The Lion of Cairo (43 page)

Sullen light, like the glow of banked embers, seeped from a handful of windows in the upper stories of the caravanserai of Abu’l-Qasim. Its tall doors were open despite the sense of imminent doom gripping the city, and to the right and left mail-clad Berbers stood sentinel. Others walked the roofline—hawk-eyed mercenaries whose skill with the bow was second only to that of the Turk. Their vigilance gave Assad the impression Ali abu’l-Qasim was bracing for an attack.
More blood has spilled,
the message had said.
But how much more?

The Assassin approached the door wardens, ignoring the spears they leveled at his breast. “Fetch your master,” he snapped. “Tell him his guest has returned.” The guards relayed his message and without delay he was ushered into the courtyard, where the pillow-strewn carpets and divans were devoid of their usual complement of beggars—though Assad counted a score of armed Berbers, marking time like men awaiting orders to move. Abu’l-Qasim’s blue-turbaned spymaster hustled out from an interior room and greeted Assad with a flurry of hand-wringing and exhortations to Allah. He was a squint-eyed son of the Banu Zuwayla, local Arabs who had lived in the shadow of the Muqattam Hills long before the first Fatimids had arrived.

“Come quickly,” he said, as breathless as a sprinter. “You were expected much earlier in the day! Hurry, effendi, I beg of you!
Inshallah!
Perhaps there is still time!”

“What goes?”

“Hurry!
La ilaha illa’llah, Muhammadun rasul Allah!
”

The Arab retraced his steps, nigh dragging Assad through the carpeted halls to a closed door near stairs leading to the upper floors. He rapped once then pushed the door open, revealing a small, bright chamber—a sitting room with reed mats and carpets, lit by three copper stands wrought to resemble the trunks of trees, their branches holding half a dozen glass-paned lamps apiece. The room stank of blood and sweat.

A man lay on an old divan, writhing in agony as a gray-bearded doctor carefully peeled pads and bandages of blood-soaked linen away from his abdomen, replacing them with fresh ones from a stack at his side. Abu’l-Qasim stood behind the doctor, the tick of ivory worry beads through his fingers like a metronome, marking the injured man’s final hours. The King of Thieves turned as Assad entered, a look of relief spreading across his weathered face.

“By God, man! I thought you had forsaken us!”

“I only received your message a short time gone. Did the killer return?” Assad moved closer to get a better look at the wounded man, at the ragged laceration in his belly, and found he recognized the fellow’s blood-streaked visage.

“Musa? What the devil happened, Abu’l-Qasim?”

“My guards found him like this before dawn this morning, on the street outside the caravanserai. He would not say much beyond that he had to speak to you. Though I fear you’ve come too late.”

“Give us a moment.” Nodding, Abu’l-Qasim helped the old doctor to his feet and guided him to the door. Assad knelt by Musa’s side and grasped the beggar’s gory hand. “Musa. Who did this to you?”

Musa’s one good eye fluttered open. “A-Assassin?” he whispered.

“I’m here. Who did this?”

“The girl—the girl, but no matter—listen, Assassin! I found it! I found—found the Heretic’s lair! I found it!” Musa shivered. The words came with tremendous effort; his narrow face was pale as a winding sheet, and a froth of blood and spittle matted his beard. “F-found … it!” The beggar snagged a handful of Assad’s
khalat,
using it to pull himself closer. “F-found—found him in the—in the F-Foreign—”

“In the Foreign Quarter? Yes?” Assad said. “But where?”

Musa nodded. His breath was coming in ragged gasps now. The resolve that had kept him alive throughout the day was rapidly fading. He muttered something. Assad leaned closer. “M-Maydan … al-Iskander! D-do you … do you k-know it?”

“I do.” Assad remembered the place from his childhood—a square in the heart of the Foreign Quarter where his mother once washed linens for the wife of a Greek merchant.

The beggar drew a racking breath. “B-beneath … look beneath…”

Assad frowned. “Beneath?”

“L-look …
beneath
!” A spasm racked Musa’s tortured frame; he exhaled, bubbles of blood breaking on his lip, and abruptly the hard pain-etched lines scoring his face softened as he gave in to Death’s embrace. Assad eased Musa’s body back down on the divan and stood. Abu’l-Qasim rejoined him.

“May Allah bless and preserve him. He was a good man.” Abu’l-Qasim glanced sidelong at the silent Emir. “What were his last words?”

“None of your concern. Bury him, Abu’l-Qasim. Mourn him, mourn your daughter, and live out the rest of your days as you will. I thank you for your hospitality, but our business is done.” Assad turned for the door. Bristling with menace, the King of Thieves stepped into his path.

“No, our business is far from done. What did Musa say? Did he tell you who killed him? Was it this Heretic? It was, wasn’t it? By Almighty God! I will have the swine’s head!”

“I said”—Assad’s eyes narrowed to slits—“it’s not your concern.”

“Where is he? You said earlier he was in the Foreign Quarter! Where?” Recklessly, Abu’l-Qasim touched his hand to the pommel of his curved knife. “I will not ask you again! A word from me and my Berbers will—”

The Emir of the Knife moved like the flicker of summer lightning. Without warning, he drove one iron fist into Abu’l-Qasim’s belly. Air
whuffed
from the Arab’s lungs; wide-eyed, the older man staggered and fell against the wall. Steel rasped on leather. Before the King of Thieves could recover, before he could draw his own dagger, the cold touch of Assad’s
salawar
at his throat wrenched a gasp from his bearded lips. Sudden terror robbed Abu’l-Qasim of his voice. His limbs froze; it was all he could do to meet the Assassin’s gaze, dark eyes smoldering with volcanic fury.

“Another word from you and you’ll take your next breath in hell. I have been patient with you, Abu’l-Qasim, out of respect for your daughter. But my patience has its limits. For the last time: forget the Heretic. I say my master’s claim on him far outstrips the claim of any grieving father. He has spilled the blood of
al-Hashishiyya,
and for that—for that alone—he will pay.” Assad bore down on the blade until a thin ribbon of blood welled up beneath its edge. “And if you cross me one more time, if you interfere in my business, by my oath to Alamut—the next time we meet will be your last day above the earth. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” Ali abu’l-Qasim managed, his tongue cleaving to his palate. He sagged, shaking visibly, as Assad withdrew the blade from his throat. The older man’s legs gave way and he sank to the floor with a desolate sob, head cradled in his hands. Abu’l-Qasim was as brave as any three men, but the kiss of age-haunted steel unmanned him.
He understands, now, that there are things worse than death
.

Nodding, Assad sheathed his
salawar
and turned again for the door. “I bid you farewell and long life, O
Malik al-Harami
.”

7

Seven men. Seven devils, their foul breath hot against her skin. Seven twisted faces blurred by the rank sweat dripping into her eyes. Features engorged with lust, they grunted and howled like beasts as they violated her in every way. Again and again she felt their callused hands clawing at her breasts; they slapped her, their nails tearing and ripping as they wrenched her thighs apart. Again and again they drove into her, filling her with white-hot agony, pounding her bruised pelvis until the last dram of their molten seed spilled across her belly …

“What is your name?”

The sorcerer’s voice cut through a haze of pain. Yasmina lay on her side, naked and shivering on the cold stone floor. One eye fluttered open; the other was matted shut with blood. She saw the hem of a man’s dark robe enter the periphery of her vision. “Please,” she whimpered. “N-no more…”

“Then answer me without fail. What is your name, child?”

“Yas … Yasmina.”

“Sit up, Yasmina,” he said.

The girl raised herself up on one elbow, stopping as sharp jags of pain flared in her hips and lower back. She sobbed. “I c-can’t.”

“You must. If you cannot sit, you cannot stand; if you cannot stand, you cannot walk—and if you cannot walk, what use are you to me? I may as well call my men back and let them resume their sport…”

“No,” Yasmina said. “P-please, no more.” She bit her lip against the agony and slowly levered herself into a kneeling position, like a supplicant, her weight supported on her arms. Her thighs were slick with blood. Pale and sweating, she glared at the sorcerer through the black veil of her hair.

The man nodded. “Good. Have you become acclimated to your new life, Yasmina?”

“W-what?”

“This … your new life. Do you find it agreeable?”

Yasmina cringed, squeezing her eyes tight against a fresh flood of tears. “No…”

“A shame.” The sorcerer tsked. “They
will
return, those men, and they will not leave until they have slaked their lusts. What will you do, child, when the act of rape grows too commonplace for them? What will you do when they decide to explore new and more inventive ways to sate themselves—to practice on you such obscene perversions as to make the fabled whores of Babylon hide their faces in humiliation?”

“Allah, n-no…!” Yasmina sobbed. “P-please…”

“Oh, your Moslem god has abandoned you, child. Would you be here if He had not? No, in this matter I am your only hope.”

“You?”

“I can pluck you from this darkness, dear Yasmina. O, the things I can show you! My tutelage can save you from those who would use you merely for their pleasure and cast you aside. I can make you strong, child, in body and in mind; I can show you a world you never dreamed existed.” The sorcerer’s voice dropped to a mesmeric whisper. “But only if I deem you worthy.”

A scintilla of hope glimmered in Yasmina’s eye. “D-do you … am I w-worthy?”

The sorcerer stopped pacing; crouching near the girl, he stared at her in silence for a time, brow furrowed as the fingers of one hand smoothed his beard. He presented the picture of stern contemplation. “Perhaps,” he said at length. “But you must continue to prove your worth to me. You must renounce your old life with its flawed ways and embrace the path of Massaif. You must pledge yourself to my service.” His voice turned blade-sharp. “And should you prove insincere, the wrath I will visit upon you will make your last few hours seem as a pleasant diversion.” Ibn Sharr stood.

“I … I will serve you,” she said. “I give you my word.”

“She lies.”

Yasmina flinched as the Heretic’s voice cracked whiplike from the darkness behind her.

“She thinks herself clever, master. She tells you what she believes you want to hear only to spare herself further humiliation. But, deep inside her heart, she harbors animosity. One day, she will use it to betray you.” The Heretic emerged from the gloom and moved to stand alongside his sorcerous master, pale eyes narrowing in cold skepticism. He carried a bundle of rough cloth in his hands. “Do not trust her.”

“Ever the cynic, Badr. You know better than any man how difficult it is to earn my trust,” Ibn Sharr said, “and what ills befall those who break it. She understands what manner of chastisement my displeasure will bring. Is that not so, Yasmina?”

The young Egyptian nodded. “It is … master.”

“See, Badr? Already she has learned her place, if not her purpose.” Ibn Sharr raised an eyebrow to his sullen lieutenant and spoke a word in a tongue unfamiliar to Yasmina: “
Sacrifise
.”

At this, the Heretic nodded, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Fitting.”

“Indeed. Now, give her a tunic. She will accompany me upriver to find the place the ancients called Ta-Djeser. Do your fedayeen understand the importance of what must follow?”

“They do, master.” Badr al-Mulahid pitched the bundle he carried onto the floor near Yasmina, gesturing for her to take it. She was skittish. Expecting some manner of cruelty, the girl kept a cautious eye on both men as she reached for the wad of cloth. It was a galabiya of homespun linen, patched and worn, its color faded from a vibrant blue to a curious shade of gray. Carefully, she shook it out and drew it over her head.

“Take as much time as you require on this hunt, Badr,” Ibn Sharr said. “No mistakes! The Hammer is an uncommon prize. Imagine the power we will command with a relic of such staggering antiquity at our disposal!”

“We stand ready, master. The Emir of the Knife will not escape us.”

“See that he does not, my loyal Heretic!” Ibn Sharr motioned to the girl, and then turned for the door. “Make her ready to travel. I leave within the hour. We—”

Ibn Sharr staggered, his head swiveling to the entrance to the underground temple. He closed his eyes; his nostrils flared as something akin to a shudder of pain rustled down his spine. The Heretic rushed to his side. The sorcerer steadied himself, laid a heavy hand on his lieutenant’s shoulder. “By the grace of the gods below,” Ibn Sharr hissed, “I can feel its presence! Rouse your fedayeen, Badr! The Emir of the Knife is here!”

8

The Maydan al-Iskander. It was smaller than Assad recalled; the slow creep of decay blurred its edges, where hovels of mudbrick and palm thatch clung like barnacles to the hull of a wrecked galley. Assad came upon it from the west, down a warren of narrow alleys that ran through the worm-eaten heart of the Foreign Quarter. He stopped on its fringes.

Once, the Maydan had been an open-air market, a place where merchants of distant lands could meet in congress and commerce. Assad remembered the Greek his mother had washed linens for: kindly and garrulous, an oil merchant who spent his mornings engaged in haggling and his afternoons spooling lies to whoever would listen, children especially. He told stories of his travels—tales of giant birds and fish the size of small islands, of one-eyed ogres and talking apes, of flying carpets and sinister djinn—stories which always degenerated into mad caperings and bawdy songs about the whores of Sarandib. The Maydan had been his stage.