The Lion of Cairo (27 page)

“You overestimate my ambition, O emir.”

“I think not.”

“Hmm,” the Gazelle purred. “Perhaps you are right.” And in that instant, Zaynab al-Ghazala struck. Her knife lashed out; even as she heard it rip through the Heretic’s loose kaftan, she winced as a weight thumped into her left side, driving the air from her lungs. Something moist and hot spread down her ribs. Zaynab sprang back; she stumbled against the wall, staring down in mute fascination at the blood soaking through her robes from where the Heretic’s dirk pierced her side.

She glared at him with eyes cold as hoarfrost. Badr al-Mulahid was doubled over, his hand pressed to his side; slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, he straightened and brought his fingers away. Only a thin laceration scored his flank.

“Close, but it was not the will of the gods,” the Heretic said.

Zaynab’s legs gave way. She slid down the wall, gasping as the first tendrils of pain lanced through the haze of disbelief. Tears blurred her vision. “A heretic you truly are,” she said, coughing blood. “In Allah’s name, I curse you, dog of Massaif! With my dying breath, I curse you! Cairo will be your doom!”

“Perhaps.” Badr shrugged. “Perhaps not. Who knows what the gods of this dark land have in store? I admire your spirit, lady, so I will keep my word to you. Your end will be swift.”

“Come, then.” Zaynab al-Ghazala tilted her head back. Tears sluiced down her cheeks as she closed her eyes. “End it, damn your black soul! End it, and may Allah—”

The Heretic’s steel flashed in the gloom.

25

Gamal cursed under his breath as the one-eyed beggar, arm in arm with an older man he’d met, left the teeming Qasaba behind. Side streets meant a change in tactics. He slowed their pace, allowed their interval to widen, and prayed to Allah for relief from the sweat stinging his swollen eye. Though he would have preferred to stay behind and cover the caravanserai, the Heretic had set him a different task: “Follow whoever leaves and mark well their destination.” He did as ordered. But who was the old man and where were the two of them headed? To meet the Emir of the Knife, perhaps? Unless the old man was the storied Emir…?

Gamal shook his head.
Don’t be a fool! Focus, and be vigilant!

Heading west, flights of shallow stairs—never more than a dozen—carried the cobbled street down into a hollow older than the city itself. Plaster flaked from stone foundations to reveal ancient writing, pictures scored by the hands of long-dead Egyptians. Here were the mausoleums of Cairo’s earliest settlers: squat buildings with crenellated façades and keel-arch doors, some with inlaid plaques detailing the lineage of those buried within and others carved with bits of verse older than the Prophet. Yet, while the dead lay in their crypts, the living made their homes among them, for most of the mausoleums exhibited signs of life, from the sounds of squealing children and muttered voices to freshly washed laundry hanging from lines strung between the tombs. The din of the Qasaba was but a faint echo.

Ahead, Gamal’s quarry ducked into an alley. He resisted the urge to run after them, to keep them in sight at all costs.
Patience.
That was the quality of the hunter and Gamal reckoned himself one of the best. He reached the alley, rounded the corner … and stopped.

The way ahead was empty.

“Mother of bitches!” He frowned, looked about. Willow trees overhung the alley from a rooftop garden; the narrow way ran a short distance before dead-ending against a wall of dull gray stone. Graffiti scrawled in charcoal declared it to be
Fumm al-Gahannam
—the Mouth of Hell. Gamal shivered; he dropped his hand to the hilt of his knife as he moved deeper into the alley. Narrow fissures, some hung with wooden doors, led off into the heart of this city of the dead. He shivered again and cursed. “Only in Egypt would the living sleep among their ancestors.”

“Mayhap they entered one of these mausoleums?” one of his fedayeen murmured, making the sign of the horns to ward off evil.

“Mayhap,” Gamal replied. “Fan out. Find them.”

“They are no longer your concern,” a voice behind them said.

Gamal and his two companions whirled, curved blades hissing from sheaths at their waists. A solitary figure stood at the mouth of the alley—a tall man, scarred of face and clad in a ragged white turban and a green
khalat.
The hilt of a knife jutted from the sash about his lean waist, and to this Gamal’s eyes were drawn.

It was an Afghan
salawar,
long and straight, its ivory pommel carved with the leering face of a djinn.

Gamal’s breath caught in his throat.

The Emir of the Knife.

26

Fear.

Assad’s nostrils flared. He could smell it: cold, palpable fear, seeping from the pores of the three men he confronted in that blind alley. But more than fear, the unmistakable scent of hashish permeated their clothing, and this, as much as their uniform appearance and Syrian accents, confirmed his suspicions about the identity of Alamut’s unseen enemy in Cairo.

“Where is he?” Assad stalked toward them.

The man with the infected eye raised his hands, a gesture of capitulation. “What? N-no, effendi. We … We are merely lost. Can you—”

“Where is your master, dog of Massaif?”

The fellow paused, and then gave a short bark of laughter. “I see your reputation is well founded.” He hawked and spat on the cobblestones at his feet. “My master? My master is making an end of your precious Gazelle just as we will make an end of you, swine!” With a flick of his chin he set his companions into motion; both fedayeen crouched and edged sidewise, their knives low and ready.

Their fear redoubled as Assad’s hand fell upon the hilt of his
salawar,
loosening it in its sheath. Venomous hatred coiled like a living thing through his body; muscles ridged and corded, straining against the onslaught of emotion. He seized on to this feral rage, embraced it; he kindled it into a savage light that blazed in the depths of his dark eyes. “And how is your master called?”

“That,” the fellow replied, pausing, “is no longer
your
concern!”

The pause was the signal for the fedayeen to make their move. They attacked in unison, fast and well rehearsed from long association; curved daggers flickered as they surged in from left and right. While a lesser man, a man not versed in Massaif’s tactics, would doubtless have fallen prey to their concerted assault, this time they faced the Emir of the Knife. He read their intent before ever they took a step.

Assad surprised them by darting right; with tigerish grace, he ducked the clumsy blow of a fedayeen dagger and swept his own blade from its sheath. Watered steel flashed and glittered. The Syrian’s outraged bellow turned to a wet choking scream as Assad’s
salawar
ripped him from hip to sternum. The man reeled away, trailing blood and viscera.

Assad wheeled and twisted; the momentum of his attack kept his blade aloft as the second fedayee lunged, teeth bared in a grimace of hate. His dagger sliced empty air, and before he could recover his balance Assad delivered a devastating riposte. He hammered his crimson-spattered steel into the Syrian’s neck with murderous fury.

He struck the ground a corpse, head half severed.

Assad straightened, his reddened blade leveled at the final Syrian, the captain of Massaif called Gamal, as though daring him to move. “Once more, dog,” Assad growled. “How is your master called?”

Gamal did not answer; his face paled, and sweat beaded his brow. Still, he dropped to a crouch, the grip on his dagger shifting as he edged away from Assad. His infected eye was nearly swollen shut; the other had a martyr’s gleam. He would take his secrets to the grave, one way or another …

Seeing his foe’s resolve, Assad gave a low laugh—merciless and as hard as stone. An instant later he sprang; Gamal had no time to react as Assad’s
salawar
snapped out with uncanny precision. The Syrian’s dagger clattered to the cobblestones and with it four of his fingers, amputated at the knuckles.

Gamal screamed and clutched the mangled hand to his breast, his eyes wide with terror. Assad had seen such looks before.
Something
passed between blade and victim; something that wormed into his body and stripped away the last vestiges of his courage. Unmanned, Gamal tumbled to his knees. The Emir of the Knife towered over him, his
salawar
inches from his face and dripping blood.

“Will you make me ask you a third time?”

27

The King of Thieves heard a man scream, the sound muffled by distance; he glanced over his shoulder, looking for signs of pursuit, and saw nothing. Indeed, he doubted any of Musa’s shadows had escaped the labyrinthine alleys of the Rub al-Maiyit, the Abode of the Dead—not with Assad dogging their steps; only by long association with the poor folk living there did Abu’l-Qasim know a speedy path through the mausoleums. Now, he and Musa headed southwest along shaded residential streets, making for the Nile Gate and home.

He returned his attention to Musa. The one-eyed beggar was babbling on like a man in the grip of a fever. “Slow down,” Abu’l-Qasim said, frowning. “What is this about an army from Damascus?”

“Word has come from the palace, effendi, from one of Zaynab’s moles who overheard the vizier bargaining with emissaries of Jerusalem! The army of Damascus marches on Cairo, and a second army—one from Jerusalem—is marching to the vizier’s aid!”

“
Y’Allah!
That cannot be right! Are you certain that was what she said?”

“It is, effendi! What’s more, Farouk believes the vizier will try and supplant the Caliph ere the news reaches the souks. The mistress’s mole thwarted an attempt to poison him last night, and this morning old Harun al-Gid the Physician was slain trying to rouse the Caliph!”

At that, Abu’l-Qasim’s lips thinned to a hard line. He recalled Assad’s assertion that something had put a fire in the Caliph’s belly, and that whatever it was had caused a rift between him and his vizier. The murder of the Caliph’s childhood physician seemed the likely candidate. “Harun al-Gid, eh? Have his daughters been told?”

Musa shrugged. “I cannot say, effendi. The mistress believes if we spread the word of the vizier’s treachery, his attempt to seize power will fail. And she believes the Circassian
mamelukes
, the White Slaves of the River, can help.”

The King of Thieves chuckled. “If there’s anything those peacocks are good for, it’s a palace coup.” Both men fell silent.

The news Musa bore was almost too much to digest. On one hand, imminent war meant an increase in spoils. Abu’l-Qasim’s followers would grow fat looting the bodies of slain cavaliers, both from Damascus and from Cairo, and no doubt there would be an increase in slave revenue when captured Nazarenes made it to the blocks. On the other hand, a prolonged war could easily wipe him out—especially if Allah turned away from His faithful Moslems and allowed the Nazarenes to sack Cairo. And given the state of the city’s defenses, its factional fighting, and its history of intemperance, God’s disfavor was not outside the realm of possibility.

The narrow street they followed debouched near the Nile Gate, and Abu’l-Qasim gave a relieved sigh upon seeing the familiar bulk of his caravanserai. An instant later, however, his relief turned to alarm. Something was amiss. A knot of ragged men milled about outside, staring up at the tall keel-arched doors with their elaborate bronze arabesques.

“They’re shut,” Abu’l-Qasim muttered, blinking as though he did not believe what he saw. “In Allah’s name, what goes?”

Not in a dozen years had the King of Thieves allowed the gates of his caravanserai to close. Indeed, he preached often how open access fostered a spirit of brotherhood; Cairo’s thieves embraced him as much for his disdain of formality as for his good sense and charity. Thus, the men gathered before his door looked to him for answers as he shouldered through their ranks. Abu’l-Qasim rapped on the heavy portal with his balled fist. “Open these doors, by God!”

A helmeted head poked over the edge of the roof, one of his Berber guards. He heard voices bellowing the news of Abu’l-Qasim’s return down into the courtyard; within moments, one door trundled open—but no more than half a yard. “My lord! Quickly, come inside!”

“What—”

“Please! Hurry!”

Scowling, Abu’l-Qasim and Musa slipped through the barely open gate. Inside, the whole of his household stood near—his stewards, the master of his spies, the slaves and eunuchs of his bedchamber and his bath, and his two dozen Berbers. Their faces were pale and drawn; some openly wept. The captain of his Berbers stepped forward, a lean, red-bearded giant whose gentle eyes belied his profession. He ducked his turbaned head, bowing.

“What’s going on here?” Abu’l-Qasim barked. “What the devil has happened to make you close off my house? Answer me!”

“We … someone infiltrated the caravanserai, my lord. We closed the doors to prevent their escape, but I fear we were too late.” He gestured to where four white-shrouded bodies lay under the courtyard colonnade. Splotches of red stained their linen sheets.

“Infiltrated, you say? How did this happen?” Abu’l-Qasim glared as he and the captain walked toward the corpses. “What were they after?”

“Two beggars showed up, my lord,” the captain replied, “and they had with them a captive, a rug seller from Aleppo who had been spreading word of a bounty on your daughter’s head. She ordered him taken down to the old bath for questioning. It wasn’t until later that we realized something was amiss.” He indicated the first and second bodies. “Salim we found on the stairs leading to the bath. Nabil was inside, along with your Persian guest.” The captain tugged back the cloth covering the third body. Farouk’s sightless eyes stared up at the rafters of the colonnade, his mouth open slightly. “As for what they were after…” The captain trailed off, gesturing to the fourth body.

From this distance, one could not fail but notice its feminine outline.

Ali abu’l-Qasim felt his heart shudder; the air in his lungs became heavy, like water. He sank down beside the shrouded body. “No,” he whispered. Almost of its own volition, his quaking hand reached for the bloodstained mantle. “No! Not again! Not her, too!” The linen slipped back, revealing a mass of chestnut hair followed by Zaynab’s waxen and lifeless face. She lay with her head canted to the right, staring at her father through half-open eyes. A piteous sob tore through Abu’l-Qasim’s breast and he seemed to crumple in on himself, his eyes clouding. “There is no god but Allah, and Mohammad is His prophet…”