The Lion of Cairo (53 page)

“Assad? Is that you?”

The figure sitting on the fountain curb turned at the sound, water dripping from his fingers. “Aye, my lord. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

The younger man waved off Assad’s concern. “My sleep was disturbed long before now. Are you injured?”

Assad chuckled. “Scrapes and bruises, my lord … and a gigantic thirst.” He leaned down and scooped water into his mouth.

“I’ll have something brought—”

“Don’t bother. This water is cool enough for my needs.” Assad sighed and splashed a handful in his face, sluicing the dust from his beard. His fingers lingered over his jagged scar.

Rashid al-Hasan walked to the fountain’s edge and sat. He looked up, watching as the sky above grew light, the fog glistening and opalescent. After a moment, he said: “Your task … was it successful?”

“It was. I expect the visit I paid to Amalric, and the gift I brought him, soured the sweet nectar of victory on his lips. Unless he’s more a fool than I imagined, I suspect the Nazarene will trouble you no longer after this night.”

“Shirkuh will be crestfallen.”

Assad raised an eyebrow. “Ah, Shirkuh. And what should we do with the Kurd now that his importance to Cairo’s well-being has become moot? Should I pay him a visit, as well?”

“Not yet. I would prefer to try and deal with him myself before I resort to other means. If I could win as staunch a Sunni as Amir Shirkuh of Damascus to my cause … well, what better way to prove my worth in the eyes of Allah—and in the eyes of your master?”

Slowly, Assad nodded. “As you wish, my lord. But I will be watching him, and if Shirkuh makes one untoward move against you, then I shall do my master’s bidding and send the bastard to hell.”
And with him that elusive necromancer, the Heretic’s master,
he added to himself.

While either man lived, the Fatimid Caliphate of Egypt was in jeopardy, body and soul. In truth, Assad reckoned the young man at his side more imperiled now than when he was at the mercy of his vizier. No longer was he merely an empty robe, an ornament waiting to be put on display by ambitious men; he was Caliph in fact as well as in name. He wielded the power in Cairo, and that alone would draw in conspirators against him as a lamp draws insects. To keep him safe, Assad would need to call upon every ounce of cunning he possessed, every trick and instinct. Everything. His hand dropped to the hilt of his
salawar
. Hatred coiled and seethed; tendons cracked as ancient rage threaded through muscle and sinew.
I am Death incarnate,
it whispered.

So am I,
the Emir of the Knife replied.
So am I …

Epilogue

Wheels creaked in the mist …

A laden donkey cart plodded down a narrow road, little more than a rutted trail that followed the overgrown banks of the Nile. Two men walked alongside, ragpickers from Cairo clad in tattered galabiyas, their skins burned as black as an Ethiopian’s by the relentless sun. Both were furtive; their eyes slipped from palm trunk to sycamore bole as if every shadow held unseen menace.

Still, for all their wariness, neither man saw the dark-cloaked figure step into the middle of the trail until their donkey balked and brayed. A second figure joined him, slender and childlike.

“Merciful Allah!” swore the taller of the two ragpickers, a man whose past transgressions had earned him a slit nose. “That’s how you get your precious throat cut!”

The newcomer ignored him. “You have brought the body.” It wasn’t a question. The ragpickers exchanged worried glances. Slit-nose shrugged; the other scratched his scraggly beard.

“Well, it’s like this: we didn’t know which body you wanted, so we just brought them all.”

“All?”

“Seven of ’em. That hole-in-the-ground you sent us to was a regular slaughterhouse.” Slit-nose shuddered. “Allah’s mercies, but I wouldn’t want to meet the devil who did that.”

“Let me see them,” the cloaked figure said.

Working in unison, the two ragpickers peeled back the splotched canvas covering the bed of their cart. The donkey shied at the sudden stench of blood, at the reek of bladder and bowel. Stacked haphazardly in the cart were seven corpses clad in black, their exposed flesh pale and waxen; one, sprawled ignominiously on top of the others, lacked a head and part of an arm, a horrible wound gaping in its chest.

The cloaked figure cursed softly, shook his head.

“This is the one. He had a knife … a Frankish dirk…”

Slit-nose grumbled and spat as he fished the hilt-shard of a broken blade from the small of his back. From his sour look it pained him to hand it over. In turn, the cloaked figure motioned for his smaller companion, who mechanically stepped forward and accepted the broken knife hilt.

“You’ll pay extra for the others?”

“You will be rewarded,” the figure said, turning away. Again, the ragpickers exchanged glances; a look of greed flickered between them. “Yasmina.”

At the mention of her name, the slender Egyptian was in motion. Her cloak fluttered from her shoulders as she darted forward, the hilt-shard a blur as it passed beneath Slit-nose’s stubbled jaw. A rooster tail of blood fountained from his now exposed jugular. Wide-eyed, he sank to his knees and clutched in vain at his slashed arteries. The second ragpicker bellowed, clawing for his knife; as his blade cleared its sheath, the girl danced close and brutally rammed the jagged shard into the hollow of his throat.

She held him upright, impaled, while he gagged and sputtered on his own blood. After a moment the ragpicker toppled, the knife-shard tearing free of his flesh. Yasmina turned to the cloaked figure of Ibn Sharr.

“Was that enough, master? Have I not proven myself…?”

Ibn Sharr stared dispassionately at the two still-quivering corpses. “Not yet, child. Perhaps in time you will have proven your worth. For now, though, we must find Ta-Djeser. Come, child.”

“What about the bodies?”

“Leave them,” Ibn Sharr said, a cryptic smile spreading across his grim countenance. “I have what I need.”

Yasmina paused. She looked back over her shoulder, past the cart and its grisly burden, past the riven corpses, and imagined she could see the gleaming palaces and mosques of Cairo. The nighted streets of the Mother of the World had taken both the mother of her flesh and the mother of her soul. And for what? Yasmina sighed. There needs must be a blood-price. A reckoning.

As Zaynab suffered, so must I … and so must they all. It is Allah’s will.

Turning, she followed the necromancer into shadow …

Also by Scott Oden

Memnon
Men of Bronze

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

THOMAS DUNNE BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Press.

THE LION OF CAIRO.
Copyright © 2010 by Scott Oden. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.stmartins.com

Maps by Darren Cox

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Oden, Scott.

   The Lion of Cairo / Scott Oden.—1st ed.

           p. cm.

   ISBN 978-0-312-37293-4

 1.  Caliphs—Fiction.   2.  Cairo (Egypt)—History—Fiction.   3.  Assassins—Fiction.   4.  Egypt—History—1250–1517—Fiction.   5.  Egypt—History—1517–1882—Fiction.   I.  Title

   PS3615.D465156 2010

   813'.6—dc22

2010035896

First Edition: December 2010

eISBN 978-1-4299-2772-7

First Thomas Dunne Books eBook Edition: December 2010