by Judith Tarr
The bath was neither poisoned nor lined with knives. The cakes and kaffé were as innocent as if his own most trusted servant had made them. The elegant robe which the woman offered him was only a robe; no spells were woven in its fabric.
He declined her further services. She withdrew with grace that spoke of opportunities lost and delights forgone.
He could not bring himself to regret them. He ate one of the cakes. It bore little resemblance to the deadly gift that an Assassin left on his victim’s breast. This was notably more pleasant: rich with sugar and almonds, laced with a tang of citron. The kaffé was hot and rich and just sweet enough to be satisfying.
It was expected that he rest; he did so, rather gratefully, and with care to keep a part of himself on guard. He was aware of watchers as he slept, eyes both mortal and otherwise, and voices murmuring words that he did not catch. They were surprised, he thought. They had not expected to see him in this place.
They should have, if their spies were as skilled as repute made them.
He woke as a warrior learned to do, all at once, ready for battle. The sky beyond the window was grey with dawn. Fresh kaffé was waiting, and a bowl of dates in honey, and a loaf of bread still warm from the baking.
He was hungry, but first he must pray. He performed the dawn prayers without haste, offering Allah his truest devotion. His prayers were all for her and none for himself. Today was a day of reckoning. Far away from here, in the city of Tyre, she was rousing from her own bed, preparing for her trial.
For a moment he wore that garment of flesh, knew the thoughts that ran within it, tasted the sweetness of her unmistakable self. Parting from it was a physical pain. He gasped as he straightened from the final prostration, and looked up at a man who stood looking down.
It was the man from the gate, the old man in white. He was taller than Ahmad remembered, and stronger; he stood erect, with a young man’s carriage, although his face was as ancient as before.
Ahmad sat on his heels and laid his hands quietly on his thighs. “My lord of Masyaf,” he said.
“My lord of many realms,” said Sinan. “How unexpected to see you here.”
“Your hospitality is beyond reproach,” Ahmad said.
“Yet you have not availed yourself of all that was offered.”
“I accepted everything that I could accept,” said Ahmad.
“Ah,” said Sinan. “A vow, then?”
“A binding of the heart,” said Ahmad.
“Very touching,” Sinan said. “Break your fast, my lord, and take your ease. When you are ready, I shall send a guide. Then we will talk.”
Ahmad inclined his head. He would be calm; he would be his best-known and most noble self, the man the Franks called the great knight of Islam, the sultan’s wise and sublimely politic brother. But the self that was inside, the eager boy who loved a woman, was desperate to settle it now, before another moment passed.
He quelled that part of his soul, and looked without surprise at the empty space where Sinan had been.
The bread was still warm, the kaffé steaming hot. He partook of them as a warrior does before battle, for the sustenance that they offered. They comforted him; the warmth in his belly somewhat assuaged the coldness in his heart.
Just as he set down half the loaf uneaten, a small spirit glimmered into being above his head. It was a faintly gleaming pale-blue thing like a corpse-light, bound by a cord of compulsion that drew it out and away from the room. Ahmad followed at the pace it set, which was not overly swift.
It led him through the castle, keeping to uncrowded passages but not avoiding places where men were, and even a few women: guardrooms, kitchens, gathering halls, places of prayer. It was a populous castle, with an air about it of high and holy purpose.
The holiness surprised him. The darkness that was in the earth and the air and all about this place was not plainly evident within these walls. They were shielded; protected. The men were bound as the spirit was, but it was a willing servitude. They were devout Muslims, true servants of Allah, confirmed in their faith and certain of their place in Paradise. They never knew what it truly was that they served.
The spirit brought him at last up a long and winding stair, not to the tower that he would have expected, but to a green and fragrant garden. Ahmad paused at the entrance of it, steadying his heart, gathering his forces. So: it was true. This was the Garden of the Assassins, that was said to be a corner of Paradise.
It was not the otherworldly Paradise in which dwelt the blessed of God. It was not the earth that men knew, either. Its flowers were too large, too luminous, too beautifully strange. Its grass was not exactly grass. The sky that arched overhead was the color of light under sea: shimmering blue and silver and green.
The Master of the Assassins sat in the midst of his garden. His chair grew out of the earth, a broad, gnarled stump of dark wood polished to the sheen of stone. His white garments glowed against it. His face had the same depth and quality as the chair, as if it too had grown out of this other-earth.
Ahmad looked into his eyes and saw the dark behind the stars. The thing to which he had given himself, the power he worshipped in return for power, was not Allah. Yet he gave it that name, and proclaimed it to the people who followed him. They believed it. Only he knew the truth.
Ahmad knew. Yet he had not come here to destroy it. He had come to invoke it.
He did not offer obeisance. The hate between them was too deep and the war too long. But for the life and love of a woman, he said, “I am not here in my brother’s name or by his knowledge. He plays no part in what passes between us.”
“I do know,” said Sinan softly, “that you are your own man, my lord. If you speak for him, you do so out of the conviction of your heart.”
“This is no matter of his,” Ahmad said, “but it does concern you. Have you had word from Tyre?”
“Tyre?” said Sinan. His brow arched. “Why, no.”
“Nor had I,” said Ahmad, “until a messenger reached me yesterday morning. He brought news of a thing that I found to be altogether improbable. There was a killing, he said: a woman slain in the marquis’ own bed, with a cake of a certain baking left on her body.”
Sinan frowned. “A woman? In Tyre?”
“Indeed,” said Ahmad. “The murderer was seen in the act. Witnesses swear that it was a guest of the marquis who committed the murder, a lady from the English king’s following, his own sister.”
“We do not count women among the martyrs of the Faith,” Sinan said, “and certainly not women from the far ends of the world.”
“That I know,” said Ahmad, “as should anyone with any knowledge of your doctrine. But Franks care little for the finer points of our belief. They see the cake, they see the dagger, they cry Assassin—regardless of the truth of the matter.”
“Indeed,” said Sinan. “It is the easiest of accusations. This woman—tell me of her.”
Ahmad’s heart shaped her in the stanzas of a love poem. His wiser self said flatly enough, “She is the daughter of the late English king and a royal concubine. The king favors her; the queen of Sicily has had her in her train, although since they came to this country the king has kept her close by him. She has considerable gifts as a physician.”
“He trusts her,” Sinan observed.
“He does,” said Ahmad. “He sent her with an embassy to Tyre to smooth matters with the marquis, if that could be done, and to win back the French to the king’s cause. She succeeded in winning a good number of them, and in attracting the marquis’ notice. That gained her nothing but sorrow. Now she is accused of murder, and there are witnesses to swear that they saw her commit the act. And yet that cannot possibly be.”
“You have reason to know this,” said Sinan.
Ahmad kept his gaze steady. “Excellent reason. She was, at the time, with me.”
Sinan nodded blandly. “I can see that that might present a difficulty. Since you were known to be in the vicinity of Jaffa, and she was s
een in the citadel of Tyre.”
“She was seen wielding the knife. That condemns her irreparably.”
“It is a pity,” said Sinan, “and I see from your devotion and the reports of my own spies that she is a lady of remarkable attainments. Yet what would you have me do? It seems purely a Frankish plot.”
“I believe,” said Ahmad, “and the messenger who brought this word to me believes, that it was conceived by the marquis himself out of jealousy and hatred. It serves a manifold purpose: it destroys her, spites the English king, and casts the blame on you.”
“And you? What is the loss to you?”
“I lose her,” said Ahmad.
“Surely,” said Sinan, “a man of your accomplishments should find it simple enough to free her.”
“Surely,” Ahmad said. “Have you no care for the insult to you and your following?”
The dark eyes hooded. “Should we be insulted?” Sinan inquired.
“Perhaps not,” said Ahmad. “I have some curiosity, myself, as to how the lord of Tyre eluded our spies, contrived a deception, and laid the blame at your door, all without perceptible evidence of magic.”
“He is a very clever man,” Sinan said.
“Exceedingly clever,” said Ahmad.
There was a silence. Ahmad made no effort to break it. He had sown the seeds. It was Sinan’s choice whether they should lie fallow or burst into bloom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The silence stretched. The sky shifted and flowed, shimmering with myriad lights and colors. Somewhere nearby, water fell softly, drop by drop.
Ahmad’s eyes followed the sound of it. A spring welled up from the not-quite-grass, trickled down a slight slope, and gathered in a basin. The basin was silver, reflecting the too-strong green of the grass.
Ahmad approached the basin. It was half-full of water, and should have mirrored the colors of the sky. Instead he looked down into a hall of stone. The arches, the tiles, the high peaked windows, were of the east, but the court that stood in it was unmistakably Frankish. Priests were thick there, hung with crosses, and knights of Temple and Hospital, and smooth-shaven courtiers in the latest fashions from France.
She stood in the midst of them in a plain linen shift, with her black hair tumbling loose and wild down her back. Her wrists were manacled; chains bound her ankles. She was thinner than he remembered, and paler; her eyes were enormous in the delicate oval of her face. Yet she did not seem frail at all. Her shoulders were square, her back erect. She looked straight into the face of the marquis as he sat enthroned on the dais.
It was indeed a throne, that high carved chair, although he did not yet affect the crown that should go with it. His mantle was the true deep purple of Tyre, and his collar was of heavy and gleaming gold. He did not have the stature or the beauty to carry it off, not as Guy his rival did, but his bearing almost made up for the lack.
It was not given to Ahmad to hear the words of that trial, but he could see the faces of those who were there. They made him think of hungry wolves. She was no meek lamb, but she was prey; they would devour her.
“She’ll be condemned to death,” Ahmad said.
“Most likely,” said Sinan directly behind him.
He neither started nor turned. “There will of course be consequences, and likely a war. That would suit the marquis very well.”
“She is in no honest danger,” said Sinan, “nor do you need my help to spirit her away. What is it you want of me, then? Revenge?”
Ahmad set his lips together.
“There is a price,” said Sinan.
Still Ahmad said nothing.
Sinan was smiling, and not pleasantly: Ahmad heard it in his voice. “I will do as you are so subtly refraining from asking. When the price is paid, you will know.”
“You will not touch her,” Ahmad said. “She is not yours, not now, not ever.”
“I lay no claim on her,” said the Master of Assassins. “Not now, not ever.”
Ahmad kept his back erect, though he wanted to fall bonelessly to his knees. “So be it,” he said.
He had no recollection of closing his eyes or letting down his guard, and no memory of leaving that garden. Yet between one moment and the next, he passed from standing on a greensward to sitting in his too-familiar saddle. The road down which the mare plodded was nowhere near Masyaf, and yet he recognized it. The sea heaved and sighed alongside it. Some distance ahead, he saw the loom of a rock, and the battlements of the citadel of Tyre.
He felt for a moment the brush of wings, dark and soft, and a ripple of cold laughter. He was a mage and not a weak one, but the Master of Assassins was considerably more than that.
He had sold his soul for a woman. Somehow, even setting it in words could not make him regret it. Even knowing that Sinan had seen clearly. If Ahmad had only wanted to free her, he would have done it. He would have had no need for the journey to Masyaf, or for that conversation in the garden.
There had been need. Conrad had trespassed where he had no right or authority to go—both in laying hand on Ahmad’s beloved, and in laying the blame on the Master of the Assassins. For that he would pay.
The mare halted with her face toward Tyre. Sinan had a nasty turn of humor: he had sent Ahmad where he meant eventually to go, but not until he had made certain preparations elsewhere. If he turned back, time would be wasting. She was safe for this night, perhaps, or as safe as a condemned murderer could be, but the dawn would see her death.
Strict wisdom would have led him to turn back, to carry out the plan he had conceived on the journey to Masyaf. But there was Tyre, and she was in it, with the shadow of death hanging over her.
This was a temptation, and more of Sinan’s mockery. Even knowing that, Ahmad could not choose the course of wisdom. Maybe this was the price: to become a fool for love, as if he had been a headstrong boy and not a man of full and seasoned years.
If that was so, then he would pay it. He stripped the mare of saddle and bridle and set a wishing on her, and turned her loose. She meandered off in search of grass. Much sooner than the road’s curve warranted, she turned a corner and disappeared.
Ahmad stood alone between the sea and the sky. At that thought, he laughed. He was all alone—but for the myriad spirits that, sensing his power, had come flocking to stare and marvel. They swirled as thick as about the walls of Masyaf, but there was no darkness here.
As he looked up at them, he knew that God had sent them, and laid them like a weapon in his hand. His heart sent thanks to the Merciful and Compassionate, even as he called upon these armies of the air. He laid no compulsion on them, but spoke to them as if they had been men of his own nation. “If you are so minded,” he said, “you can help me greatly.”
Most of them did not respond, but a few swirled in closer. They were jinn and afarit, spirits of wit and grace, who could choose good and evil as men could. He bowed in respect. They bowed in return.
“Do you compel us?” asked the foremost of them, a great shining shape of wings and claws and horns, with a voice like the roar of waves beneath the sea. “Do you invoke us by the seal of the one who bound us and enslaved us to mortal will?”
“I do not,” said Ahmad. “I ask it of your free will, to prevent a great injustice, and to protect an innocent.”
“No child of Adam is altogether innocent,” said the great jinni.
“This is a pure soul,” Ahmad said. “Do you doubt me? Come and see.”
“Are you tempting me? Or challenging me?”
“Why, both,” said Ahmad.
“If your claim is false,” said the jinni, “then you are ours for a year and a day, to do with as we will.”
Ahmad’s teeth clicked together. This venture was threatening to cost him a great deal. “And if my claim is true?”
“We will bow at her feet and offer her our devoted service.”
“For a year and a day?”
“For as long as it pleases her to command us.”
“That c
ould be a lifetime,” said Ahmad.
“Your people live but a moment. We live thousands of years. To look on one of you who is the pure essence of divine fire—that would be worth a score or two of years. Because we choose it, you see. Because no compulsion lies on us, except our own will.”
“That is a great gift,” said Ahmad.
“So it is,” said the jinni, “if she is that most unlikely of creatures: both human and pure.”
His companions murmured assent, a mingling of unearthly voices. There were not so few of them after all; others had come as they spoke, until Ahmad stood at the center of an army of spirits. Sioned would be a mighty general if Ahmad won this wager.
They were waiting with the patience of beings who did not age or die. He scraped his wits together and surveyed his forces. The sun was sinking, staining them all as if with blood. So much the better: night would increase the power and terror of this army of air.
He gave them their orders. They had discipline—better than men, because they were wiser. Some took wing in the air, others plunged into the sea. The great jinni lifted him up and sprang aloft on wings as vast as the sky.
He was safe within the curve of those talons, and comfortable enough once he had recovered from the shock of the sudden leap. The sea below was awash with light. The rock of Tyre was a loom of black at the end of its causeway. Lights flickered there: torches along the walls, and late passers within, making their way toward their houses. They would not be aware of what passed above them, unless they had magic.
The army of the jinn drifted lazily on the wind, waiting for the fall of dark. The sky above Ahmad’s head was obscured by the jinni’s wings, but he could see far out over land and sea. He watched the sunset fade and the stars come out.
When the night was fully fallen, the jinni began to spiral up and up. Just when Ahmad was certain that the great creature meant to dash him on the rocks below, it folded its wings and stooped like a falcon, straight upon the darkened city.
