The Lion of Cairo (28 page)

The captain glanced back at Musa. “S-Salim must have been guiding the beggars back to the courtyard when they killed him. The others … the others died in the bath. None of them suffered.”

Musa, tears rimming his good eye, shook his head. “W-what of the girl?”

The Berber frowned. “We came across no others.”

“What … what girl?” Abu’l-Qasim said, hollow and hoarse—an empty vessel.

“Yasmina. She was with the mistress and the Persian.”

“Your daughter we found near the old thieves’ entrance,” the captain said. “Perhaps the girl was able to escape through the bars.”

“And her killers?”

“No sign of any of them, my lord. We … we’re not certain how they escaped.”

Abu’l-Qasim leaned over, kissed Zaynab’s cool forehead and smoothed her hair.
She’s the very image of her mother.
For a long while he stayed bent over her, touching her cheeks, her hair. But, when at last he sat upright, all could see a fire had kindled in his eyes, searing away the clouds of grief and filling him with murderous resolve. “I want the man who did this, and I want him brought to me alive!”

“No,” a voice answered. The members of the household parted as Assad stalked through their midst. How long he had stood in the caravanserai’s doorway none could say. “No, Abu’l-Qasim. The enemy who did this is beyond your reckoning. Your people cannot hope to best him, much less to take him alive.”

Livid, Abu’l-Qasim staggered to his feet. “You know who did this? You know? Tell me, or as Allah is my witness, I will tear your black heart from your breast!”

Assad shook his head. “Mourn your daughter, but leave the man who did this to me.”

“To you?
Y’Allah!
It’s your kind who got my daughter into this in the first place! Leave him to you? Why? Has he wronged you? Has he spilled the blood of your kin? By what right—”

“You know by what right!” Assad reached the line of corpses. “Open your eyes, damn you! This man walked into your home, killed with impunity, and walked out again unseen! What do you think a handful of beggars and footpads can do against one such as that?”

Abu’l-Qasim’s face purpled. “Give me his name and I will show you!”

“Are you so eager to die? To see your people slaughtered?”

“His name! Tell me his name, you spawn of a jackal!”

Assad exhaled. “He is an emir of Massaif, of the Syrian
al-Hashishiyya,
called the Heretic. He and his swine are holed up somewhere in the Foreign Quarter. I counsel patience, and after my business with the Caliph is concluded I will bring you this man’s head.”

“Patience? Faugh!”

Assad knelt and drew the sheet back over Farouk; he squeezed the Persian’s shoulder in farewell. His eyes slid next to Zaynab’s corpse—the light which had animated her face, which had made her the object of every man’s desire, was gone. An unfamiliar weight shackled Assad’s limbs—was it sadness?—as he reached out to cover her up again. The Hidden Master would hear of both their sacrifices.

Assad knelt a moment longer, then stood. When he turned to face Abu’l-Qasim, the Assassin bore the pitiless expression of a man inured to death. “Do what you will, but mark this well: if you go after the Heretic you will die, my friend, and soon.”

The King of Thieves sighed, returning his gaze to his daughter’s body. The fires of resolve blazing in his eyes were already beginning to dim. “Not soon enough.”

28

Shadows were lengthening across the Bayn al-Qasrayn by the time Yasmina returned to the East Palace. She had taken a circuitous route from the caravanserai, doubling back on herself, ducking through courtyards, and making sudden turns, all to thwart the pale-eyed killer she knew had to be following her. She never saw him; indeed, she never noticed anyone gracing her with so much as a second glance. Still, she remained vigilant.

Three quarters of an hour later, after two turns around the wide square dividing the East and West Palaces, Yasmina slipped through the Emerald Gate of the East Palace amid a gaggle of servants returning from the markets. Her lank hair and grimy feet were unremarkable among her newfound companions and aroused not the slightest suspicion in the mailed and brooding guards. She passed unnoticed. Beyond the gate, a lush fountain court—its flagstones washed by silvery sprays of water and shaded by the spreading boughs of a plane tree—provided a place of respite. Swallows darted in and out, chasing insects through the late afternoon sky. Yasmina paused here for a drink and to sluice the dust from her feet and legs before continuing into the heart of the palace. The halls and corridors were oppressively silent.

At the gold-chased doors to the harem, the ebony-skinned eunuchs who stood their posts with bared steel knew her by sight; one gave her a kind smile and levered the heavy door open. Inside, the silence continued unabated—the parrots in their silvered cages, the sleek cats, the tiny dogs on their golden leashes all kept quiet, not daring to shatter the pregnant calm for fear of never regaining it. A few of the women were out. Some played
shatranj
in the colonnaded court, under the bored gazes of eunuchs; others lounged around the lotus pool, dabbling their fingers and toes in the cool water. They spoke in soft voices. The business with the slain physician was already old news, and Yasmina could only guess what obsessions occupied their evening hours, what vicious rumors they were spinning and at whose expense.

Neither eunuchs nor women bothered to look her way as she twitched aside the curtain and entered Parysatis’s alcove. The room’s morning brightness had long since fled, leaving the air heavy with gloom and despair. Parysatis was still abed; someone had changed her linens and fetched a fresh gown. A pitcher of water stood at her elbow.

The Egyptian crept to her bedside. “Mistress?”

“I’m not asleep, Yasmina.” Parysatis stirred; her face was ghostly in the dim light.

“I have news! We—”

“No, Yasmina,” the Persian woman said, shaking her head. She fought back a flood of tears. “I … I want nothing more to do with the intrigues of the palace. What men do to one another, whom they choose to betray or whom they choose to promote, is none of my affair. Women have no place meddling in such business.”

“But mistress—”

“I said no, Yasmina! No!”

“No?” The young woman’s eyes flared. “You would abandon your Caliph; leave him at the mercy of his enemies? I thought his suffering moved you to tears?”

“I cannot help him!” the Persian sobbed.

“Cannot, or will not? Don’t tell me a little spilled blood has washed away your resolve?”

Parysatis rolled away, her voice thin and cold. “I thank you for your service, Yasmina, but I … I no longer require it. Return to your Gazelle. I do not doubt she will have a place for you in her household … or that you will be all the happier for it.”

“Damn you!” Yasmina stared, blinking back hot tears. “She doesn’t have a household anymore! Her enemies have taken it from her even as they seek to deprive her of her life! Yet, she risks everything to send you aid! To help you, because yours is the cause of truth!”

“Truth?” Parysatis said bitterly. “What truth? Mine is the cause of death!”

“Stop being naïve!” Yasmina snapped. “Do you hold yourself above Allah?”

“It was not Allah who sent al-Gid to his doom, it was me! My meddling! And soon, Lu’lu will drag me before the vizier where I’ll be made to answer their questions! Do you understand, now?”

“And of this you’re certain? Does not Allah write our fates at birth? I’ve heard men say all the good and evil in life is preordained. If that’s true, then the physician died because such was the will of Allah, not because of anything you did.” The young Egyptian’s voice softened. “Come, mistress, do you truly want al-Gid’s death to have been in vain? What of the Gazelle? Do you want her sacrifices on your behalf to mean nothing? Is it your wish for the vizier’s treachery to go unpunished?”

Parysatis sat up; she cradled her face between trembling hands. “Even if I wanted to, I can’t be party to this, not after this morning! Allah may have written al-Gid’s doom long ago, but He made me the instrument of that doom, and I cannot bear it! Nor can I bear the carnage that must come to pass if we go forward! Men will die—innocent men—and I don’t have the courage to be a catalyst for that!”

“These men you think to save by giving in to your fear will die, mistress, regardless of what choices you make. Such is the way of the world. As for your courage, I say do what you must to find it again, and quickly! You have this one chance to help the Caliph retain the throne of his ancestors—a throne that goes back to the Prophet himself. You have been chosen for this task, mistress! You and no other!”

Parysatis closed her eyes.
Merciful Allah, is that true? Am I the Caliph’s only hope?
Fear roiled in the forefront of her mind, dark and primordial; it threatened to extinguish the ember of rage that flared beneath. But that rage brightened as she recalled the dismissive look on Jalal’s face.
He thinks he can dispose of the Caliph and no one will care. The dog believes himself beyond reproach …

“Say you’re right, Yasmina,” Parysatis said, opening her eyes. “Say Jalal must be made to pay … but how? We are two women against a vizier. How else can this end save with our deaths?”

The young Egyptian gave her a wan smile. “First, we become more than two women. The Gazelle has arranged a meeting with a man of influence, a staunch supporter of the Caliph’s. His name is Massoud and he is the amir of the Circassian
mamelukes
, the White Slaves of the River. If you speak to him of the vizier’s treachery, I promise you he and his men will do all they can to preserve the Caliph’s life and his throne.”

“But I must speak to him?” Parysatis chewed her lip. “You’re certain?”

“Yes, mistress. The Gazelle has already arranged a time and place. All that remains is for me to guide you to him.”

“How? Especially after this morning, I doubt Lu’lu will be inclined to simply stand aside and let me walk out.” Parysatis shivered. “I’m told he waits for the vizier to return, to oversee my torture…”

“Let
how
we escape be my concern,” Yasmina said, rising and going to Parysatis’s tall armoire. “First, we must make you presentable. There’s little chance of your escaping at all if you’re wandering about the harem in your nightclothes…”

29

Jalal al-Aziz ibn al-Rahman studied the assembled commanders of Cairo’s military—a disparate group of slaves and mercenaries who clustered around their leaders as tribal fighters might cleave to their chieftain. The vizier sat on a divan, beneath delicate lamps of glass and gold filigree, on a portico that overlooked one of the palace’s innumerable gardens. Through the dusty leaves of ancient sycamores, the gilded dome of the Caliph’s residence gleamed in the setting sun.

To his left, the black-turbaned men of the Sudan hovered around their prince, Wahshi, a giant of a man who slouched in an ivory chair and sneered at his brother commanders. Before him, the mailed Syrians of the Jandariyah followed the example of their captain, Turanshah, and stood at rigid attention to await the pleasure of the vizier. And to Jalal’s right, as wary as caged beasts, stood the disgraced White Slaves of the River. Their ranks were a mix of Turks and Circassians, men gaudily dressed in silks and brocades, silver-stitched leather and gilded mail, who deferred to their amir, Gokbori.

Gokbori was a Turk, a barrel-chested man with the heavy arms and shoulders of a brawler. Barely one generation separated him from the barbaric steppe of his homeland, north of the Black Sea, and though he affected touches of civilization—such as keeping his graying beard waxed—the savage ways of his people still endured. Tufts of hair sliced from the scalps of his enemies hung from his golden belt, and he toyed with a string of worry beads carved from human knucklebones. His dark eyes gleamed with mistrust.

Of the three, only the Jandariyah knew the truth about the approaching armies. Turanshah was solid as bedrock; his Syrians were well led and not given to factional fighting or to dangerous fits of rioting—both hallmarks of Cairo’s other regiments. Thus, to spare the city from potential unrest, Jalal revealed only part of the tale to Cairo’s other commanders: the approach of an army from Damascus. He painted it as merely another of Shirkuh’s footloose escapades, one spurred on by the maunderings of an exiled vizier whose day had long passed.
Let them learn of our alliance with the Nazarenes when it’s too late to refuse their aid.

Jalal smiled, a gesture both thin and humorless. “Your orders are simple,” he said to Gokbori. “You and your
mamelukes
are to defend Atfih from that pig Shirkuh.”

“Atfih? Let him have it, Excellency,” Gokbori said, frowning. “We could seal Cairo against Shirkuh in the two days and more it would take to reach Atfih.” The Turk’s silver boot heels clacked against the green marble flagstones of the portico as he paced back and forth. “If we divide our forces like this, we risk defeat twice over…”

“I want Atfih defended,” Jalal said coldly.

Gokbori bristled. “And what does the Caliph want? Is it his wish or yours that we waste our lives in vain?”

“You dare question me?” Jalal shot to his feet, white robes rustling like an
ifrit
’s wings. He towered over the squat Turk. “The White Slaves of the River will muster tonight, outside the Soldiers’ Gate! You will leave quietly or your families will pay the price!
That
is the will of the Caliph!”

Gokbori glanced sideways in hopes of gleaning support from his brother commanders. But neither man rose to the
mamelukes
’ defense. Turanshah’s face remained an unreadable mask; Wahshi, however, reveled in his rival’s misfortune. He winked, lips peeling back over yellowed teeth.

Jalal took a step closer. “Do you understand your task, or must I explain it again to your successor?”

Gokbori sniffed in disdain, though he knew the vizier’s threat was not a hollow one, nor could he ignore his orders—slaves, even precious
mamelukes
, fell beneath the executioner’s blade for less. “Aye, by Allah!” he said finally. “Aye. We leave tonight for Atfih.”