The Waters of Eternity (3 page)

“No worthwhile assassin would leave a victim so close to something of his employers,” Dabir said.

We strode forward. My neck hairs rose, as though someone watched us, and I put hand to sword. I expected to sight the wolf-dog at any moment.

Something had attracted Dabir’s eye, and he reached for the doors. They, too, were rich with the words of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate. To my surprise, Dabir pulled one of them open. There was a thick lock inset in the door, but someone had unlocked it, or a thief had broken in and looted the place.

I did not mean Dabir to walk unguarded into a breeding ground of evil spirits, and grabbed his arm. “I shall go first.” I thrust open both doors and peered within.

There were but three bodies laid out in the dozen niches carved into the walls of the tombs. I sorrowed to see that one was an infant. The plaques below the level of the shelf where the other two shrouded bodies lay declared one as a man and the other a woman. I looked then toward where the body of the infant lay. Surely Marid had not been married to an infant, though it was not completely improbable. And then I espied an empty niche, inscribed with a woman’s name, Kahlya.

“The woman’s resting place is empty,” I said. And then I beheld a stranger mystery, for beside her name, in a long row, were four others. They had been scratched out with a stone or other sharp implement, with no great skill, and stood in stark contrast to the well-carved letters beside them. Further, a line had been drawn through the first three.

“Dabir,” I said, feeling a chill creep over me, though I knew not why, “there are four more names here—”

Dabir came suddenly to my side and stared at the letters. “This third is the murdered girl we found,” he said. “I expect the first two are the others.”

The fourth name was that of Iamar, sister of Marid.

“It is not yet drawn through,” I said.

Dabir turned quickly back to the door and crouched beside the lock.

I stepped around him, liking not to stand within the tomb any longer. “The assassin must be moving against Iamar—should we not protect her?”

Dabir rose. “Fool that I have been!” His face had taken on a peculiar ashen look. “Curse me for my arrogance, Asim!”

It was often hard to know how to respond when one of Dabir’s moods seized him. “Nay, it was writ in the book of fate that you should make whatever small oversight—”

“The lock has been broken from the inside, Asim.”

Dabir commandeered two mares from the nearby garrison and we rode through the wide streets of Mosul, galloping when we could, and disturbed so many folk that they shouted curses as we swept past. No doubt the house servant was surprised to find us, panting and reeking of horses, just outside his door, but we had no extra time. I pushed through him, demanding that Dabir be allowed to speak with Iamar.

Scowling, the old man led us once more to the shadowed courtyard. Once again the pleasant aroma of baking bread wafted from the oven, but this time Iamar already waited within the garden, weeping beside a body beneath a brown sheet. Captain Fakhir stood nearby, looking uncomfortable. He and Iamar glanced up at us in the same instant. Iamar’s tears abated somewhat, but her expression was a sad thing to behold. It did not warm me to have to convey what we had learned.

“What has happened?” I asked.

“Officer Marid died of his wounds,” the captain explained. “I brought him here with two men, and have remained to try and console the lady.”

“Your hakim let him die,” Iamar said spitefully.

The captain opened his mouth to respond, but Dabir stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Marid is innocent, but we must act quickly lest a horror befall him.”

“He is dead,” Iamar explained softly, as though addressing an idiot child.

“There are worse things.” Something in Dabir’s voice silenced her sobs. “He has been stalked by the ghul of his former betrothed,” Dabir continued. “She has attacked and killed all others whom she considered rivals, and removed their hearts so that they, too, will not transform into ghuls. For it is written that those slain by such a creature become like unto it.”

Iamar only looked piteously at us.

The captain laughed. “You cannot clear his name with this child’s fable. He is dead now, and the stain of his crimes will not shame his family. It can be forgotten, but do not claim that he is innocent.”

Knocking sounded upon the door. The servant sighed and left the courtyard.

“He is innocent!” Iamar cried, her aplomb shattered.

I picked up Dabir’s line of thinking and hastened to clarify. “We must cut his heart from his body, or he will rise,” I said. “By God, I am sorrowed by—”

Iamar’s eyes widened in shock. “No!”

There came a horrific masculine scream and the sound of smashing wood. Dabir and I whirled toward the archway that led to the door.

“What was that?” the captain asked.

A voice cried out from the front of the house. It was feminine and light, yet there was something strained and awkward about it, as if it had not been used in some time. “Marid!”

Some rasping, unnatural quality in its tone set saddle on my heart and spurred it to gallop.

“That is likely to be Kahlya,” Dabir said tightly.

“She’s dead!” Iamar objected.

“Lady,” I said, “she is coming for—” But before I could warn her, there came another eerie cry from the front of the house. It was closer now.

“Marid!”

The sheet fell away from Marid as he sat up.

Iamar let out a glad little cry and started for him, but his appearance gave her pause. His head hung at an odd angle to the left and he did not bother to correct it as he turned to take us in. The eyes were vacant, and fixed upon the doorway leading from the courtyard. He did not blink.

“Back!” I cried, drawing my sword. “Get behind me, lady! You are in danger!”

Iamar struggled against my arm. “No! He lives!”

“He is dead!”

What had been Marid rose with astonishing speed. Dabir had told me ghuls had great alacrity and strength as well, but I would rather not have seen him proven right.

The captain was no coward. He let out a roar and swung hard at his former officer. Incredibly, the corpse moved beneath the flashing steel and grasped his arm. Still its head was cocked at that uncomfortable angle.

There was a snapping sound, as of breaking bone.

Captain Fakhir cried out. He dropped his sword, and the corpse snatched it from midair.

There was no time for pleasantries. I shoved the woman back and leapt forward to block a downward swing toward the captain, who’d sunk to his knees.

Instantly Marid’s unblinking eyes were fastened upon me, and on came the rapid sword strokes. Half a swordsman’s tactics rely on watching his opponent’s face and body, and so I was immediately on the defensive. No cues came from those dead eyes; no body language betrayed his movements.

“Guard yourself, Dabir!” I cried.

Dabir did not respond. The corpse and I spun with a furious exchange of blows, and I caught a brief glimpse of something slim, in tattered white garments, gliding into the courtyard. Iamar screamed.

“Beloved!” came the rasping voice.

Marid paused a moment, and I drove my sword into his neck.

Immediately he struck back. I jumped backwards, but even so, his stroke cut through my jubbah and nicked my skin. I realized then I needed a wiser course. The only way to finish him was to cut his heart from his body. Clearly I could use no conventional attacks, for wounds caused no harm, despite the blood that trickled down his shirtfront. I would have to disarm him.

There was a blur of movement beside Marid, and the corpse staggered.

“Strike, Asim!”

Dabir had thrown himself at Marid’s legs, trapping them with his arms. Marid’s sword turned from me and raised to come down through my friend’s skull.

I cried out to God to guide my hand as I swung, and the flesh eater’s head sprang from his body. It struck the fountain with a dull
thunk,
like a melon falling from a cart, then splashed into the water.

The corpse wobbled a moment, then fell over.

Dabir looked up from the ground at me, and I down at him.

“I thought you needed to cut out their hearts.”

“That seemed to work just fine,” Dabir said.

The thing in white screamed and rushed for us. Dabir scrambled to his feet.

It had been a woman. Her hair was long and beautiful, and the remnant of her dress was sewn with lovely pearls and fine lace. Here and there it was splattered with mud and grit and darker stains. Her veil was still fastened about her ears, though it hung in tatters. Her skin was gray and dry, like parchment, and tightly drawn over the bones of her skull. Her eyes were dead, like Marid’s, but they burned with unholy fire and rage, and her thin, dark eyebrows drew into a storm cloud.

She rushed upon me, her arms extended, bony fingers splayed like talons.

“He was mine!” she cried, and her breath smelled of stinking bodies and offal.

If Marid had been as swift as a tiger, she was fleet as a gazelle, ducking and weaving effortlessly about me.
Ai-a,
my reach was greater, but so was her speed, and more than once did I dance away from those hands.

“Hold her, Asim! I will be there!”

“Mine!” she shrieked. “Mine!”

At least, I reflected, she had not advanced against Iamar.

I swung at an arm, but she moved it, leaned in to me to gouge at my eyes. I ducked and stumbled over something that groaned. I fell backwards over Captain Fakhir and onto the stones and my sword clattered across the pavement. Fakhir screamed in an unmanly way as the thing leapt over him. Its inhumanly sharp teeth were bared behind its veil.

“Dabir!” I shouted.

Dabir raced up from the left, brandishing two burning objects I recognized curiously for bread loaves.

The creature spun toward him. I summoned all my courage, for my instinct was to flee, and aped my friend’s previous act by encircling its legs. It was swift, but I caught one foot, which felt more like textured wood than skin.

From above came the sound of fire taking flight, and I looked up to find one of the ghul’s arms ablaze. It screamed. Dabir tumbled away, and the bread, trailing fire and smoke, fell to either side.

The eater of flesh burned well. It broke from my hold and ran this way and that as fire worked across its garments and up its torso.

Dabir kicked my sword to my hand and I rose, poised.

At last the ghul realized its salvation lay with the water, and it raced for the fountain. I cried out for God to guide my hands, and my aim was true. I sliced through one burning, upflung hand, then through the dried neck and an upraised arm. The head and limbs hurtled away in flaming arcs, then the eater of flesh fell, moving spasmodically until fire consumed it.

I gathered back my breath in great gasps. The captain sat huddled by a pillar, cradling his broken arm and staring with wide eyes.

“Iamar fled into the house,” Dabir said as he stepped up to me.

“Flaming bread?” I asked.

“It was all that I could find on or near the stove,” Dabir explained, a trifle embarrassed. “And it took a moment too long to catch ablaze.”

“Nay, you arrived in time. Though I really think you ought to get into the habit of carrying a sword.”

“Perhaps it was apropos,” Dabir ventured with a sly smile. “Bread is the staff of life.”

He was adept at many things, but his humor was often wanting.

Dabir later speculated that Kahlya had been attacked by a ghul in Raqqa, precipitating the whole affair, but was never fully satisfied with that explanation, for ghuls almost never attack the living—they prefer their meat more pungent. “Perhaps,” Dabir once said, “Kahlya had been cursed, or it may be that love for Marid drove her on, even after death. I cannot say.”

More immediately, the old manservant was found alive but stunned near the shattered door. Dabir put in a word for the captain with the governor, and he received a month’s leave to heal both his mind and body. Thereafter he was our firm friend, and often asked our aid. A fine fellow, Fakhir, though from that day on he had a tendency to assume anything peculiar was the fault of ghuls.

As for my font of beauty, I expected some word from her after Dabir and I made our farewells, but days passed without a single message. When no word came after a week, I went to her door, only to find it opened by a stranger. He told me that Iamar had left Mosul, and he, who had purchased her home, did not know where she had gone. He wondered if I knew what had caused the peculiar burn marks upon the courtyard flagstones, but I said simply that God had willed it, and left with heavy heart.

Dabir’s knock was answered by a short woman in black. It was difficult to guess the age of someone so heavily clothed, but the smoothness of the skin above her thick veil and the uncertainty in her eyes suggested youth.

“Your pardon, Lady,” Dabir said. “We seek the scholar Azzam ibn Yacoub. Is this his home?”

“It is,” she answered in a soft voice. Her eyes searched ours. “Who are you?”

Dabir bowed. “We are Dabir ibn Khalil and Asim el Abbas, come from Mosul to fetch him.”

Her gray eyes drifted back and forth between us. “Wait here,” she said, then shut the door.

Dabir turned to me with a frown.

“What greeting is that?” I asked. “Were they not expecting us?”

“The girl may simply be unused to visitors,” Dabir suggested, though he sounded doubtful.

We waited there in the muddy street, the afternoon sun warm on our backs. A relief, in truth, after all the rain we had endured over the last days.

When the reedy scholar, Azzam, opened his door a moment later and peered out at us, he claimed to know nothing of our coming.

Dabir fell instantly solemn at this news. “The vizier sent us here because of
your
letter. Word was sent for you to be packed and ready for departure.”

Azzam’s eyes flickered resentfully but his thin voice carried no disrespect. “I am honored that you have come, but it is no simple matter to ready everything I own for relocation. Days—weeks even—”

Dabir sighed and rubbed his high forehead. “Take three days.”

“But that is not enough! I will need to raise money to hire carts and horses and drivers—”

Dabir cut him off. “I have money. Tell me how many carts you require and I will make arrangements.”

After some dithering Azzam settled for four carts. I think Dabir would have sent me off to hire them, but Azzam did not welcome us into his home, saying that he had many preparations to make. He closed the door.

Dabir stalked away, his composure failing him at last. “He has not the courtesy of a mule!” He fell briefly silent, then launched into a list of further grievances as we walked. “A week and a half on the road, most of the time in the rain. And this is our welcome. And for what?”

I had no answer, and knew better than to interrupt one of Dabir’s tirades in any case. It annoyed him that Jafar, now the vizier, had not entrusted us with the reason this scholar merited so much effort. Dabir had mused and wondered and debated aloud for nearly the whole of our journey, sometimes even asking me if I might guess what this scholar knew that was so precious, which meant Dabir was surely desperate.

Whatever the fellow’s secret, it had so interested Jafar that he dispatched Dabir and myself with four soldiers to retrieve the fellow. Security was naturally a concern so close to the border with the Greeks, even though we were at peace in that year. Skirmishes and raids came almost as often as the change of seasons.

We returned to the battered, stone-walled caravanserai where we’d left the troops. They had finished rubbing down the horses and were settling down by cook fires. From the greasy caravanserai owner we learned his cousin might sell us carts, and turned down the street to find him as the sky grumbled and unsheathed forks of lightning. This set Dabir grumbling as well.

“At least we are not on the road,” I pointed out to him. “And tonight we will have better food.”

Dabir muttered something.

We had just entered a side street when Dabir stopped short and pushed against me. “Back!”

I retreated as he bade and we peered around the corner of the home.

Ten Greeks had entered the village on horseback. The villagers scattered, but the riders paid them no mind. All but one of them was bearded, helmed, and armored. The last was clothed in a dark blue tunic, riding-hose, and boots, with a red mantle. I knew the long-chinned face with its dark, narrow eyes instantly.

“Acteon,” I hissed.

“Come, Asim!”

Dabir moved swiftly and I went with him.

“To the caravanserai?” I asked.

“There is only one reason Acteon would be here.”

“He is after the scholar?”

“Indeed. We must get back to him immediately.” Dabir started down a side street at a run.

And so again we stood before Azzam’s door, my friend beating upon it with fervor. I sent a street urchin to retrieve our men, though I did not think they could arrive in time.

Again the girl answered.

“Your pardon, Lady,” Dabir said, and pushed open the door to step past her. “Azzam!” he cried. “We must leave, now!”

I heard protestations as Dabir moved farther into the house. I, though, remained in the doorway, looking out. Acteon might be troubled to find his way through the little town, but he would reach here soon enough. The girl watched me all the while, like a falcon.

“You’d best pack, little one,” I said. “The Greeks are coming.”

“I am not afraid of Greeks.”

“Eh, you’re a brave bird. They come for your father, and will rip him from your home.” Whatever it was the scholar knew, imperial agents had gotten wind of it. Perhaps they had intercepted Jafar’s letter back to Azzam.

Doubtless Dabir had already thought of this. However Acteon had come to hear of things, it was bad for us. He had all the subtlety of a hammer.

“Go, girl. Gather your baubles. We must leave, now.”

She blinked at me, then dashed away inside the home. I remained in the threshold, watching the street. Behind me I heard Dabir demanding the fool to move, telling him that his life was in danger.

Might it be possible, I wondered, that Acteon had come to the town for some other reason? Dabir did sometimes guess wrongly.

It was not so, for within moments I heard the pad of horses and the jingle of harnesses and the Greeks rode down the street, looking to the left and right with cool confidence, as though they owned all. I shut the door and barred it. We would have but moments.

“Dabir,” I called, “the Greeks are on the street.”

Inside were meager furnishings, old rugs, threadbare wall-hangings. Typical for a scholar, except for the pots. Everywhere were pots, large and small, many fashioned with interlocking patterns and swirls that were not displeasing. Also there were statues of men and beasts, of various sizes. I found Dabir with Azzam in a back room cluttered with even more pots and statuary. Both were shoving papers into satchels from a mass of documents and scrolls lying across a bevy of low tables. Azzam’s eyes stared in wonder and he moved sluggishly.

Something heavy rapped against the door.

“That is all!” Dabir said. “We’ve no more time!”

“But—”

“No more! Move! Where is the back door?”

The fool stared at us, blinking. “In the courtyard,” he finally answered.

The pounding on the door grew louder. A man with a Greek accent called out a greeting.

The door to the courtyard lay near the scholar’s nest. I threw it open and motioned them before me. “Go—where is the girl? Your servants?”

“I have no servants,” Azzam said, breathing hard as Dabir pushed him out. The girl came hurrying down the hall as another knock sounded, much louder. Again a Greek voice called, asking if this was the house of Azzam ibn Yacoub.

Weeds thrust up between the flagstones and the fountain reeked of brackish water. An immense clay oven occupied almost a third of the courtyard. Many houses had a second story, but there was none to Azzam’s house, only a high wall.

The door from the courtyard was stoutly fashioned of thick wood planks and locked with a rusted iron bar stretched across its center. This I removed and set beside a pile of crumbled stone. I opened the door a crack and peered out.

I faced a blank wall only a few feet away. By poking my head out I looked down the narrow alley toward the front. Nothing. The Greeks still banged upon the door.

“Hurry,” I said, and motioned Dabir through.

Dabir pushed the still protesting scholar before him and urged him onward around the corner away from the front. The girl, burdened only with a long cloth bag, scurried after.

It was as I stepped out that the first Greek moved into the alleyway. I heard his footfalls. In that shadowy space, under overcast skies, I would not have known him save that he did not wear the armor of the others. It could only be Acteon. He called out a greeting.

There was no love between Acteon and myself, yet I realized without really dwelling upon it that he could not recognize me in the poor light any better than I could distinguish him. If I were to flee, regardless of whom he thought I was, I would be chased. If I were to confront him, he would run, and then the chase would be in earnest, for he would know Dabir and I were after his scholar. All this came to me quickly, perhaps as quickly as Dabir’s reasoning on more weighty matters occurs. The next thing I knew I had grabbed one of the stones from beside the door and hurled it. The figure threw up a warding hand just as an armor-clad form came up behind him.

God decreed that my aim should be good and thus the stone struck him atop the head. Acteon folded in on himself and I fled down the alley amid Greek shouts.

Dabir waited for me at the end of the next corner, frantically urging me on with his hand. I caught up to him, saw that Harim and the men had arrived with our horses in the muddy back street. The thickset soldier was even now helping the girl mount a horse. The scholar sat hunched forward upon his already.

“Why did you delay?” Dabir demanded.

“I paused only to brain Acteon,” I said.

“Ho! Truly?”

“He lies now either stunned or unconscious. I do not think I killed him, alas.”

Dabir clapped my shoulder. “You bought us time. Quick, to saddle!”

We rode then in haste from the town. I looked back until it was lost to the foothills. There was no sign of pursuit, unless I counted the large man departing the city on foot. I caught only a glimpse of him before we descended a hill, but his long stride and stiff gait struck me as peculiar. I did not dwell upon it, though, and if not for later matters the sight of him would have passed from my memory.