The Necromancer's Grimoire (29 page)

William pushed the book toward her. “Ask it, Nadira.”

She took the book and let it fall open where it would. The thick vellum pages were soft and supple, the words in sharp black calligraphy told her the sky was blue, the mountains white at the tops, and rolling fields of ripe grain were golden in the sun. She narrowed her eyes.

“What does it say?” William leaned over her shoulder. “The sky is blue?”

She looked at him sharply. “You can read that?”

“Of course. My Greek is excellent. You know that.”

“This is not Greek. She put her finger on the word ‘blue'. This is Arabic. Look at the swirling calligraphy.”

They looked at each other for a moment. Nadira closed the book gently. “Well.”

William let his breath out slowly. “Oh.”

“'The sky is
fucking
blue'
?” Montrose slapped his thigh. “God damn it and all books.” He stomped past them, lifting his sword. He stooped to look down from the high bluffs and over the walls below them and to the bright Bosphorus that sparkled beyond them in the morning sun. “'The sky is blue',” he repeated, grumbling.

“I wonder if it means we must find a blue gate,” William said, eyeing Montrose warily.

“No.” Nadira handed the book back to William. “Wrap it back up and keep it safe. It means the answer is obvious and all around us. We have been too distracted to think of it.”

“Distracted? Distracted!” Montrose turned around and walked back toward them, his sword scything the air in front of him. “Distracted?” His eyes flashed as he turned and stomped past her in the other direction.

“Robert,” Nadira turned to follow him with her eyes, “we are not trapped. Calm yourself.”

“I am as calm as I am going to be, standing in the middle of a street in Istanbul in broad daylight a mile from a riot after a night of death and some hours in a dark cavern. Do not tell me to be calm.” His eyes were wild. The sword swung in an arc against invisible foes.

William shrunk back from the blade, crossing his arms over the bulge under his tunic and sash.

“There is no one in this street. Look around,” she soothed.

“The riot below keeps all eyes from us,” William agreed.

She closed her eyes to see. Yes. The riot. The turmoil outside the prison filled her mind. Her vision snapped to Corbett and she watched as the janissaries led him limping away from the vizier's palace and marched him to the old prison tucked inside the walls of the great city. The soldiers had beaten him in the vizier's house.

The golden calf that tipped the necromancer's staff waved before the crowd of angry men. She saw the magus tell the janissaries that Corbett was responsible for the death of their comrades. She saw him plant ideas in their minds of Christian conspiracies and that Corbett was the pope's spy. She saw the old knight in chains, beaten so badly he bled inside where none could see. She cast again for his companion and saw that Calvin had retrieved his blade after a painful crawl in the street. He now crouched in the shadows unable to move any further. She felt his desperation. Both Templars needed her. Right now.

She gathered her skirt in her fist and took off running down toward the harbor and the Anemas prison. Behind her she heard the pounding steps of the two men following. Her feet ran toward the prison. Her mind had no idea what she would do when she got there.

Montrose and William kept pace beside her. When it became obvious to the men that they were heading directly toward the riot outside the prison gates Montrose shouted, “You would lead us into that battle?” He reached out and stopped her. She could not take her eyes from the gathering crowd below them near the great wall. The three of them stood in the street, panting. She heard the sound of Montrose's sword leaving the scabbard again. She did not answer him.

Montrose stepped in front of her, his eyes on the crowd of men around the prison. He shook his sword, feeling the balance. They could see everything from the high bluffs where they stood. Dozens of janissaries were waving blades in the air, and the sound of their shouts drew people from their houses and into the streets.

Montrose began to pace a circle around them, the sword now steady in his hand.

“We need to contact DiMarco, or he will be left behind,” she murmured, eyes on the mob.

“Then do it,” he said, as he made another pass.

“I cannot,” she realized. “He has locked his mind to defend himself against the necromancer. He has created a wall of threads to protect him.”

“Then we leave him.”

She put a hand up to stop his pacing. He came to a halt, breathing hard, his eyes touching every street corner, every door of every house. “So quick to abandon him…have you no compassion?”

He frowned. “DiMarco has no claim on my pity. He is fated to get what he deserves. Did he show you compassion?”

“He did,” she remembered.

“But he gave you to the cardinals to be burned…” Montrose shook his head. “I say we leave him.”

William disagreed. “He is like a mule that bites and kicks. We need him, but we are wary of his teeth and hooves.”

“I have a way with mules,” Montrose hissed and slapped his thigh with his gloved hand.

“You are so strong,” she murmured, “You feel that all problems can be solved with the edge of a blade.”

“No. I know that is not true,” he bowed his head, “but the edge of a blade is all I have.” He lifted it for emphasis, looking at its length. He shook it again to balance it in his hand. They all turned to look at the growing mob.

William took the
Grimoire
from under his shirt. She heard him open it.

“It says that all things are good.” He was still breathless from the running. “It says there is no evil but what we imagine.”

Nadira imagined that what was happening to Corbett right now was evil.

William turned a page. “It says all life is an illusion, why should death be any different?”

She looked at him sharply. Malcolm Corbett would be beaten to death in the prison. Thomas Calvin would be found by another band of janissaries. He could not move. Blood seeped between his fingers as he squeezed his thigh. His prayers would be unheard unless she answered them.

Nadira took off running again. She heard Montrose curse as he sheathed his blade and then heard the hard pounding of his big boots on the ground behind her. She flew as fast as she could but he was faster.

He caught her up in his arms and stopped her again.

“You want us to charge the City's garrison?” Montrose lowered her gently to the ground then moved to block her with his body as she tried to run. William came panting after. He bent over double, hands on knees, gasping.

She leaned to the side to see beyond his chest to the gathering of angry men. Turbaned heads, bright red caps and the distinctive white headgear of the janissaries bobbed and milled about the entrance. The flash of scimitars and glitter of short daggers reflected the rising sun. Their shouts and chants swelled and faded as the sound bounced off the wooden houses and made its way up the steep bluffs to her ears. She took a deep breath.

“Yes.” She did not look up at him.

“No!” William stood straighter, now that he had regained his breath. “That is madness. What are you thinking?”

She turned around. “Malcolm Corbett is in there. They will kill him. The necromancer has told them that he is responsible for the loss of his book.” She waved a hand at the book under his tunic. “He has told them Corbett is a spy.”

His face registered his sorrow at this news, but did not convey eagerness to engage scores of janissaries with an eating knife.

She continued, “I must go down and stop them. There is little time. Already they have beaten him badly. They will kill Calvin as well.” She looked up at Montrose who was drawing his sword again. “Sheathe that damned blade, Robert, and keep it there. You will not need it.” She began to trot down the hill knowing they would follow. There was no traffic. The early morning hours combined with the frightening scene below kept citizens inside. She could see the roofs and balconies full of the curious, but none dared the street. She heard Montrose and William a few steps behind.

She slowed as she neared the milling mob. She opened her arms to her sides and faced the palms out as she approached them at a slow walk. Her eyes scanned the faces and the various headgear, looking for the
agha
or for Kemal Reis.

A shout rose as she was sighted. It grew to a deafening clamor and a few of the men rushed toward her with swords in the air. Not towards her, she realized, but toward Montrose behind her. She stopped. Above and behind her she heard Montrose make a familiar low sound in his throat.

“Robert,” she whispered. “Be still. Do not move until I do.” She felt his hand on her shoulder.

The men stopped when she did and the swords wavered before lowering to their sides. The shouting slowly died and an eerie silence fell over the milling crowd. The men in front were frowning. The men behind pushed to see what had caused the sudden quiet.

Nadira began to walk slowly toward the gate. The mob parted to let her pass. Montrose was close on her heels. He was so near she could feel the scrape of his boots on her legs as she walked. She had more tendrils extended and inserted into men than she had known was possible. The dark eyes and sweating faces that surrounded her were puzzled. Some of the men were afraid. The ones she concerned herself with, however, were the ones who burned with anger. She stared hard at them and thickened the tendrils in those men until she saw uncertainty waver in their eyes. A few of them turned away from her and looked behind her. Many made the sign against the evil eye.

“Are you confounding all of them?” William asked her in a low voice.

“Just the ones in front,” she answered. “Keep moving.”

They crowd closed in behind them as they approached the prison gate. The distance between bodies gradually decreased until Nadira could no longer see beyond the first rank. She stopped and looked up at Montrose.

“I can't see anymore,” she said to him.

“We are before the gate.” He turned his head. “I see the
agha
's hat. He is to the left. The men are letting him through. Your captain is with him.”

His eyes glanced down at her when he mentioned Kemal, then back to the crowd. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Controlling so many reduced her ability to cast farther out. She trusted that the appearance of their commander might calm the mob and allow her to release some of the tendrils. The men directly in front of the gate parted, revealing the iron bars that sank into the ground and towered above her. She waited for the
agha
, feeling the expectation of the janissaries through the cords.

The men standing in front of her moved away and the tall white hat of the
agha
appeared. Kemal Reis moved to stand behind him. The
reis
's eyes were wary. She tried to get him to look at her but he would not. She knew he feared she would control him with her eyes.

The
agha
surveyed the crowd, then said in Arabic, “What have you done?”

Nadira answered, “We want to enter the prison and release the
frenki
knight, Malcolm Corbett.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. The mob had stilled as each soldier strained to hear their leader's words. The
agha
stared at her. Nadira stood straighter, and pushed the hair back over her eyes. “Let us pass through the gate.” She pitched her voice for command and saw the
agha
jerk his arm and take a step before stopping himself. He appeared puzzled.

“Nadira
Sultana,
” Kemal whispered, “this cannot work. The janissaries have overturned the great cooking pots in their barracks.”

She frowned, puzzled.

“That means they are in rebellion against the sultan. I do not know how you have survived the walk through the crowd.” His eyes flashed over the faces of the fierce soldiers then back to her. “What are you doing?”

The conversation with the
reis
divided her concentration. She heard the angry sound of the janissaries around her swell like the buzzing of hornets as they were one by one released from her tendrils. They began to push closer.

Behind her Montrose grasped his sword and drew several inches of steel before she could stop him with a hand on his.

“Open the gate,” she insisted. “Quickly.”

The
agha
nodded and the gatekeeper signaled to the men on the winches. The gate slowly rose with a metallic scrape and a rasping wheeze.

She walked quickly into the darkness of the old prison, her men behind her. Kemal and the
agha
passed under the portcullis and she heard it being lowered behind them. Montrose took in a sharp breath and she heard his thought.
We are now in a Turkish prison
. She heard him wonder if this was better or worse than standing in the midst of a mob. His answer appeared in the form of a wave of sound that burst from the crowd as she completely released all of her tendrils. The portcullis clanged to its resting place.

The sudden confusion and pent anger of the milling janissaries erupted in a roar of shouting and a hard pounding that made it impossible to hear their footsteps within the prison. The sounds reverberated and echoed within the corridor and faded only when the group turned to move further into the interior of the great walls of the city.

She stopped and looked up at Montrose in the dim light. “It is
better
,” she answered him. She cast for Corbett and turned to the right. The men followed until she stood before the cell that contained the old Templar. The prison guards eyed them curiously, but the presence of the
agha
kept them at their posts and silent.