The Bones of the Old Ones

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Buthayna lowered herself slowly to the bare floor beyond the rug, as though determined to set an example of servile propriety.

  I carefully pushed the shatranj board to one side and retreated to Dabir’s left, standing against the far wall as the others took their seats. I did not put my hand to my hilt, but I was ready to do so at need.

  Our visitor bowed her head to Dabir. She spoke, her voice formal and precise. “I thank you for your welcome.” She paused, looking at the checkered board, seemingly to gather her thoughts. “And I apologize for interrupting your game. In truth, I hope only that you might be able to recommend a reputable caravan master.”

  I thought then that we must be dealing with an actress who also could imitate the sound of wealthy folk.

  “I know several,” Dabir answered. “Why do you need one?”

  “I wish to return home.”

  “You are from Isfahan?” Dabir asked.

  She looked sharply at him. “How did you know?”

  “From your slight accent; then there is the imperial crown flower pattern woven on your clothing, and the decorative detail upon the toe of your boot. They’re both popular among the aristocracy near the Zagros mountain range.”

  She stared at him now with wary appreciation. “Your boy said that you were an accomplished scholar, but I thought he exaggerated.” Her head rose and she addressed Dabir formally. “You are correct. Isfahan is my home and I would very much like to return there as soon as possible. If there is anything you can do to assist me in finding safe passage, I would be grateful.”

  I thought then that she would ask for money. She did not, though, and I realized she meant Dabir to volunteer it, which he would surely do.

  Dabir rubbed the band of his ring with his thumb, his habit when lost in thought. “You have no protection, and little money,” my friend said after a time. “And unless you have some other belongings hidden in my stables, you have no traveling clothes. You are poorly prepared to venture cross country in this weather, especially as the men who kidnapped you are almost certainly still combing the city.”

  “How—” Her startled eyes swept over to me and meaningfully to my sword. She rose as if to leave, looking frightened and angry at the same time. “Do you know them?” she demanded of Dabir.

  I was almost as disconcerted as she. If Dabir was right, as he usually was, I had completely misjudged her; it seemed she deserved my compassion rather than suspicion.

  Dabir glanced up at me, then at the cushion at my feet, and I inferred that he meant me to appear less imposing.

  Thus I took a seat beside him. Do not think I relaxed my guard entirely, though.

  “I know nothing of your kidnappers,” Dabir explained. “But, given your station, the condition of your raiment, and the markings upon your wrists, it seemed the most likely explanation for your presence in Mosul.”

  She eyed him doubtfully.

  “Please be at ease.” He motioned her to the cushion at her feet. “Why don’t we start over. I am Dabir ibn Khalil and this is Captain Asim el Abbas.”

  Though I commanded no one there besides an adolescent stable boy, Dabir generally introduced me with the rank I held when we’d met.

  She did not sit, nor retreat, though she seemed less likely to flee. Dabir carefully pulled at the fine gold chain about his neck and brought up the rectangular amulet normally hidden by his robes. He lifted it over his head and held it out to her.

  “Dabir and I have sat at the right hand of the caliph,” I offered. “We are no friends to kidnappers.”

  Hesitantly she took the thing and I saw her eyes rove over the gold lettering engraved there, commending all to respect its bearer, an honored citizen of the caliphate and friend to the caliph himself. Well did I know the wording, for I myself wore one, and it was a mark of esteem given to but a handful of men.

  Her worry lines eased a little, and she looked up to consider Dabir in a new light.

  “You have not told us your family name,” Dabir said. “Is there someone we may contact for you?”

  She lowered herself onto a cushion slowly, regaining some of her composure. “I am Najya binta Alimah, daughter of the general Delir al Khayr, may peace be upon him.” Her head rose minutely, but proudly, and with good reason, for the general had been well-known in his day as a brave defender of the eastern border. “As to those who follow me…” Her lovely brow furrowed. “Their leader is Koury, and he commands powerful men.”

  “Is he, also, from Isfahan?”

  Najya shook her head. “I do not think so. I had never seen him before, or the one he called Gazi. The speech and manner of both are strange.”

  “Gazi,” Dabir repeated, and I knew from his more serious tone that the name meant something to him. “What do Gazi and Koury look like?”

  Najya thought for a moment. “Koury is tall with light eyes. His hair is graying, and he has a noble manner. Gazi is…” Her lips pursed beneath her veil. “He is a dreadful man. He is short and broad but swift. He smiles often but it is not a pleasant sight.” She, too, had deduced that Dabir recognized the names. “Have you heard of them?”

  “They sound familiar,” Dabir admitted. “Why did they take you from Isfahan?”

  “I think they wanted me to find something, but I know not what. Or why.”

  “To find something?” Dabir asked, puzzled.

  “That is what they were talking of when I came around. They thought I knew where something was.” Here she paused, as if uncertain how to proceed.

  Dabir glanced over to me before encouraging her to continue. “Perhaps it would be best if you tell us what you remember. Start with the kidnapping.”

  Najya breathed deeply. I sensed that she gathered not her memories, but her courage. “My husband and I were walking to the central square in the evening,” she said tightly. “We heard footsteps behind us, and then a demand that I come.”

  “Who demanded?” Dabir asked.

  “The man I learned later was Gazi. My husband drew his sword and fought them, but they…” Her voice trailed off and she did not speak for a time. When she spoke again her tone was low and dull. “He was killed.”

  It sounded as though there was more to be learned about the battle, but Dabir did not ask further. “I am sorry for your loss,” he told her.

  I usually remained silent when Dabir questioned folk for information, but a comment from me seemed appropriate this time. “As am I.”

  She glanced only briefly at me, then bowed her head slightly to us in acknowledgment. “Gazi fought as no warrior I have ever seen,” she added.

  This in itself was an unusual observation from a woman, and the look I traded with Dabir did not go unnoticed by her. “I have seen many bouts,” she explained defensively. “My husband was an officer, my father a general.”

  Dabir nodded. “Go on.”

  “I tried to run, but Koury’s men were too fast. Too strong. They covered my eyes and forced a drink upon me. A sour drink. I did not swallow but it burned my mouth and I grew weak. The world spun for a long while.” She shook her head, troubled. “I really only have a few vague memories from then until I arrived here.”

  I could well believe that she was the daughter of a military man, owing to the clarity and precision of her account.

  “What happened when you arrived in Mosul?” Dabir asked.

  Her look was sharp. “You mistake me. I do not remember entering the city. Suddenly I was upright and conscious in the street. Koury was there, talking with me—as though he had been speaking for a while and I should know exactly what he meant.”

  “What was he saying?”

  Again Najya shook her head. “There was some talk of finding a bone. I pretended I understood him, and when we neared the palace, I fled into the crowd.”

  “A bone?” Buthanyna repeated, incredulous.

  No one acknowledged her; it was not her place to speak, and she seemed to realize her etiquette breach because she shrank lower, as if to disappear.
r />   “And that was when you found Rami,” Dabir prompted.

  “Yes.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “No more than an hour. Less, I think. Your boy was very brave,” she added. “He led me through a number of back streets. I do not think Koury could follow.”

  “Let us hope.” Dabir looked as if he might say more, then asked, “How many pursue you?”

  “In the square there was only Koury and two of his men. I did not see Gazi,” she added. “But Koury’s guards are incredibly strong. And there is something odd about them.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “They dress all in black and their faces are hooded. They do not speak.”

  Dabir sat back and played with the band of his ring. And I studied Najya, mulling over her peculiar story. I could not fathom why someone would kidnap a Persian beauty, take her to a distant city, and command her to search for a skeleton, yet her very manner marked her as a speaker of truth.

  “I think it best if you stay hidden for a while,” Dabir decided. “Please consider this your home until we can arrange for safe escort to Isfahan.”

  She started to protest, but Dabir cut her off. “This is very important, Najya. Have your husband or family ever had dealings with magic, or its practitioners?”

  I saw her lips part beneath her veil. After a moment, she shook her head. “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Have you ever heard of the Sebitti?”

  Again she shook her head. “No. Why?”

  “It’s an old group with warrior wizards named Gazi and Koury. But I do not think it can be them.” Dabir said that last almost to himself. “Buthayna, see that she is given the guest suite, and please find a servant to attend her. One who can be trusted not to gossip, for our guest’s location must be secret.”

  While the cook curtly acknowledged Dabir’s directives, I groaned inwardly. There was little more in the suite than a mattress and an old chest. It was hardly fitting accommodation for a noblewoman.

  “You have been very kind,” Najya said, rising.

  “It is nothing,” Dabir assured her. “Give me leave to look into the matter. You will be safe here, this I swear.”

  “I would like to send word to my brother, in Isfahan,” Najya told him.

  “Certainly. Buthayna, see that she has what she needs, and have Rami ask after a caravan bound there. He can start at the Bright Moon.”

  “Yes, Honored One.” Buthayna rose stiffly and led the way through the curtain.

  Najya turned to look back at us once more, then bowed her head and followed Buthayna.

  “Who are these Sebitti?” I asked quietly as their steps receded. “I have never heard you mention them.”

  “Why should I speak of fables?” Dabir frowned. “A mentor—a friend, really—was fascinated with them, and I recall only the broadest details.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand why a ring of murderers and kidnappers would name two of their members after them. These aren’t common names.”

  I felt a growing sense of unease. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  Dabir’s expression was still troubled. “You have heard of the Seven Wise Men?” he asked. “The Seven Sages?”

  “Aye. Who has not?” They were famed for their knowledge of all matters, both arcane and mundane, and legend held that folk in need, if they be of pure intent, could find them to ask advice.

  “They are the Sebitti.”

  “I’ve never heard them called by that name.”

  “It is from old Ashur. Their legend was born in that ancient time.”

  “So these kidnappers have taken the names of wise men?” Now I understood Dabir’s confusion, and laughed. “If they meant to intimidate, wouldn’t they assume a more frightening alias?”

  “I think you’re confusing wise with good. The people of Ashur, brutal as they were, dared speak of the Sebitti only in whispers.”

  I had learned a little of the folk of Ashur, who some call the Assyrians, and knew they had been a warrior people, ruled by blood-mad kings. Anyone who they feared must be dangerous indeed. Thus I began to feel a vague foreboding. “Why?” I asked.

  Dabir’s voice was grim. “They believed that when the lord of the underworld grew displeased, he sent forth the Sebitti to slay both beasts and men so that they might be more humble.”

  I tried to imagine the gentle, and sedentary, wise men of legend riding forth with swords and chuckled.

  “So you understand my interest,” Dabir finished.

  “I do, but I don’t understand your aim. If the lady has been kidnapped, we should turn her over to the governor or a judge, don’t you think?”

  He mulled this over, then shook his head. “Her story intrigues me…” His voice trailed off, and I thought for a moment he would explain further, but he did not.

  Dabir’s curiosity could lead him down dangerous paths. It was true that I felt badly for the woman, who would have to bear the shame of what had happened, and it was true that the circumstances were peculiar, but I did not see that our involvement was especially useful to her. And then another thought dawned upon me, one that I did not voice. Dabir mooned still for his lost love, Sabirah. He seldom spoke of her, but often stared at the emerald ring she had given him. It would surely be good for him to focus on another woman, and this Najya was a pretty one. Perhaps his interest had been piqued in more than one way.

  I nodded as if his arguments made sense. “What do you mean to do?”

  “I will make inquiries. Harith the innkeeper. Some of your friends in the guard. Captain Fakhir, or Captain Tarif. Surely one of them has heard of a kidnapping ring or strangers to the city matching these descriptions. Our guest strikes me as being quite memorable.”

  I had feared for a moment that he would be dragging me to one of Mosul’s universities. “That does not sound nearly as bad as I had thought.”

  Dabir stopped in midstride, where I’d followed him into the hall. He turned with a knowing look. “You will stay here, and guard the woman.”

  Now that I did not care for. “The caliph charged me with guarding you,” I reminded him. “You keep forgetting—”

  “Asim, Najya is in far greater danger than I. If the kidnappers track her to the house, who will defend her? Buthayna? Rami? You must stay.”

  At the shake of my head, he added, “I will be careful, and I will return, or send word, by midday prayers.”

  There was clearly no moving him, and I couldn’t argue that the woman needed no guard, so I merely frowned at his departing back and set to securing the house.

  The caliph’s largesse had afforded us a spacious building on a corner in a quiet neighborhood. There were three entrances: that off the main street, the stables that opened onto a side street, and the servant’s entrance in the wall. This last I had insisted be boarded up when Dabir purchased the place, for with merely two servants we had no need of a special door. Most homes in Mosul lacked street-level windows, and ours was no different, though the second floor boasted several. I made sure that all of these shutters were barred and warned Buthayna to admit no one, then crossed the courtyard to inspect the stables.

  The outer doors I locked from within, and all else seemed in order, so I returned in under a quarter hour, only to have the cook emerge from the shadows and press something toward me.

  “One of your soldier friends brought this,” she croaked. The object crackled in her hands as she shook it, and I recognized it for a sealed letter.

  “Which friend … wait, how did you get this?”

  “It was delivered.”

  I paused before speaking, lest I say something I might regret, while she returned to her cooking pot and began to stir. Though the rest of our home might be sparse, we had an exceptionally well-furnished kitchen, and one built inside the home, a luxury unavailable to most. Buthayna had gleefully claimed it as her own once she joined us from the governor’s staff.

  “I thought I had made clear,” I said, once I reg
ained my composure, “that the door was to remain closed and that only I was to answer it.”

  “So you did, but someone was at the door, and you were out in the stalls, so what was I to do?”

  I felt my blood boil, yet did not curse. “Buthayna, you are not to open the door today unless it is Dabir, or this servant girl he wants to attend our guest. Do you understand?”

  “As you wish.” She turned back to her doings.

  “If I am out in the stables, or up the stairs, you are to come and find me.”

  “As you wish,” she repeated carelessly.

  “Now who delivered this?”

  “That big soldier from the palace.”

  “Abdul?”

  “The polite one,” she growled pointedly. “Yes.”

  “Thank you,” I said as pleasantly as I could, and left her.

  I returned to the sitting room and studied the brown paper in interest. The seal was familiar, for it had come from my former master in faraway Baghdad. Jaffar had sent letters addressed to the both of us in the last year, but this one was labeled solely for Dabir.

  I am not a petty man, but I was rankled that Jaffar had not seen fit to put both our names on the letter so that I might straightaway read his news. Dabir and I had both, after all, been his servants, I for far longer. Likely it had merely been an oversight, but I would make no assumptions.

  I was still frowning down at the thing when there came a rap at the door. I sighed, tucking the missive into my robe, rising quickly lest the cook decide to ignore me once more.

  She shouted at me from her den. “There is someone at the door, Captain!”

  I advanced to slide back the eyehole, thinking to find the servant girl she’d sent for.

  Instead I saw a tall, silver-haired gentleman with light-green eyes. Behind him stood two men garbed all in black, with deep hoods.

  The kidnappers had arrived.

  2

  “I have come for my daughter,” the fellow told me in a deep, stern voice. I could not quite place his accent, although it sounded a little Persian. “I have been told that you have her.”

  I was rarely a quick thinker unless a weapon was in my hand, and I was momentarily troubled by his assertion. Might he have the truth of it, and Najya be the liar?