The Waters of Eternity (15 page)

Boulos bent to buckle on Jaffar’s sword belt.

“Is it sharp?” my master asked.

“It was seen to. I found you an older sheath, though.”

“Thank you, Boulos,” Jaffar said, and again I groaned internally, for a proper warrior would see to his own weapon; it had not even occurred to Jaffar to be embarrassed to ask. He turned eagerly to us. “I’m quite pleased with all this. Are you two ready?”

“We await only your word, Master.” I bowed.

“This was a fine idea, Asim,” Jaffar said. Boulos hustled forward; the two guards waiting to either side of the door pretended not to notice us, although they reached for the door pulls.

The master held up a hand and the sentries stepped back. “I’m sure you know,” he said as he turned to us, “that you are not to call me by title, or, indeed, by any honorific whatsoever, once we leave the palace.”

“Of course, Master,” I said.

“Of course,
Andar,
” Jaffar corrected with a smile. “I am to have an adventure, so why not name myself after one of the greatest adventurers?”

“An excellent idea,” Boulos said. “Captain, see him safely home.”

“Of course.”

“What time shall we expect your return, Master?” Boulos asked.

“There is no telling,” Jaffar replied. “We may be gone through the night.” He turned to the door, thought better of it, and faced Boulos again with raised finger, as though he were ticking off a point from an invisible list. “Do not let word spread of our adventure.”

“Of course not, Master.”

“Dabir, Asim, let us be off.”

Once more the sentries reached for the doors, eyes focused blankly above our own, lest they be in on a secret they should not know. Outside was bright and fragrant, for even here at one of the side entrances were a row of bushes in bloom. It was but a short walk to the gate in the outer wall, likewise guarded by sentries. One opened the gate for us while the other advanced to push back the crowd of folk who tend to gather about all palace entrances. Dabir and the master and I stepped around them; the assorted beggars and job applicants and onlookers watched us curiously; one even pulled at Dabir’s robe, pleading for alms, and then we were past.

I think the master was more bewildered than amazed by the cacophony of the streets. Baghdad teemed with people and their attendant smells, and we were in the thick of both. It is not that the master had never been out of his mansion, it is just that he never ventured forth without a buffer of servants and guardians.

When Jaffar asked where we should go, Dabir suggested first the nearby market in south Al-Rusafa, the wealthiest quarter of the city, where we spent the greater part of the next hour. Merchants could not know the master’s true identity, but even a fool could tell at a glance that he was a nobleman in disguise because of his fine manner. They bade him look at the best of their baubles and silks and perfumes and nearly everything else under the sun. Jaffar paid them little heed, but he examined much, listening with interest to the outrageous lies regarding the rarity of certain cloths, or the unmatched skill of a bootmaker’s leatherwork. He was especially taken by the elaborate tale of one jeweler’s perilous trip to Baghdad from India. I found it tiresome and stepped away. Dabir joined me.

“Is
your
sword sharp?” he asked quietly.

I did not take his meaning at first, then saw his sly smile and chuckled.

“We must give thought as to our next course,” Dabir said, “for he will grow bored.”

“There is a place across the river where men often race pigeons,” I said.

“That involves birds, though,” Dabir wisely pointed out, and I nodded agreement.

“Do you suppose he would like to see some wrestling?” I asked.

At that moment Jaffar returned, passing each of us a small gold ring.

“Thank you … Andar,” I said. Dabir echoed me. I slipped the thing over my smallest finger and admired the effect.

“It is my pleasure.” Jaffar ignored the beckoning calls of other merchants and turned his head this way and that, searching the distance. Because the market was crowded, there was not much to be seen but the turbans and backs of shopping folk.

“The jeweler spoke to me of a woman who deals in magical things. She is down one of these side streets.”

Dabir and I traded a quick look while the master was looking the other way.

“Is it not said that upright men should turn their face from magics?” I asked.

“Andar,” Dabir said, “our last encounter with magic was … somewhat…”

“There will be no Greeks involved this time,” Jaffar said airily. “Besides,
that
wasn’t really magic.”

Dabir and I exchanged a glance. The master had never fully believed our accounting of the events with the Greeks, having been drugged at the time. “
This,
” he continued, “is simple marketplace magic, in our own city. There can be no real harm. Let us seek her. The jeweler said she is very good.”

“She is probably the man’s aunt,” I said, “who will share our monies with him.”

“Asim, must you always grumble so?” the master asked. “I thought we were going to have fun today. Let us see this magic woman, then find some food.”

I would have preferred that we find the food first, for I had neglected a proper meal while preparing for this venture, but Dabir and I followed the master down a winding side street, stepping past running urchins and around a series of foul-smelling brown puddles. After a time it was clear that Jaffar had become lost, so we gave alms to a graybeard who then provided directions, and in the next quarter hour we sat on the rugs within a small, dark front room. From elsewhere in the house came the enticing sound of sizzling meat and a most pleasing scent of lamb.

None was offered us, though, by the stripling who had answered the door and told us to sit, and nothing was offered us by the bent woman who emerged from behind the curtained doorway and bade us welcome to her home. Her voice was like that of an old songbird, for it was clear, but tired, and a little thin. She fished for information about us, as fortune-tellers do, whether we were young men looking for wives or taking a break from important business, all the time watching us with dark eyes. In the shadowy room there was no seeing through her veil, and her gaze revealed no emotion or sign of her thoughts. I took in the room, ordered neatly with strange things, both rare and humble. High shelves stood out from the dark walls. I could see few of the contents perched on those directly to my right, so close were we to the wall itself, though I thought I saw a small bird’s claw hanging off one ledge. On the shelf to my left was a hodgepodge of wooden balls adorned with strange symbols, chips of colored stone, a clay goblet decorated with what looked to be emeralds, and the mummified head of a ferret. The peculiarity of these items lent an ominous mien even to the more mundane trappings—that kettle hung from a rafter, for instance, might hold more than emptiness. And what had those dark wooden spoons on the wall been stirring?

My sword lay ready to hand and so too did my knife. As my fingers brushed over its hilt I felt the magic woman’s eyes upon us. Just then she asked us for coin and Jaffar revealed his station by bidding me pay an initial fee. The woman passed the coins without comment to one of two similarly dressed youths, identical in feature and hair save that one was a few inches taller. He disappeared briefly then returned with small pastries, which he sat before us. He retreated again. The older boy sat quietly upon a stool in the shadows.

“You seek magic,” the woman said, sitting. “Why?”

“Because I am curious,” Jaffar answered.

“You are bored.” The woman glanced over at me as I munched on a treat. It was fresh, and seasoned with honey. It can never be said that I dislike sweets. “Do you seek magic only because you are bored?” she asked Jaffar.

“My friend has witnessed true magic,” Dabir said. “Dark magic. He has no interest in that.”

The master’s mouth turned down at this.

The woman turned to Dabir, appraising. “What sort of magic does he desire?”

Jaffar spoke up. “A merchant outside told us you are gifted with an understanding of future events. I would hear them.”

“Would you?” She cocked one of her thick gray eyebrows. She leaned closer, her voice dropping. “Do you know for what you ask? It is a dangerous thing to know one’s fate. The knowledge has driven some mad. Some spend the whole of their lives twisting and turning and scheming to avoid what they have been told, until they realize they are wrapped within the coils of the serpent they thought to escape.”

“We are not afraid,” Jaffar said.

Perhaps he was not; I covertly made the sign warding against evil, hiding it behind my thigh.

She paused a moment more, staring into his eyes. “You have paid the price,” she spoke without sentiment, “and I will honor your coin with my service.”

She motioned to the boy, who brought forth short red candles, which she lit. They gave off but little smoke. She then presented us with parchment, one small square each, of a peculiar wrinkled texture.

“What manner of paper is this?” Dabir asked.

“It is fashioned from the skin of Egyptian cats,” she said, whereupon my master fell to examining his own paper more closely. In truth it did not look to me to be animal skin, but I said nothing.

Then came the presentation of an especially old-looking stone inkwell, in which black ink rested, and a pen with a marvelously colorful feather. This she handed to my master.

“Breathe deep of the candle fumes, then write your name upon this parchment and set it within the bowl.” At this word, the youth placed a small brown bowl before each of us. I looked at Dabir, wondering if he too were concerned by Jaffar revealing his name to this woman, but he kept silent; Jaffar hesitated not at all.

My master leaned close to breathe in of the candle—which smelled faintly of cloves—put the parchment across his knee, and boldly wrote out his name. He then folded the paper and set it within the bowl. Next was my turn, and then Dabir’s, who had watched us closely at work.

In light of later events, I wish that I had paid closer heed to how the woman brought the bowls to her, but I saw only that she reached forth and set them near. She closed her eyes and began droning indistinct syllables. I thought them words of magic, and made again the sign casting off evil. It may be that she spoke some prayer. Whatever it was, she sat thus, with eyes closed, and back straight, mumbling for some minutes. The fumes spun about us and the flames of the candles flickered and the air felt heavy. The atmosphere was cavernous, as though we were somewhere quiet and secret, deep beneath the earth, rather than a mere few feet from the entrance to a Baghdad alley.

When the woman’s eyes opened, it was with such suddenness that my master flinched. Trancelike she reached for each bowl, held the parchment over the nearest candle, and dropped it back within. Three times she did this. Dabir started to say something, but held his tongue. The master and I were silent, though he glanced over at me, eyes alight with excitement.

Each of the papers flared and went out, leaving black ashes that glowed red at their tips; these the magic worker stirred clockwise three times with her fingers and observed in turn, her eyes blinking seldom. Finally she set the last of them down, and straightened.

“I have read the fates. Be warned—you may not wish to hear.”

“Speak!” Jaffar demanded, breathless.

“You.” Her gaze fastened upon Dabir. “You shall be known far and wide as a slayer of monsters and protector of the caliphate. Fame will go before and after you; heroes shall listen to tell of your exploits with envious ears.”

Dabir’s brow furrowed and he looked as though he might have asked for further detail, but the woman’s eyes fell upon me. I found that I could not help but meet them, and it was not at all like staring into the eyes of a courtesan; it was more like studying the immensity of the night sky above the desert.

“Your bravery will not be unknown, but in later days it will grow when you will take up the difficult weapons of pen and parchment; the fruits of these labors shall carry your name down the ages.”

Her veil rippled when she turned to face Jaffar. “High have you risen and higher still shall you rise, until you lose your head when you dare to love a woman beyond your station. Your master will weep, but he shall not spare you.”

The master blinked, then stared with rapt fascination and horror. His mouth opened, moved up and down, yet no sound came forth.

“You stand at a juncture,” the woman said to all of us. “If you delay, if you do not rise and take immediately to the street, none of this shall come to pass, and your lives shall be forgotten in the greater misery that shall follow.”

“Ah—” the master began, but the woman’s head fell forward, her shoulders slumped, and her breathing grew shallow. The stripling hurried to her side, and she reached feebly for him. He helped her rise.

“My grandmother must rest,” he said in a high piping voice. “No more than a few moments. If you wish to ask her further about her sight, you may wait.”

She leaned heavily upon him as he guided her through the curtains. My master meanwhile was still silently working his mouth, as though continued exercise might see sound evolve there.