Adam of Albion (10 page)

But
one thing Adam was already flat dead certain of—you had better not lie to this
man. Tell him the truth, even if it’s the last thing in the world you want to
admit.

“Yes,
sir,” he quavered.

“I
can’t guarantee this, Adam. But my guess is that he—” Saladin paused, as if to
suggest that he also knew that
he
was really a
she
— “will fall
into good hands. In fact, he may well be safer there than here. At any rate, we
must let him go, and may Allah grant a favorable outcome. There’s other
important business to attend to right now.” He vaulted up onto the horse as
naturally and gracefully as a gymnast.

“Come!”
he said, his voice now sharp with command. He reached down to clasp Adam’s
forearm in a vise-like grip and swung the boy up behind him. They took off at a
lope, but not back toward the meeting pavilion with its confused crowd scene.

Instead,
Saladin headed straight for Jerusalem, with its magnificent shining beacon, the
Dome of the Rock.

As
Adam jounced along on Zuleika’s back, his heart was torn in several different
directions. On the one hand, things just kept getting more incredible. Instead
of being dead—which, by all odds, seemed the most likely thing that should have
happened to him by now—here he was hanging out with the great Saladin, who had
even complimented him on his horsemanship!

But
on the other hand, what a total bust this plan had turned out to be. He’d failed
to recover Eurydice, and now she was long gone, with their hopes of finding her
zilch. On top of that, Artemis had disappeared, and even though Saladin had
kindly reassured him that she’d probably be okay, the chances of finding her
seemed like zilch, too.

If
you took a really hard-eyed look at the situation, you were left with two kids
and a dying runt of a head, trapped in a timewarp of almost a thousand years
ago, in an utterly foreign and extremely violent land. They were as helpless as
baby hamsters, and they didn’t have a clue what to do next.

As
that cheerful realization worked its way into his brain, they drew close to the
city. Zuleika was very strong and fast, as he’d guessed, although that was
pretty much a no-brainer—Saladin would not exactly be riding a stable nag. Her
lope seemed effortless—she was probably used to keeping it up for hours at a
time—but it ate up the miles almost at the speed of a gallop, and before long
the city was looming ahead.

The
high stone walls were topped by battlements heavily guarded by Saladin’s
troops, who shouted salutes as their leader rode past, while he raised his hand
in acknowledgment. He kept on going along the eastern side until they came to a
tall double-arched gate near the Dome of the Rock.

“Wait
here,” he said.

Adam
slid off the horse, watching nervously as Zuleika trotted on to the waiting
guards. Saladin leaned low in the saddle to listen as one of them spoke close
to his ear. The talk went on for a minute or so, and then he nodded curtly and
dismounted, with the guard leading the mare away. He turned to Adam and signaled
him to catch up.

They
passed through the gate inside the city walls, and suddenly they were
surrounded by groves of trees. Adam had already gotten so used to the desert,
he’d practically forgotten that such things existed—the cool and shade were wonderful.
Saladin walked like Zuleika loped, leading them through the narrow lanes with a
ground-eating stride that Adam practically had to run to keep up with. After a
couple of minutes they came to the entrance of a large building, where more
guards bowed deeply to their leader. From there, it was up a narrow staircase
with stone steps worn down by centuries of use, then through one more arched
doorway.

And
then they were in a huge, high-ceilinged hallway with beautiful mosaics on the
walls and intricately patterned marble floors. Tall narrow windows ran along
its length, allowing softened light and breeze to pass through.

This
must be the Sultan’s palace, Adam realized—they’d come in through a back
entrance.

They
stepped into a side room that seemed to be a combination library and office.
The walls were lined with leather-bound books and scrolls, and there was a long
low desk with sheaves of blank parchment, inkpots and quill pens. A veiled
woman came hurrying in behind them, carrying a tray with a golden pitcher and
two goblets. Saladin thanked her and filled the goblets himself.

“Quench
your thirst, but be careful,” he said, handing one to Adam. “Those not used to
our desert heat sometimes drink too fast and get sick. You’ll be my guest
tonight, Adam—a chamber will be prepared for you, and I’ll have food sent to
you soon.

“For
right now, my guards have informed me of a pressing matter I must tend to. But
we have a moment—sit and rest.” He settled crosslegged on one of the big, thick
silk cushions on the floor and gestured Adam to another. Adam sat down, sipping
cautiously from the goblet. It was just water, but cold and fresh, a whole
different order of business than the tepid stuff he and Artemis had swigged
from the skin gourd. He was parched, and he thought he’d never tasted anything
so delicious in his life.

“I
have a rueful confession to make—I was caught completely off guard when the
Assassins struck,” Saladin said. “I’m not often surprised like that. If I were,
I wouldn’t have lived nearly this long. Now my surprise has turned to
puzzlement. Why did they do it? The obvious answer seems, to kill the Vizier.
He surely has many enemies who wish him dead—he’s much hated and feared.

“But
the Assassins could have accomplished that mission far more easily, without the
risks they took. The snake was an asp—its bite is deadly if untreated, true.
But we have physicians skilled in such matters, and besides, an arrow would
have been more certain. His fall roughed him up a bit, but it was no real
danger—some bruises, perhaps a broken bone or two. Above all, the best proof
that killing him wasn’t their real aim is simply that they didn’t. No one
survives the Assassins.”

Then
he leaned forward intently, with those laser eyes boring in again.

“I
suspect that the disturbance was only a means to an end—that their real purpose
was to obtain a mysterious object that went flying through the air. I further
suspect, Adam, that the reason you have suddenly appeared here has something to
do with it.”

Adam’s
brain kicked into overdrive. How did Saladin know about
that?
Could
he read minds?

Saladin
smiled, as if that was exactly what he was doing.

“All
of those who hold power in this land have spies, but mine are the best,” he
said. Then his eyebrows rose, reminding Adam that he expected information.

“You’re
right, sir,” Adam mumbled, his face reddening and his gaze dropping. “I mean,
the part about why I’m here—I don’t know anything about the Assassins.”

“You
needn’t be nervous—just speak the truth. This is very important to me. You see,
this strange event has taken another strange turn. The Grand Vizier has
vanished. He started back here to Jerusalem to have his injuries tended to, but
he never arrived. Hard to believe that it’s mere coincidence.”

Adam
shook his head. “I don’t know anything about that, either.” But by now he was
getting so caught up in trying to figure it all out that he was almost
forgetting to be afraid.

Why,
he suddenly wondered, did the Assassins only take Eurydice, and throw Orpheus
back? Everybody else seemed to want Orph himself, for his supposed magical
powers. Eurydice evidently did have her own kind of amazing power, but could
anyone besides Orpheus use it? Did she even talk, or anything like that?

“We
know that the Vizier possessed that mysterious object until the skirmish broke
out,” Saladin said. “Apparently, the Templars have it now, and I think we may
safely assume that they are the ones who—detained—him, in order to question him
about it. I think we may also assume that we won’t be seeing him again—” the
Sultan raised his hands palms up and glanced skyward— “but that is the will of
Allah. In truth, the Assassins did me a great favor by sparking this. I must
remember to send them a token of my thanks.

“Now,
Adam, tell me if you can—what is this object that has brought you from afar,
that men are willing to kill for? I’ve heard rumors of a
head
that
speaks—that can perform marvels, and has more knowledge than all the wisest men
of the ages. Could this be it?”

Adam
felt Orpheus stirring against his back. Oh,
no!
he thought. Orph was
such a sucker for flattery anyway—with it coming from the great Saladin, he’d
be out of the sack and blabbering away in no time. So far, the Sultan hadn’t
given any sign that he knew about
this
Orpheus, and Adam wanted to keep
it that way—it would definitely cause a lot more confusion, which nobody needed
right now.

“Yes,
sir,” Adam said, and added hastily, “but you don’t have to worry about it, I
mean him, ever going against you or your kingdom—he’s not like that at all.
When people like the Vizier or the Templars get hold of him, he just plays
dumb—either stonewalls them completely or puts on an act to fool them. He loves
doing that, he’s a real show-off.”

Adam
was hoping that would deflate Orpheus enough to shut him up, and maybe it
did—he felt a sharp, annoyed butt against his spine.

Saladin’s
eyebrows knitted together, and he shook his head wonderingly.

“What
you say is hard to believe, but I can tell that
you
believe it. I hope
to hear your story about your land of America, and how you came here. As for
the miraculous head—it fascinates me, of course. But trying to wrest it from
the Templars would inflame hostilities again—precisely what I wish to avoid. I
don’t covet it, anyway. I care only to free my country from the invaders, and
my power lies in my mind, my sword, and my faith, not in magic. As long as they
can’t use it against me, they may keep it. Perhaps their eagerness to unlock
its secrets will distract them from battle.”

He
rose to his feet with the same swift, decisive grace as with everything else.
Adam jumped up, too—suddenly realizing that he’d better take this chance to beg
the Sultan for help, because he might never get another one.

“Sir,”
he began, trying not to stammer. “Is there any way I can try to find my friend?
If we don’t get back together soon, we’re really going to be in a tough spot.”

Saladin
looked at him appraisingly—and then gave a slight nod, as if an idea had just
occurred to him.

“Very
well, Adam. I have a task that must be done tomorrow—and now I see that you’re
well-suited for it. Perhaps the hand of Allah sent you to me. Fulfill it well,
and I’ll do what I can to help you. Now rest—I’ll call for you early in the
morning.”

He
clapped his hands. The woman who’d served the water came back in, and Adam
followed her through the palace hallways to the room that was his for tonight.

Artemis
couldn’t tell how late it was, but darkness had long since fallen—and yet the
rolling desert hills were bright with silvery light from the moon and millions
of stars. She’d never seen a night sky so brilliant, and it would have been a
breathtaking sight to savor—

If
only she wasn’t exhausted and starving and freezing cold. She wouldn’t have
believed that the scorching afternoon heat could have done such a radical
about-face, but she was huddled up against a sandy hillside with the burqa
wrapped tight around her.

And
let’s not forget
lost,
she added miserably. She’d been lost before,
things like getting separated from her mother in Harrods as a little girl, but
that seemed like comic book stuff now. Everything about this land was totally
foreign, not to mention that this was the twelfth century, going on a thousand
years before she’d even been born, however that computed.

She
hadn’t
planned
to follow the Assassins, or really even thought about it.
She’d seen Adam leap to catch the pommel but get shoved out of the way—seen the
Assassin’s hands caress the orb for a few seconds before throwing it back into
the crowd of squabbling knights—and she’d realized what must have happened.
That was when Eurydice had been stolen.

From
there, Artemis had simply reacted. As the Assassins raced off toward the
distant hills, she’d jumped astride a small muley pack horse that no one was
minding and followed as fast as she could, hoping she wouldn’t be pursued
because she’d look like one of them who was lagging behind. But, while the
little horse loped gamely along, he wasn’t built for running—and not for
riding, either. There was no real saddle, just a crude pack cloth, and no stirrups.
All she could do was dig in her knees and grit her teeth, clinging fiercely to
the reins.

At
first she’d been running on sheer excitement and adrenaline, focused on just
following that dust cloud. Whatever was going through her mind wasn’t exactly
thinking,
but some foolishness about how sooner or later the Assassins would stop to
rest, she’d catch up with them, and she’d explain how important it was for them
to give Eurydice back to her. They’d be perfectly reasonable about it, agree
with her, and gladly hand over the priceless treasure they’d just risked their
lives to win.

Right.

Eventually,
she’d started coming to her senses and realizing how insane that notion was,
from start to finish. Still, she kept on stubbornly. After all,
she
was
the one who’d pushed this idea—she couldn’t just give up as soon as things got
tough. It was their last chance to help Orpheus. Adam had done his best, and
now it was her turn.

And
it was also her only chance to actually find the mysterious, scintillating
Eurydice, discover what she really was. Artemis had been tracking down
information about Goddess worship all her life. Those cults had tended to be
secretive and information about them was sketchy. But there had definitely been
a strong worship of Isis, the Egyptian personification of the Great Goddess who
was the fountain of all creation. The ankh shape—Eurydice’s shape—was the
primary symbol of Isis. According to Orpheus, Eurydice was created long before
Egypt arose from the desert sands, and she was the
original
shape that
the Isis symbol was modeled after—not the other way around. That was beyond
fascinating, beyond any archaeologist’s wildest dreams—and it had to be
pursued.

So
she’d kept bouncing along on the little horse, getting into more desolate
country—rougher, hillier, and split by gullies. Each time she rode up out of
one, she’d get another glimpse of the Assassins’ dust cloud, a mirage-like goal
that would beckon her on to the next one.

She’d
only been vaguely aware that the blue of the sky was getting paler, when all of
a sudden, it was night. By then she was lost in a maze of ravines and craggy
hills, without the faintest idea of how to go back the way she’d come. The pony
wasn’t going any farther tonight, anyway—he’d slowed to a walk, worn out and
needing to be fed and watered. All she could do was slack off the reins, hoping
he’d find a way to fend for himself. He’d taken her to this little vale where a
spring trickled out of the rocks and there was some scrubby vegetation for him
to forage on. At least she wouldn’t die of thirst, but there weren’t any
munchies for her. She’d used the pack cloth to rub him down as well as she
could—not exactly top-notch grooming, but it wasn’t right to leave a horse
sweaty and wet, especially going into a chilly night like this.

After
that, there was nothing left to do but burrow into the hillside, still warm
from the heat of the day, and try to soak up all she could of that until it
gradually cooled to the same temperature as everything else. She’d occupied her
mind with trying to make a plan for what to do when dawn came, but there was
really only one that she could see—to climb the highest hilltops and hope she
could get a glimpse of Jerusalem and find her way back there through the maze
of ravines. Then there was still the problem of finding Adam and Orpheus before
they were forced to leave without her—or she was discovered by local people who
had other plans for her. That thought made her shiver harder. She didn’t know
much about the realities of harems, but enough to be sure that feminism didn’t
figure in.

Then,
in spite her fears, she must have fallen asleep. The reason she knew that was
because she suddenly woke up.

With
someone crouched beside her, holding a knife to her throat. The figure was clad
in a hooded black robe like her own—but with a sash around the waist that
showed faintly red in the moonlight.

An
Assassin.

He
hissed something in a throaty voice. Artemis realized with near panic that she
couldn’t understand a syllable of it—oh,
no!
She’d done exactly what
Orpheus had warned against, gotten too far away from him for her translation
device to work. She was quite good at talking her way out of trouble—the only
tiny chance she had left—but now even that was out the window.

Things
can always get worse,
her mother was
fond of saying,
and usually they will.
She
hated
it when Mum was
right.

She
didn’t like showing weakness, either, but discretion was definitely the better
part of valor just now. She let out a small whimper and stayed very, very
still.

The
Assassin tilted his head, seeming surprised—no doubt he hadn’t expected such a
girlish sound—and the knife point relaxed its pressure against her throat. She
tried another whimper. Maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t like the stereotypical
Assassins who devoted their lives to murdering people for money, but really
kind and caring, and she could somehow manage to communicate her plight, and
he’d feel sorry for her and help her and everything would turn out fine after
all.

That
did not happen.

Instead,
he put his hand to her forehead and pushed the burqa’s hood back off her hair,
then took a lock of it between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it
loose—all three feet or so. He let out his breath in another soft hiss as he
gazed at it, although this time it was a sound of amazement rather than words.

Idiot!
Artemis fumed at herself. Why on earth was she so
vain and silly that she insisted on keeping her hair long? If she just shaved
her head like some of the other girls she knew, she’d be fine. But now it was
all over—being the blondest of blonds had done her in.

The
Assassin was gazing at her intently, and although a veil hid his lower face,
she thought he was smiling. And yet—it wasn’t a sinister, gloating look. It
seemed more like a grownup who’d caught a child doing something mischievous,
but who couldn’t help being amused by it.

Still,
he
was
an Assassin—and who else would know better where a young
fair-haired girl would fetch the best price as a harem slave?

He
sheathed his dagger, obviously deciding that she was no threat, and pulled her
to her feet. His horse, a dark colored Arabian, was waiting nearby—her own pony
was gone, she realized, either wandered off while she slept or spooked by the
arrival of the man on the bigger mount. He walked fast, not yanking her
roughly, but keeping a firm grip on her wrist.

Except—while
his hand was strong, she noticed that it seemed slender and rather smooth.

But
that thought barely had time to flash in and out of her mind. He boosted her up
on the back of the saddle, mounted smoothly, and took off at a trot through the
dark treacherous terrain, with both horse and rider obviously knowing exactly
where they were going.

Artemis
concentrated on breathing slowly and steadily, trying to control herself and
not give into total panic. They were getting farther from Adam, Orpheus, and
her home in England, with every step and every passing second. And yet, there
was a strange, distant comfort about this. All power and decisions had been
taken from her. There was nothing more she had to do, nothing more she
could
do, except hold onto her abductor in this half-dream, half-nightmare ride into
an unimaginable future.

And
that same little voice in her mind was whispering to look at it like this—every
one of those steps and passing seconds was also taking her closer to Eurydice.