The Waters of Eternity (21 page)

I lifted my blade. “Jaffar may be in danger. Come!”

We ran the length of palace to the guest wing, and my mind thought the while of those jewels that had watched me that afternoon. They must have watched us for many hours, if Dabir were right and the thing had followed us from the fight with the ruffians and to the caliph’s palace. How could such a thing be, and who had sent it after us?

Mahmoud and two guards stood at Jaffar’s side in a small reception room. The archduke and his son sat on cushions across from them, their eyes downcast in fear.

The master’s head snapped up and his eyebrows lifted at sight of us. “Dabir! You speak Greek! Talk to them! Asim, did you find the pulls?”

“The monkeys were gone, Master.” I started to add that they were already dead, but it seemed an improper time. And the idle thought dawned that there probably was no proper time to speak of monkeys that had no blood, yet moved with the strength of life.

“What shall I say to them?” Dabir asked, a little breathlessly.

“Ask them why they sent monkeys to steal the gold!”

“Master,” Dabir said, “if they sent the monkeys, then they are fools to remain here.”

“Do you think they will dare deny it?”

“I think they will.”

“Ask them!”

So Dabir muttered at them in Greek. “It is as I thought,” he said after several short exchanges, “they deny knowing anything about monkeys.”

“They lie!”

“They may. Yet there is something more here. If I might have your leave, I will question them further.”

The master waved him on impatiently.

And so Dabir fired questions at them and the Greeks answered with speed, though mostly the old one did the answering. After a time it seemed to me that he denied much, and I saw that the young one stiffened. I smelled fear upon them.

“Master,” I asked, “where is the Greek translator?”

“I know not,” Jaffar snapped. I think he was most worried that he had borrowed a treasure of the caliph’s only to have it stolen.

“Diomedes,” Dabir said after a much longer exchange, “is the true master. Not these.”

“What?” Jaffar demanded.

“These are but actors.”

“Then their punishment shall be swift,” Jaffar said in a low voice.

The Greeks were chattering now at Dabir, who held up a hand to them without turning from Jaffar.

“They are iconoclasts, unloved by Empress Irene’s court because they do not revere and worship images of the Christian saints and the prophet Jesus. They have been blackmailed into playing their parts.”

“How do you know they do not lie?”

“I suspected something amiss when Diomedes spoke for them. I thought at first he was merely too clever for his masters. But Diomedes has fled, and left them to take the blame, and they do not know what they should do.”

“They should pray to God, who is merciful,” the master said. “I am not disposed to be.” His voice was grim, but it sounded more tired than threatening. He put his hand to his head, but it was not so dramatic a motion as it sometimes was. “What is it they want from the door pulls?”

Dabir spoke to them in Greek once more. “They know almost nothing of the pulls.”

“What do they know?” Jaffar snarled.

Dabir spoke with them at length. There was much wringing of hands and bowing from them and Jaffar’s gaze went back and forth between the worried pair and Dabir.

“Where is Diomedes?” he said finally.

“He is fled with a Magian, a master of dark sorceries. They do not know what either of them desire to do with the pulls.”

“We must recover them both,” Jaffar said, grimacing.

“Yes,” Dabir agreed.

“But how? Mahmoud, take these away; they and their servants are to be kept in the dark until such time as I am better disposed.”

The Greeks tried to bow, but Mahmoud and the other guards marched them off. Jaffar ignored them and paced up and down. As the guards were leaving, Boulos slipped inside the room.

“You two must find them,” Jaffar said. “You must!” He shook his head. “But I do not know how.”

“Master,” Dabir said, “I may have the answer.”

“Indeed? What is it?”

“Give me leave of three hours. On my return, I may need a boat, or cavalry troop. I do not know which.”

“Both will be readied.” Jaffar eyed him. “You think Diomedes will flee by land or by water.”

“Yes.”

“How will you learn?”

“I have only a suspicion, not yet an answer.”

“Go, then. May God grant you victory. Captain, guard his steps.”

Thus did Dabir and I ride forth from the palace for the second time that day. The differences could not have been more marked. On the first, the sun had been high and its rays had warmed our backs. Now the winds were high and the dark sky growled all about us like an angry beast. Dabir and I rode at a gallop whenever possible. The streets were all but deserted; only a few very devout hurried through the murk, bearing lanterns for nighttime prayer at the mosques.

The muezzin’s summons echoed through the city, but we rode on. Long had it been since I ignored the call to prayer, and I thought it a bad night to distance myself from God, when I was riding off to parts unknown for a purpose hidden from me. I would like to have asked Dabir for further details, but we moved too quickly; it was not a time for speech.

After prayers were surely over, we reined in before a long dark building set across the street from a dilapidated bathhouse. Dabir swung down from his saddle and tied his mare under one of the building’s porticos.

“Where are we?” I asked as I joined him.

“A Magian temple.”

“Are the thieves here?”

“Unlikely. We’re after answers, Asim. Come!”

I went with him, though I felt only slightly less confused. I was loathe to leave my mare in such a place; even if there was no one about, skulkers were certain to be watching. Still, I followed him to the cedar doors standing at the height of three stairs.

Dabir pounded upon the wood. It sounded thick; an emblem of fire was carved with great skill on eye-level panels in both doors.

“What kind of answers do you need?” I asked. “Do these Magians know where the thieves are?”

Again he knocked. “That’s possible,” he told me, “but unlikely. I think the first door pull was stolen from the Magians. I want to know what
they
know of the things.”

One of the doors was pushed open just far enough for a youth to lift a lantern near his smooth face and stare out at us.

Dabir addressed him hurriedly. “Quadi Jaffar has sent us here. I must see your dastur.”

While I had no idea what a dastur was, the youth must have known the term, for he opened the doors to us, sketched a brief bow, and bade us enter.

We found ourselves in a large chamber held up by decorative arches. The young man said he would fetch the dastur then closed the doors, handed Dabir the lantern, and trotted into the darkness.

“What’s a dastur?” I asked.

“A holy man of the Magians. It is a priestly rank.” Dabir lifted the lantern and inspected the tapestries hung along the wall. Several depicted a white-robed, gray-bearded man of kindly demeanor. It was not a Muslim place.

“Who is that?” I asked.

“Zarathustra,” Dabir told me, “prophet of the Magians.”

“I know him not.”

“You should; he was very wise.”

I grunted. “You have been to a Magian temple before?”

“Nay, but I have read the Gathas, the most sacred text of the Magians.”

“The Magians,” I reminded him, “are not People of the Book.” Even the smallest children knew that God had revealed his word to the Jews and Christians, who had gotten some matters wrong, then finally to the Muslims.

“Wisdom is wisdom,” Dabir retorted shortly.

“Welcome to the hall of Zarathustra,” a measured, reasonant voice said from behind us. I turned; through the door the youth had just departed emerged an old man dressed all in white—robe, turban, and belt. He and Dabir exchanged bows.

“Dastur Esfandiar. Peace be upon you.”

“And upon you.”

“You know this man?” I asked Dabir.

“I met Dabir earlier,” the dastur explained, “when I was called to the home of Magistrate Jaffar.”

“This is Captain Asim,” Dabir said. “Please accept our apology for this late visit.”

Esfandiar nodded once. “Why have you come?”

“The plaque with the door pull I spoke of earlier; it has been stolen. As has its mate.” Dabir waited, watching the old man.

Ai-a
—why had he said anything of the pull to the old man?

“That is grievous news,” the dastur said at last.

“I cannot imagine what someone intends with these pulls,” Dabir said. “But I think you might.”

The old man sighed. “Come, then.” He turned to address the youth. “Gather refreshments for our guests.”

“We do not have time for refreshments,” I said.

“Oh?”

Dabir clarified. “Your pardon, Dastur. The longer our delay, the greater the distance the thieves can run.”

The dastur stiffened. “You would discuss sacred matters standing in an entryway?”

After a moment, Dabir lowered his gaze. “Bring refreshments,” the dastur said to his underling, turning once more toward the door.

“Might someone also see to our horses?” I ventured.

The dastur arched an eyebrow at me, then nodded his permission. His assistant disappeared into the night.

“It was once said,” the dastur proclaimed as he led us through his archway, “and you will forgive me if I do not recall the source, that a wise warrior cares first for his horse, then for his men, then for himself.”

I grunted my appreciation, still rankling over the slow speed of this enterprise. We did not have time for consultation with old men, who were ever wordy. I hoped Dabir knew what he was doing.

Esfandiar diverted right and we turned up a narrow flight of stairs. At their height the priest parted curtains for us and we looked in upon a small rectangular room, hung with a single Persian tapestry of great merit, woven with gold and crimson and vivid azure threads. The carpet and cushions were old and worn, though well cared for. Two candles already flickered in wall sconces; the priest stepped to a scroll upon the floor, rolled it tight, kissed it, and set it in a small chest along the wall, which he then closed.

He bade us sit, and lowered himself upon the carpet across from us. He did not speak until we joined him.

“I thank you again, Dabir, for turning the body of a believer over to us.”

“It was the proper thing to do,” Dabir replied. “Have you learned his family and name?”

“No. He was not, as I said, known to me.”

“He was a dastur,” Dabir said evenly. “This I saw. Likewise I recognized from the fabric in his kusti that he was from the north. Likely Mosul.”

The old man’s eyebrows rose. “You are correct. He was from Mosul. A message has been sent, and his family will be found.”

“That is good.”

“Did you also know,” the dastur said slowly, “that Mosul is where such a relic as you showed me has long been held?”

“I thought so.” Dabir stroked the edges of his spadelike beard, but did not elaborate. “One of your priests and a Greek agent have gone to great lengths to obtain the old door pull, and another much like it. They spent great monies to do so, and used dark magic. They set life to dead things to spy and steal for them.”

The priest frowned, but said nothing.

“I mention sorcery,” Dabir prompted, “and you do not blink.”

The scholar was right. I looked back and forth between the two book readers, more than a little impressed once more by Dabir’s ability to divine information.

“I know the man who stole this thing,” the old fellow finally confessed. “He was a priest, banished from his post three years prior. He … lacks balance.”

“Was he also from Mosul?” Dabir asked.

“Yes. His name is Firouz. He was clever, even as a boy. Once he was wise, even kind. But hate has twisted him.”

“Firouz,” Dabir repeated, almost as though he was not learning a fact so much as confirming a suspicion. He hesitated, glancing at me. “What does he hate?”

The priest studied Dabir for a time. “Firouz hates the caliphate, for its practices.”

“What practices?” I asked, perhaps a bit too sharply.

“Have you dwelled only in Baghdad, Captain?” Esfandiar’s voice was patient but chiding, as though he addressed a child. “The gold that floods the Round City is harvested from the provinces. The vizier is most efficient. If a farmer cannot pay rents due, then vizier Yahya buys his farm. If a merchant cannot pay his taxes, then Yahya confiscates his goods. Ever he reaps, even as the grain stalks groan beneath the scythe.”

I frowned at him. “You speak like a rebel.”

“I am no such thing,” he answered steadily.