The Lion of Cairo (30 page)

Assad stood. Down the street, the row of buildings ended. He could see a patch of open ground ringed with tall palm trees, a parade field, and then the glimmer of pale stone that marked the Emerald Gate, in the northeast corner of the Great East Palace. It was time to go meet his escort.

Once again a Sufi, Assad was clad in better fashion than he had been at the Gray Mosque: a black cloak of lightweight wool over a silk-girdled kaftan, its gray cotton embroidered at the shoulders and hem in black thread. He wore a small green turban indicative of his status as a hajji, one who has made the pilgrimage to Mecca. Sandals and his
salawar
in its shell of a walking stick, recovered from the alley behind the Gray Mosque, finished his disguise. With each step, Assad’s shoulders grew more rounded; his limp worsened, so that by the time he reached the edge of the parade field his transformation from Assassin to crippled holy man was complete.

Skirting the parade field, Assad discovered a curious thing taking place. Soldiers gathered in small groups under the cloak of darkness. Turks in full harness, bearing cavalry spears and bow cases, with a few Circassians scattered among them—the White Slaves of the River; Assad read something sinister in the way they crouched together, heads bowed in heated conversation as if waiting for …
For what? For an order to muster or a reason to riot?
Assad could catch no hint either way.

As he neared the Emerald Gate, a tall Ethiopian in bright silks stepped from the deeper shadow and bowed low, seeming unconcerned with the growing number of soldiers beyond the palace precincts.
“As-salaam alaikum,”
he said, in a voice at once deep and lilting. “You are Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz?”

“
Alaikum as-salaam.
Indeed, I am he.”

“My master bids you follow,” the huge African intoned. Moving with stately grace, he led Assad through the Emerald Gate, past the company of Jandariyah detailed to guard it, and across the green and verdant garden that gave the gate its name.

Entering the palace proper was like plunging into a world of unparalleled splendor—breathtaking even to Assad, whose eyes had beheld the treasure vaults of the Hidden Master beneath the foundations of Alamut. Thick carpets muffled their footfalls as Assad trailed his escort down broad corridors; between scalloped niches, richly colored tapestries seemed to drink in the light of countless glass and gilt lamps. Soaring keel arches opened on salons, on plazas bordered by fretted arcades supported by columns of marble and porphyry and gold. At every hand he saw paired sentinels—tall Syrians, soldiers of the mercenary Jandariyah, who stood their posts as motionless as the statues of old Egypt.

At last, his escort brought him to a pair of gold-arabesqued doors set into a sculptured stone arch, flanked by the ever-present Syrians.
They truly have him surrounded.
Here the Ethiopian bowed and handed Assad off to an aging eunuch. This old man studied the crippled Sufi from under arched eyebrows, no doubt taking stock of his myriad scars.

“A dangerous place, the Hejaz,” the eunuch said after a moment, “when even its holy men bear the aspect of veteran warriors.”

As Ibn al-Teymani, Assad gave a wry smile, as though the notion was not something new to him. “Even those who do not partake directly in war can be scarred by it, my friend. These I bear are the work of a rival tribe, of a Bedouin who thought it best to air his grievances with the edge of his saber. But Allah, in His infinite wisdom, ordained my survival and I repay Him by following the path of His mystery.”

“And the Bedouin?”

Ibn al-Teymani shrugged. “
Inshallah,
we will meet again. Or not.”

The eunuch chuckled. A gesture from him caused the guards to lever open the heavy doors, revealing a narrow vestibule leading to yet another arch. Harness clashed and clattered as the dozen Jandariyah lining the way snapped to attention. “Are there any dishes which disagree with you, effendi?”

“Only those forbidden by the Qur’an.”

The eunuch nodded, lips pursed. “Of course. Come, then. We must not keep the Prince of the Faithful waiting.”

The inner doors led to the Caliph’s apartments: a score of rooms glittering with gold, with precious wood and silken finery. Despite this display of opulence, the apartments had the air of a prison about them—guarded from without by the vizier’s corps of mercenaries and from within by his eunuchs; the Caliph’s smallest movements came under the direct scrutiny of men who did not have his best interests at heart. Men who were loyal to another. In all, it seemed a very different existence from that which the Master of
al-Hashishiyya
enjoyed—from his uncontested sovereignty to the wild freedom of Alamut.
How would they fare as allies?

Assad followed the old eunuch through the antechamber and down a long hallway echoing with the soft strains of flute, sitar, and tambourine, to a sitting room whose broad doors opened on the Caliph’s private fountain court; wreathed in perfumed smoke, Rashid al-Hasan reclined on silk cushions and dictated correspondence to a scribe while musicians played on in the background.

The young man looked up and flashed a wan smile. “Peace be upon you, Ibn al-Teymani of the Hejaz.” The Caliph was dressed informally in a galabiya and trousers of the purest white, a sash of golden brocade, and a turban-wrapped tarboush. His condition had improved since the mosque—though hollow, his face had a touch of color and his dark-circled eyes were lucid, glittering with intelligence.

Assad bowed. “And upon you be peace, my lord.”

“Sit, my friend. Sit.” The Prince of the Faithful gestured to the cushions beside him. “Mustapha, have food and wine brought, and then leave us until you’re called for. The rest of you—that will be all.” Scribe and musicians filed from the sitting room, followed by the old eunuch.

Careful of his disguise, Assad lowered himself onto a cushion, the ivory head of his walking stick close at hand. There was much to discuss with the young Caliph, but broaching the subject of Jalal’s perfidy meant Assad would need to reveal himself, to shed the identity of Ibn al-Teymani. Instinct told him to take it slowly.
Earn his trust first.

“My lord, I…” The false Sufi trailed off, frowning. After a moment, Ibn al-Teymani smiled and shook his head apologetically. “I am pleased to see you.”

“And I you. What troubles you, my friend?”

“Forgive me, O Caliph. It is just … well, I saw a curious sight as I arrived this evening and I cannot quite banish it from my mind.”

“What was it?”

“A mustering of the White Slaves of the River, my lord. A goodly number of them were loitering outside the Emerald Gate, all armed and clad for war. I am sure their purposes were lawful and beyond reproach, but the scene reminded me of the rumors I had heard of past troubles…”

“Curious, indeed.” Rashid scowled; suddenly, he clapped his hands. The old eunuch, Mustapha, returned before the echo faded.

“Where is my vizier, Mustapha?”

The eunuch pursed his lips. “He is … dining with the
qadis
of al-Azhar Mosque. Shall I fetch him for you, Most Excellent One?”

“No. But send word I would see him ere he retires for the night. Tell him I am curious why my
mamelukes
are mustering outside the Emerald Gate. Go.” Rashid al-Hasan leaned back. “Your wisdom intrigues me, Ibn al-Teymani. You claim simplicity, but I perceive you to be far more astute than you let on. Before we speak of your master, and I do wish to hear of his travels and travails, let me put a question to you: how does Cairo fare in the eyes of an outsider?”

Assad looked askance at the Caliph, assuming the pose of a man weighing his words, afraid he might say too much. “Cairo is the mother of the world, my lord. Who am I to judge its manners and mores?”

Rashid opened his mouth to respond, but the arrival of food and drink prompted him to silence. Quickly, slaves laid out platters of roasted fowl in rich sauces and dishes of vegetables drizzled with olive oil; hard and soft cheeses, loaves of fresh bread with butter and honey, candied figs, dates, and Syrian raisins. One eunuch lingered, tasting each dish in turn and then sipping from two moisture-beaded pitchers of
khamr.
The Caliph dismissed him after he showed no signs of ill effect.

“A wretched commentary,” Rashid said, his hand shaking as he drained his first goblet of wine, “wretched, indeed, when I cannot enjoy a simple meal without fear of poison. But, come, my friend. Back to the question at hand. Surely you must have an opinion of Cairo, for good or ill? I bid you speak candidly and give no thought to offending me. The truth, even a truth that’s difficult to hear, is always best in the eyes of Allah.”

“My master might disagree.” Assad grunted; despite his best efforts, a piece of his scrupulously maintained façade sloughed away. His eyes hardened and his face lost a measure of its perceived softness as Ibn al-Teymani grew somber. “The truth is a curious thing, my lord. Difficult or no, those in power rarely wish to hear it pronounced. Most prefer the lie, which is like clay on a potter’s wheel. It is malleable, easily kneaded into any shape for any situation. Truth, though, is hard as granite and equally inflexible. Hearken, my lord. Here is the truth, and may Allah bear witness to the veracity of my words: despite its many splendors, Cairo bears the mark of a horrible affliction.”

Rashid nodded, lines of concern etching his opium-ravaged face. “How is this affliction called?”

“
Ambition,
my lord. Naked, unchecked ambition. Why else do your amirs give their men free rein to riot in the streets, if not to further their own ambitions? Why, too, do your eunuchs enrich themselves at the expense of your honor, if not to further their own ambitions? Yet, as terrible as their transgressions are, no one man has done more to the detriment of Cairo than Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman, your vizier. His ambition is to supplant you, my lord, and rule over Cairo as Nur ad-Din rules over Damascus—as Sultan. Already, he’s done more damage than you can imagine.”

Assad braced for a tirade, steeling himself to weather the rigorous denials of the Prince of the Faithful—thus bolstering his claim that the truth was never something a ruler
wanted
to hear. But what Assad did not expect was Rashid’s silence, his measured acceptance of the accusations. The young man leaned back, his food untouched; a shadow of pain crossed his face.

“I take it you’re not surprised to hear this?”

“No,” Rashid said, exhaling. “I’m not. I learned early in life that such ambition goes hand in glove with the mantle of vizier—a necessary evil, if you will. I cannot say I approve, but I find myself too weak, too bereft of support here in the palace, to do anything about it. No, my friend, what shames me is hearing this from a man of the Hejaz. I had no idea my plight as a useless figurehead was such common knowledge.”

“It’s not so common as you think,” Assad replied. “Jalal covers his tracks quite well. Fortunately, my master trained me to recognize such tracks wherever I see them. He also trained me to …
remove
the man responsible for making them.”

Rashid jerked as though stung. “What do you mean?”

“I mean…” Assad sat straighter, flexing his leg; he rolled his shoulders and cracked the tendons in his neck. The timbre of his voice changed, and his eyes grew cold and merciless. “I mean my master is of the belief—and it is one I share, as well—that you and all of Cairo would be best served if Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman met an untimely end. Tonight.”

The Caliph blinked. “Impossible! How…?”

“My master has sent you a weapon, my lord. A weapon and an offer of friendship. He stands ready to forgive the grievances that have divided your two houses since long before either of you were born. He wants to see you reclaim what Jalal has taken.”

“Why? Who are you? Who is your master?”

“Have you not guessed? My master is a young
shaykh
of storied lineage who dwells on a mountaintop by the shores of the Caspian Sea…”

3

In the shadow-clotted alleys of the Rub al-Maiyit—the Abode of the Dead—the Heretic crouched and studied the fly-blown corpses of Gamal and his brother fedayeen. The thin light of the rising moon revealed that Gamal had been tortured, the fingers of one hand hacked off, before a thrust to the heart ended his life; though milky-eyed and waxen, his features yet bore the stamp of abject terror. The Heretic looked up from the bodies and stared at the silent mausoleums, at the faceless alley wall. Whoever Gamal and his men followed from the caravanserai had lured them into a trap—one Gamal either could not or would not bluff his way out of.

“What have you done, you fool? What did you tell him?”

Cloth rustled at the Heretic’s back; he shivered as a distinct chill rippled through the warm night air. He glanced over his shoulder. Around him, veteran fedayeen—men who had proven themselves hard as iron many times over—grew suddenly anxious, tense and afraid. As well they should.

Ibn Sharr had come.

Swathed in black from toe to crown as the sorcerer was, all that could be seen of his face as he emerged into a shaft of pale moonlight were his eyes—dark and hypnotic, agleam with mysterious fervor. Badr al-Mulahid rose to his feet and bowed.

“You take an unnecessary risk in coming here, my lord.”

“Sometimes,” Ibn Sharr replied, “it is not enough to examine a newly made corpse. One must also examine the place in which it was made.” He raised his head and inhaled, snuffling the air like a hound scenting blood. “The Emir of the Knife did this?”

The Heretic’s gaze shifted to the bodies. “I’m certain of it. And, before I martyred the Gazelle, I overheard one of her confederates speak the Emir’s name. It is Assad.”

“The Lion. How appropriate.” Ibn Sharr gathered his robes around him and crouched next to Gamal’s body. “What witnesses were there to this slaughter?”

“None that we have found.”

Ibn Sharr nodded. Dipping a hand into his robes, he brought forth a small, flat box of polished ebony, its hinged lid inlaid with silver filigree. The sorcerer opened it with exaggerated care. Inside, a fine gray dust gleamed like powdered moonlight. Muttering an invocation under his breath, Ibn Sharr took a pinch of dust and sprinkled it over Gamal’s bloodless lips.
“Itkallim!”
he said.
“Itkallim!”
He rocked back on his heels and waited, eyes flaring bright in the darkness.