gold and silver thread. His sheathed saber rattled on its tooled leather baldric as he came to a halt and salaamed.

“Yes?”

“Two beggars have come, lady,” the Berber said. “They say they’ve brought you a prisoner. A seller of carpets.”

Zaynab glanced sharply at the man, then went to the railing and looked down in the courtyard. A pair of ragged beggars waited alongside another Berber; on his knees in front of them was a man whose hands were bound—a clean-shaven fellow with close-cropped hair who wore a soiled and torn burnoose. Pale eyes glared up at her.