Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  Sharon’s eyes darted up and down the bazaar; she brushed away dragonflies, searched carefully among the thick rows of stalls. Across the way, where a camel marched slowly to the whip of his rider, she saw the beggar. The blind man was as thin as a rail; he sightlessly pleaded to passers-by.

  Crossing the byway, she shied her gaze once more; three soldiers had brusquely dragged a suspect from a sandalmaker’s musty shop. The crowds paid scant attention while the stern guards viciously shoved the hapless citizen down an alley. Such arrests were common in Samarkand, all the more so since the still-mysterious death of noble Gamal. It was no secret that Lord Jamuga had taken control of governing the city proper, and he abused the masses more than even Kabul himself.

  The beggar’s head tilted her way; Sharon paused. “Alms, for the love of God,” muttered the sightless petitioner. Sharon drew a copper and placed it in his palm. “The Prophet’s blessings upon you,” he said, stooping and humbling himself. “May the children of your children —”

  “I seek not fortune but glory in its place,” Sharon told him in a quick, low voice, speaking the hidden greeting of the Brotherhood.

  At this, the beggar stopped dead, cocked his head, narrowed his hazed eyes and stared at her so piercingly that Sharon wondered if he truly were sightless.

  “How may I return your favor?” he asked cautiously.

  Quietly, she said, “I am told you are Adnan; I come to you to find the apothecary.”

  “You ask much,” he answered.

  Her reply was swift and proper, “In return for much that I have to give. Now quick, old man. Where do I find him? My matter is urgent.”

  The beggar back-stepped, the disguised pilgrim following casually so as not to attract attention. “Down there,” mumbled Adnan. “Follow the street until you reach the empty shop.” Then before she could say another word, he was gone, hobbling away, hands outstretched and seeking another benefactor.

  Sharon walked cautiously. Near the comer of the street she stopped. In front of her stood a hovel, bleak, doorless, and foreboding. Warily, certain she was not secretly observed, she stepped inside. The shop was dark, empty save for a counter near the back and a few shelves laden with dark vials. A centimeter of settled dust scattered across the floor, a dim odor hinted of stale medicines. In the recesses of the shadows she waited, aware that here, mere steps from the busy marketplace, the outside world seemed to eerily stop. Like time suspended, as though she had stepped across the threshold of the netherworld the witches had long ago told her of.

  “Yes?” came a sudden whisper of a voice, and she turned to see a man standing behind the counter, a potbellied, round-faced, bearded man.

  She cleared her throat. “I have come to see the apothecary,” she announced.

  Her host stared a long while, then said, “I am the apothecary. Who sent you?”

  “The Brotherhood.”

  He eyed her skeptically. Sharon let down her veil, stood defiantly as he studied her features. “You are not a Kazir,” he said at last.

  She shook her head. Then, wary of saying too much, she replied, “I am their trusted emissary.”

  The apothecary smiled; he heightened the flame of his oil lamp, watched her carefully as shadows danced back from the light. “I know who you are,” he told her. “I know exactly who you are.”

  Sharon’s facial muscles tightened. How? How could he possibly know?

  Enigmatically, as if reading these secret thoughts, the apothecary said, “No harm will come to you in my shop, Panther. Take your hand from your knife.”

  He’d seen that, too! But how could he possibly...? She withdrew her hand from the hidden blade, stood with her arms clasped together. “You know much, apothecary. Such knowledge can cause you grave peril.”

  He smiled at her mysteriously. “What do you want?”

  “The same as you,” she answered swiftly, mincing no words. “To rid Samarkand forever of this Khan and his hordes.”

  “The Kazirs are my enemies,” he said.

  “As once they were mine as well. But we have much in common, you and I. Our feud should have died long ago, the day Kabul took this empire by force.

  He admired her courage, her defiance of him even though she stood within his grasp; yet despite this, she spoke on behalf of his foe, the savage and free tribes of the steppes and deserts who for a century and more had fought to win Samarkand back from his own people. Her people also — once. “There are those who would call you a traitor,” he said. “There are those who would say you have betrayed both your home and land; that you have become no better than those whom you would destroy.”

  “The world is filled with fools, apothecary. While we stand divided, you and I, the sons of Kabul plot further conquest. To enslave us all. Is not the scourge of the Huns a worse plague than any Kazir has ever been?”

  He mulled over her words slowly. Yes, he knew she was right. The Huns were indeed a plague, the Kazirs the only ones standing in Kabul’s path of complete conquest.

  “What do you want of me?” he asked at length.

  “My agents say you have spoken with the Persian, Lucienus. He, in turn, knows where Le-Dan can be reached —”

  “The Persian ambassador has returned to the court of the sanshah, Panther. Carrying with him the offers of the Khan for alliance.”

  Sharon ground her teeth, glared at the apothecary. “Persia will never align with the barbarian,” she seethed.

  “Oh? How can you be sure?”

  “Because Persian blood flows as much in my veins as it does in yours! Because even the Kazirs share the same root of the same tree. Because good will never bow before evil.”

  Outwardly the strange apothecary was emotionless; inwardly he felt inspired by her fervent belief. “I have no say over such matters, Panther. If you thought otherwise, you have come here on a fool’s errand. Return to your steppes while you can. Tempt not God’s protection of you, lest you find yourself in Kabul’s dungeons.”

  He was toying with her now, she knew. Precisely because of Kabul’s dungeons she had come here today, risked her very life to speak with the one man she was certain could help. The news that Carolyn had sent of Karim’s attempt and capture had sunk her optimism like a leaden weight. Everything was now in peril; time was ever short, minutes and seconds taking on powerful meaning. There was no way she could get at Karim; the saya would have to do it herself. But Sharon also knew that Carolyn’s own timetable had been badly damaged. The awaited Night of Atonement must be pushed forward — dangerously forward. Her appearance before the apothecary told just how desperately she needed help.

  “I shall be responsible for Kabul’s dungeons,” she said at last. “Yes, and for all the palace as well.”

  His smile returned. “Then why are you here? Go then, fulfill your Kazir prophesy.”

  “Not merely the Kazir’s prophesy,” she reminded. “But the will of Allah. God himself has set forth the tasks before us; He alone has ordained what must be.”

  “Then again I must ask: Why are you here?”

  Should she trust him, she wondered. Take her chances? Speaking of what was to come with an outsider was risky. There were those in the Stronghold who would have cut out her tongue before letting a single hint of what was to be openly spoken. Yet what else could she do? It was no longer in her hands.

  “Get word to Le-Dan,” she said coldly, deciding to take the risk. “Offer him our support and help against the armies along the frontier.”

  The apothecary’s brows rose. “You would expect General Le-Dan to commit his entire force against the barbarians on such a promise? You cannot be serious, Panther. Aye, it is true that Le-Dan plans for the day he may march against this butcher — but only when he knows the time to be right, only when he is certain of Persia’s full support.”

  “There is no time for that!” cried Sharon with flashing eyes, pounding an open hand on the counter. “If Le-Dan truly loves Samarkand — as he claims — then in God’s name force him to
act!”

  Uneasily, the apothecary said, “I will be frank with you, Panther. My own ears inside the palace have told me of what’s happened. This trader, this Karim, can ruin everything. You see, even Le-Dan has his agents within those terrible walls. And because of the attempt upon the Khan’s life, and because of the unsolved manner of Lord Gamal’s peculiar death, our agents have urged us to temper our plans with extreme caution. You see, unlike you, we have no prophesy to fulfill.”

  “You are a fool, apothecary!” she snapped. She leaned over the counter, eye to eye with him. “You must urge General Le-Dan to muster his forces at once! Sweep across the frontier, then march upon the very wails of this city we both love.”

  As shadows crawled along his hawkish features, the apothecary kept a steady gaze. “I do not trust what you tell me, Panther. Nor do I trust these Kazirs you lead against Kabul. Your desert Phantoms. Should Le-Dan agree to your offer and march, how do we know that you don’t plan some treachery against him, eh? How easy for your Kazirs to watch over the battle, allow each side to deplete the resources of the other, then, at the opportune moment, strike at us both, claim yourselves as masters of Samarkand over my general’s corpse!”

  “That is a lie!” she flared, shaking as she glared at him, his mistrust plain to see. “Neither I nor my forces would ever go back on a word freely given.”

  His smile deepened. “Prove it.”

  It was now or never, she was sure. She must tell this man as much as she dared, hoping against hope he would believe her.

  “There is a night coming, apothecary,” she began, speaking in a voice that was barely a whisper. “A night like no other in all the histories of all the world. The fulfillment of the Kazir prophesy, the Night of Atonement. The final and absolute judgment when this Khan and all his sons shall pay for their crimes. I swear this to you, apothecary, fully knowing my own fate. And when the dawn of the darkness comes, the halls of the palace shall cry out with the ghosts of the slain.”

  Her companion involuntarily shuddered as she told him these things; he could feel the short hairs curling on the nape of his neck, feel the power of her voice eat into his soul. Aye, these were strange folk, these desert Kazirs. Experience opposing them assured him that once a promise was made, it was no empty boast. If this Night of Atonement was to come, then it was to come soon — much sooner than he had ever dreamed.

  Darkly, he said, “When, Panther? When will you strike?”

  Mysteriously, Sharon answered, “With the coming of the Wind. The Devil’s Wind...”

  She spoke of things rarely mentioned during hours of sunlight, ancient, mystical beliefs from the depths of the Grim Forest where men of sense never set foot. “Do you speak of a hamsin?”

  She lifted her hand, balled it into a tiny fist and wielded it before his startled eyes. “A hamsin like none before, apothecary. Fire to fire, ash to ash, as the witches foretold. The Night of Atonement, apothecary. Let the people of Samarkand bolt their shutters and cower in their beds. For when it comes...” Her words trailed off.

  Mesmerized, he repeated the name of the Devil’s Wind.

  “Yes,” she instructed him. “That will be the signal. Let General Le-Dan prepare for it and wait. Until then he need not engage the Huns in battle, only gather his armies and be ready to take the city.”

  Then she stepped away, a mere apparition herself in the dimmed light.

  “Do we have a bargain, you and I?” she asked.

  He looked at her long and hard, at last nodding, half out of honest desire to aid her cause, half out of sheer fear of the Devil’s Wind she predicted. “You can trust me to relay the message at once,” he said. “But understand that I can only advise Le-Dan, not order him. The final decision will be his and his alone.”

  Her smile posed an unfathomable riddle. “That is all I ask of you, apothecary,” she said, slipping back toward the waning light of the street. “Send your carrier pigeons immediately, and wait for the appointed hour. For Samarkand — nay, the world — shall never be the same.”

  Chapter Twenty

  The dream was the same as always, as vivid and real as the very day it happened, never changing, never changing. The chamber was dark now, as it had been then, the slumped body of the slain emir at his feet, the dagger ripped through the Samarkand ruler’s chest. His face was twisted, eyes wide and frozen, stiff hands uselessly clutched at the blade. Congealed blood ran a grisly track along both sides of his open mouth.

  The girl was standing above the corpse in horror. He’d hit her when she fought off his advances, torn her khafti and gaped with lust at the sight of her young, supple breasts. She’d vowed to kill him if he touched her, and the scene amused him greatly. This Samarkand bitch, this spoiled girl of royalty, warning him, Kabul, king and master of the Huns, not to come nearer. He would tame her, all right. Make her whimper at his feet, grovel like a dog and beg for more by the time he was done.

  The girl was thrown to the floor, squirming, sobbing as his hands probed her tender flesh. Then he was inside her, swimming deliriously, his thrusts quickening with his heartbeat. It was then, at the final moment of ecstasy, that she struck, wielding the sharp golden hairpin like a dagger, piercing it through his eye and pulling away while he screamed.

  The Khan awoke precisely at that moment, as he always did. He gasped for air, hand covering his useless eye, and could almost feel again the unbelievable pain. With labored breath he peered around the dark chamber. The pitcher of wine still sat upon the tray, the silver chalice knocked over, contents spilled over the bearskin rug. Curtains rustled slightly, and he could feel a dampness in the squalid air, sense the coming rainstorm that approached the city on a strong mountain wind.

  Kabul sat up; the whore was soundly sleeping at his side, wrapped snugly in the linen sheet, fair hair spilling over the pillows. It was hours before dawn, he realized, and, not wishing to wake her, he gently reached down and swept up the fallen chalice, refilled it with wine. He noticed that his hand was slightly trembling as it always did after the nightmare. He fondled the goblet, stared down into the depths of the crimson brew, thinking bitterly of his stolen eye. And before him, in these silent hours of night he had come to dread, he could see her face as clearly as he could see the distant tower lights through the curtains. That face, yes, that lovely, haunting face, laughing at him now, taunting him, softly vowing her own revenge even as he vowed his.

  “We understand each other well, eh?” he mumbled, staring at the wine. “Neither of us can rest until our vendetta is complete.” The face glowered back at him, eyes burning like coals. Kabul regarded the vision for a time and smiled. “We live only for each other, don’t we bitch? Our lives are forever joined by the same evil thread. You in your way, I in mine. My advisers call me mad for feeding upon our mutual hatred. Yet you and I understand why. Neither of us can be complete until the other is dead. Neither of us can rest nor sleep. I fill your dreams even as you fill mine, eh? Yes, we alone know what drives us; we alone would tear the very world asunder for only a moment’s chance at the other’s throat. Plot and scheme against me, you nameless whore of the desert. I welcome it; I welcome your coming and the chance to see you once more. No demon in hell can stop that appointed meeting, bitch. Come to me, swiftly. I have waited too long...”

  The face in the wine listened until he was done, then slowly began to fade until it disappeared. Kabul lifted the chalice, turned it in his hand, then drank as though the brew were her blood. A satisfied grin parted his lips; he lay back contentedly. Vendetta, he thought. Only this keeps me alive. Gladly would I bargain with any devil, sell my soul and condemn it to a thousand unspeakable hells, if only you would be delivered into my hands.

  The wind had started to swirl harder outside, pushing aside the curtains and flooding into the room. The whore grew chilly in her dreams and tightened the sheet around her. Kabul rested naked, sweating, keeping his smile as the voice of the wind whispered, Soon, Kabul, it will be soon.

  Part Three �
�� The Bitter Fruit

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Recite me a song; I am in a poetic mood.”

  The singer bowed before the bronzed figure of his master, sweeping his arms grandly as Niko relaxed across the piled Persian carpet, his chin in his palm. Across from him the flesh of the three nearly-naked concubines glistened. They’d taken baths of milk, perfumed and coiffed themselves for hours, preparing for this night’s coming pleasures with the most handsome of the Khan’s sons and his well-appointed slave and constant companion. Niko had never been as selfish as his brothers, freely offering the singer his choice of women each night, including Niko’s own favorites. It was said, among the palace prostitutes that the slave was a lover second to none, save for Niko himself, of course. During these past months the romantic son of Kabul had come to enjoy the singer’s rivalry as much as his company, turning an ordinary night’s companionship into an orgy of love-making.

  The strapping young slave, dressed in fine Indian silks, began his song in a gay, almost feminine tone. He sang of the waters of the Nile, evoking grand images of Egypt and all her past glories.

  Niko’s eyelids drooped heavily as he sipped from his ornate goblet. Harsh rain beat against the windows of his apartment. The whores sat aroused, enthralled by the song. The fun-loving son of Kabul let his eyes wander from one curvaceous hip to the next, aware of the pleasures that were to come this night, focusing upon the hard, brown nipples of the bare-breasted women, their soft bosoms.

  Everyone was having a good time, the room filling with laughter and gaiety while several silent slaves gracefully slipped between the merrymakers, anticipating their every desire. Niko’s hand lashed out and loudly smacked the well-endowed buttocks of the closest whore. The girl turned with both reddened face and behind, stared at him and giggled. Wine was flowing, she spilled her own accidently while parodying the singer, and Niko roared with glee as the singer, himself slightly tipsy, tripped her, grinning as she fell face-first to the plush carpet.