by Judith Tarr
“The king knows,” said the duke.
“Then take me to him,” Mustafa said.
“In time,” said the duke.
“Take me to him,” Mustafa persisted. “He knows me. I have his trust. I—”
“Do you?” the duke asked. “Do you really? He may be enamored of your fine brown body, but he is not a complete fool. Under sufficient persuasion, even he can see the truth.”
“There is no truth in these accusations,” Mustafa said. “Tell me who makes them.”
“I make them.” The voice was trained for sweetness, but venom made it harsh. Blondel was not smiling. Was that disappointment which soured his glance? Maybe he had expected to take more pleasure in the moment.
Mustafa understood a great deal just then. The fear in him turned cold and clear. “What do you accuse me of?” he asked.
“Of spying for the infidels,” said Blondel. “Of serving the Old Man of the Mountain. Of murdering or helping to murder the marquis in Tyre. Of plotting to murder the king.”
“Can you prove any of this?” Mustafa demanded.
“I have witnesses,” Blondel said. “You were seen in conversation with men in Tyre who are believed to have been in the Old Man’s service. You attempted to implicate the king’s sister in your plot, and succeeded so far that the marquis himself accused her of a murder she never committed. She nearly died for that. Then when she escaped, you had perforce to execute the plot—and the target—yourself.”
“You can’t prove that,” said Mustafa. “It never happened.”
“Witnesses aver that it did,” said the duke. “Two of them are men whom I trust. They saw you, infidel. You were seen plotting sedition with agents of the Old Man.”
“Whoever these witnesses saw,” said Mustafa, “it was not I.”
“They will swear on holy relics,” the duke said. “On what will you swear, infidel?”
“On the king’s hand,” Mustafa said. “I will swear on that, for my hope of Paradise.”
Blondel laughed, modulated like a scale on his lute. “Well played, Saracen! Do you think we’d let you within dagger stroke of the king?”
“You can bind me,” Mustafa said, “but bring me before him. I will swear to him that I am his man and only his, and have been since the moment I saw him. I never conspired against him, nor have I betrayed him.”
“We will test that,” said the duke. To his credit, he did not seem as eager to put Mustafa to the test as some of the others, and Blondel most of all.
Mustafa looked that one in the face. “I have done nothing,” he said.
“You lie beautifully,” said Blondel.
Mustafa set his lips together. There was no justice; no regard for truth. This was revenge for things he had never done.
When the pain began, he screamed. He did not have that kind of pride, and it made the pain a little less. If he had been Blondel he would have screamed in scales, but he had no such gift.
They did not want plain noise. They wanted words; a confession. But he had none to make. He had not done anything that they accused him of. He had told them so. It did no good to tell them again. It would have done him good to lie, but that much pride he had. He would not confess a falsehood.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
When the new army came to swell the forces of Crusade, Sioned was too deeply buried in books to notice. The only emotion she had been letting herself feel was grief for Safiyah and guilt for her loss—and even more determination to keep her distance from Ahmad. The books were an escape as well as a compelling duty.
She had found hints and suggestions and elusive trails that led nowhere useful; and time ran on. The jinni with the frog’s face exhausted its store of books, but lingered, perhaps for lack of a better place to go.
Neither of them had come across anything of use. Sioned had found a cure for boils and a spell for summoning the winds. There were many for destroying demons, but none for destroying a man who had made himself invulnerable.
She learned of the army’s coming when the commander of it presented himself in front of her. She blinked at him. He looked about at the books, the inks and pens and parchments, the lamps that burned unceasingly, and said, “God’s teeth! This is a cave.”
Sioned had not known that the front of the tent unlaced from the sides and could roll up like a canopy. The sun dazzled eyes too long unaccustomed to it. The jinni dived into the shelter of his heap of books. Sioned would have liked to, but she was transfixed, ensorcelled by the light.
Henry grinned at her. It seemed he could not see the jinni, or he would have been more baffled and less lighthearted. “Ah! that’s better. You look as if you’ve been in there for days.”
“I have,” Sioned said. “When did you come back?”
“Days ago,” he said. “I’d have come sooner, but there’s a war—a nuisance, but there you are.”
“A terrible nuisance,” she said. “You’ll be marching soon, then.”
He nodded. “It’s almost time.”
“Time for Jerusalem.” She shivered lightly. It was not her holy city, but she could not deny the power of the place, or the strength of the call that had brought this army across the sea. It would end soon, in victory or defeat; and the world would change, whichever way the battle went.
Henry had brought wine in a jar, and cups, and a napkinful of sweets. Sioned could not remember when she had last eaten.
The sweetness of wine filled her mouth. It was well watered and laced with honey. Henry’s eyes were on her. She was suddenly and rather uncomfortably aware of him: his youth, his strength, the beauty of his face.
Rescue came from a quite unexpected source. One of the jinn swooped down like a hawk on its prey. She had seen it now and then, taking its turn on guard. It was a more human-seeming creature than most, like a winged and bat-eared man. It took no notice of the human with her, bowing low at her feet and saying in a voice like a great organ played softly, “Lady of light, you must come.”
Sioned stared at the creature. Its errand must truly be urgent if it would come now, in daylight, in front of a human man. Henry was gaping like a fish. “Is that—am I—”
“Lord of afarit,” she said, “prince of the powers of the air, your presence is welcome. Your errand—if I might know—”
The ifrit lowered the lids over its great lantern eyes and said, “You must come.”
It would never ask such a thing lightly. She brushed it with a small spell, a charm of truth-seeing. It was as it seemed to be, a spirit of fire. No darkness tainted it.
“I will go,” she said. “Lead and I will follow.”
It led; Henry followed her. Only the little frog-scholar remained with the books and the wine and the scarcely touched sweets.
Sioned had no expectations of where she would be led, except that it might be to Jerusalem. But it was not so far at all. The ifrit had folded its wings and composed its appearance so that it seemed to be a tall guardsman in cloak and helmet, conducting the king’s sister and his nephew on an errand of importance.
Henry was enthralled. “Is that really a creature of the fey?”
“It’s an ifrit,” Sioned said, “a spirit of air.”
“And it serves you?”
She nodded a little sharply. She did not want to talk about it.
Henry regarded her less in awe than in delight. “Why, that is wonderful! That’s how you escaped from Tyre, isn’t it? They took you. Did you fly? Did they carry you through the air?”
“All the way to Damascus,” she said.
“Wonderful,” he said, beaming at her. “Simply wonderful.”
Sometimes he reminded her that he was Eleanor’s grandchild. Not often: he was an honest creature, and honorable, as Eleanor never had been. But this easy acceptance of magic, this sheer delight in it, had a flavor of the queen as she must have been before she embraced the darkness.
Sioned was glad that he could be delighted; for as the ifrit led them through the camp to the quart
er which had been taken by the French, the skin between her shoulder blades began to prickle. Something ill was waiting, some trouble great enough to draw the attention of the jinn.
It seemed they walked at a measured pace, but no man impeded them, and the way that should have been convoluted was clear and straight. In a very little time they stood near the Duke of Burgundy’s tent, where an armorer had his forge. From deep within the forge, she heard sounds that made her leap into a run.
They were torturing Mustafa. Later, in Master Judah’s tent, she would reckon the count of his wounds and mark the causes of them. Here she saw only the blood and the fire, and the slim brown body stretched on the rack. She did not think at all. The ifrit was like an extension of her own hand, leaping ahead of her, breaking the bonds, lifting the limp form in its strong arms.
“Hold!” cried the Duke of Burgundy. “That man is a traitor to the Crusade.”
“This man?” Sioned made no effort to hide her incredulity. “This is Richard’s dog. He could no more betray his king than the Devil could turn Christian.”
“Then the Devil is a holy friar,” said Blondel from behind the duke, “because there has been treason committed.”
“Oh yes,” Sioned said, looking him up and down. “There has been. What did he do to you, to deserve this?”
“He betrayed the king,” Blondel said.
She met his pale stare and held it fast, though it tried its best to slide away. “You think the king betrayed you,” she said. “And because you could no more harm the king than he could, you did your best to destroy him. I understand that, but I will never forgive it.”
“I don’t need your forgiveness,” said Blondel with a curl of the lip. “The king believes me. He loves me, not that infidel.”
“That may be so,” she said, “but if it is, then this is even more inexcusable. If this man dies, it will be on your head. And if he lives, and you ever threaten him again, even with so much as a glance, before the powers of heaven and earth, I will see what you pay. Would you sing again? Throw yourself at the king’s feet and on his mercy, and tell him the truth. Tell him that you lied. Or that vaunted voice of yours will wither and die.”
Blondel’s hand flew to his throat. His face had gone slack. He tried to speak; no sound came. He gasped.
“You may speak,” she said, “to retract your lies. Speak here, and speak well. Then speak before the king. Then your voice is your own again. Defy me and I keep it forever after.”
A croak escaped him. That horrified him far more than simple silence. He clutched his throat; his fingers clawed. His mouth opened and closed.
“Remember,” she said.
Mustafa’s body would heal. The ifrit had brought Sioned in time; nothing was broken, and nothing was damaged that would not mend. A few days’ rest, a few bandages, a posset or two—he would be as hale as he had ever been.
His spirit was another matter. Jealousy and malice did not trouble him unduly, and he was no weakling when it came to pain, but his accusers agreed that Richard had believed the accusations. And Richard was nowhere in evidence. Sioned had sent a man to fetch him, but the man had not come back. She should have sent a jinni; the spirits of earth and air were unaccountably fond of Mustafa, and would have seen to it that Richard came at the summons.
Just as she was about to ask that favor of the ifrit who had brought her to Mustafa, who was still standing guard in the surgeons’ tent, a commotion heralded the king’s coming. Henry had fetched him. She had known when Henry left; he had an army to command, and he had already given her far more time than he could spare.
Yet there he was in the light of the long summer evening, bowing like a squire as Richard strode into the tent. The king had been in council: he had the ruffled look that Sioned recognized, like a hawk too long in the mews.
He brought the light with him, and the heat of summer in the hills of Jerusalem, gusting like a wind across Sioned’s face. Mustafa, who only this morning would have bloomed in it, turned his back and hid in coverlets.
Whether he intended it or not, the movement laid bare the weals that were not severe enough for bandages. They were ugly, livid and swollen, glistening with salve. Richard’s breath hissed between his teeth. “God damn them to hell! They were supposed to hold you until I could question you. By the saints, I’ll see they pay for this.”
Mustafa did not respond. His fists were clenched. The angle of his shoulders was tight with rejection.
Richard lowered himself to one knee. He stretched out a hand, but thought better of it. There was no scrap of skin within reach that would not hurt if he touched it. “See here, boy,” he said with rough gentleness. “I don’t have to believe what they tell me, but I do have to lend an ear when men of influence swear on holy relics that one of my servants is a traitor. Especially when they’re French, and I need them to help me win this war.”
Still Mustafa was silent.
Richard rounded on Sioned. “Good God! Did they take his tongue?”
She shook her head. “He’s not badly hurt, considering. There’s no permanent damage.”
“Well, good,” said Richard a little too heartily. “Good! I’ll damage the ones who did it, you have my word on that. But I do need to ask—”
“You will ask him nothing,” said Sioned. “Not now, not later. You’ve done enough.”
“No,” said Mustafa. His voice was hoarse, as if he had forgotten how to use it. “No, don’t hate him. He had to do it. Let him ask. I’ll give him the answers I can give, though he may not like them.”
Richard had not won as many battles as he had by giving way to confusion. “Are you going to tell me the charges are true?”
“No,” said Mustafa. “They’re all lies. I serve no one but you.”
“Why?”
Mustafa raised his head. His face was set and still. His eyes were clear. “Because every dog must have its master.”
“Some dogs will follow any man who feeds them.”
“Some dogs can only follow one man.”
Richard nodded. “I believe you,” he said.
Mustafa sank down with a sigh.
“You do understand,” Richard said, “that the people who did this to you will pay. But first I need them to help me take Jerusalem.”
“I understand,” Mustafa said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Word of the caravan’s fall reached Jerusalem near evening of the day that it was lost. A bruised and dusty servant came riding on a stumbling mule, perched atop an empty packsaddle. His tale ran to the citadel ahead of him and reached the sultan in a tumult of confusion. But the essential fact was clear: the caravan was gone. The Franks had taken it.
Ahmad was with his brother when the news came. They had been talking of small things, the doings of wives and children, the training of horses, the flight of falcons. But their thoughts were of the war, measured in fits and starts and sudden silences. Richard would move soon. The second army of Franks had joined the first. The king would have to use them both and quickly, or lose his hope of taking Jerusalem.
The caravan had been the sultan’s hope. He needed its gold and silver to pay his troops, and its silks and jewels to give as gifts to his emirs and his allies and to the caliph whom ultimately he served. Its horses and camels had been meant for his cavalry, its mules for the baggage train of any army that he might bring to the field. The provisions it had carried would have supplied Jerusalem through a Frankish siege.
It was all gone. The messenger swore to that, once he was brought to the sultan—lying on his face, shaking so hard that his tale came in gusts. “They took it all. All of it. The men you sent—dead. All killed. The rest ran. Some died. They weren’t taking heads—they had too much else to take.”
“Everything?” said the sultan—the first word he had spoken since the news had come to him. “Everything is gone?”
“Down to the last dirham,” said the messenger. He was remarkably fearless for a man who brought such news. It
was not courage, Ahmad thought; it was shock. He could not believe in the reality of what he had seen, even as he told the tale of it.
The sultan had lived a lifetime of war; it had taken its toll, heavier with each year that passed. But in this hour he had aged years. His eyes were bleak, his face worn and old. His hands trembled on the hilt that the messenger had laid in his lap. The blade of the sword was broken off, but enough was left to read the beginning of a verse from Holy Koran: On the day of Resurrection shalt thou be paid what thou hast fairly earned.
It had been Aslam’s sword. The sultan had given it to him.
“He broke it,” said the messenger. “Malik Ric. He broke it and slew the emir.”
“Of course he did,” the sultan said as if to himself. His finger traced the chasing of the silver hilt, the pattern of leaves and flowers that unfurled along the guards.
People were crowding into the room. It had been a chapel when the Franks held the city; there was still the shadow of a cross on the eastern wall. Some of those who came spat at it with ritual disgust.
The sultan seemed not to see or hear them. He stroked and stroked the hilt of the broken sword. Aslam had not been a particular friend or a kinsman, but what his death meant . . .
“We are lost,” he said. He looked up from the hilt into Ahmad’s face. “That caravan was my sole hope of paying my troops through this season. Now, even if enough of them will stay for long enough to drive the Franks back from the walls, they’ll abandon me soon after. Then the Franks will overwhelm us. Jerusalem will fall.”
“My lord!” cried one of the emirs. “Will you surrender so soon? We hold this city; its walls are fortified, its cisterns deep. We have provisions enough for a siege—not as many as we had hoped, but enough. We can break the cisterns between here and Beit Nuba, and foul the wells. That will give the Franks pause, particularly those who remember Hattin: they’ll think long before trying to march in summer through waterless country. We hold the advantage. This is a setback, not a disaster.”
