The Waters of Eternity (12 page)

For the second time that night I ventured to the tavern where Samar danced, and for the second time I identified myself to the doorman, who let me in without comment. I peered at him as he yawned to see if the fellow had had his tongue cut out, but it was impossible to tell by lantern light. He presented me to that backstage room, which was opened by Samar’s maid. She brightened in surprise at sight of me.

“Peace be upon you,” I said. “Is your mistress here?”

The servant woman leaned against the door frame. “She dances before the guests. Is it she you came to see?”

I allowed a smile, for she was a fetching woman. “My friend Dabir has asked me to relay a message for her. I had hoped to deliver it in person. Do you know how long she will dance?”

“Nay; it depends in part on how well she is rewarded. If the men call for more dances and shower more coins, then she will carry on. She might be gone quite a long while,” the woman added, sidling a little closer.

Such attention is pleasing to a man, but I knew better than to show interest in one such as her.

“Please pass on that Dabir would have liked to come, but that the man he was assisting, Bassam, has been attacked.”

Instantly the woman’s playful demeanor vanished, and she grew solemn, almost alarmed. “Attacked? How? Who?”

“Hired thugs,” I said.

“And he is badly wounded?”

“I am no hakim,” I said, “but his garments were covered in blood, and he had to be carried from the attack. Dabir is worried for him.” All this was true, for we had rolled the fellow in the blood of the murderer I myself had slain, and had the bodyguards carry him from the assault so that word would spread. I took no pride in deception then or now, but I did not mind overmuch misleading someone whom I was sure had been party to lies herself.

The woman’s face paled. “Excuse me,” she said, and ran fleetly down the hall and around a corner. I followed into the darkness, and soon her slapping sandals were drowned out by the sound of flutes and tambours as she drew closer to a curtained doorway. She pushed through it; I waited outside, the fabric nudged just far enough for me to look out onto the room. She stepped around a long-legged drummer and waited along the edge of the performance area on my left while Samar swayed and shimmied with two other women. Men were there, gathered to drink and watch the dancing, but there was little to be seen of them beyond their outlines. It is true that in Frankistan and Constantinople folk drink wine sometimes to quench their thirsts, but here, in the lands of the true faith, misguided men break God’s commandment only to become drunk. Thus these shadows slouched and leaned back on the low couches.

The servant hissed at Samar, who finally spun, glaring daggers, and came over. They exchanged whispers and Samar’s head drew back as though a snake had bitten her, then both came through the curtain. I stepped aside.

Samar was even more beautiful in her finery, though her lovely face was drawn into a scowl, and she stopped short at sight of me.

“It is true? Bassam is dead?”

“That I cannot say,” I admitted. “But there was enough blood on him to fill a living man.”

Samar cursed more violently than some soldiers I have known, but she did not seem especially sad. Her eyes centered on me. “Dabir is with him? He has sent for hakims?”

“I am sure Bassam is being well tended to.”

She nodded shortly, then seemed to gather her thoughts. “I cannot talk with you now. I thank you for…this bitter news. It is all too much for me.” She bowed her head. “I must withdraw, to grieve.”

“Go with God,” I said.

Again I spoke with the door man, and then met up with Dabir, who waited in the darkness without. He asked many questions as to Samar’s demeanor and actions, all the while watching that back entrance. We were rewarded, for before he had finished querying, two cloaked female forms hurried from the place, the mute guardsman walking with them, hand on a naked blade.

“Were I a betting man,” Dabir said quietly to me as we watched their retreating backs, “I would wager they walk for the Inn of the Two Palms.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Call it gambler’s intuition. Come, Asim. We must follow discreetly.”

Follow we did, into The Dregs, a suburb south of the city through which goods flow but nothing good remains, and soon advanced toward a worn two-story inn. A wooden placard showing a pair of palm trees hung over the large archway our quarry scurried beneath.

“Now what?” I asked.

“We give them just a few moments,” Dabir answered, as if distracted. He turned, and at a sound behind us I spun, hand to sword.

Up walked two men with their cloaks drawn up to hood their faces. If they meant to conceal their identities they did a fair job, although they looked altogether suspicious even in this neighborhood.

“What are you two doing?” Bassam’s voice came from one of the cloaks. After his speech, I recognized his gait.

Dabir was stricken with horror, and motioned for Bassam to hurry after him. The four of us retreated behind a wagon sitting in the dark street.

“I told you to remain in your home!” Dabir hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to come see what happened,” Bassam said diffidently.

“How will word spread of your death if you’re walking the street?” Dabir’s clenched hands were shaking, and he looked at me as if he needed an audience for his disbelief.

“I could kill him,” I offered.

Bassam held up his hands. “Ubu and I are disguised. No one will—”

I grabbed his shoulder and pulled him in closer, for a group could be heard approaching along the street. From Bassam’s gasp I think he might have been afraid I was drawing him onto a knife.

What should we see next, but four women, likewise garbed in hooded robes, each warded by men-at-arms—bald ones, squat ones, hairy ones—each of them watching the shadows as well as the other folk who were advancing now from every direction, some holding folded-up pieces of paper very much like that we’d confiscated from the corpse.

“Why, that’s Rana,” Bassam said quietly. I pulled him back down. The four of us, Dabir, myself, the idiot, and his bodyguard Ubu, watched through the wagon wheel spokes as everyone converged upon the tavern and walked inside.

“Rana?” I asked.

“Daughter to Quadi Bashir. Lovely girl. What’s she doing here, Dabir?”

Dabir put his finger to his lips, for Bassam had spoken loudly. “Is she someone you used to court?”

Bassam grinned.

“And these others?” Dabir asked him softly. “Are any of them known to you?”

Bassam’s handsome forehead wrinkled as he stared. “That’s…”

“Softly. Yes or no will do.”

“Yes—a hundred times yes.”

There may not have been a hundred women, though there were probably a dozen or more, with attendants or other family members. And as they drew near I overheard some asking if they’d heard how Bassam had died and asking whether or not orange or red had gotten him.

“God gives,” Dabir said. “If I’d known how well this was going to work, I’d have told Captain Fakhir to get here sooner.”

“By Allah,” Bassam said. “Do you suppose—do you think they were betting on who would kill me?”

“Yes,” Dabir snapped.

“He’s quick,” I said, then shook my head, marveling.

“Well—that’s just…that’s…” Bassam was actually at a loss for words.

From within the inn came the sounds of voices raised in anger.

“Troubling?” Dabir offered. “Vexing? Irritating?”

“Disappointing,” Bassam said finally. And he climbed to his feet, casting back his cloak.

“What are you doing?” Dabir asked him as we rose to pull him down.

“I’m going to give them the surprise of their lives.” He started forward. “Come, Ubu.”

Bassam did not hear me draw. Ubu’s eyes flicked up and he went for his own weapon, but by the time his sword was already half out, I’d hammered the back of Bassam’s head with the flat of my blade, and he went down with a groan.

Bassam was not completely unconscious, as you might think would happen from various tales, but he was groaning and stunned, which was all that I’d intended. I leveled the sword at Ubu, who was showing me his teeth. “That was for his own good. Do you truly want to go alone against fifty men who’ve bet on killing your master?”

Ubu considered that, his sword still half drawn, then eyed the point of my curved blade. “No,” he conceded.

“Guard him,” Dabir instructed, “and await Captain Fakhir. He assured me that he would soon arrive.” Dabir turned to me. “Bassam was right about one thing—these folk will not long remain in one place.” He pulled forth the receipt he’d found on the Berber. “Let us go talk with them.”

I did not know what that would avail us, but after a last warning look to Ubu I followed them into the tavern.

The long rectangular room was not quite crowded to bursting, but there were many folk there, aye, both men and women, and from various classes. The more well-to-do were crowded about the front, near Samar. Many of the men wore blades. One portly fellow was standing upon a stool, trying to calm a mass of folk who were all shouting and waving their arms. Near at hand a reedy man clutched at a sheaf of paper, all but cowering beside a deadly looking Nubian whose blade was up.

So intent were the shouting folk that they paid us no heed. After all, it was dark, there were but a few lanterns in the place, and the crowd had been growing steadily over the last few minutes. Why be suspicious of two more men?

“I cannot authorize any payments out until the death is confirmed,” the heavyset man on the stool was saying. He had a booming voice and one drooping eye.

“What confirmation do you need?” one gruff fellow said. “The whole city has heard he was carried back to his home, covered in blood.”

“It has not said he is dead,” Droopy-eye countered. “Friends, we cannot be premature. Let us wait until the morrow, and—”

“You mean to keep it, Muwaffaq,” a woman shouted at him, and others chimed in as well.

“I still want to know who authorized the attack without informing me!” Samar called over the mob. “If we are business partners, you owe it to me—”

“I owe you nothing, Samar!” Muwaffaq rounded on her. “Nothing!”

So intense was this denunciation that the crowd quieted somewhat. Muwaffaq’s eyes shifted as he seemed to consider options. He held up his hands. Low, discontented mumbling continued, but he spoke with authority. “Friends—you have wondered how it is Bassam survived so many attempts unscathed? I shall tell you! Samar has been sending him warnings!”

At this he brandished a paper. “This was brought to me this morning by one of Bassam’s servants! A note! In her handwriting!”

The crowd gasped.

“It seems you are not the only one who knows that trick,” I said to Dabir.

He sighed. “This I did not foresee. We may have to intercede.”

A lesser woman might have shrunk back against the pillar, but Samar held up her beautiful head. “Who can tell such a thing from a note! Is it signed?”

“Nay—”

“Then it might be from anyone!” Samar said.

“It is hers!” Muwaffaq shouted. “Is it not true that all attempts failed until this one…tonight? And this was the first one Samar was not informed of!”

The crowd had been held back from acting by the thinnest of cords, and I sensed their mood shift as Muwaffaq’s words sank in. They faced Samar and her maid with a single mind, and some of them began to shout curses while the dancer held up her hands and called for calm. The bodyguard who’d come in with them had slunk away and was even now doing his best to vanish into the shadows. Samar searched for him as rough hands grabbed her. And then she spotted us, and I could almost see the wheels turning in her head as her eyes narrowed.

“It is Dabir and Asim!” she cried, pointing to us. “We have been found out! Run!”

Samar was a clever one, you see. It is true that many in Mosul knew us by sight. Many more knew us by reputation and knew that we were friends with both governor and caliph. Which is to say the law, and we had witnessed them in criminal acts.

We might have turned tail then, for we were fairly close to the door, but I did not want to open us to attack.

“We must delay them so they do not scatter,” Dabir told me. I sighed a little as I unsheathed my blade.

Most of the crowd shouted and rushed for the doors and windows, as you would expect, but some took to hurling whatever was handy at us. One bull-headed man charged me, head down, as another rushed in with a knife. We barely had our swords out.

I clouted the first with the hilt of my sword and slashed out at the second. He screamed and dropped to his knees, his arm sliced open—he was lucky I had not cut it off entirely. Beside me, Dabir waved his sword at a gap-toothed fellow who threw up his hands and dropped. But then a plate came sailing over one attacker’s shoulder and struck Dabir in the chest. He let out a groan and opened himself for a clubbing from a hook-nosed Bedouin. I kicked the man before he could close and as he staggered off the big Nubian came at us both.

This fellow was naked to the waist and formed all of muscle. His biceps were wide around as the thighs of most men, and he topped me by a head. I ducked his swing, thinking it folly to parry such strength, and the strike swished over my turban. The fellow was nimble, too, for he sidestepped my counter blow. I leapt to gain the height of a low table and struck out at his skull, but he ducked, and my weapon cut three quarters of the way into one of the support timbers, where it stuck. The Nubian grinned at me and stabbed.

From out of nowhere Dabir jumped up beside me and parried the blow, only to have the table collapse beneath us. Dabir dropped with a cry of surprise. I caught hold of a ceiling joist and swung with both feet into the Nubian’s face. There came a cracking noise and a spurt of blood, and the fellow tripped backwards, the sword clanging to the floor. I dropped, snatched up his blade, and helped Dabir to his feet. About us the gamblers were all of them shouting and crying out, falling back from the door before a familiar stout figure with six guardsmen. Captain Fakhir had arrived.

The struggling was all over in another few minutes, and Captain Fakhir shortly had everyone parted from their weapons. The aristocrats and their bodyguards he separated from the common folk with Muwaffaq. At some point Bassam had come in from the street and now stood with an arm about Samar, her nervous servant standing close beside. The dancing girl had either been injured or pretended it, for she pressed close to the rich man.