Clan Novel Assamite - Book 7 of The Clan Novel Saga

by Gherbod Fleming

Sunday, 25 July 1999, 1:37 AM

  Spanish Harlem

  New York City, New York

  The drop was ridiculously close, dangerously close. Even following a circuitous route north through St. Nicholas Park and taking twice the usual precautions against being followed—one never could be too careful where the warlocks were concerned—Anwar covered the few kilometers to his destination in little over half an hour, and that included the call from a public phone to his contact to find out where he should go.

  Perhaps, he thought as he slipped past block after block of brick and concrete row houses in various states of disrepair, in a case such as this, involving an item procured from Clan Tremere, there was a certain wisdom in not keeping the goods—not to mention the procurer—on the street any longer than necessary. Who knew what spells the warlocks might have woven around the gem in question to help retrieve it if necessary? It was not beyond the realm of possibility that Anwar himself was somehow marked by his entrance into the Tremere chantry, stained by the very warlock blood he had claimed. Wouldn’t that be a fine last laugh for the traitorous warlock Aaron, who had admitted Anwar to the chantry and watched as he severed the spine and drank the vitae of the Tremere regent? What if the pale, despairing boy had planned for his own destruction and laid a trap for his assassin? But if that were the case, Anwar would have been betrayed while relatively helpless in the chantry…unless Anwar wasn’t the target.

  The thought occurred to him as he approached his destination. Despite the risk of prolonging his exposure, Anwar made an abrupt left turn around a corner. There were a considerable number of people on the street: youths, boisterous or sullen, looking for trouble; harlots seeking a fee; cast-offs, in the grip of their various addictions or hoping to be; the poverty-stricken, unable to afford air conditioning and seeking some relief from the summer heat. Anwar shielded himself from their minds easily enough. Also, he varied his pace widely—shuffle, jog, quick walk—and crossed the street back and forth several times. All the while, he kept a close watch for anyone who seemed to be interested in keeping up with him, anyone in the knots of humans who took notice of his erratic movements, anyone other than mortal who might still see him. He saw no one and continued on to the address given him over the phone.

  He ignored the iron staircase leading up to the front door of the three-story building and instead moved quickly down the cement steps to the recessed basement entrance of 2417-A West 119th Street. The entrance above possessed all the correct trappings of a small but respectable minority legal or financial firm—tastefully painted pine-green door, brass handle, knocker and fixtures, soft glow of a foyer lamp from within. The entrance before Anwar was less inviting, but what it lacked in charm it made up in security. The wrought-iron gate stood before a black, metal fire door. The windows on either side, though bricked up, retained burglar bars from an earlier era.

  Anwar stood directly in front of the door and pressed the small, unlit button to the side, holding it for thirty seconds, as he’d been instructed. As he waited, he tried and failed to detect the cameras that were undoubtedly observing him. A few short moments later, he heard metal sliding on metal—a heavy bar and then a bolt on the inside sliding free—and the fire door swung inward. No light came from within to backlight whoever answered the door. Anwar stared into deep shadow. The lock on the wrought-iron gate, apparently controlled by remote, clicked and that door swung open toward him. Anwar stepped into the cool darkness.

  The gate clicked closed, and then unseen hands shut the fire door behind him, making the darkness complete. Again, the sounds of metal on metal, this time sharp and clear, as bolt and bar slid home.

  Anwar’s keen eyes were beginning to adjust to the darkness when he was blinded by a painful blast of bright light. He blinked away the discomfort and found himself facing a darkly complected woman, though not so dark as himself. Her face carried neither the pallor of the recently undead nor the rich, dark hues of the long-time servant of Haqim. She was mortal then and approaching middle age.

  “Hold out your right arm,” she said without preamble.

  Anwar did so. She grasped his wrist with one hand, and with the other removed a syringe from the pocket of her rumpled cardigan. Without bothering to clear air bubbles—and what was the point, with no beating heart to damage?—she jabbed the needle into Anwar’s forearm and injected the black liquid from the hypodermic.

  “Wait here.” She turned and stood before the only other exit from the bare concrete room, another fire door, until the unseen bolt slid free with a click and she left. The bolt, Anwar noticed, again secured the door.

  From what he’d seen, he was adequately appreciative of the location’s defenses. The upstairs entrance, despite its softer appearance, was undoubtedly as secure, if not more so, than the basement. Once his eyes adjusted to the harsh glare of the interior lights, Anwar was able to spot the tiny lenses, three of them, hidden along the base of the light fixture. The fact that he could see the cameras told him that this room was purely a defensive feature—a rampart, of sorts—that would slow any intruder trying to reach the heart of the lair. There would be other rooms inside more suitable for concealed surveillance, chambers where no one, not even rafiq, would be so casually able to discern the spying equipment.

  Anwar nonchalantly stepped to the exact center of the room, beneath the light. None of the three lenses pointed directly down. There was, of course, another camera somewhere else, one he had not yet seen, that covered that area, but Anwar would at least let whoever was watching him know—and whichever of his superiors who received reports of his activities—that he was on to them.

  Before Anwar had pinpointed the location of the remaining camera or cameras, the bolt on the second fire door again slid free, and a large man in a business suit stepped into the room.

  “James. Walter James,” the man said, extending a hand.

  Anwar recognized the man by sight and knew that Walter James was not his name. It was likely, however, that the woman and other mortals in the building knew their employer only by that appellation, and so Walter James it was.

  “May the Eldest smile upon you,” said Anwar to his fellow Assamite as he clasped the offered hand.

  “And may your back be strong,” said Walter James. He did not release Anwar’s hand after shaking it, but instead slid his sleeve up to the elbow and inspected his forearm where the woman had given the injection. The skin was smooth and perfect, without any sign of the needle’s penetration.

  James smiled and clapped Anwar roughly on the shoulder. The large man indicated his guest’s forearm. “A formula from the amr. Had you been tainted by the warlocks, if they’d bewitched or tracked you, your skin would have blistered. Like an allergy test, in a way, with Tremere magic as the allergen.” Anwar nodded. “And if I were tainted?”

  James’s smile didn’t waver. “I’d have destroyed you.” He released Anwar’s hand. “And within ten minutes, this base would be abandoned. No trace to any brethren.”

  “Not even ‘Walter James’?”

  James shrugged. “A name. Nothing more. End of the line.”

  “And what if the warlocks didn’t use magic to track me? Electronic bug?”

  “You were screened before you stepped through that door,” said James. “But,” he quickly added, “we cannot be one hundred percent sure of every possibility, so let us commence with business. You have the gem?”

  Anwar reached within his robe and produced a folded cloth, unwrapped it. From its center, James took the red and black gem, then reached into his own jacket pocket. He removed a small box, placed the gem within it, and returned the box to his pocket. James’s pleasant, friendly smile was constant throughout, so much so that Anwar was reminded of a painted mask—face dark brown, teeth white, eyes as inviting and genuine as the smile itself. Anwar could imagine that smile, unaltered, as James severed the spine of a warlock, as Anwar had done. Here was a man who would have been an asset to the serpents had he not been chosen in service
to Haqim.

  “You are welcome to stay with us if you like,” James said. He brushed his hands together as if washing away any vile traces of warlock arts. “There is vitae, to which you are also welcome.”

  Only a short while had passed since Anwar had sated his thirst for blood and for vengeance. Yet those two were his constant companions, and indulgence was not the same as satisfaction. What he felt most strongly was the desire to roam. To hunt. Reclaimed blood within called for more. In this city, there would be more—Camarilla or Sabbat, New York harbored them both.

  “Many thanks,” said Anwar, “but I will not be staying. My purpose here is met.”

  “Very well,” said James, the gracious host. “You know to stay away from the warlocks’ chantry. They’re likely to be abuzz. Some Sabbat are around, though most of them seem to have scurried off to Washington—blood in the water, and all that.” He shook Anwar’s hand again, a bit too fervently, as was the American way.

  A few moments later and Anwar was again roaming the night, savoring the rush of Tremere blood, as well as the glory his deeds would garner him within the brotherhood. The mortals still loitered here and there, but he passed them by. Tonight he had a taste for richer blood.

  Wednesday, 28 July 1999, 10:01 PM

  A subterranean grotto

  New York City, New York

  Calebros tugged the thin, beaded chain of his temperamental desk lamp. The flickering light died, letting him bask in the tranquility of total darkness. He raked his claws back and forth across his scalp, enjoying the sensation, and tried to will the tension from his body.

  The pace of events had simply spiraled out of control, and much of that was his own fault. There was a danger in pulling strings without knowing exactly where they were attached.

  He tried to bury such thoughts and stretched his crooked spine. For a moment, in the darkness, he’d thought perhaps that he felt the tug of strings of which he was not the master.

  Tuesday, 17 August 1999, 8:59 PM

  Day chamber, Alamut

  Eastern Turkey

  Darkness. It gave way only grudgingly after she opened her eyes. There was no window amidst the great stone blocks to allow light of moon or stars to enter, but slowly the surface of the stones became apparent. Then the thin, ordered crevices that were the boundaries between mammoth slabs. Eventually texture, too, revealed itself to her. The smooth surface of the ceiling and walls was occasionally interrupted by tiny pock-marks, unilluminated constellations sprinkled across the interior sky.

  For the briefest instant, Fatima clung to the comforting oblivion that was her rest, but the fog lifted from her wits before even the darkness had settled into its familiar patterns of gray, black, and purple. Quick of mind, strong of spirit; thus had she ever been. And unfailing in service to the needs of her people.

  She slid her legs from the stone pallet and sat upright on her stiff sleeping mat. There was no blanket to kick away. She who climbed the mountain had no fear of cold. No pillow, no fine or even threadbare sheets graced her bed. Day, by necessity, was a time of rest, a time for the blood of Haqim to heal the body if need be, but to accord those hours luxury was to begin along the road of slothfulness. To waste an hour, even a minute, was not to take a step on the true road, the road of the hijra, that could have been taken. And for one who was chosen to walk the night eternal, wasted minutes grew into wasted hours into wasted years—years that should have been spent serving the Eldest, and the ikhwan, the brotherhood. For how many more years would the children of Haqim have suffered under the curse of the kafir warlocks had not wise al-Ashrad dedicated himself so unfalteringly to its breaking?

  Fatima rose from her pallet. She shed her garments, donned fresh, white robes, then stepped across the tiny cell to a fired-clay basin. In the darkness, the water within lay still like a great salt sea of the desert as it would appear from a mountaintop miles away, and when she dipped her fingers into the sea, concentric dunes rippled across the great expanse. The water she raised to her face was cooled by the night but was not so chill as her mahogany skin. After her face, she methodically washed her hands, then forearms. Droplets clung to the discolored scar tissue on her right arm, a pale mark of poison that would fade only with time, if at all. She dried with a rough towel, then turned to her templum, facing the tiny alcove, nearly due south, in calm repose. The woven patterns of the prayer rug beneath Fatima’s feet were largely lost to the darkness.

  She raised her open hands: “Allahu akbar.” Then clasped them together: “All praise be to Allah, Lord of all the worlds, most beneficent, ever-merciful, king of the day of judgment. You alone we worship, and to You alone turn for help. Guide us to the path that is straight, the path of those You have blessed, not of those who have gone astray.

  “Say, God is One, the eternal God, begetting not and unbegotten; none is equal to Him.”

  Fatima leaned forward from the waist and placed her palms on her knees: “Allahu akbar. I extol the perfection of my Lord the Great.” She stood erect again: “Allahu akbar.”

  “Allahu akbar,” she repeated, having prostrated herself on the rug. She touched her forehead to the floor, then rose to sit on her heels, hands resting on her thighs: “Allahu akbar.” Then sujud a second time, prostrate, surrendering to God: “Allahu akbar.”

  A full rak’ah completed, Fatima offered her prayer twice more. As she uttered the ritual words of salah, the moments drew out. The sound of her voice, of her faith given form, stretched back across the centuries; it touched her sense of what was, and she became again what she had once been—a young woman, a girl, surrendering herself to God, offering herself to Him in hopes that she might be worthy to defend her family, her home, from the kafir. In those days of innocence, she had seen and felt the ravages of the mortal barbarians, but she’d been ignorant of the monsters that clung to the deep shadows of the Christians’ passing, ignorant of the true beasts, creatures of blood and unending death of whom the mortals were mere puppets. Now, she knew better. Much better. But never did she lose heart.

  Amidst the serenity and surrender of the salah, Fatima was again that innocent girl, as she had always been, devoted to God, an instrument of His will.

  La ilaha illa ’lLah. There is no god but God.

  Wa Muhammadan rasula ’l-Lah. And Muhammad is the messenger of God.

  None of the years upon years since, nor all the sand that blows across the face of the desert, had robbed her of this. She was Fatima al-Faqadi, named for the daughter of the Prophet.

  SaUa-’l-Lahu ’ala sayyidina Muhammad. May Allah cause His prayers to descend on our lord Muhammad.

  Al-salamu ’alaykum wa rahmatu ’l-Lah. May peace and the mercy of God be with you.

  Fatima was atop the battlements reviewing the fida’i on watch when the messenger found her. The sky was clear tonight, a black dome of ether that seemingly stretched not so far beyond the surrounding peaks and hugged them close to Alamut. The Eagle’s Nest was nigh unapproachable, save by one route through the treacherous crags and chasms. Hundreds of feet below, assassins more aged and accomplished than the fida’i patrolled a perimeter of many miles and controlled every approach. In addition, the mystic shrouds woven by the amr, greatest of Assamite sorcerers, hid the mountain fortress from eyes modern and arcane, spy satellite and wizard alike.

  The captain of the watch and those in his charge had acquitted themselves relatively well. There was, in Fatima’s opinion, however, considerable room for improvement. Though the guard was unlikely ever to be confronted with actual intruders, the assignment, as a matter of training and discipline, was not one viewed lightly by the elders. Much of an assassin’s time, in fact the majority of his or her hours spent plying the trade, was occupied by watching and waiting. Constant vigilance was essential. Skills of observation were of equal importance to proficiency with weapons, poison, or disguise.

  Fatima questioned various members of the watch relentlessly regarding countless details that would have escaped a wandering mi
nd: the number of circuits they’d made along their assigned section of the battlements, the approximate drop in temperature in the last hour, the names of certain stars and constellations, shifts in wind direction… One neonate’s estimate of the height of a nearby mountain peak did not satisfy Fatima. She sent him to scale the peak.

  The fida’i responded satisfactorily to most of Fatima’s questions. Though relatively young in the blood, these children did Haqim much honor. Otherwise, they would never have progressed so far. Starting with the intensive screening process that began long before any mortal knew that he or she was being observed, the wheat was sifted mercilessly from the chaff. Only candidates of unquestioned potential were ever introduced into the outer mysteries of the Path of Blood, and only those who took definite strides in fulfilling that potential, after seven years of study as mortal and ghoul, were initiated into the brotherhood—where their virginal feast was upon those less worthy candidates who had trained beside them.

  The messenger stood nearby patiently, not stepping forward until Fatima had completed her inspection. Despite the youthful appearance of his dark-skinned face, Fatima knew the messenger to be of the family Marijava and a ghoul who had served faithfully over four centuries in the service of Amr al-Ashrad, grand sorcerer of the children of Haqim.

  “The amr would speak with you,” said the messenger, eyes downcast in deference to Fatima.

  Fatima nodded curtly and started along the battlements at once. The messenger fell in step behind. The caliph still had not responded to her requests for audience; she had not so much as seen Elijah Ahmed since the attack by the Kurd. Perhaps the amr wished to speak to her about that matter. Fatima, though sensitive to matters of protocol, was not accustomed to being put off for weeks on end, even by members of the du’at.

  She and the messenger traced a route down steep, carved stairs, open to the alpine night, then into the mountain itself and along stone corridors awash with the sounds of activity: metal ringing against metal; grunts of exertion, frustration, and pain; bodies landing hard on stone. Everywhere, in every room they passed, fida’i trained. They sharpened their skills with blade and staff. In the Hall of Ikhwan, a group practiced grappling and throws. As Fatima and the messenger descended farther, the sound of muffled gunfire met their ears; the sound might have come from miles away, but such was not the case. The firing was right there with them, in the mountain. Several decades before, a great hall had been transformed into a shooting range and spells woven to dampen the reverberant explosions. With death, as with any art or profession, time and technology brought change. The purists had once cried out against the crossbow, the compound bow. Now, the assault rifle, the sniper rifle, were often the weapons of choice, and the purists were left to lament the shameful inexperience of fida’i with the bow—a charge that, of course, lacked merit. Fatima, among others, saw to it that no aspect of an initiate’s education was neglected. The old ways had long since proven their worth, yet humanity was constantly devising new and more efficient ways to kill.