The Waters of Eternity (17 page)

We were to be rudely surprised.

As I was wiping my hands on a napkin, Dabir entered, burdened with books and scrolls. I hurried to assist him as the poet rose with a greeting.

I caught one of the scrolls as it rolled about on top of Dabir’s stack. “What did you find?” he asked me.

“More coins than you might think.”

Dabir set the books and papers on a table and walked to the piles of money, which he eyed critically.

“We counted them for you,” the poet told him.

“You mixed the coin purses together?” Dabir sounded horrified.

“Yes,” Hamil answered.

Dabir put his hand to his face.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you trying to ruin me, Asim?”

“What is it?” I was solicitous; I was all too aware that I had put the man’s career in jeopardy by suggesting his name to Jaffar earlier today.

“Which coins came from which man? Do you have any idea?”

The poet and I traded glances. “Well,” I ventured, “the man who had the door pull had few coins upon him at all. The others had a month’s wages.”

“Your pardon—what could the coins tell us?” Hamil asked.

“All manner of things,” Dabir said quietly, “to those who would look.”

“I looked,” I said, “but I did not see anything.”

“Exactly! Those Greek coins, there—from whom did they come?”

“The ones who attacked us,” I answered.

“Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? It might be important!”

“I’m sure,” I answered, although now that he mentioned it, I couldn’t be, completely.

“He is right,” the poet said.

“Why do you think these Greek coins were in the possession of these men?” Dabir asked.

“They’re Greeks?” the poet offered helpfully.

“No, a Greek paid them,” Dabir said. He stepped to one of the bodies. “Look here, at these men, and their finery. These are not their normal clothes, judging by their treatment. Do they otherwise seem the sort of men to wear such excellent garments?”

“Do you think them stolen?” the poet asked.

“No—see how well they fit. These are but recently purchased. Someone paid them well to do something.”

“Somebody Greek,” I said.

“Probably.” So saying, Dabir bent over the men who’d attacked us and tore open their jubbahs to reveal old, stained undergarments, as though to confirm his earlier suspicion. He studied their footgear momentarily, then spent a much longer time going over the victim, inspecting boots, belt, sleeve, even his beard. The poet hovered nearby, watching all.

“What do you see?” Hamil asked.

“These two are no more than we supposed. I would we could trace them back to the neighborhood from which they were hired, but I lack the necessary information. This man, though…”

Dabir undid the fellow’s sword belt and opened his robe. Beneath it was a thin white garment. “His sudre. He was Magian. Note also the belt he wears here. I glimpsed it while I was seeing to his wound.”

“A wool belt? It holds nothing up.”

“It is a symbol of faith. Those who revere the fire tie and untie it while praying. It is woven,” Dabir continued, “from seventy-two threads, to honor one of their holy texts.”

“Was it a Magian door pull?” I asked.

“It does not seem to be.” Dabir climbed to his feet. “Hamil, would you call for the slaves? These men must be shrouded. This other—the Magians have different rites.”

“The fire worshippers leave their dead exposed to the elements,” the poet said. “As like we can throw him into the alley.”

“They do not worship the fire,” Dabir said. He sounded faintly annoyed. “Do you worship the rug upon which you kneel?”

Hamil stared at Dabir in answer.

“Send word for a Magian priest. They will want the body. It may be that they will recognize this man.”

The poet bowed his head and left without complaint. I did not yet understand that Dabir could inspire people who might normally be contentious into aiding him because they desired involvement in the unraveling of his mystery.

Dabir carefully rubbed his hands with a cake of soap and rinsed them in the bowl of water the slaves had brought, then considered the food. The sherbet had melted; Dabir selected a wrinkled fig.

“Dabir,” I said, “if you translate the scratches on the door pull, Jaffar will be so pleased he is likely to forget the magic woman’s words.”

“He will not forget. He knows I can translate this, which he desires. If it pleases him, he will pass me on to some other house, likely the caliph’s.”

I smiled. “Then you will wax higher.”

His look was dark and long, and I could not escape the feeling he thought me stupid at that moment. His tone, when finally he spoke, was not welcoming. “The caliph’s household is large; he is surrounded already by courtiers who do not wish for rivals. And I am not especially interested in sparring with them for a place. Besides, I am pleased with my work here. Was pleased.”

I spread my hands. “Allow me to speak with Jaffar, on your behalf. I think I can persuade—”

“You have done enough, I think, today.” Dabir sat down heavily with one of the books and began to read. He made no other sign to me, nor did he speak.

Almost I spoke against his rudeness, but I held my tongue as I departed, though I did not leave off slamming the door behind me. Somehow it did not satisfy.

It occurred to me that the old woman had, indeed, confused the bowls and that Jaffar likely did Dabir a favor that he did not appreciate; moreover, that if it had not been for me, Dabir would not have learned he was destined to die for love of Sabirah. Now he might yet change his fate, if such a thing could be done, and he had me to thank.

I spent the rest of the afternoon rounding through my duties; inspecting the arms of the men, the organization of the barracks, and the overall security of the palace. All the men under my command there were dependable, for Jaffar had given me authority to hire and fire as needed, but that did not mean they were not tempted sometimes to cut corners. I set three to work polishing helmets that had been neglected.

For most of that afternoon and early evening I thought only of my duties, but my mind turned occasionally to Dabir and the bodies and the pull. Would he be able to translate the thing, and what would it say? Were the men I’d slain after it solely because it was gold, or had they, too, valued the words? Would I be renowned as a slayer of monsters? What monsters, and from whence would they come?

What use asking questions for which I had no answers? I put them from my mind.

I was leaning over a shatranj board across from my nephew Mahmoud—my chief lieutenant—just after evening prayers, when there came a knock upon the door. Mahmoud bade the knocker to enter, and Boulos himself stuck in his head and asked for me. The chief eunuch explained why as we walked.

“Mistress Sabirah desires a word with you,” he said.

“What is this about?”

“You do not know?” he asked.

“No.”

“Hmm. I was hoping you did.” He chewed on that thought a moment as we advanced through the shadowy corridors. Here and there torches flickered in cressets set into pillars, but despite them, evening always lent the palace a cavernous feel. Expensive carpets dulled our passage, but every eight feet or so there was a gap, and our boot heels would echo on the flagstones for two paces before we crossed again to fabric.

“Did you really slay two men in the space of a single breath?” Boulos asked.

I thought for a moment. “Perhaps three breaths.”

“Zip, zip, zip!” Boulos brandished an imaginary sword before him, then chuckled. “A Magian priest arrived and spoke with Dabir at length before leaving with the other fellow’s body. I would give much to know what they said! You know how closemouthed Dabir is. And he seems in a mood besides.”

“He said nothing to me.”

Boulos tried prying out more information about our trip, but I was seasoned enough to ask if Jaffar had shared details with him yet, and Boulos was wise enough to admit to me that the master had not.

“The master,” I said, “may intend to surprise the caliph with the story and not wish it spread.”

“You can tell me, Asim, for I am the very soul of discretion.”

“Boulos,” I said, “you are known far and wide as a fine relayer of tales, which is to be commended. But in this instance, it is not to be encouraged.”

Boulos pouted, but fortunately by this time we had reached the harem. Here the halls were not so lofty, and more narrow as well, though decorated with even finer hangings. Gold filagree showed upon some of the door lintels. The floors were of stained wood.

He conducted me through the central hall and into Sabirah’s apartments. She sat beside a screened window, through which fading sunlight shone. A candle flickered upon the sill.

Boulos and I were both permanent fixtures of the house; he the chief slave and me guardian of the family blood, and thus Sabirah did not bother with the veil. Perhaps it was the wan light or her grim countenance, but she seemed older than her eighteen years. One of her serving girls sat in the corner reciting a sura. Sabirah corrected her, then requested she leave off.

“Mistress,” Boulos said, “here is Captain Asim, as you requested.”

“Thank you, Boulos. You may go.”

“You do not wish me to remain?” There was almost a rebuke in the tone of the smiling eunuch’s question.

“Ghadya is here,” Sabirah said, flicking her fingers toward the serving girl.

Still Boulos hesitated.

Sabirah was unexpectedly sharp-tongued. “Do you linger because you did not hear, because you do not trust the captain, or because you are desperate for new gossip?”

Boulos bowed. “Your pardon, Mistress.” He bowed thrice more and backed out, closing the door behind him. Sabirah watched him the while, and so he dared no instructional side looks to me or Ghadya.

Sabirah listened for the creak of Boulos’s feet upon the floorboards as he departed, then turned to the serving girl. “Leave us.”

“Mistress?”

Sabirah pointed to an archway on her right. The servant girl rose and left, with a backward glance at me. She worried, as did I, as to Sabirah’s unseemly behavior.

“Sit, Captain. What? Do you fear my uncle believes me in love with both you
and
Dabir?”

“I worry as to your reputation and my head.” I reluctantly settled onto the floor in front of the door.

“My uncle has told me that Dabir is to be sent away and that I am to be married soon. What do you think of that?”

“Eh. Congratulations, Mistress.”

She scowled. “I am still in mourning.”

Two years prior her marriage had been but a week off when the would-be groom died on the wrong end of a Greek lance. Sabirah had never met the fellow, but had expressed grief with great alacrity. The charade had been taken up by both Musa and Jaffar as an excuse to further the education the girl so craved, but everyone knew another marriage had been delayed too long. My own look at that moment must have conveyed my opinion on the matter, for she stared sharply at me. “What did you do?” she asked in a fierce whisper.

“Me?”

“This is all
your
doing!” Sabirah pointed menacingly at me. “Jaffar tells me that it was you who suggested Dabir accompany you to the market. What happened there? Uncle will not say!”

“I do not think—”

“Tell me, Captain!”

“If your uncle would not say, then it is not—”

“Did he forbid you from telling me?”

“Nay.”

“Then I command it.”

God had seen fit to heap troubles upon me that day. “Mistress,” I said slowly, “it is not that simple, and you well know—”

“I command it, Captain. So help me—” She stood up from her cushion and began to pace in front of the window. “You do not want me for your enemy!”

“Indeed, nor do I wish to anger your uncle.”

“Surely it would anger him to hear that you had not obeyed a command from me?”

I said nothing, and her eyes narrowed. She stood over me, glowering, while I considered my options.

“It is true that I suggested Dabir accompany us. The rest was but fate.”

Bit by bit, pacing most of the while, she pried the story from me. My battle held little interest for her. Again and again she asked for details about the bowls and the fortune-telling.

“It is clear to me,” I concluded, “that the magic woman confused the bowls.”

“Is it?”

“Dabir is no monster slayer, and I am no writer.”

“So you trust this woman to read your futures?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

“So you believe that she is wise enough to foresee the plan of Allah, yet can become confused about the contents of bowls?” Sabirah seemed almost to be quaking with anger.

“It could happen to anyone,” I admitted.

“You yourself said she was looking right at you as she pronounced these destinies!”