The Lions of Al-Rassan (56 page)

The other man hesitated again, as if about to add something, but merely nodded his head. “Cloak yourself, then. You’ll be slain on the spot if they know you for a Valledan.” He looked over at Alvar and then, improbably, flashed the grin they all knew. “You, on the other hand, look more like a native than I do.”

Alvar returned the smile. “Worry about Husari,” he said in effortless Asharic. “He’ll get us all killed with his hat.” He looked over at Jehane and smiled. “We’ll get them out.”

She managed to nod her head. It was extraordinary what the passage of less than a year had done to him. Or perhaps not so: there had been steel and a mind in Alvar de Pellino from the beginning and he had spent much of this year in the company of two of the most exceptional men in their world. He was on the way, Jehane thought suddenly, to becoming something out of the ordinary himself.

Husari and Ammar led them, urging their horses steadily through the crowd. Stumbling out of their path, men swore at them, but not loudly. They were armed and mounted, and that was enough. They forced a way through.

There were guards at the gate but they were overwhelmed by the clamor and chaos. No one took note of them, no one stayed their course. Late in the afternoon of the day the Valledans arrived, Jehane came back into the city where she had been born and raised.

They reached the Kindath Quarter just ahead of the mob bearing weapons and brands of fire.

Since Ishak had begun to talk again, Eliane had discovered that her husband’s hearing was extremely good. It was he who first heard the sounds from outside the Quarter and drew her attention to them. She could understand him almost perfectly now: the mangled words, because they were his, were to her as water in a dry place.

She put down the letter she had been reading him—Rezzoni ben Corli had written from Padrino where he was living now with his family. He had sent news of Batiara in the aftermath of the massacre in Sorenica.

She was to remember, later, that this was what she had been reading when Ishak said he heard a noise outside. Crossing to the window, Eliane opened it and stood listening. An angry sound, a crowd in the distant streets.

The window of Ishak’s study overlooked a common courtyard shared by a dozen of the larger homes in the Quarter. Looking down, Eliane saw a number of people below, talking nervously, gesticulating. Someone ran into the courtyard: her friend Nasreh bet Rivek’s younger son.

“They are coming!”
he shouted. “They’ve killed Mezira ben Mores! They are coming for us with fire!”

Someone screamed from a window across the way. Eliane closed her eyes, clutching the ledge. She was briefly afraid she would fall. She had been warned of this, explicitly. They had been making plans to leave, hard as it was to abandon a home at their age. It seemed they had waited too long.

There was a scraping sound as Ishak rose from his chair behind her. Eliane opened her eyes and looked out, drawing a ragged breath. Faces appeared at windows, people ran into the courtyard. The sun was westering, the cobblestones sliced by a diagonal line of shadow. Frightened men and women crossed in and out of the light. Someone appeared carrying a spear—Nasreh’s older son. Frenzied movement in a once-quiet place, a babble of sound. The huge noise was nearer now. Was this, then, how the world ended?

Ishak spoke her name. She started to turn back to him, but in that moment, blinking in disbelief, she realized that one of the people running into the courtyard below was her daughter.

J
ehane had known the guards at the iron gates to the Quarter. They let her enter with the men accompanying her. They had heard and seen the mob gathering by the market square. The Kindath guards were armed—against regulations—and composed. No signs of panic that Alvar could see. They knew what was coming. They knew about the Jaddites too.

Jehane hesitated just inside the gates. Alvar saw her look at Ammar ibn Khairan. And in that moment—not before, in fact—he finally understood something. He felt a quick, hard pain, much like a blade, then it was gone. A different feeling lingered, nearer to sorrow.

He had never really imagined she might be for him.

“Ser Rodrigo, you take her in,” ibn Khairan said quickly. “You’re still a danger if you are seen. Husari and Alvar and I will help out at this gate. We may be able to do something. We can gain you time, if nothing else.”

If nothing else.
Alvar knew what that meant.

Jehane said, “Ammar, it isn’t just my parents any more.”

“I know that. We’ll do all we can. Go get them. I know the house. Be downstairs. If we can, we’ll be with you.” He turned to Rodrigo. “If you hear we’ve broken, get them out.” He paused, blue eyes on grey in the light of late afternoon. “I charge you with this,” he said.

Belmonte said nothing. Only nodded.

Jehane and the Captain left them. No time for more words, of farewell or otherwise. It didn’t seem as if the world was allowing any space for such things. The noise from the streets was louder now. Alvar felt fear touch him then, a quick finger beneath the skin. He had never dealt with a mob, he had never even seen one.

“They have already killed three of us,” one of the Kindath guards said grimly.

The gates to the Kindath Quarter were recessed into a narrow laneway. The crowd would be channelled and backed up here when they arrived. That would have been deliberate, Alvar realized. The Kindath had experience with these things. A terrible truth. It occurred to him that Queen Vasca, whom his mother worshipped as holy, would have been urging on the people that were coming now.

Eyes on the open space before the gates, Alvar lifted the round shield from his back, looped his left arm through the strap and drew his sword. Ammar ibn Khairan did the same. Husari touched his weapon, then let it go.

“Give me a moment, first,” he said; his words were quiet, scarcely audible over the rising volume of sound from beyond. Husari stepped out from behind the gates into the open space.

Seeing him do so, Alvar instinctively did the same—in the precise moment Ammar ibn Khairan also moved forward and out.

“Lock your gates,” ibn Khairan said over his shoulder.

The guards didn’t need instructions. Alvar heard the clang of metal behind him, and a key turning. He looked back and up: four more Kindath guards stood on a platform above and behind the double gates. They had bows to hand, nocked with arrows. All weapons were forbidden to the Kindath in Al-Rassan. He didn’t think these men were greatly concerned with such laws at this moment.

He stood with Husari and Ammar ibn Khairan, exposed and alone in the narrow lane. The gates were locked behind them; there was nowhere to run. Ibn Khairan glanced at Husari and then at Alvar. “This,” he said lightly, “may not be the most intelligent thing we have ever done.”

The rumble became a roar and then the mob was there.

The first things Alvar registered, sickeningly, were the three severed heads on spears. The noise was huge, a wall of sound that did not seem entirely human. The howling, screaming press of people spilled around the corner into the space before the gates, and then, seeing three men standing there, the vanguard drew to a skidding halt, pushing back hard against those behind them.

There were half a hundred torches. Alvar saw swords and pikes, wooden cudgels, knives. Faces were contorted, filled with hatred, but what Alvar sensed was fear more than rage. His gaze kept returning to those severed, dripping heads. Terror or anger: it didn’t much matter, did it? This crowd had already killed. After the first deaths others would come easily.

In that moment Husari ibn Musa stepped forward, moving from the shadow of the gates into the last of the afternoon sunlight. He lifted both hands, showing them empty. He still wore his Jaddite hat, recklessly.

There was a gradual spilling backwards of silence. They were going to let him speak, it seemed. Then Alvar caught a glint of sunlight on a moving blade. He moved, without conscious thought.

His shield, thrust in front of Husari, blocked the flung knife, a butcher’s heavy blade. It fell with a clatter to the stones. There was blood on that knife, Alvar saw. He heard a flurry of shouts, and then stillness again.

“Are you a complete fool, Mutafa ibn Bashir?”

Husari’s voice was sharp, clear, mocking, it filled the space before the gates. “It’s ibn Abazi, right beside you, that your wife’s sleeping with, not me!”

In the shocked stillness that followed this, someone actually laughed. A thin, nervous sound, but it was laughter.

“Who are you?” another voice cried. “Why do you stand before the gates of those who kill children?”

“Who
am
I?” Husari exclaimed, spreading his arms wide. “I am insulted and offended. Among other things, you owe me money, ibn Dinaz. How
dare
you pretend not to know me!”

Another pause, another subtle shifting of mood. Alvar could see those near the front relaying rapid explanations backwards. Most of the huge crowd was still around the corner, out of sight of this.

“It’s Husari!”
someone exclaimed. “It’s Husari ibn Musa!”

Husari promptly swept off the leather hat and offered an elaborate bow. “And a bolt of good cloth goes to you tomorrow morning, ibn Zhani. Am I so changed that even my friends do not know me? Not to mention my debtors?”

He
was,
of course. He was very greatly changed. He was also, Alvar realized, buying them as much time as he could. Next to Alvar, Ammar ibn Khairan murmured out of the side of his mouth, “Sword down, look easy. If he holds them long enough the governor will have troops here. He can’t afford a fire tonight.”

Alvar obeyed, trying to find a balance between watchfulness and the appearance of calm. It was hard to feign ease with those bobbing, severed heads on pikes in front of him. Two of them were women.

“Husari!” someone cried. “Have you heard? The Jaddites are coming!”

“So they are,” ibn Musa agreed soberly. “Our walls have held against worse in their time. But in Ashar’s holy name, are we madmen, to riot in our own city when an enemy appears?”

“The Kindath are in league with them!” someone shouted thickly. It was the man who’d thrown the knife. There was a quick rumble of agreement.

Husari laughed then. “Ibn Bashir, count the blessings of your birth stars that a butcher needs no more brains than the meat he carves. The Kindath fear the Jaddites more than we do! They are slaves in the north! Here they live freely, and pay half our taxes for us,
and
buy your stringy meat, even with your fat thumb on the scale!” Alvar saw someone smile at that.

“None of them died on the Day of the Moat!” Another voice, harsh as the butcher’s. Alvar felt a movement beside him, then realized he was standing alone.

“And what,” said Ammar ibn Khairan, stepping forward into the sunlight, “would have been the point of that?” He made a production of sheathing his magnificent sword, giving them time to look at him.

He was known. Immediately. Alvar could see it happen. He saw shock, confusion, fear again, a measure of awe. Whispers ran backwards like water down a hill.

Ibn Khairan looked out over the crowd in the laneway, taking his time. “The last king of Cartada wished to eliminate the leading citizens of this city last year as a message to all of you. Which man here would name a Kindath as one such? A leading citizen? One of the Kindath? It is,” said Ammar ibn Khairan, “an amusing thought.”

“You were exiled!” one brave person shouted. “It was proclaimed last summer!”

“And revoked this spring,” Husari said calmly. “The man beside me—I see you know him—has been sent by King Almalik II to take charge of our defense against the rabble from the north.”

Someone cheered, then more people did. There was a perceptible brightening of countenances, another shift of mood. Alvar drew a breath.

“Why is he
here
then, why not with the governor?”

“With that stuffed pork chop?” ibn Khairan said indignantly.

Another ripple of laughter. The governor would not be well-liked; governors seldom were. Ammar shook his head. “Spare me, please! I’d far rather be with ibn Bashir’s wife, if you want to know the truth. But if I’m charged with your defense, I can hardly let the city be fired, can I?”

“Oh! Oh! My heart! I’m here, my lord! I’m right here!”

A woman’s hands could be seen waving vigorously, part of the way up the lane. Ibn Bashir, the butcher, turned to look, his face reddening. General laughter now.

“You do know,” Ammar said gravely, as the amusement subsided, “that the Muwardis are coming here even as we speak. They have orders to quell any disturbance. I’m afraid my control over them is not perfect yet. I have just arrived. I do not want anyone killed here this afternoon. It might spoil my pleasure in what I have planned for tonight.” He grinned slyly.

“Here, my lord! Why wait for tonight?”
A different woman this time. And suddenly there were more than a dozen waving hands and imploring female voices through the crowd.

Ibn Khairan threw his head back and laughed aloud. “I am honored,” he said, “and exhausted by the very thought.” A ripple of amusement again, a further softening of mood. The westering sun left most of the lane in shadow now.