The Lion of Cairo (39 page)

“Why do you flee, girl? I thought you were a killer.”

She ground to a halt. The Heretic stood in the open doorway, his body blocking her path to the hall of columns. Pale eyes gleamed in the ruddy half-light; a cruel smile played upon his thin lips as he raised both hands, fingers splayed to show he carried no weapon. He took a step closer.

“Have you come to seek instruction from your betters?”

The Heretic’s sudden appearance did not add to Yasmina’s fear; indeed, the sight of him served to anchor her, to remind her of why she was here, to silence the voices yammering in her skull. His derisive tone sparked her anger, caused it to flare anew. Yasmina’s lips curled into a perfect sneer of contempt as she shifted her knife from her left hand to her right. “I’ve come for you. Allah desires your death. I am to be the instrument of—”

“If Allah wishes me dead, let Allah himself come and see the deed done,” the Heretic snapped. “And if revenge is what brings you here, then you are more of a fool than I imagined!”

“So says the dead man!” Yasmina spat.

The Heretic’s smile widened. “Am I a dead man? By your own hand, I expect. And for what? What wrong have I done to you to earn your wrath, girl? Where have I transgressed?”

“Dog!” Though Yasmina knew better than to rise to his baiting, she could not keep her choler in check. Her body grew taut; the tendons in her neck stood out like steel cords as rage suffused her cheeks. “Zaynab’s murder!”

“I did not murder your precious Gazelle.”

“Liar!”

“Believe what you will.” The Heretic shrugged. “But I promise you this: I did not
murder
her. The hard truth is the Gazelle died years ago. She died when she pledged herself to the pretender of Alamut and joined his degraded cult. Her soul departed that night, no doubt bound for the fires of eternal damnation. Indeed, if I am guilty of anything it is of putting an end to the shame of her soulless existence. You should thank me—”

But it was not gratitude that sent Yasmina lunging for the Heretic’s throat. Few men could have duplicated the feral grace of her attack, raw and driven by wrath; fewer still could have avoided it. Yet, in that instant of vengeful consummation, when her enemy’s riven corpse should have flopped to the ground, Yasmina’s knife sliced nothing but empty air.

Few men, it seemed, were the Heretic.

The Assassin sidestepped the blow; with a casual flick of his hand, he sent Yasmina tumbling against the glyph-etched door post. She recovered quickly and glared over her shoulder at the Heretic, oblivious to the blood oozing from the corner of her mouth where his knuckles had raked her in passing.

“You fight like an urchin,” he said. “Did the Gazelle teach you this, as well?”

Yasmina spat and pushed away from the doorjamb, using it as added leverage as she swept her blade out and up in a backhand blow.

This time, the Heretic did not deign to move.

A gasp burst from Yasmina’s lips as he caught the blow, his fingers clamping like a vise around her right wrist. The Assassin gave the limb a savage twist, turning her gasp into a hiss of pain as bones spiraled near to breaking. Yasmina’s fingers loosened of their own volition and her knife clattered to the floor. The Heretic’s other hand found her throat.

The girl’s eyes widened; she clawed at his forearm, plucking ineffectually at the corded muscle and sinew. The pale-eyed killer’s smile faded as he tightened his grip on her neck. The room spun. Yasmina fought to take a breath, twisting, writhing as congested blood pounded in her ears.

With little effort, the Heretic lifted her clear of the floor, pulling her closer until their faces all but touched. His tongue clicked against his teeth. “As I thought—a fool!” And with that, Badr al-Mulahid twisted and flung Yasmina from him as a child would fling a rag doll. Bursts of light flared before her eyes; pain rippled down her spine as she struck a statue hard enough to rock it back on its pedestal. The girl crumpled into a heap at its feet, dazed and gagging on the dusty air.

Her senses returned little by little, sound first; dimly, she heard the voice of the black-robed questioner. “What is this, Badr? What goes?”

“My lord,” the Heretic replied, “I’ve caught a night skulker. A girl who would play at being a killer.”

Yasmina pried her eyes open and looked around, coughing, her vision blurred. She could see the Heretic had his back to her; in the curtained doorway was the grim figure of the questioner—
of the sorcerer,
she reminded herself—his hypnotic gaze fixed upon her with withering intensity. She glanced away, praying he did not notice …

… and saw a glimmer of steel just out of arm’s reach. Her knife. Though she was beaten and bruised, defiance rose up through a veil of pain. Defiance and hope. She might still have her revenge. Her muscles flexed and tightened.

“Is she one of Alamut’s?”

“Not this one,” the Heretic said. “Her allegiance is to the Gazelle. She seeks recompense … or a martyr’s death.”

The sorcerer’s voice held a note of interest. “Does she? Bring her to me.”

But Yasmina was in motion before the Heretic could turn and do his master’s bidding. She scuttled forward, reaching for the leather-wrapped hilt of her knife, for its strength and surety. Her fingers brushed the pommel even as the Assassin whirled and planted the toe of his boot in her belly. The blow sent her sprawling; she wheezed and huffed, struggling once more to draw a breath. Eyes brimming with hate, Yasmina glared at the Heretic as he kicked the blade away—and with it went her final chance at vengeance.

“On your feet, little fool!” He snatched her up by her hair and dragged her, bloodied and disheveled, to kneel before the black-clad sorcerer. “Shall I send her the way of her mistress?”

“Not yet. Look at me, child,” the sorcerer said. With difficulty, Yasmina raised her eyes to meet his—shadowed beneath a craggy brow, black irises flecked with gold caught her gaze and held it with unseen shackles. She could not look away. It was as if she stared into an abyss, into the cold fires of hell. “Do you believe,” he said, “that the eyes can provide a measure of a person’s soul?”

Slowly, Yasmina nodded.

“Your eyes betray you. You have done murder this day. A man—”

“A eunuch,” the girl blurted out, eyes widening in surprise over her outburst.

“Ah, a eunuch. He stood in your way, did he not? An obstacle on the path to your goal?”

Again, she nodded.

“And you did what you deemed necessary. You murdered him in cold blood. Why, then, would you begrudge me the same? On my order, Badr removed an obstacle standing in the path to my goal. He did as you did. You and he are the same, child.”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“I … I…” Yasmina’s jaw clenched and unclenched; tears welled up in the corners of her unblinking eyes to run in rivulets down her flushed cheeks. “I … I’m not … I’m not like
him
!”

“So you say. And yet, have you not trespassed into my domain in search of prey, interfering with that which is beyond your ken for the sake of murderous vengeance? How are you and he not alike?”

It was the Heretic who answered, and in a tone that was thick with indignation. “She is as a thing of the street, my lord. She lacks skill…”

“Oh, she has skill,” the older man said. “She lacks training. Training and purpose.”

Badr al-Mulahid frowned. “Would you initiate one such as this?”

“No!” Yasmina spat. “I would never become one—”

The sorcerer silenced her with a look. “
Never
is a span of time beyond your comprehension, child. And neither do you have a say in your fate. You belong to me, now. As surely as if I had given you life.” He sighed, nodding to the Heretic. “Her will is strong. Perhaps too strong to make her into an effective tool. Still, there is something about her…”

“What is your wish, my lord? Shall I give her a cold knife and a shallow grave?”

“No.” Ibn Sharr held Yasmina’s gaze a moment longer before straightening and walking past. This simple gesture snapped the mesmeric hold over her; the young woman’s shoulders slumped; her limbs trembled as she cast about, suddenly fearful. From the corner of her eye she saw other figures clustered in the open doorway, figures clad in black. “No,” the sorcerer said. “You and I must speak, Badr. I have learned much from poor Gamal. Give the girl to the fedayeen. Let them break her will, if they can. It has been too long since they enjoyed the pleasures of a virgin of paradise.”

Yasmina apprehended his meaning. Wild-eyed, she fought to free herself from the Heretic’s grip, to rise and find a means of escape. All to no avail. The pale-eyed killer scooped her up and hurled her into the arms of the black-clad figures waiting in the doorway—men whose glassy eyes and leering faces promised unspeakable degradation. Yasmina thrashed and struggled as their grimy hands ripped her gown from her shoulders.

She screamed, and the mockery of its echo resounded through the hall of columns, through this sanctuary of long-forgotten gods …

17

Beyond the Maydan al-Iskander, in the streets of the Foreign Quarter, Musa heard the faint reverberation of Yasmina’s scream. The sound roused him. He stirred, his good eye fluttering open. He lay on his side, his body resting in a slurry of grit and gore. His limbs were cold, leaden, and crusted with blood. Its heavy metallic reek mixed with the stench of bowel rising from his perforated belly. Musa shifted his legs, and even that slight movement caused hooks of white-hot agony to tear through his abdomen.

“Allah…!” he croaked, grinding his fist fruitlessly into the earth. With his other hand he clutched at the wound, a slick coil of intestine pressing into his palm as he rolled to his knees. “Allah … have … mercy!” Musa’s breath came in ragged gasps. He stayed doubled over for a time, his head bent nearly to the dirt as he fought the urge to retch—he was certain the motion itself would kill him.

A single mote of purpose burned through the pain, burned like an ember through a tissue of gauze:
I must tell Assad! He must learn of the Maydan al-Iskander!
And to tell him, Musa reckoned, he had to first reach the caravanserai. He had to move. He had to walk.

His jaw clenched against the pain, Musa pushed one foot under him … then the other … and he took one staggering step before he fell back to his knees with an agonized moan.

A deeper night clouded the edges of the beggar’s vision, and hot blood washed over his hand. “Allah!” He coughed. Strings of spittle hung from his lips. “Will … will you m-make me c-crawl?”

“No,” a familiar voice rasped.

Musa raised his head. He blinked, tears and cold sweat washing down his cheeks, and saw Djuha’s veiled face floating through a crimson haze of agony. “L-leper? Is t-that you?”

“Be at ease, beggar,” Djuha said, stroking the disheveled hair of his pet urchin. “And give thanks to God for the gift of my boundless curiosity. I watched from up the street. Why would one of Mistress Zaynab’s companions do this to you?”

“I … I don’t kn-know … help me…”

Djuha gestured to several nebulous figures standing outside Musa’s periphery—not children, yet smaller than full-grown men—figures enswathed in dark burnooses, and who hid their features behind heavy veils of their own. They drifted closer to Musa. “Bear him up, but gently. We must return him to his master.”

“Th-the … the g-girl … where?”

“Hush, my friend,” the leper replied, glancing once toward the Maydan al-Iskander. “She is beyond your concern. Save your strength. Come, my nightingales. Come, my beautiful houris. Lift him gently.”

Musa groaned as a dozen bandage-wrapped hands, some little more than fingerless paws, raised him to his feet. He sagged in their grasp, gnashing his teeth against the endless waves of pain—pain as though the talons of some unkind beast tore at his innards. Mercifully, he sank into unconsciousness.

And like a cortege of ghosts, Djuha’s women bore Musa through the stinking alleys of the Foreign Quarter …

18

The Golden Hall of al-Mu’izz li-Din Allah echoed with the sounds of men readying themselves for battle. Jandariyah officers in gold-chased steel growled words of encouragement to their troopers, some of whom were already streaked with blood and breathing heavily. Other soldiers limped through the hall’s massive doors, leaning upon their spears or upon one another, some aided by terrified eunuchs pressed into service by the palace surgeons. These men, their fine robes now smirched with gore, circulated among the fallen, stitching and binding their wounds as best they could. And above it all—above the rustle of mail hauberks and the rattle of harness and the clatter of sword and shield—the vizier’s voice cracked like thunder.

“What do you mean he’s dead?” At the base of the dais, in the shadow of the Seat of Divine Reason, Jalal paced back and forth like a caged tiger. Mustapha weathered his master’s tirade with all the patience his long years afforded him. “How do a crippled Sufi and a drug-addled half-wit get the better of a cursed Templar?”

“He was no Sufi,” the eunuch replied softly.

“By Allah! Of course he was! I saw the wretch with my own eyes!”

Mustapha shook his head. “The man was no Sufi, Excellency. I would swear to it.”

“Then who was he?”

“I have given this much thought, and though I cannot say for certain who he was, I suspect he was an agent of Gokbori’s … the timing of it is simply too precise. The Turk must have been planning this for at least a fortnight!”

“And yet, no word came to you?” Jalal said, his eyes narrowing. “You, with your countless eyes and ears; you whom I trust to bring me knowledge of what goes on in the city beyond these walls? No word came to you?”

“None, Excellency.” The old eunuch bowed. “Whoever planned this did so with masterful subtlety.”

Jalal’s arm shot out, catching the eunuch unawares; his fingers dug cruelly into the soft flesh of Mustapha’s jaw. “This is the second time you have failed me!” the vizier hissed. “I had that foolish boy under my thumb and your incompetence allowed him to escape!”

“I … I sent s-soldiers to … to block his … his exit from the old hammam, Excellency!”