Adam of Albion (9 page)

Within
another fifteen minutes, they were hurrying along the village streets to join
the growing crowd on their way to witness the parley between the emissaries of
King Richard and Saladin. They could see the meeting place in the distance, on
the long wide plain that lay between the walls of Jerusalem and the Crusader
camp. A large pavilion had been set up there, and women carrying baskets were
setting the tables with food and wine.

By
now it was mid-afternoon. The sun beat down like a hammer, and the many horses
and camels, plus the throng of spectators on foot, raised clouds of fine gritty
dust that Adam could feel between his teeth. Luckily, Mustafa had given him a
skin gourd of water, which he and Artemis sipped at as they walked. It was
lukewarm and tasted sort of murky, but it was wet.

Mustafa
had also taken care of their other needs with sharp efficiency. He’d brought
Artemis a full-length black
burqa
that covered her from scalp to toe,
even veiling her face—it was obviously used, a little threadworn, and not up to
her fashion standards, but it was clean and her favorite color. Adam had gotten
an outfit like the other local boys, rough loose-fitting tunic and pants, and a
taqiyah
cap. There was still the problem of their exposed pale hands and
Adam’s face, but Mustafa had thought of that, too. He’d scrounged up a jar of
walnut juice to stain them darker—a trick, he told them, used by the spies of
the infidel Crusaders to pass as Arabs.

Then
there was Orpheus. For him, Mustafa had brought a small hemp sack that Adam
slung over his shoulder, a sort of medieval daypack. They’d folded up their own
clothes in there to make Orph a comfortable pad, and the weave was open enough
so he could get a good view of what was going on around them. But of course, he
still had to be a prima donna.

“Oh,
great, another bag job,” he grumbled as Artemis tucked him inside. “This one
smells like it’s been hauling goats.”

“Hush,”
she said. “It won’t be for long.”

That,
Adam thought nervously, had all too true a ring.

Mustafa
had gone ahead of them, reluctantly parting with Artemis, because he had to
take his place with the other grooms and stable boys.

“We
mustn’t be seen together—my friends would wonder who you are,” he told them.
“Mingle with the crowd, and no one will notice you. The soldiers’ eyes will be
on the enemy, not the young and small.”

The
crowd kept swelling as they got closer, streams of people coming both from
Jerusalem and the neighboring villages. It was easy to pick out the two
opposing factions of soldiers, with a couple of dozen in each group. The
Muslims were fierce-looking, turbaned men astride Arabian mounts. Adam knew
horses, and these were beauties—not tall at the shoulder, but swift and agile.
The Crusaders, including several Templars, wore heavier armor—how could they
stand it in this heat? he wondered—and rode bigger warhorses. All of them
bristled with weapons—wicked curved scimitars, broadswords, battleaxes, and
spiked iron maces.

Besides
those two groups, there was a third waiting off to one side, wearing hooded
black robes with bright red sashes. Those must be the Assassins—with a capital
A—that Orpheus had mentioned last night, Adam thought queasily. They looked
smaller and lither than the warriors and their drooping hoods made their faces
hard to see—which was probably a very smart way to dress, considering their job
description. He didn’t know much about them, except that they’d been founded by
the legendary Old Man of the Mountain, they lived in great secrecy in a remote
fortress—and they were the most feared killers of ancient times, in a way even
scarier than the Templars. If somebody hired the Assassins to punch your
ticket, it got punched, even if you were a well-guarded king.

“Let
Orpheus take a look,” Artemis whispered. Adam casually swung the hemp sack
around between them so that Orph could see, with her staying close to shield
him from other gazes.

“I
don’t see the Grand Vizier yet,” Orpheus said. “He must be on his way.”

The
two factions of soldiers were squaring off about forty yards apart, reining in
their nervous horses that pawed the sunbaked earth and sent up more clouds of
dust. The air was so filled with tension it felt like a single spark could blow
everything sky high.

Then
one of the Templars rode forward a few paces and started calling out to the
Muslims. Adam couldn’t hear the words over the noisy crowd, but the tone was
challenging, even threatening. One of the Muslims rode out the same distance
from his ranks and answered back the same way. It seemed to be a sort of
ritual, with each side staking out its turf and warning the other how tough
they were.

“Tell
us what you see, Orph—anything that might help,” Adam said, intently studying
the situation. That was how he was, Artemis realized—not flashy, but
clearheaded, steady, a problem solver who would follow the string to a knot,
work it loose, and go on to the next one.

“The
Templar who’s doing all the yelling—his name’s Gerard de Chavirage,” Orpheus
answered. “He’s another guy who can’t be trusted, a loose cannon who’s caused a
lot of trouble—and gotten a lot of people killed.” Then his eyes suddenly widened.
“Oh-ho—
this
is interesting. Saladin and Richard aren’t supposed to be
here, themselves—kings don’t negotiate directly with kings. But see that
Templar over toward the far right, the burly one with the reddish blond beard?
That’s Richard in disguise, I’m sure of it. He must have decided this was too
important to miss, even if he is sick.”

Adam
stared in disbelief. He, puny little Adam Keane from Montana, was actually
looking at the legendary king and warrior, Richard the Lionheart! He was
sweating heavily and looked uncomfortable, probably because of his fever, and
there was nothing to distinguish him from the other Templars—he had the same
heavy beard and tight chainmail cap that covered most of his head. But there
was no mistaking the bold eyes and iron jaw of a man who gave orders but didn’t
take them.

“Do
you think Saladin might be here, too?” Adam whispered.

“Good
question. According to history, they never actually met face to face, but it’s
possible. He’d be in disguise, too, and it’s hard to tell.” Like the Templars,
the Muslim soldiers had thick beards, and they’d thrown folds of their cloaks
across their lower faces to shield against the dust.

Then,
while Adam and Artemis were trying to imagine which one Saladin might be,
Orpheus started bouncing up and down, thumping against Adam’s back.

“There!
On the white stallion—the Grand Vizier,” Orpheus hissed.

The
Vizier came riding up, accompanied by several more soldiers, with the air of
being fashionably late. His face, even from a distance, looked haughty and
cruel. He stood out from the plainly dressed soldiers because of his
jewel-clasped turban, his rich robe—and his saddle. It was also rich-looking,
embossed with gold—and it sported a large, heavy pommel.

Just
slightly bigger than Orpheus.

“That’s
where OToo is—inside the pommel?” Artemis whispered.

Orpheus
nodded himself almost frantically. “And Eurydice’s still inside him—or me, or
whoever it is,” he said, with a tremor in his voice again. “I can’t believe I’m
this close to her, after so long!”

The
Vizier reined up next to one of the soldiers in the ranks, a lean, hawk-nosed
man dressed in plain warrior’s garb like his comrades. But now Adam noticed
that he had the same kind of piercing, commanding gaze as King Richard—and the
Vizier seemed deferential to him, bowing slightly as they talked.

“How
about
him,
Orph—could that be Saladin?”

“I
think it must be—the Vizier wouldn’t be nearly so respectful to anyone else.”

This
couldn’t
get
crazier, Adam thought.

“Adam,
do you have a plan?” Artemis said anxiously. “We must be close to the time when
it happens.”

“Any
minute now,” Orpheus confirmed, sounding more anxious still.

Adam
stared at the fierce soldiers, their restless mounts, the scene simmering with
barely contained violence. His heart was pounding like a war drum at a
Blackfeet Indian powwow.

“I’m
going to act like I’m one of the grooms and get right in there,” he whispered.
“Artemis, pretend you’re a serving girl, and stay as close to us as you can. If
I can get hold of that pommel, I’ll run like hell—you run to meet me, and Orph,
you open up the wormhole as soon as we’re together.”

“Oh,
do be careful, Adam,” she breathed, lowering her veil a little. Her eyes were
shining with excitement and worry, and she caught his hand and gave it a
squeeze.

He
nodded, not even trying to talk—he was working on swallowing that familiar lump
in his throat.

Breathing
hard, fighting panic, Adam slipped quickly through the crowd until he got to
where the grooms were waiting to tend the warriors’ mounts. He was worried that
he looked as scared as he felt, but no one seemed to pay him any attention—they
were all riveted on the unfolding drama, as the two emissaries kept shouting
and the others looked angrier with every exchange. He kept edging along,
finally coming within twenty feet of the Grand Vizier—as close as he dared to
get.

Everything
hung there, in that state of seeming unreal and yet all too terribly real, for
maybe another minute.

 Then,
out of nowhere, a black blur of motion just seemed to appear.

It
was one of the Assassins, on foot and darting like an arrow toward the
soldiers. Before anyone could move or even grasp what was happening, the
Assassin’s arm whipped forward, hurling something straight at the Grand Vizier.

Adam
watched the object fly through the air, seeming to twist with a life of its
own, and his hair lifted up off his neck as he realized what it was:

A
writhing, hissing snake, shining green in the sunlight, mouth opened wide and
fangs bared!

It
landed in the stallion’s mane, and the big horse reared up in terror, dancing
back on its hind legs and shaking its head wildly. The serpent went flying
again.

And
so did the Grand Vizier. He tried to cling to the pommel but his grasp was
wrenched free, and he sailed away with flailing arms and legs, hitting the
ground with a
thud
that Adam could feel in his own bones. He’d been
thrown from horses enough times to know it well.

The
simmering chaos erupted, with soldiers drawing their swords and spurring their
mounts—ready to fight, but hesitating as if they weren’t quite sure what to
fight
about.
Other men rushed to the Vizier to tend to him. The snake
was on the ground in the middle of it all, slithering around demonically and
striking at anything that came close. The Vizier’s stallion was still spooked,
bucking and crow-hopping as it tried to get away.

OToo,
with Eurydice, was still in the saddle’s pommel!

Adam
broke into an all-out run to catch up with the horse—but he wasn’t the only
one. Another of the Assassins appeared, this one on horseback with a scimitar
in his hand, galloping straight toward the stallion. As he reached it, he swept
the sword across the saddle in a fierce slash.

The
pommel arced skyward like a lobbed baseball.

The
Assassin reined his horse up hard, wheeling around to chase the pommel. But
Adam was ahead of him—and once again, his fear was suddenly gone and he knew
exactly what to do. Time seemed to slow to a crawl and the rest of the world
dropped away. There was only that leather orb spinning through the air, and him
racing after it with everything he had, hands stretched out to reel it in.

But
just as it was falling into his grasp, the thunder of hooves seemed to explode
in his ears—and a heavy boot thrust against his shoulder, knocking him off his
feet to skid sprawling on the ground.

Numb
with shock, Adam could only watch the Assassin gallop on past him and pluck the
pommel smoothly out of the air. But instead of racing away with it, he seemed
to fumble with it for a few seconds, and then craned around in his saddle and
hurled it back into the cluster of knights.

One
of them reached up and caught it, with a hand encased in a chain mail war
glove. Adam could just make out through the swirl of dust, horses, and human
bodies, that the man was a Templar.

Then
it was over. The whole thing had taken maybe twenty seconds.

Now
the Assassin was at full gallop again, and his comrades swooped in to join him,
all of them riding hell for leather toward the barren, hilly desert country to
the east. Neither the Crusaders nor Saladin’s men made any move to follow
them—as busy as they were with their own melee, most of them probably hadn’t
even seen this sideshow.

But
Adam knew what had happened—the Assassin’s nimble fingers had pulled Eurydice
out of OToo’s skull during those few seconds, and now she was
gone.
As
the crushing reality came hammering down on him, he collapsed, hugging the
ground with his bruised, skinned up arms.

“I
blew it, Orph,” he said, with sobs of misery welling up in his throat.

“Don’t
beat yourself up, Adam. You made a great try—it was just impossible. Let’s find
Artemis and get you two home safe.” He sounded sad but calm. It was, after all,
what he’d expected.

Adam
gazed helplessly at the band of black-robed figures dwindling into a distant
cloud of dust—and then noticed that one of them was lagging behind, trying to
catch up. This rider, and his horse, seemed smaller than the others—and unlike
them, without a red sash.

Then
he caught a glimpse of a few locks of hair escaping from under the rider’s
black hood, flowing behind him like a pennant. They were very long—and the hair
was white blond.

“Look—it’s
Artemis!” he hissed, rolling onto his side and swinging the sack around so
Orpheus could see. The insane little twit had stolen a pack pony and she was
chasing after Eurydice!

“I
knew
she was trouble,” Orpheus muttered.

Adam
jumped to his feet, tears forgotten. He had to catch her—if they weren’t
together when Orpheus’s time limit ran out, she’d be stuck here, and probably
live the rest of her life as a harem slave.

He
looked around desperately for a horse that
he
could steal. The Vizier’s
stallion was loping away and out of reach—Adam would never catch it in time.
But there were several others, spooked by the snake and the confusion, trotting
around restlessly. One in particular caught his eye, a beautiful Arabian chestnut
mare with white-socked ankles. She must have belonged to one of the Muslim
soldiers, which would make getting away with her a very risky proposition. But
nobody seemed to be watching her just then, and he could tell she was strong
and fast. With a good head start, he just might be able to outrun pursuit.

There
was no more time to think about it—it was now or never.

Adam
walked toward her, moving carefully to not spook her further, and calling out
quietly, “Whoa, baby, whoa, it’s okay.”

She
shook her head, snorting, but she didn’t run away—she turned to face him and
waited nervously. She was obviously well trained, and she’d learned to trust a
human who approached her right—she wanted him to make things safe. But her fear
warred with that, and Adam was a stranger.

Adam
started crooning the old lullaby his mother used to sing when he was young. It
had always worked on him, and it seemed to work on horses, too. He didn’t think
the words had anything to do with it—maybe it was the soothing tone of voice,
or maybe the soothing itself got translated. Whatever it was, he was convinced
that horses understood humans better than the other way around.

But
when he reached out to take her reins, her fear suddenly won, and she reared
up, threatening him with her flailing front hooves. Adam was almost under them
by then, but he held his ground, still crooning softly—letting her know that he
understood her terror, but that was over. He was here to care for her.

The
hooves stomped back down to earth, just missing him. She half-circled back and
forth a couple of times, snorting and pawing—and then, with a little whinny
that was part complaint and part relief, she lowered her muzzle into his
outstretched hand, relaxing her flattened ears and rolling eyes.

Adam
stroked her muscular sweaty neck, pressing his forehead against it and inhaling
her musty scent. For a few precious seconds they stood still like that,
reaching a wordless understanding.

Then,
just as he was about to swing himself up on her back, Orpheus started butting
frantically against him again—like he was trying to send a Morse code message
with his forehead, because he didn’t dare speak out loud.

Adam
spun around—and almost let out a yelp of terror. Standing five feet away was
one of the Muslim soldiers, who’d come up on him so stealthily he hadn’t heard
a sound.

The
man was lean, hawk-nosed, handsome in a weathered way. His beard was streaked
with gray, but there was nothing about him that seemed old—he bristled with
energy and power.

And
his right hand was gripping his sword hilt. There was zero doubt that it could
be out of its sheath and slashing across Adam’s throat in a heartbeat.

His
fierce, piercing gaze held Adam petrified. Especially because it was starting
to sink into him that this wasn’t one of Saladin’s soldiers.

This
was the great Sultan
himself.
His face had been half-covered when Adam
had seen him in the ranks, but there was no mistaking those eyes.

Then,
with a sickening jolt, Adam remembered that Saladin had been astride a chestnut
horse with four white socks. There was only one of those around here—this one.

Adam
had just tried to steal the Sultan’s own, personal mount.

His
knees turned to jelly. He had to hold onto the horse’s neck to stay on his
feet.

Saladin
stepped toward him. Adam closed his eyes, waiting to die.

But
instead, he felt a callused hand brush his cheek—not in a harsh way or a slap,
but a touch that seemed somehow exploratory.

He
dared to open his eyelids enough so he could peer out. Saladin was holding up
his own hand to the sunlight, examining his fingertips—which were darkened by
the walnut juice dye, still damp on Adam’s face.

The
Sultan’s lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile.

“I
see that we have more than one thing to talk about, young groom,” he said, in a
deep voice that rasped as if a lifetime of desert sands spoke through it. “But
let me start with a compliment. I watched you handle Zuleika—” he patted the
mare’s flank affectionately— “and I’m most impressed. She doesn’t lightly
tolerate others than myself.” The horse whinnied and bobbed her head up and
down, as if agreeing.

Adam
decided he must be so scared he was hallucinating. He could not have heard what
he thought he’d just heard.

“Th—th—th—thank
you, sir,” he managed to get out.

“Do
you know who I am?”

Adam
nodded timidly.

“Then
you have the advantage on me. Your name?”

“Adam.”

“Adam,”
the Sultan said approvingly. “A fine name—the father of us all. But it’s not
common among my people.” He glanced at his walnut dyed fingertips again.
“You’ve darkened your skin to disguise yourself. And while I understand your
words well enough, they fall strangely on my ear. Where do you come from?”

Adam
hesitated. The answer that Artemis had given Mustafa,
from a faraway time
and place,
was not going to fly.

“It’s
called America,” he said. “It’s kind of on the other side of the world, and it
hasn’t been discovered yet.”

Saladin
frowned, his forehead wrinkling. He was probably trying to decide if Adam was
outright crazy.

“I
swear, I’m telling the truth, sir. And I’m not going to cause any harm to
anything or anybody,” Adam pleaded, figuring it couldn’t hurt to follow
Artemis’s lead on this one.

Saladin
rumbled with a throaty laugh. “It comforts me greatly to know that my soldiers
and I are in no danger from you.”

Adam’s
face flushed with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that—just in general.”

“You’re
not with the Crusaders and their army, then?”

“No,
sir—not at all.”

“Why
are
you here?”

“I’ll
try to explain, but it’s complicated.”

Saladin
exhaled, somewhat impatiently. “Very well—let’s find a more civilized place to
talk. But tell me this—how did you get the skin dye for your disguise, and the
clothing of a stable groom?”

Damn!
Adam groped frantically for a way around bringing Mustafa into this, but came
up empty.

“I—I
don’t want to get anybody in trouble,” he stammered.

“Unless
this
anybody
does intend harm, they have nothing to fear. Saladin does
not punish the innocent.”

“A
groom—a boy about my age, named Mustafa. But please believe me—he was only
trying to help me. We’re not up to anything.”

Saladin
nodded—seeming, Adam saw with relief, to accept Mustafa’s innocence. Then his
gaze turned away, to follow the galloping Assassins, now almost disappeared in
the distance.

Except
for Artemis, straggling along behind them on her little beast of burden and
losing ground, but not giving up.

“Are
you worried about your friend?” Saladin asked, pointing at her.

Adam’s
mouth fell open. How did Saladin
know?
Had Mustafa ratted them out after
all? He didn’t think so—Mustafa was too smitten with Artemis to break his
promise, and besides, he’d only been out of their sight for the few minutes
when he ran to the marketplace.