the Walking Drum (1984) (54 page)

"Who?" I appeared puzzled. It was still not quite dark, and Khatib would need every second. "Your servant. The man who was with you?"

"Oh? A good man with horses, a likely man."

"Where is he?" The officer was almost shouting.

"You are unduly excited about a mere hireling, a man of no consequence. Nor do I like your tone."

"Where is he?"The officer grasped my arm.

Jerking my arm free, I stepped back and put my hand on my sword. "If you have not learned how to address a visitor," I said, "you can be taught."

In an instant I was surrounded by leveled pikes, but before another move could be made, a voice said, "Bring ibn-Ibrahim to my quarters, Abdul."

Abruptly, the officer turned away, his face taut with fury. Pikemen fell in about me. If I needed no more, this assured me I was a prisoner. My venture attempted, and lost already. Or had I? No man is lost while yet he lives.

That voice!

It struck me suddenly. Iknew that voice! Who could it be? Not Sinan, for I had never known him. The room to which I was shown was long. At one end was a low table. Two guards stood at the door, one stood at either end of the table.

There had been no move to deprive me of my weapons, nor was I sure how I would have reacted had such a move been made. As I moved, my eyes and ears were busy. Somewhere near was my father, and somewhere a secret tunnel that admitted one to a mysterious valley in the mountains. Or so I had heard.

Darkness had fallen. As I was seating myself, I heard the gate clang shut and the sound of horses' hooves on the paved court. Had they found Khatib? Not if I knew him. Given the start he had, he would be hidden by now, and not far away.

Yet every time he returned to the meadow he would be in danger.

Despair welled up within me. Whatcould I do? Wherever my eyes turned there were guards, lean and savage men, fanatically devoted to the Old Man of the Mountain. The door opened, and a man stepped in, standing in a shadow. He paused, taking my measure.

"It has been a long time, Kerbouchard." So much for my assumed identity. With that sentence, ibn-Ibrahim died.

He stepped into the light then, and I took a half-step and stopped, frozen in astonishment.Mahmoud!

Yet a Mahmoud who had changed. He had grown heavier; his features had coarsened, his eyes were harder. "Yes," I agreed, "it has been a long time." He gestured to a seat, and I crossed my legs and sat on a cushion, careful to arrange my sword so the hilt was ready for my grasp. He noticed it, and smiled.

"The sword is of no use, Kerbouchard. I have a thousand armed men. You can make no move unless I wish it."

"I understood you were in the service of Prince Ahmed?"

"That fool! He dismissed me."

"What did you do? Try to approach Aziza?" His face mottled with anger, and I knew what I surmised was true. Mahmoud had believed her flirting with him when she was recognizing me, in Cordoba.

He had been a vain, weak man then. He was older now, infinitely stronger, yet a vain man still, perhaps a weak man still. "It does not matter," he said smugly, "they are dead."

"Dead?"

His teeth bared in what was intended for a smile, but there was too much hatred in it. "I had them killed. Prince Ahmed first ... it was done in the street with a poisoned dagger."

That Mahmoud was malicious I well knew, that he would stoop to this I would not have believed. It was an indication that I had much to learn about human nature. Or inhuman nature. Judging the change in Mahmoud and my own position, I had best revise my thinking, and suddenly.

Caution ... I must be very cautious.

"You can order a man's death? Or did you give Sinan a reason for having him killed?"

"Al-Zawila can order anyone killed"-he looked at me coolly-"anyone at all."

"Who is al-Zawila?"

He smiled condescendingly. "I am al-Zawila."

Mahmoud ...al-Zawila!

My eyes, I hoped, showed nothing.

"You have heard of me?"

"Nothing that matters," I replied, "just a mention of the name here and there. When Alamut is mentioned, your name comes up."

He was pleased, I could see that. The man had always been vain. It was something to remember.

"Do you know why you are here?"

"I was told Sinan wished to talk with me." Pausing, I wondered. Did Sinan even know I was here? Certainly, within hearing there must be spies. "I am an alchemist, a physician. I hoped to talk to him, for his interests are widely known."

Mahmoud's smile was not pleasant. "He cannot be disturbed by such as you. He does not know you are here. In fact, I brought you here for a particular reason, and because you are a physician and a surgeon.

"After all"-he smiled warmly-"we can be friends, can we not? We had a good many talks, you and I, and I miss them."

For a moment I almost believed him. We had had long talks, many of them, of all the things young men with ideas talk about. His trouble had always been that he wished to know, but he did not want to go through the struggle of learning.

"You could be valuable here. As for Sinan, he is busy with other things."

"I would like that," I said, "this is an interesting place."

"It is the strongest fortress on earth," he boasted. "Nobody could capture it. Many have tried, and there was one who led his troops to destroy Alamut, but one morning he awoke to find a dagger thrust into the earth beside his bed. A note pinned by the dagger reminded him it could as easily have been in his heart. That man led his army back where they had come from."

"I should like to meet Sinan."

He dismissed the idea with a gesture. "He is much too busy. You are my concern, and mine only." He smiled in a friendly fashion. "You can be of help to me, Kerbouchard. I sent for you because I knew with what respect some of the best physicians in Cordoba held your knowledge of medicine."

"Do you need a physician?"

"Not I ... another. A favorite slave. You would not refuse me, I am sure?"

"There is the oath of Hippocrates. I would never refuse anyone aid."

"Good!" He got to his feet abruptly, for we had eaten as we talked. "You have ridden far. We will talk in the morning."

I was shown to my sleeping quarters, and my saddlebags and pack were there before me. The door closed, and I heard the bolt of the massive lock click home. Feet grated on the stone of the passage outside. Locked in, and a guard posted.

Quickly, I went to my pack and opened it. The rope was gone!

So then, I was trapped.

The room in which my pallet lay opened upon an inner court. There was no window to the outside wall of the fortress, and had there been, it would have been to no avail, for we were too high above the ground. Nor would there be any scaling of the rock face as I had done in Spain. Mahmoud must know of that, for it was he who betrayed me into prison.

The change in Mahmoud worried me. He was sure of himself now, for he had a handle on power. He was stronger because of it, and more dangerous. Whatever was in his mind for me could be nothing but evil. At every moment I must be on guard against him.

First, however, I must find my father and where he was kept. Also, I must discover the routine of the changes of the guards and if there was another way of escape from Alamut. Somehow I must let my father know that I was here, for he would know the situation here better than I, and he would have been thinking of escape.

Al-Zawila had been torturing my father, and now I knew why. My father had suffered because of Mahmoud's hatred of me. Carefully, I examined my position. Sinan apparently knew nothing of my presence. Suppose Sinan could be made to know? Might not Sinan be interested in my knowledge of alchemy? All alchemists, everywhere, had interests in common and often shared ideas or chemical methods.

Al-Zawila, I suddenly recalled, was a place on the coast of Africa. Mahmoud must have come from there. That knowledge would not help, but it made the picture a little clearer. He was, I suspected, a Berber. The Berber relationship with the Arab had been tentative, at best. I must think, think!

The guards here? Berber? Probably not. This was Persia, so the guards were likely to be Persian, Arab, or some other Central Asiatic people. Nothing could be lost by informing Sinan of my presence, and it was a rare ruler indeed who liked things done without his knowledge. Mahmoud al-Zawila was not serving his master now, but himself.

The favorite slave who needed treatment? Was there such? Or was it a mere trick? Once I had treated the slave, if such there was, then I could be eliminated or enslaved myself.

Blowing out my candle, I went to the window and looked down into the court. A flaring torch showed me a quadrangle of pavement and the castle around it. There were gate towers, and a movement there warned me that there would be guards in the towers, perhaps walking the wall.

Torchlight reflected on the armor of a man standing guard at a door. Such a guard might be posted outside the apartments of Sinan. Of course, it might be a storehouse, an armory, or the entrance to a treasure room.

Somewhere among this hive of rooms and passages was the entrance to that secret valley of which rumor whispered.

Such was the fear of the Old Man's Assassins that kings of the East paid tribute, and those who incurred his displeasure died. Nor was there any place of safety to which such a one might flee, neither a mosque, the center of an army, nor the presence of a priest or king could save the victim from the poisoned daggers of the Assassins. Doped with hashish and promises of paradise if they died in the. Old Man's service, they were absolutely fearless and heedless of their lives. Many died, but rarely before murdering the man they had been sent to kill.

Some of the most notable who had been slain were Nizam-ul-Mulk, minister of Malik Shah, the sovereign of Persia, then his two sons, in 1092; the Prince of Horns, killed at prayer in the leading mosque of that city, in 1102; Maudud, Prince of Mosul, in the chief mosque of that city, 1113; Abul Muzafar Ali, Wazir of Sanjar Shah, and Chakar Beg, granduncle of Sanjar Shah, 1114; the Prince of Maragha, at Baghdad in the presence of the Sultan of Persia; the Wazir of Egypt, at Cairo in 1121; Prince of Mosul and Aleppo, in a mosque, 1126; Moyinuddin, Wazir of Sanja Shah, 1127; the Caliph of Egypt, 1129; Prince of Damascus, 1134; Caliph Mostarshid, Caliph Rashid, and Daud, Seljuk Prince of Azerbaijan, 1135-38; Count Raymond of Tripoli, 1149; numerous attempts to murder the great Saracen ruler, Saladin, in 1174 and 1176.

My decision was made suddenly. I spoke into the silence beyond my window, into that stone-walled court where sound would carry. In a carefully modulated tone, I said, "I want to see Sinan. I wish to speak to Rashid Ad-din Sinan."

A voice from below commanded, "Get back inside! Be still!"

Again I spoke, and somewhat louder. "Do you dare deny me the right to see Rashid Ad-din Sinan?"

Chapter
53

My voice was clear and strong, a challenge that sounded loud in the echoing court. No guard dared protest, for if Sinan discovered he had been deliberately kept in ignorance, heads would roll.

My theory was simple. Mahmoud was a man these guards might fear and such men have enemies. He was a latecomer to Alamut, and no doubt, there were some who resented his officiousness. Knowing Mahmoud, he would have been imperious and often disagreeable. Such power as Sinan's lived through spies, and someone would report what was happening if he did not hear it himself.

What I needed was time, to learn what lay about me, where my father was, and some means of escape. Now I could force the issue, force Mahmoud to explain to Sinan, force him to move in directions he had not planned. If an enemy can be pushed into moving in haste, he may be pushed into mistakes and indiscretions. It was an old policy: Never let an enemy get set; keep him moving.

Countermeasures, whether in diplomacy or war, are never so good as direct measures. Attack, always attack should be the policy of all men, all nations, when facing an enemy. Attack here, there, somewhere else; always keep the enemy on the defensive and in a state of uncertainty as to where the next blow may fall.

Word of my presence would reach Sinan, and Mahmoud must be clever indeed if his explanations would satisfy Sinan. Sinan, in control of a set of fanatic believers, must know at all times what is happening. He must be a skilled musician of men ready to play on all the strings.

Mahmoud had planned and acted without him, and I did not believe Sinan would appreciate the fact. Mahmoud was skillful at working himself into positions of importance, but his own conniving methods were sure to defeat him eventually. And I must see that eventually was now.

The dried leaves of autumn are lightly blown away, still more easily is the fortune of man destroyed. My fortune, or his?

And then I did what all men must ... I slept. Dawn came with lemon-yellow light upon my wall, and I went swiftly to the window and peered into the court. Shadows were still deep there, so I bathed, dressed carefully, and rewound my turban. From my saddlebags I took the materials Khatib had gathered for me, the charcoal, sulphur, and the white crystals from the stable walls. These I mixed in their proper proportions and placed in a white bag inside a saddlebag. The mixture filled the saddlebag when completed.