The Lion of Cairo (25 page)

In return, the Gazelle graced him with her most predatory smile. “Take him down to the old hammam,” she said. “I’ll be along shortly.”

The Berber nodded and withdrew.

Farouk raised an eyebrow. “Have we time for this, lady?”

“For this?” The Gazelle’s eyes were cold and savage. “For this, we make time!”

“Who is that man, mistress?” Yasmina asked.

“One of those who have been hunting me.” Zaynab turned to the young Egyptian, one hand cupping her cheek. “I must beg your patience, child. I know you’re anxious to return to Parysatis, but this man has information we need.
Inshallah,
he must be made to talk.”

Yasmina watched the men below drag the prisoner away; her face hardened like a concrete mask, losing all hint of youth. “I have learned a great many things in the palace, mistress,” she said. “Perhaps one of them might serve to loosen his tongue.”

21

As Ibn al-Teymani, Assad rested his weight on his walking stick as he hobbled from the cool shade of the Gray Mosque. He did not plunge into the chaos of the broad square outside the mosque, the Bayn al-Qasrayn; rather, he skirted it and entered a narrow lane which ran along the mosque’s eastern side. Façades of stucco and carved stone thrust into the street, creating an undulating path for traffic to follow. Higher up, awnings and latticed windows from opposing buildings nearly touched, casting pools of shadow on the pavement below. Down the way, a merchant sold melons and pomegranates from the back of a pushcart.

A sharp left brought the would-be holy man into an alley which ran behind the mosque. Here it was darker, still; a thin runnel of sewage gave the heavy air a nigh unbearable stench. The false Sufi picked his way carefully. Ahead and to his right, he caught sight of a familiar face, age seamed and russet bearded, poking around the corner of a recessed doorway: Ali abu’l-Qasim.

“Y’Allah!”
the King of Thieves muttered. He leaned against a tightly shuttered door, cutting slices from a pomegranate and eating them with his dagger. Sweet juice dribbled into his beard; a few drops spattered a sack at his feet. “I was beginning to think you may have fallen afoul of the vizier.”

Assad grunted. “Bastard’s as blind as he is ambitious.”

“It went well, then?”

“Well enough.” The Assassin stripped off his cloak and dropped it on the ground; next, he kicked off his sandals and removed his belt before retrieving the sack from Abu’l-Qasim. From it, he took his trousers and his boots, his
khalat
and his turban, his sash and his empty sheath.

Abu’l-Qasim bore witness to a curious transformation as Assad reversed the physical changes he had adopted as Ibn al-Teymani. He straightened his leg, massaged the kinks from the muscles of his thigh; he cracked the vertebrae of his upper back and neck, stiff from adopting a stoop-shouldered pose, and drew himself up to his full height. Within moments, the crippled holy man of the Hejaz was gone and in his wake stood a penniless freebooter, scarred and cruel. The older man shook his head in wonderment. “Did you have opportunity to present your master’s offer?”

Assad dressed as he relayed to the King of Thieves the news of his invitation to dine at the palace. “Rashid al-Hasan has more spine than I gave him credit for. Neither is he the passive puppet from your daughter’s description. Whatever put a fire in his belly may also have caused a rift between Caliph and vizier, perhaps something wide enough to exploit.”

“The Emerald Gate, after evening prayer,” Abu’l-Qasim said, giving a low whistle. “By the Prophet! You had far better luck than I.”

“What did you find?”

“Nothing.” Abu’l-Qasim spat a pomegranate seed across the alley. “I found nothing, as Allah is my witness! The man you marked must have been a djinn, for he has truly vanished like smoke on a desert wind. No flesh stitcher I know, and I know them all, has bound such a wound in the past day.”

Assad gathered up the remains of Ibn al-Teymani and thrust them into the empty bag. Last of all, he slipped his
salawar
free of the walking stick. Tendrils of rage and despair crawled up his arm. Gritting his teeth, Assad eyed the blade for any damage, then returned it to its accustomed sheath and settled it into his sash. “It seems the Gazelle’s attackers will remain a mystery a while longer,” he said, nodding toward the opposite end of the alley. “I’m famished. Come.”

“What of this?” Abu’l-Qasim gestured to the bag holding the detritus of Assad’s disguise, to the hollow walking stick.

“It has served its purpose. Besides, one cannot dine with the Prince of the Faithful looking like a vagabond. But the stick…” Assad looked around until he found a long horizontal crevice running along the base of the alley wall—one easily enlarged by gouging his booted toe into the mudbrick. Whole chunks crumbled and flaked away. Kneeling, Assad tucked the walking stick into the crevice and replaced the shattered bits of brick. “I will return for it tonight.”

Nodding, Abu’l-Qasim shied his half-eaten pomegranate down the alley and sheathed his knife. He wiped his hands down the front of his
khalat
. “I wonder what Zaynab and your Persian have discovered, eh?”

“Allah only knows.”

22

The stifling heat of midday did not reach into the heart of the King of Thieves’ sanctuary; here, beneath six generations of stone, brick, and stucco, the vaults of the old hammam remained cool and moist. Farouk shivered, his nose wrinkling at the stink of pigeon droppings and mildew. High above, a chink in the stone allowed a shaft of sunlight in—and gave egress to the birds nesting in the rafters. In hurried whispers, Zaynab recounted how men had been asking after her, and how Assad had trumped their offer of a bounty by proposing one of his own. Ever greedy, Cairo’s beggars moved fast.

Their prisoner sat in that diamond of pale light, in a straight-backed chair with his hands bound at his back. Farouk watched him closely. He had a clean-shaven face as hard and angular as a bronze mask but he was no eunuch, and the dark gold of his close-cropped hair hinted at origins other than Aleppo.
Frankish blood,
Farouk decided. But it was the prisoner’s manner—cold and collected—that gave the Persian pause.
He has no fear. Another man would be begging for his life. Why not this man?

A pair of Abu’l-Qasim’s Berbers stood near; with them, the two beggars who brought the man to Zaynab. Both were barefoot and clad in ill-fitting rags. They bowed gracelessly at the Gazelle’s approach.

“You have my thanks, my friends,” she said, and gestured to one of the Berbers. “Follow him and he will take you back to the courtyard. Partake of some wine, some food, and I will be up shortly so that we might settle our accounts.” The men murmured their assent; as they left, their eyes slid to the prisoner. One of the beggars grinned, no doubt finding macabre humor in the poor fellow’s plight.

Zaynab turned to the prisoner. “I am pressed for time, so let us cut to the chase: who sent you? Give me a name, my old friend—for you said we are old friends, did you not? Give me the name of the man you serve, give me his location, and your end will be swift and painless.”

Nothing. The man simply looked at them each in turn.

“Fetch irons and a brazier of coals,” Yasmina offered. She matched his blank stare with one of her own. “Start with the left eye. By the time you move to the right, you will have all the answers you require, mistress.”

“Obstinate fool!” Zaynab snapped. “Do you understand the boon I’m offering? You will not leave this place alive! Answer truthfully and I will have my man dispatch you with all the mercy you would have denied me! But, play games and I swear—as Allah is my witness—
she
will make sure you linger for days! What say you, now?”

Still, the prisoner made no response; he stared at her, pale eyes lit from within by the fires of fanaticism.
Pale eyes … eyes … of course! His eyes!
Farouk leaned closer to Zaynab. “Notice his eyes, lady,” he said.

“What about them?”

“You said your informant made special mention of them, that one was infected. Look at him. This man’s eyes are healthy. Those beggars are playing you for a fool, lady. He cannot possibly be our Aleppan seller of carpets.”

Zaynab frowned. “Then who…?”

“You have a keen sense for detail, Persian,” the prisoner said, lips curling into a sneer. “Your Emir should be commended. Where is he? Where is the Emir of the Knife? I would speak with him.”

Farouk cast an uneasy glance at Zaynab. “How do you know I am not the Emir?”

“Like recognizes like, Persian. You are no killer, nor are these two.” He nodded to Zaynab and her Berber guard. “The girl, though…” His hot stare traveled up and down Yasmina’s body, bringing a flush of color to her cheeks. Zaynab stepped in front of the prisoner.

“Which means you are a killer, I take it?”

“Ask al-Hajj. Ask the Angel of Death, for you will see him soon enough, my little Gazelle.” His patronizing smile widened.

“You will see him before me, you murdering son of a bitch!” Zaynab whirled and snatched a curved dagger from the Berber’s sash; she lunged at the bound man. Farouk, however, caught her before she could strike him down.

“Calm yourself, by Allah! The dog is baiting you! Think! Even if he is the one who killed your companions, will slaying him out of hand get us any closer to the answers we crave?” Unable to argue, Zaynab wrenched free of his grasp and turned away. Farouk looked at the prisoner. “That’s the question, dog! Who are you and whom do you serve?”

“Dog, is it? I am surprised you have not pieced the answer to that together yet, brother. Let me help you. Who else besides Alamut employs men skilled enough to hunt their prey with such stealth and cunning? Who else would slay the followers of a feckless boy but the followers of one who seeks to supplant his leadership? Who else, brother…?”

Farouk’s face grew pale; he cursed.

“Yes,” the prisoner gloated. “You see it now, don’t you? You merely needed a nudge in the proper direction.”

“Cursed swine!” Farouk hissed, tearing the knife from Zaynab’s fist. “I’ll take care of this one! Send your father’s men to kill the other two, the ones claiming to be beggars! Quickly, before it’s too late!”

Zaynab stumbled back, her hand on Yasmina’s shoulder. She glanced from man to man. “Why? Who are they…?”

“Renegade
al-Hashishiyya
!” Farouk tightened his grip on the knife. “Assassins from Mount Massaif in Syria, and if my guess is right this pale-eyed Frank is one of their emirs! The one they call the Heretic! Allah, I should have known!”

“Indeed, you should have,” the Heretic said, his smile vanishing.

In that instant, Farouk realized their peril; he realized it even as he heard Yasmina loose a shrill cry of warning—for the girl saw the same danger as he: behind the prisoner’s back, the bonds they thought secure dropped away … and a heartbeat later, the old hammam exploded into chaos.

The Heretic was in motion before Yasmina’s shout reached its crescendo. Unexpectedly, he threw himself backward, toppling his chair and rolling to his feet, dirk in hand. Farouk cursed under his breath.
It was in his boot!
The Persian gave back, putting himself between the Heretic and Zaynab; steel rasped and flickered as the Berber guard, not lacking in courage, drew his saber and launched himself at their one-time prisoner.

Quick as a snake, the Heretic ducked under a wild swing that had it landed would have split him in half; his dirk flashed low, its keen edge parting the fabric of the Berber’s trouser leg and continuing into the flesh behind his knee. The soldier bellowed in pain, staggered, and tried to rake the hilt of his saber across the Heretic’s unprotected eyes.

Again, the Heretic sidestepped; his riposte was no less savage. He slammed the pommel of his dirk into the Berber’s face, driving the nasal of his helmet into the bridge of his nose. Cartilage snapped; blinded by tears and spurting blood, the Berber’s head snapped back to expose his jugular.

The Heretic ended his life with a flick of his wrist.

Even as the soldier toppled, his throat a red ruin, Farouk whirled and shoved Zaynab away. “Run!” he screamed. “Run, damn you! Find Assad! Go!”

Yasmina caught Zaynab’s arm and dragged her to the door. This roused the Gazelle from her daze; she dug in her heels. “No, the other two are out there! This way!” Hand in hand, the two women sprinted deeper into the maze of rooms that made up the ancient hammam.

Alone, Farouk blocked the Heretic’s way, the Berber’s curved knife in his fist. Badr made an impatient gesture.

“Step aside, Persian. You and I, we have no quarrel today.”

“Oh, but we do,” Farouk said; though not a man of action, neither a fighter nor a killer, he resolved to stand his ground so Zaynab and the girl would have a chance to escape. Live or die, he left his fate in the hands of God. “You have the murder of my master’s servants to atone for, by Allah. Bind yourself over to our judgment and I will see your end is fairly wrought.”

“Now who plays games?” The Heretic’s nostrils flared. “Though you do not ask my mercy, you will receive it, brother, for I need a man who can bear a message to the Emir of the Knife.”

“Mercy? O, infidel of Massaif, what would you know of that word? Your kind has perverted the teachings of Ibn al-Sabbah; you’ve sullied the path to Paradise with your base ambitions and porous loyalties!”

“And what of your kind, Persian? Alamut has become a nest of closed-minded antiquarians who live only for past glories! Faugh! The world is larger than Baghdad or Cairo or Damascus! We, at least, fight for our place in it! Go back to your mountaintop, brother! Bear witness, for this is a duel you cannot win!” Badr made to move around him but backpedaled when Farouk lashed out with his dagger, missing him by a hairsbreadth.

“Win or not, there is no way forward save through me!”

“Then more the fool are you, Persian!” The Heretic advanced slowly this time, on the balls of his feet, his dirk weaving silvery glyphs in the dim light of the hammam. He lunged once; then lunged again, feinting high and slashing low, driving Farouk back.