by Jean, Rima
Zayn shivered, and not entirely from the cold. She did not care how tame Marguerite claimed it to be; she would never trust a predator with the power and instincts to kill humans. “Where is your master, cat?” she whispered.
Bashar emerged from the stables, his head and face wrapped in a headcloth, carrying a war-saddle, bit, and bridle over his shoulder. He stopped short when he saw her at the gate, but his black eyes betrayed no emotion. “Good morning, Lady Sara,” he said, putting down the harness and tugging the headcloth from his face. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Zayn was aware of the falconer, squires, and sergeants milling about, and put on a show of coquetry. She smiled bashfully and lowered her eyes, hoping a rosy flush appeared on her cheeks. Let them think Marguerite’s Syrian lady is in love with the cheetah keeper. “Good morning, Hakim. I thought I would come by and…say hello.” I’ve gotten good at this.
Bashar narrowed his eyes and smiled slightly. He was amused, and not just a little suspicious. He unlatched the gate and let her in. Zayn walked past him, edging warily around the observant feline. She looked at Bashar and smiled, and he looked back at her with a frown. “What can I do for you, my lady?”
Zayn continued the ruse, fluttering her eyelashes and twisting her skirts. Her voice was soft, but her words were unvarnished. “I think it is time we set aside our differences, Hakim. We are, after all, striving for the same things. We can help each other.”
His nose was red from the cold. He said, “Go on.”
She lowered her voice further, stepping as close to him as she could without inciting scandal. She sensed him stiffen. When she looked at him, she noticed that he avoided her eyes. Ah! Bashar does not know how to handle a Zayn with womanly guile. She said sweetly, “What would happen if a lion was spotted in the hills beyond the Mount of Olives? Surely the king would organize a hunt to kill the beast. And, of course, all of the best knights would join, including the Templars. There isn’t one hot-blooded Templar who could resist a lion hunt.”
Bashar finally met her eyes. “So?”
She smiled innocently. “As I understand, you are good with big cats. You know where to get them. Surely you could find one suitably terrible as prey for the king and his men.”
Bashar shifted, considered. “And if I could?”
“We would both benefit from such a thing,” Zayn said. “Two Templars could fall…one for you, one for me…”
“How would you know who I am after?” he said sharply, clearly annoyed by her knowledge.
Zayn couldn’t help but relish his displeasure. She lifted her chin and narrowed her eyes, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You think you are the only one with ways of knowing things?”
He was silent for a long while, gazing at the ground, his brow wrinkled in thought. Zayn wiggled her icy toes in her soft doeskin shoes, trying to regain feeling in them. Finally, he looked at her. “Why should I trust you?” he asked. “Are you not friends with my intended victim?”
Zayn nearly flinched. “Friends? Bashar, I have no friends. I seek one thing, and one thing only—the death of that Frank who murdered my mother. I will stop at nothing to get it.”
He chuckled. “That much I believe.”
“And,” she added, “when I have achieved it, I promise to disappear. I will leave the Order. Is that not what you want?”
She could tell by the sudden flicker in his eyes that it was. He looked hard at her. “You will abandon the Order? They will seek you out.”
“I will hide well.”
Bashar rubbed his chin. “You swear on the Holy Koran that you will leave the Order?”
This, Zayn could do. “I swear upon my mother’s grave, Hakim. You will never see me again.” She knew well what he was thinking—if she ran away from the Assassins, they would hunt her down and probably kill her. Perhaps he even thought that he, Bashar, would have the pleasure of plunging the knife through her heart himself. It was an arrangement he could hardly pass up.
He nodded and looked out into the distance. “Give me some time. I will prepare something. In the meantime, come and visit once in a while, so that we may continue this rumor that there is a…dalliance between us.”
“Of course.” She smiled, and this time the smile was genuine. Earic was safe so long as she held Bashar close. He smiled back, and something in his smile concerned her. Before she could think on it, he had scooped her up and kissed her on the mouth, his lips cold on hers. As quickly as he had grabbed her, he let go and stepped back. From somewhere in the stables, a squire hooted and another laughed.
She was furious, but she knew the importance of containing herself. She resisted the urge to spit, wipe her mouth, and drive her fist into his throat. He knows it, too, the bastard. Rather, she let her outrage carry her from the courtyard, and she rushed back to the palace with her cloak drawn close over her face.
“If only I were a man,” Zayn said to Marguerite when the two of them were alone again. She paced the solar, her fists clenched.
Marguerite smiled. “I used to wish that as well, not too long ago. But I see the advantages of being a woman now—we are underestimated, and therefore, have that much more power over men.” She leaned toward Zayn and narrowed her eyes. “Let Hakim underestimate you. The more he does, the better.”
And he did. Zayn visited Bashar every three days, playing the part of the flirt. She channeled her dislike for him into her deception, and after a couple of weeks, Bashar himself seemed to believe she was taken with him. His contempt for her had faded behind his amusement with the game they played for the benefit of others and by the fact that when he boldly touched her, she seemed to warm to him, to lean into his body, a coy smile dancing on her lips. Believe that I am putty in your hands, Bashar.
Underestimate me. I am nothing but a silly, stupid girl.
Then one morning several weeks later, he waited for her at the gate, smiling. He let her in and wrapped an arm around her waist, drawing her against him and brushing his lips against her ear. “It is done. Only a short while before word of the lion spreads to the king.”
Zayn pulled back, inspecting Bashar’s smug face. “Truly? How did you do it?”
He grinned. “A secret, sweetheart. But it is a formidable beast. There is not a man in all of Jerusalem who will be able to resist the lure to hunt it—least of all the king and the Templars.”
She was quiet, her heart thudding against his chest. Could he feel it? She spoke softly. “I am getting closer to achieving my goal.”
“Yes. Hopefully, you will not fail this time.” He’d meant to anger her, but she refused to be baited. She simply shrugged her shoulders, as if conceding to the truth of his words. Yes, that’s right. I am weaker than you, Bashar. Believe it. He continued, “I, for one, will not fail. I never fail.”
She looked at him, affecting an expression of admiration. With her eyes wide, she asked, “How will you do it?”
Bashar’s smile broadened, and he chuckled. “Surely you know I won’t tell you that, my pretty little Assassin. I am not your precious Junaid. I am not a fool.”
She shrugged again, as if it mattered little. “Do as you will, then.” She stepped away, but he pulled her back to him firmly.
“You must continue to visit me,” he murmured into her hair. “Perhaps I can help you with Guy de Molay.” Zayn grit her teeth. It took every bit of strength she had to smile and nod, to conceal the visceral revulsion he sparked in her. She wanted to hold a knife to his throat and watch him squirm. She wanted to break him.
She left him with a smile and a wave, hiding her face from curious eyes within her veil. A hunt would be organized soon. She would defeat Bashar then. All in good time.
Chapter Sixteen
It took less than a week for word of the lion to reach the king’s ears. A hunt was planned for just a few days later. The High Court buzzed with excitement, for the lion had attacked and killed a goat herder in the hills just outside the city. It was a dangerous beast, seemingly
unafraid of humans.
“You had no need for me after all,” Marguerite said to Zayn, almost sadly. “If only I could join the hunt!”
Zayn patted her friend on the shoulder. “It’s just as well. Your mother would forbid it, and you’d find yourself battling her will yet again.”
“And I would win, by God,” Marguerite said passionately, her neck flushed red. “With Earic’s life at stake, she would not be able to stop me.”
“Exactly,” Zayn said with a smile. “Trust me to get it done.”
Marguerite held Zayn steadfast with her gold-green eyes. “Will you be able to do it alone?”
I think so. I hope so. “Yes.”
Marguerite arranged for Zayn to accompany Lady Agnes of Poitiers on the lion hunt. Zayn did not meet the lady until the morning of the hunt itself and found Lady Agnes to be reserved and joyless. She scrutinized Zayn when she thought Zayn was not looking, her thin lips pursed and small eyes scrunched even smaller. Lady Agnes was only a few years older than Zayn herself, but she behaved like a woman well past her prime who was weary of the world. Zayn wondered what had drawn the lady to archery as she watched Agnes carefully string her beautiful golden longbow made of yew, then slip into her supple leather gloves and bracer. Her equipment alone must have cost a small fortune, but she treated it as though she did it a favor by using it.
The hunting party at Ascalon was nothing compared to this one. As Zayn accompanied Lady Agnes to the stables, she saw the Templar standard, black and white with a red cross. The brothers, knights, and squires clustered together, readying themselves for the hunt. Her heart leaped into her throat; though she tried to catch a glimpse of Earic or Guy, she did not see them. Not far from where the Templars convened were a group of Hospitallers, saddling their horses and cleaning their ash wood lances. They wore their black monastic habits over their hauberks, the white cross stitched on their breasts.
Zayn mounted her mare and strung her longbow, her eyes diligently scanning the area for Earic, Guy, and Bashar. The king’s men paraded by, their colorful, jeweled tunics and sparkling armor bespeaking ridiculous wealth. Not far behind them, the nobles’ and barons’ wives climbed into their horse-litters, attended by their maids and ladies. They did not want to miss the spectacle—a royal hunt for a man killer.
A man killer I let loose. Zayn felt a wave of guilt and a flare of anger at Bashar. Certainly he was enjoying the mayhem the lion was causing.
“Looking for the cheetah keeper, I assume,” Lady Agnes said casually, without glancing at Zayn.
Zayn was surprised, so her stammer was not entirely forced. “What makes you think so, my lady?”
Agnes snorted. “Come, now. The two of you haven’t exactly been discreet. And how the High Court loves gossip, even that involving servants.” She wrinkled her beak of a nose. “You disgrace your father’s house, gallivanting around with the cheetah keeper. You ruin your chances of finding a worthy husband.”
And what does being an Assassin and a Saracen bastard do for my chances, Lady Agnes? Zayn tried to look contrite. “Oh, there is nothing…”
“Enough for people to talk,” Agnes snapped. “And that, you should know, is quite enough. But look, here comes the cheetah keeper. He’s looking for you, I’d wager.”
Bashar was indeed searching for her, scanning the crowd of eager hunters. He had his cheetahs in tow, and the big cats yawned and licked their chops, surveying the gaggle of humans with disinterest. Bashar smiled slightly when he saw her, inclining his head. The games have begun, his eyes seemed to say.
Zayn returned the smile and nod. May the better Assassin win.
King Baldwin’s health had been rapidly declining in the past months, and it was becoming evident. He appeared surrounded by his attendants, and everyone bowed. Like an Arab, he wore an embroidered headscarf that covered all but his sharp blue eyes, the skin around them pale and blistered. He mounted his stallion in silence. When he was finally ready, the hunting party proceeded from Jerusalem, a great train of knights and nobles, squires and attendants, hounds and falcons winding through the gates of the city. The trackers and beaters rode at the front of the grand procession to flush out the prey, and the king was behind them. Zayn rode beside Lady Agnes in silence, grateful for the short journey to the ancient hills of Judea. The stiff-backed Knights Hospitaller rode behind them, and Bashar behind the knights. If she twisted in her saddle, she could see him on his horse, leading his cheetahs, who also rode on the back of a palfrey.
She had still not seen either Earic or Guy. She peered ahead through the forest of swaying lances and banners to the Templars, but they all looked the same from the back. Lady Agnes spoke. “I hear you are quite the archer.” There was a note of skepticism in her voice, as well as a challenge.
“I’m fair at it, though certainly not comparable to your ladyship,” Zayn replied. The last thing she needed right now was Lady Agnes to turn the hunt into a competition.
“Hmm,” Agnes sniffed. “We shall see.”
Zayn smiled politely. She would show Lady Agnes what an archer she was—by hunting Templars and Assassins. That will shut her up. In spite of it all, she suddenly felt like giggling.
As the party ventured farther into the hills, Zayn managed to maneuver Lady Agnes closer to the Templars. She thought she saw Earic among them; his fluid, graceful style of riding was distinct. She also thought she spotted Guy beside him, as she recognized his stallion. She was suddenly skittish, for she did not know what Bashar was plotting, and she had no real plan of her own except to follow him and when the time was right, “accidentally” shoot him with an arrow. She had to shoot him before he could approach Earic, so timing and luck had to be on her side.
The hunters naturally divided into separate groups—those who followed King Baldwin to the north and those who accompanied the Templars to the west. Both Lady Agnes and Bashar were inclined to follow the king’s group, and Zayn watched anxiously as the Templars disappeared beyond the jagged rocks and from her sight. She glanced at Bashar, but he seemed unconcerned that his prey had wandered off. He smiled at her coolly. She did not smile back.
The hounds were leading them down to a dry creek bed, along which was a thicket infested with doves. The hunters seemed happy to kill what they could, filling their bags with small game. The lion, after all, was for the king. Lady Agnes shot several herself, her expression full of gloat. She looked at Zayn and asked, “Will you not hunt, Lady Sara?”
Zayn continued to glance at Bashar, who loosed his cheetahs and walked calmly behind them, humming to himself. Her nerves strummed like the strings of a lute, her fist clamped and sweaty about her bow. What is he planning? I will have to shoot him soon. She coaxed her horse into the nearby bramble, positioning herself behind him. She wanted there to be a burst of activity at the moment of her shot, so that Bashar’s death could look like an accident amid the confusion. She felt nauseated, her breakfast churning threateningly in her stomach. She would kill Bashar. She had to, for Earic’s sake. But how her entire being detested this strategy of deceit, this game of death the Assassins played.
It was then that she knew what to do.
Not moments later, some deer were flushed from their covert, and they scattered into the open, frightened and vulnerable. The cheetahs sprang, blurs of gold and black. Lady Agnes shot an arrow, some other hunters followed suit. The melee Zayn had been seeking was upon her; this was her chance. As Bashar made to follow his cheetahs, she acted swiftly: nock, draw, release. The arrow struck its target dead center, directly in Bashar’s left buttock.
He howled; she fought a smile. When Lady Agnes turned and looked on her in horror, the smile was gone and wide-eyed distress was in its place. “Oh God!” Zayn cried from behind her hands. “What have I done? I meant to shoot the… Oh God, Hakim!”
Men rushed to his aid. The arrow was snugly embedded, so that barely any blood escaped the wound. In a show of wails and tears, Zayn followed the men who carried Bashar to another of the royal physi
cians. At the tent, the physician raised his eyebrows at Zayn. “You, again. Involved in the rescue of one, the injury of another.” Before she could say anything, he swept into the tent to care for his patient.
Outside, Zayn hesitated. Men and women stared at her, suspicious. Was she a jealous lover, perhaps? Had Hakim taken an interest in another woman? She folded her arms across her chest. She would encourage those rumors. As if in a fit of temper, Zayn stormed into the physician’s tent. Inside, Bashar lay on his side and grimaced in pain, his face covered in a sheen of perspiration. His eyes opened, and he saw her approach.
He nearly sprang to his feet. “You! You bitch. You jinniyah whore,” he rasped, leaning forward to grab her. “You betrayed me.”
Zayn looked at the physician. “May I have a moment with him, please?”
The physician looked warily between the two of them. “I’m not sure…”
“I will call you should I need you,” she said with a small smile. He agreed reluctantly, and when the tent flap closed behind him, Zayn moved closer to Bashar. When he lunged at her, she was prepared. She pinned him down on his back, holding his arms above his head. One knee pressed down heavily on his chest, the other digging mercilessly into his hip. He grunted in pain and spat at her, but she held him steady.
“I could just as easily have killed you, but I didn’t,” she said softly to him, baring her teeth. “Be grateful to me for that.”
Then he laughed—an unexpected, strangled sound that could have almost been a cry. He was losing consciousness; his eyes dulled of their luster, and his face drained of all color. “You think you’ve won, don’t you? Betraying one of your own kind for a filthy, worthless Frank. An infidel. You are a stupid, half-blood whore, Zayn. I’ve outsmarted you, and your knight will die no matter what.”
