Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2

by Graham Diamond

  “More wine, my lord?” said Jasmine seductively.

  He shook his head wildly, threw himself off the side of the bed. The overseer groaned as she struggled to pick him up, toss him back onto the mattress. Khalkali pressed his lips together tightly, refusing to drink. The overseer’s strong hands were pinning his head down against the pillows. He struggled to free himself, kicked out blindly, flayed his arms. The women shared a glance and grinned at each other. Then his mouth was open once more, Mistress Carolyn’s hands yanking his jaw lower, gripping him by his teeth. He quivered as the whore took the oversized pitcher and began to pour. Like a river the wine flooded into his mouth — spilling over him, forced down into his belly, clogging his windpipe, making him cough. Phlegm spat up, fell across his chin. Carolyn wiped it away. The whore poured and poured. Khalkali gagged, choked, tried to wrest himself free. He’d been paralyzed by the brew, he realized. Rendered as helpless as a suckling babe, while the two women stuck a tube into his mouth, pushed it all the way down, and let the wine siphon from the pitcher.

  He was whining, gurgling, coughing and vomiting. Spewing up everything. But the wine didn’t stop. More of it, more, and yet more. An endless flow. “Kill...you!” he slurred, eyes wide but hazed over. The women laughed at him, raising his anger. He balled his hands into fists ready to strike at them both, smash their faces. He was drained, though; devoid of any strength, no more than putty in their hands.

  They’re killing me! he wailed soundlessly. Murdering me!

  The wine flowed, increased in volume. The bed was soaked with it, pools forming over the floor, dripping from the mattress like a spring rain. Spittle and vomit flew from between his lips. His teeth clenched on the tube, nearly breaking it. The wine splashed in waves through his mouth, pulsing down his throat, coming out of his nose. It overflowed his tongue, splattered in pools into his belly.

  The overseer pushed his head to the side, nose flat against the wet sheet, sticking the tube back inside his numbed mouth. He made a terrific effort to pull away, break free from their control. The hands were all over him now, pushing him firmly into position, pinning him, so that he could do no more than wag his fingers.

  “More wine, my lord?”

  Puke gushed like a stream, the smell of the wine foul in his nostrils. There was a rag being placed over his mouth, held firmly by one of them, but which he couldn’t tell. It plugged the flow of air into his lungs, forced the vomit back down his throat. Khalkali wanted to scream; his head was growing heavier and heavier, lungs bursting, flesh changing to a dark, sickly color. He opened his eyes with great effort, caught the merest glimpse of the overseer as she pressed her face in closer to his, tightly pushed the rag between his swollen lips. He heaved his guts, felt once more the bile being blocked inside his chest.

  “More wine, my lord?”

  If only I could scream!

  “More wine, my lord? More wine, my lord?”

  *

  Kabul was hungry. His stomach churned as he waited for the food to be brought. He lounged for a few more moments in his bed, then took his patch and carefully placed it into position over his stolen eye. Outside the morning shone gloriously, a bright, warm sun set into a rich and cloudless blue sky. He could see a few birds in flight, distantly soaring over the highest towers, hear the caged parrots in the gardens squawking with delight at the birth of this new day.

  The Khan always broke his fast early, a few minutes after rising. It was a habit begun many, many years before, when he was nothing more than a lowly chieftain along the steppes of Central Asia. In those times he would wake in his tent, smile with satisfaction as the smell of the cooking fires wafted to his nostrils. Then, attended by his servants, he would fill his belly, drink his fill of wild-berry wine, and prepare for the long tasks of the day ahead. Those had been good times, he mused. Youthful years, when his dreams of conquest and empire had barely begun to be realized. So much had changed since then. So many battles fought, so many enemies slaughtered and enslaved. Yet still he enjoyed waking on a morning like this, and, as in those times long gone, eagerly awaited the arrival of his morning meal. Until he was finished, all other matters would wait. It was the single luxury that even now he never denied himself.

  The knock on the chamber door was brisk, the brass knob turning quickly, and two faithful bowed low as they stood at the threshold. “Good morning, Sire,” they said in unison, as they did every day.

  Kabul scratched complacently at his hirsute belly, bade them inside. Each carried a tray, one bearing only a chalice and wine urn, the other groaning beneath the weight of the covered casserole. The Khan breathed in deeply, the aroma most pleasant. His cooks were the best, he knew, more worthy than most of his sons and generals. He beckoned his servants in anticipation of the food, sat up while each tray was carefully placed at his small eating table. With more bows and smiles they withdrew, leaving him alone to his meal, the way he enjoyed it.

  He slipped out of his night garment, strode naked to the table, pulled the curtains wider. Sunlight streamed inside majestically. He poured the wine himself, sipped, and enjoyed the panoramic view of the city from his verandah. A pungent odor trickled from the lidded casserole; Kabul drooped his eyelid, tried to identify its contents. A stew, he was sure. Mutton? Swine? Goat? It made little difference when he was as hungry as he was now.

  Savoring the aroma, he gingerly lifted the cover from the steaming plate and stared. For a long while he looked at it; then instead of eating he leaned back and sighed.

  The casserole was filled with vegetables; stewed tomatoes, beets, carrots, sprinkled with parsley and pepper, chunks of garnished potatoes. The gravy was thick and deep, small circles of fat swimming at the surface. And sandwiched between them all rested a head — a human head, face up, ear-deep in the gravy. Khalkali’s head.

  Without a sound, Kabul lifted the ornate cover and placed it back over the casserole. Only then did he get up from the table and summon his guards.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “The old man’s really gone crazy this time,” said Tupol.

  His brawny older brother peered up and regarded him lengthily. “What do I care?”

  Tupol’s bad leg caused him to hobble across the antechamber of the apartment. Jamuga was sitting cross-legged over the rug, watching the wisps of smoke rise and disappear from a stick of heavily scented incense.

  “I should think it’s of concern to all of us, no?” said the cunning youngest son, fighting a losing battle to keep his face from twitching.

  The Mongol-blooded son shrugged carelessly. “Khalkali was an ass,” he muttered, not looking his brother’s way, not asking for this unexpected visit, wishing that Tupol would quickly crawl back into the recesses and shadows from which he came. He looked up at his scrawny companion, this deformed dimwit. Then he corrected himself. Tupol’s body may be lacking, but his brain certainly wasn’t. No doubt that crafty Tupol would manage to survive right to the bitter end. Jamuga felt sorry that he’d have to kill him — but then, there could only be one Khan at a time, couldn’t there?

  “From now on the kitchens are going to be watched by trusted guards every single second,” Tupol went on, oblivious to Jamuga’s disregard. “The old man’s furious — he wants to know just how these — these murderers — were able to switch the casserole unseen, and have it delivered to him for breakfast.”

  Warily, Jamuga said, “Why are you telling me all this? I told you — what happened to Khalkali was bound to come sooner or later. The next Khan, he fancied himself. Hal He’d have done better as a street clown during festivals.”

  Tupol shook his head sadly from side to side. “Listen,” he said, “our father blames us for these murders — don’t you understand that?”

  “Our father,” replied Jamuga dryly, “is the biggest ass of all.” Tupol reddened, and Jamuga went on. “Oh, don’t worry. You can sneak back and report to him everything I’ve said. It doesn’t bother me in the least. The old man knows better than to toy with
me.”

  The crippled brother was seething, although his face remained an impassive mask. “You take a great deal for granted, don’t you?”

  Jamuga rose, veins popping from his neck. “Play no games with me, puppy!” he warned, shaking a finger in Tupol’s direction. “I know you too well, remember? You can’t fool me.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “No?” Jamuga laughed. “And what about that secret room of yours, hmmm? The one you keep locked and guarded? The one with your pets?”

  Tupol was flustered. “My spiders are my own business,” he hissed. “I came here today in good faith, Brother. If you spurn me, you have only yourself to blame.”

  “Good faith? What a miserable excuse for a man you are, Tupol! Go on, crawl out of here on your belly. Do you think I don’t know the venom you’ve been whispering in the Khan’s ear, eh? Do you think that Gamal didn’t know? Or Niko? Or even swaggering Khalkali? Go on, you little bugger, run!”

  Tupol smiled viciously; he folded his arms, planted his open legs firmly in front of his raving brother. “And I know you, too, dear Jamuga. Who’s fooling whom, eh? Who’s been bribing our top commanders to swear allegiance to you all this time? Poor, ignorant Khalkali. Why, I’d wager he had no idea — not an inkling — that his own men were ready to turn on him at a snap of your finger! Niko’s guard as well!” His smile deepened as a shadow crossed his brows. “But Gamal was on to you, wasn’t he? Gamal knew your tricks and schemes, eh? Too well for your own good, eh?”

  Jamuga swallowed hard, disbelieving his ears. “Are you — dare you accuse me of his death?”

  “Accuse you?” Tupol’s eyes widened with mock innocence. “Would I say such a terrible thing, Brother.” He sneered. “We all know that you’re a man of honor! We all know you have only our father’s interests at heart.”

  “At least I’m not a gutter rat like you,” Jamuga flared, “You’re the lowest thing I ever met. Goading Mufiqua, taunting Temugin, spilling lie after lie to the Khan, so that he hates us all.”

  “You’re growing angry, dear Brother. Calm yourself. Save your energies for the true test of who’s a man and who’s not.”

  The threat was poorly veiled, Jamuga saw — purposely so. “I won’t tell you again, Tupol. Get out of here — now.”

  The crippled son of Kabul grinned cruelly, bowed, hobbled his way to the door. Jamuga flung a chalice; it hit the wall, crimson wine splattering. Then he turned back around and angrily sat beside the incense burner.

  *

  The hand slipped the small tray inside the glass cage. Immediately the tarantula stopped its spinning, crawled quickly down along the thin thread of its silk, and arched over the plate of dead flies. Tupol chuckled as the insects were devoured, watching the grisly scene with enormous pleasure. When the tarantula was finished, he closed the cover over the top of the cage, went to feed the next All three poisonous spiders relished their meal. He’d been nourishing his pets for months now, taking care of them as though they were his bastard sons. And in a way, they were. For each had been brought to the palace to serve a special purpose, a very special purpose. He was their father, and when the timing was right, they would surely serve him better than any son.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  “First of all,” Krishna announced, his massive chest swollen with pride, “we broke his thumbs — but carefully, so that the bones would heal properly, a common precaution in case we need to repeat the procedure. Then” — and here he beamed like a mischievous child —”we racked him. Gently, mind you. Making sure he survived, for I know how important he could be.”

  Kabul growled, curling his lip. His good eye stared down at the limp figure of a man shackled by his wrists to the granite wall. The prisoner remained conscious, defiantly so, even in the face of the chancellor’s finest handiwork.

  Krishna continued to speak, explaining how carefully he’d nurtured Roskovitch each time he faltered. The Khan, though, seemed disinterested. He nodded now and again, brushing a thick hand at the side of his beard, then walked slowly from the cell and out into the dim corridor. Several aides swept low in grand bows of respect. Kabul ignored them. How this place sickened him, the stench staler than an old grave. How anyone could live in such a place completely befuddled him.

  His boots grated against stone as he marched along the winding labyrinth. He worked his way back toward the outer sanctum, where the ventilation wasn’t quite as bad, paying no heed to the sobs and moans and insane laughter that rang from the cells. Krishna’s footsteps scuttled behind.

  You follow me like a mangy dog, Krishna. Grovel at my feet. But I know well enough there’d be a secret blade in your hand if you thought the time was right.

  “Wouldn’t you agree, Father?”

  Kabul turned, Krishna’s eyes brightly shining into his own.

  “Agree? Eh?”

  The chancellor frowned. “About the information this Kazir pig provided. About the coming assault against our armies on the steppes.”

  The Khan continued up the narrow steps, back out into the light. At the landing he paused, regarding his son anew.

  “What makes you think he wasn’t lying?”

  “I have my ways, O Khan.” Krishna’s grin was expansive.

  “I don’t doubt it.” He thought upon those foul cells once more and shook his head. Indeed his treacherous son governed his underworld domain with a skilled hand. That much credit he deserved.

  “So you believe everything the prisoner spilled?”

  “Men screaming in pain find it difficult to lie,” came the wry observation. “I told you, first we broke his thumbs —”

  Kabul lifted his hand imperiously. “Yes, yes. You told me. And now you’re convinced that this man, this Kazir —”

  “A Russian, Father. Roskovitch, he claims he is called.”

  “Yes, then this Roskovitch, this barbarian, has spoken to you, under torture, of what he claims to be a full-scale thrust against us?”

  “Precisely, O Khan. It was most fortuitous that he came into our hands at this time.”

  The Khan, skeptical, folded his arms. Cool fresh air rushed from the vents and he relished it, the smell of Krishna and his underworld still in his nostrils. “How do we know that this Russian knows of what he speaks, eh Chancellor? A tortured man will say many things to cease his pain, even if only for a few moments. How can you be positive he didn’t concoct this whole story, eh?”

  “Because, my liege, I double- and triple-checked his every statement. I ordered scouts out into the interior, to the doorstep of the desert itself, and yes, Kazirs were seen moving south at night, just as the prisoner said they would.”

  “South to attack our strongest positions? We’ve fifteen thousand men and more stationed along the steppes. Would even the Phantoms be so bold as to try and eradicate such a force? No, Krishna, I cannot believe it.”

  “The Panther is a dangerous woman, Father,” Krishna said quickly, delighting at the sight of his father wincing at her mention. “She employs strange and bold tactics. Desert tactics. Forget not that she’s kept us off balance before with her treacherous tricks.” His mouth turned expressively down at the comers, and he added, “And has managed to do so for more than five years.”

  Krishna’s reminder was tinged with glee, Kabul noted. The glee of a son too-long relegated to a lightless world while his siblings ran free under the sun.

  “I shall keep your point in mind, Chancellor. Yes, well in mind.”

  “Then do not forget this barbarian predicts the attack in less than a week’s time. Is it not in our interest to guard against it?”

  “What is your recommendation?”

  “To lay in waiting, Sire. To fortify our garrisons with every legion you can spare...”

  “Our armies are too scattered,” said the Khan thoughtfully. “Do you expect me to recall our forces from Persia? Or from the Afghani frontier? You’re a poor general, Chancellor. You ask me to stamp out a brushfire whi
le an entire forest goes up in flames. No, we’ll send word to our Steppes commanders, have them readied just in case. Apart from that, I’ll not deploy a single legion.”

  “Not even to catch the woman?”

  Kabul’s heart skipped a beat; his palms began to sweat, and he ran his tongue across his lips. Oh, if only he could get his hands on her!

  “The Russian swears the Panther herself shall lead the attack. Consider, my lord: Within a week’s time she could be in your grasp...”

  Long and hard the mighty Khan thought, his hatred of the woman overriding all other considerations. Then he shook his head. “We could never recall our Persian armies home in time. It would take a month to muster them back to Samarkand. Impossible. Show me another way.”

  Krishna smiled. “The city garrison, my liege. Free them. Place them under my command and I’ll bring her back to you in chains — unharmed.”

  “The city garrison? Are you completely at leave of your senses, Krishna? Leave Samarkand defenseless while we muster for an attack that may never come? Don’t talk like a fool.”

  Gesturing with his hands, Krishna said, “Listen to me; we need not leave the city without defense, only deplete our guard enough to ensure swift victory. Think of it, Sire! The Panther in your hands!”

  His father stepped back, looked long and hard at his son. “And what’s in this for you, eh? What schemes work the back of your mind?”

  “None, O Khan. Only that I may serve you.”

  “As commander of my home army?”

  “Yes, Sire.”

  “What manner of baboon do you take me for? Do I look like I want to commit suicide?” Krishna paled and Kabul chuckled beneath his breath. “If I turn my most potent force over to you, I see them coming back with daggers out for me.”

  “But, Lord!” sputtered Krishna. “Do you think I’d turn them, against you? That I desire your death, or covet your exalted office?”