Four Dominions

by Eric Van Lustbader

  Conrad looked stricken. “How do I prevent that future?”

  Yeats shook his head. “I am sorry, but there are limits.” With his ever-meticulous attention to detail, he hooked the ends of the spectacles’ wire temples around the tops of his ears, made all the necessary adjustments.

  “What I do know, what I have seen, is that if there is an answer, it must come from within, not”—he swept his arm wide—“out here.”

  *

  THEY TRAVELED to Cairo by train, arriving in the middle of the night. Lights glimmered, reflected off the station’s high soot-patterned walls. Shouts and murmurs went on all around them; it might have been midday instead of midnight. It was here trackside that W. B. Yeats said his good-bye.

  “But we’re not through yet,” Conrad said, taken aback. “We have more questions that require answering.”

  “The only question I require an answer to is how fast I can return to my beloved Ireland.” He smiled as he patted his friend’s arm, aware of Tanis hanging back, watching them out of the corner of her eye. “She has been patient, perhaps overly patient. The truth is I have been selfish. This journey... well, it has certainly been extraordinary. Its echoes will doubtless reverberate in my mind and in my writing for decades to come. For this and for your extraordinary friendship I will forever be grateful.”

  He extended his hand, shook Conrad’s; then the two men embraced. After a time, Yeats picked up his much-battered suitcases. “Be well, my friend. May God go with you always.”

  “And you, as well.” Conrad watched the great poet pick his way along the platform, through merchants and Berbers.

  It wasn’t until he disappeared through the grand archway into the hall proper that Tanis approached Conrad. “He is a good man.”

  “Yes, he is,” Conrad replied. A deep melancholy swept through him, and his shoulders hunched, as if from a stiff wind. “An extraordinary one.”

  “Interesting. He used that word also.”

  “You were listening?”

  “Not intentionally.” She presented him with a sly smile. “I have excellent hearing.”

  “You wanted to talk with me?”

  “Actually, I wanted to inform you.”

  They began to step away from the train, following the path Yeats had taken toward the grand hall that gave out on to the streets of the city. Behind them, the locomotive sighed like a rejected lover.

  “What might that be?” He was only half-listening. He was exhausted from the impossibly long journey. His mother’s death as well as his father’s betrayal weighed heavily on him. Though his parents put him in boarding school early, because it was the custom among their class, Diantha came to Cambridge to see him, spending as much time with him as she could between her trips abroad with Gideon. After graduating from college at the tender age of eighteen, he more or less followed in their footsteps. No time for women friends, for falling in love, for getting married. Those bonds were for other people, not him. He almost wept in remorse and fury. Who am I? he thought. More to the point, what am I?

  They passed under the grand arch. The hall echoed with weary footfalls, like the slow progress of ghosts across a gray landscape. Fewer and fewer people seemed to be about now that the last train of the day had pulled in. An old man with a hump on his back swept the floor with desultory strokes, tiredly pushing dirt from one place to another. But the kids were still about, begging, scamming, on the lookout to pick the pocket of anyone too naïve or inattentive to pay attention. None of them approached Conrad and Tanis, however. They had a sixth sense about these things.

  “Here’s what I wanted to say: the past is immutable; the present is chaos; the future is like water running through your hand.”

  “Why are you telling me this? Is it supposed to make me feel better?”

  “Even those gifted with Farsight cannot be certain what they see will actually occur, or occur in the way they have seen it.”

  “How d’you know this?”

  “Because,” she said, “the very nature of chaos makes a mockery of Farsight.”

  They had come to the line of grimy doorways that opened out on to the street. The hot air of the desert brought sweat to their brows and grit to their eyes.

  “You understand,” she said, pulling wisps of her hair back from her face, “I’m speaking about your grandson.”

  He turned to her. “I’m starving. Do you want to get something to eat?”

  *

  THEY FOUND a small joint off El-Zaher. It was one of Tanis’s favorites, one reason being it was open all night. It was small, not much more than a hole in the wall, but it was cozy and welcoming at this time of the morning; that was all that mattered. The food wasn’t bad, either, but perhaps that was only because he hadn’t eaten all day. One old man with skin like a tobacco leaf and a skull as polished as a cue ball sat in a corner drinking tea out of a glass and reading the local paper. After their food had been served, the cook appeared, bringing a plate of sweetmeats to the old man’s table. The old man folded away the paper as the cook sat down opposite him. They began to talk about the war just ended. This part of the world was scarcely touched, but there was the British presence, of course.

  “How long have you been with us?” Conrad asked.

  “You don’t know?”

  “If I did, I’ve forgotten.”

  She cocked her head. “I don’t think you have. I don’t think you forget anything.” She produced a small smile so intimate he was sure she had never given it to anyone else. “You have an eidetic memory.”

  “True.”

  “Then why did you ask the question?”

  “Answer, please,” he persisted.

  “Five years.”

  “Always in Cairo?”

  “No. I was brought in from Safita.”

  “Where you were born.”

  “That’s right. Syria.”

  “And how was the transfer effected?”

  “Mr. Shaw—your father—recruited me.”

  This gave Conrad some pause. In the corner, the cook had told a dirty joke. Both he and the old man were suddenly full of mirth. He looked away from them, reengaged Tanis’s eyes. “Did you ever meet Gideon?”

  “No. I was greeted here by Mrs. Safita.”

  “My mother.”

  She nodded. “That’s right.”

  Two transit workers entered the place, slouched at a table near the front. They were smoking like chimneys. The cook rose and went over to them, had a brief conversation, then returned to the kitchen. The scent of mixed spices filled the small room.

  “I had no idea you knew her. I would have included you—”

  She waved away his words. “I had a job to do.”

  “What did you think of her, my mother?”

  “I’m hardly the one to ask.”

  “Still. I’m asking you.”

  “Mmm.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, chin supported by her cupped hands. “I didn’t like her at once. At the time, I couldn’t say why. Perhaps it was the way she looked at me.”

  “How did she look at you? As if she had known you all her life?”

  A smile like a scimitar curved Tanis’s lips. “As if she had raised me herself.”

  “She must have liked you a great deal.”

  “I came to like her immensely. So much so I confided in her. And then, well, she took great pains to keep me away from her husband.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Mr. Shaw is like that, is he?”

  Outside, the streets were abruptly devoid of people, as if life, like water, had swirled down a drain.

  “I’m Mr. Shaw now,” Conrad said. “My father died in Lalibela shortly before my mother passed.”

  “Oh!” One hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.” And then, after a beat: “Why didn’t you bring both of them to the boat?”

  “He was better left where he died.”

  “I see.” Though he knew she didn’t, not by a nau
tical mile.

  There was a small silence as the cook came bustling out of the kitchen to deliver the order of the transit workers. He wiped his hands on his apron as he passed them. He smelled of Za’atar and hot oil.

  “On the boat you said your family knew my mother’s.”

  “That’s right. They were business partners, I believe. That is the story I was told, anyway.”

  “What happened?”

  She shrugged. “Their interests diverged. I imagine that is why most partnerships dissolve.”

  “Your family didn’t want any part of the Gnostic Observatines.”

  “They’ve been Muslim for centuries.”

  “Always religion,” Conrad muttered.

  She leaned in closer. “What was that?”

  He sighed. “Sometimes I think the world would be so much better if religion did not exist.”

  “Human beings are aware of their mortality. How then could they face the chaos of life and the terrible reality of death—or tragedy—without a belief in a higher power? Having said that, for people like me, religion is mutable. I could not join the Gnostic Observatines if I was still a Muslim, could I? But what is it I really believe? I believe that deep down, at bedrock, beliefs are what you make them. God is God. Holy is Holy. If, in your heart, there is Light, then all the rest are simply trappings.”

  It was an excellent point, one that Conrad could only admire deeply. He wanted to tell her, to discuss the matter further, but at the moment he was bone-tired.

  “Have you a place to sleep tonight?” Tanis asked abruptly. It was not difficult to read his body language.

  In truth, he hadn’t thought about it, too many other matters cramming his mind, too much grief. “Cairo is not unknown to me. I expect I’ll find a hotel room.”

  “At this time of night?” She shook her head. “Best to come home with me.”

  “Have you a spare bedroom?”

  Again that intimate smile meant only for him.

  *

  CONRAD AWOKE alone in bed. Sunlight streamed through lace curtains. A lacquered screen, featuring cranes flying amid clouds and below them a lone fisherman in a straw hat, was propped against one wall in lieu of a painting or photos. A small but exquisitely carved gilded Buddha meditated atop a Japanned dresser. Behind it, he could just make out a framed photo of a couple—no doubt Tanis’s parents—a little girl between them. Apart from the family photo, the decorations were strange for a Muslim, though, now he thought about it, not so strange, considering her beliefs.

  Her scent was still on the pillow, a heady combination of rose attar and sandalwood. He sat up, blinking, turned his head toward the window. The city sprawled away from him toward the desert, the Great Pyramids perfect monuments to a long-dead culture. He thought of the Sphinx, and shuddered. The moment he rose, he smelled coffee already brewed. Outside the window, the morning’s bedlam was well under way. After hasty ablutions, he climbed into his clothes.

  He found Tanis sitting at the kitchen table, her gaze fixed on the rood and the apple. His heart turned over. Had she touched them, tried to fit them together? Did she have any idea... ?

  “So that’s why you wanted me to come home with you.”

  “One of the reasons, yes.”

  He should have been angry; he found it curious that he wasn’t. But then he found her forthright answer refreshing. There was no embarrassment, no self-consciousness, in her whatsoever. Crossing to the stove, he poured himself a glass of coffee, brought it back to the table, and sat down at a ninety-degree angle to her. As he sipped the strong, bitter brew, he watched her, studied her hands, which were sun browned, long fingered like a pianist. They lay on the table, in an indeterminate attitude, somewhere between advancing toward the relics and retreating to her lap.

  “Do you know what these are?” she asked. Conrad set down his glass. “Two of the three manifestations of the Unholy Trinity.” He placed his hands on the rood and the apple.

  “Careful,” she said.

  “I know,” he replied. “Now.” And could not keep the darker notes of dismay and regret out of his voice.

  “They disrupt life, these things.” She was looking at them, not him. Then her gaze lifted, her eyes light and dancing upon him. “They open a doorway.”

  “I’ve witnessed that.” Conrad involuntarily took his arms off the table, reminded once again of how the power of these artifacts invaded his mother, caused her to entreat the Sphinx to end her life before... what?

  “But even with the power that took your mother they are not complete, and that presents a very serious problem.”

  “What d’you mean?”

  “I cannot tell you,” she said.

  Now, at last, anger rose within him. “Why the hell not?”

  Tanis regarded him, unperturbed by his outburst. “Because words are useless when it comes to such matters. You must see for yourself.”

  More or less what he had told Yeats to induce him to come with him to the Levant.

  “You know where the third piece is.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “Then take me there.”

  Tanis rose, and Conrad with her. “It will not be as easy as that. The way is dark and dangerous.”

  “Then,” he said, “we must fly like the wind.”

  40

  Lat: 32°49′1.32″N, Long: 18°6′38.05″E: Present Day

  THEY WERE HEADING DUE EAST. IF THEY KEPT TO THIS COURSE, Bravo knew, they would wind up in Syria. That made sense. But on the other hand, this band of extremists had wandered very far afield. It was more than a thousand nautical miles to home. Why would they do that unless they were desperate for money, guns, war materiel? He could not think of another reason.

  Clouds coming in from the south had obscured the moon. The stars were no more. Apart from the steamer’s lights, the night was black as pitch.

  “They’ve been waiting,” he said softly to Ayla. They were no longer naked; their clothes were as dry as they were ever going to get out here. “My guess is there’s an armament shipment they’re going after. They were lying low off Malta. That’s why they were so alarmed when they saw us.”

  A subtle high whining in the pitch of the roaring engines alerted them. Rushing to the bow of the speedboat, they peered out as best they could past the wake and the blackened bulk of the steamer.

  “There’s another ship out there,” Ayla said.

  “And we’re turning toward it,” Bravo added. “At full speed.”

  Now they could discern activity on the rear deck high above them. A complement of men were arming themselves.

  “They’re going to man the speedboat for a run at the target,” Ayla said.

  But Bravo shook his head. “If that were the case they’d have slowed for the transfer. No, they’re making a run at the arms shipment with all guns blazing. Most likely because that ship is armed to the teeth.”

  “A pitched battle then. That fits your theory that they’re desperate.”

  “Right. A pitched battle is just what we need.”

  “What?”

  Bravo grinned. “Cover for our boarding the steamer. In the chaos of battle it’ll be easier to get the rood from Ismail.”

  “If he has it on him.”

  “He’ll have it on him, all right.”

  “And finding him?”

  Bravo’s grin widened. “I’m counting on you for that.”

  “Me? Won’t the battle give you sufficient distraction?”

  “Distraction is one thing, diversion quite another.” He grabbed the rope attaching the speedboat to the steamer. It was cold and wet, leaving traces of slimy seaweed beneath his fingers. He’d have to remember that—seaweed was slippery. “Divide and conquer, Ayla. We need to cull Ismail from the rest of his crew. You’re our best chance to do that.”

  They could make out the other ship as it plowed through the water. It was heading east by northeast. The steamer’s rear deck was deserted now; the militants crowded forward to en
gage the enemy.

  Bravo waited for the first volley before launching himself onto the thick hawser. He turned his head, saw Ayla hesitating. “C’mon now! It’s now or never. Go, go, go!”

  He resumed his crawl over the hawser as soon as he was certain she was behind him. Using hands, knees, and ankles, he made his slow, deliberate way forward and up the steeply slanted rope. The idea was not to hurry, to concentrate on the next foot forward, but it was difficult to keep to the pace he had set for them, what with the shouts, imprecations, and the hail of gunfire erupting from both ships, lighting up the way ahead like fiery streamers.

  Below them, the churning of the water, the knowledge that should either of them slip off they would be sucked into the undertow caused by the steamer’s massive screws. He had wisely not mentioned this possibility to Ayla; she already had enough to occupy her mind. He had, however, warned her of the slime on the hawser, and she was lagging behind even his deliberate pace. Making sure each handhold was secure enough to hold her weight.

  As a consequence, Bravo made it onto the stern of the steamer while she was still shy a third of the distance. He had turned back to reach out for her as soon as she came into range when he heard a shout. Whirling back, he saw one of the Syrian extremists leveling an AK-47 at him. Immediately he raised his hands high, came walking at a normal pace toward the man.

  The man shouted at him, but Bravo cupped one hand behind his ear in the universal sign that he hadn’t heard. The staccato gunfire and the roar of the diesels helped him sell it. At the same time, as the Syrian automatically shifted his gaze to the gesture, he picked up his pace considerably.

  Now he shouted at the Syrian. It was gibberish, but that was the point. The man squinted, shook his head, and again Bravo picked up his pace. The Syrian recognized what was happening too late. By the time he squeezed the AK-47’s trigger, Bravo was already inside his perimeter of defense. Grabbing hold of the barrel with one hand, shoving it aside, he slammed the heel of his hand into the Syrian’s nose with such force he shattered the cartilage. A great gout of blood fountained, then began a rhythmic spurting.