by Donald Tyson
“Was it chance that your daughter’s ball found its way over the wall?”
He laughed and put his hand on my shoulder in a friendly way to guide me into his house.
“Let us go into my study where we can converse freely.”
The room was filled with books, charts, and mathematical instruments. It occupied the left side of the house on the lower level. I recognized an astrolabe, several astronomical instruments for measuring the stars, and a celestial globe, but many of the finely crafted tools of brass were unfamiliar.
“You are an astrologer?”
He saw that I was looking at several freshly made horoscopes on his desk, and nodded.
“There are wealthy men who pay large amounts of gold to have their futures divined in the stars. It is a frivolous occupation, I grant, but it pays for my more serious studies.”
Crossing to a cabinet, he opened its doors and poured wine into two slender goblets of smoky transparent glass. He gave me one of the glasses and indicated that I should sit on a cushioned seat beneath the window, which opened onto his back garden. I saw the child running through the grass, naked as Eve, when I sat. He sat beside me and drew his leg up to turn and face me. I sampled the wine. It was a kind of mead, as good as any I had ever tasted.
“I was sorry to hear about Hapla,” I murmured. “It is my hope to cease my wandering and make Damascus my home.”
“The Caliph makes life difficult for us all,” he said, sipping from his goblet with his eyes closed to savor the golden wine.
“For you as well?”
He shrugged.
“He employs me to draw up horoscopes for his concubines and various princes and men of power with whom he has dealings. Thus far he has not threatened me.”
I remembered the unfortunate fate of an astrologer to King Huban’s court at Sana’a. Not many months after I began living at the palace, the king had taken a dislike to his predictions and had caused him to be impaled on a stake just outside the gates of the city.
He studied my face closely as though looking at the details of a painting. When he noticed my attention, he smiled disarmingly.
“That is a well-wrought glamour. Do you mind?”
I shook my head, wondering what he intended. He made several fluid gestures and muttered a few words. I felt the veil of glamour fall from my countenance. He did not flinch away, but his eyes held pity.
“I see why you wear the glamour. You have suffered much, Alhazred. Perhaps at some future meeting you will tell me your history.”
I spoke the word of the veiling spell and restored my mask while he watched the motions of my hand with interest.
“Perhaps. And in return, you may tell me about your real work, that causes you to receive the bodies of the dead in the night.”
He nodded.
“Trust between men cannot be won in a moment, or with a few words.”
I left his house with my mind filled with unanswered questions. Was he married? If so, I had seen no trace of his wife. How close was he to the Caliph? Did I dare trust him, or any man of power, with my true history? King Huban was dead, but I had no doubt that his son Yanni would enforce his late father’s decrees. Yet it would be useful to have as a friend a man with the same interests and skills. When next we conversed in private, I resolved to ask him about magic that would restore lost limbs.
A captain of the Caliph’s guard and two foot soldiers waited for me in the courtyard when I returned to my own house. Martala ran across and put her arms protectively around me.
“They have come to arrest you, Alhazred,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. “You are to be taken before the Caliph and judged.”
Chapter 55
Yazid was a man whose body had gone soft from too much indulgence for too many years. It was said that his age was thirty-nine, but he looked older. His skin, deprived of sunlight, had acquired a sickly pallor and a scattering of dark moles. Broken blood vessels reddened his nose, and blue pouches hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. A ragged beard that resembled a worn shaving brush decorated the tip of his chin. His small white hands fluttered like ensnared birds when emotion overcame his exaggerated dignity.
“Do you think me a fool? Do you think I know nothing of your ways?” he shrieked. Echoes reverberated from the domed ceiling.
No answer helpful to my situation arose in my mind, so I remained silent. I had been forced upon my knees on the mosaic floor tiles by the two helmeted guards who stood at my elbows with their arms folded on their breastplates. In addition to the royal bodyguard, several dozen advisors, servants, and courtiers were gathered in the lofty audience chamber of the Caliph, watching me with impassive expressions. I was merely one of many men that Yazid would judge this day, to be forgotten as quickly as the others.
Yazid leaped from his throne in a passion and took several nervous steps across the polished tiles on his pink satin slippers.
“How do you explain this?”
He thrust out his hand. On his palm rested a large emerald. With sinking heart, I recognized it as the stone from the vulva of the Thugian idol.
“It is an emerald,” I said, licking my swollen lower lip.
The guards had not been gentle while escorting me from my house to a waiting room at the palace. They had found ways to make me stumble, and when I stumbled, had used that excuse to strike me.
His eyes bulged and he ground his teeth.
“Where did you get this stone?”
If he expected me to deny knowledge of the emerald, he was disappointed. That he held the stone meant that he had questioned the gem dealer, who would have repeated all that I told him.
“It belonged to my father, who was a captain on the Red Sea for many years. How it came into his possession, I do not know, but when he died it was passed on to me, as his only son.”
Clutching the emerald in his fist, he hit me across the face with a backhand blow, his knuckles catching me on the cheekbone.
“Lies! This stone is from an idol of the wagon-dwelling vermin that infest my roads. It is an evil thing anointed in blood to honor their obscene goddess.”
“Of these matters I know nothing.”
He raised his fist as though to strike me again, but restrained himself. Instead, he wiped the sweat from his flushed face with his sleeve. The odor of his body, only a step away, was uncommonly foul, and I noticed with an absent mind the dried vomit stains on the breast of his ornately embroidered purple silk robe.
“Nothing? Nothing?” He stared around at his courtiers with raised eyebrows. Several of the bolder sycophants laughed. “I suppose you know nothing about the forbidden arts of necromancy?”
“Necromancy is a crime against the laws of the Prophet, may he be blessed, and those who practice it are punished with banishment or execution.”
“Indeed they are.” He stared at me with an idiotic expression of exultation, and I wondered if he were mad. “Tell me, necromancer, why should I not order you put to death?”
Looking around the audience room, I saw no sympathy in the eyes of those assembled to watch this vulgar display. I might attempt to take possession of Yazid’s mind, but if I failed I would have no recourse. He was undoubtedly a fool, but it did not necessarily follow that he had a weak will. In any case, the moment I released him he would have me recaptured and put to death.
“Harkanos, your advisor on matters celestial, will speak for me, and testify to my good character,” I said quickly.
This made him hesitate. His eyes narrowed.
“You know Harkanos?”
“He is my closest friend in Damascus.”
“He will speak for you?”
“He will testify that I am ignorant of all forbidden arts.”
“Why in the name of the Prophet do you dwell in the Lane of Scholars?�
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I shrugged.
“The house was for sale, and it was next to that of my friend Harkanos.”
He withdrew and huddled with several of his advisors, who cast me dark looks as they talked among themselves in low voices. At length he returned and drew himself up, recollecting his dignity as Caliph.
“I do not believe you, but I have no further time to waste on you. Since you invoke the name of Harkanos as your protector, I will be lenient. You have three days to rent or sell your house, remove your possessions, and leave Damascus. If you are within the walls when this period of grace has elapsed, you will be taken to a place of public execution and beheaded by the sword. That is my judgment.”
He jerked his chin so that the role of fat beneath it jiggled. The guards at my sides seized my arms and lifted me to my feet. My legs were numb from kneeling on the chill tiles. The guards prevented me from collapsing as they marched me out of the audience chamber and to the front gate of the palace, where I found Martala and Ani waiting with anxious faces.
In answer to their questions, I merely shook my head, lost in my own thoughts. We walked back to the house in silence. I did not speak until we stood in my study, away from the curious ears of the household staff.
“The Caliph has ordered me to give up this house and leave Damascus. I have three days.”
Martala took the news stoically. She had heard worse things in her life. By contrast, Ani reacted as though stabbed in the heart. He began to moan and beat his forehead and his chest with his fists. I presume he lamented the end of his luxurious new life.
“I must talk to Harkanos, our neighbor. I was forced to involve him to save my own life.”
When I told the impassive servant who came to answer the bell at the brown door that I must speak with his master, Harkanos himself returned to the door to admit me. I recounted in a few words my arrest and the decree of the Caliph, and with some embarrassment, told him that I had used his name to save myself. To my surprise, he was not angry. He nodded and laid his hand upon my shoulder.
“You acted wisely to save your life. If there is need, I will testify to your good character, but I do not believe that will be necessary.”
“As long as I have not placed you in danger by linking you to my misfortunes, I am content.”
“Nonsense, nonsense, you are one of us now. It is time we acted together for the good of all.”
He motioned for a servant to approach and murmured in his ear, while I puzzled over his words. The servant bowed and withdrew.
“Can you return here at midnight?”
“Of course.”
“Do so, and I hope to have better news for you.”
It was with great curiosity, and some trepidation, that I returned to his door at the agreed hour. The same wordless servant admitted me from the street and ushered me into the house. I expected him to lead me to the study of his master, but instead, he went toward the rear of the house, where a modest door of plain boards opened upon a stone stair that led downward into the cellar. I found it similar to my own cellar, though less bleak. The stone walls were adorned with tapestries, and rugs took the harshness from the flagstone floor.
A short corridor opened upon an oblong chamber with an arched roof of red brick. A single oil lamp hanging from an iron bracket on the wall cast a dim light. The room contained a table and little else apart from shelves on one wall that held various obscure receptacles of brass and glass. The table was a rough workbench, stained by chemicals and perhaps by blood, but wooden chairs were arranged around it. Harkanos sat at its head. Four other men sat along the far side, their backs to the wall, and three on the side nearest the door. At the foot of the table sat the ghoul Uto, his eyes narrowed to slits against the glow of the lamp. He grinned at me, showing his sharp teeth against the blackness of his lips. I recognized none of the men. They watched me without speaking as I entered the room, and the door shut behind me.
Harkanos rose from his chair and gestured for me to come forward.
“Take a seat, my friend.”
There was one vacant chair at the near side of the table, on the end. I slid into it, gazing around at the others with keen interest. The youngest, who sat at the left elbow of Harkanos, looked a few years older than myself, and the eldest, who sat across from me, might have been my grandfather. They were all men of dignified bearing and intelligent countenance.
“It is best if we do not exchange names, in view of our purpose,” Harkanos said.
Several of the men nodded, and I wondered what our purpose might be.
“These are all your neighbors, and no doubt in time you will come to have acquaintance with them. Uto, you have already met.”
He turned to the others.
“As I told you in my messages, this is the man who bought Hapla’s house. Today he was commanded by Yazid to give up his residence and leave Damascus.”
“Did the Caliph give a reason for his judgment?” asked the elder, whose white beard descended below the edge of the table.
“He accused me of necromancy,” I said, meeting his pale blue eyes.
“No other crime? Merely the practice of necromancy?”
“Only that.”
An angry murmur rounded the table.
“This is intolerable,” said the bald man beside me, who I took to be an Egyptian by his accent. “One by one, Yazid has us banished or executed. He will not stop until we are all cast out of the city. Yet we have done nothing to earn his displeasure.”
“He is terrified of magic,” said the ghoul. “He sees demons under his bed and finds curses written in lampblack on his ceiling. Drunkenness has stolen away his reason.”
Harkanos raised a hand for attention.
“Are we agreed that Yazid intends to banish all necromancers from Damascus?”
They solemnly nodded, and after a moment of consideration, I added my assent.
“Then we have only to decide what action to take in our own defense.”
“We might hazard a bribe,” the bearded ancient said. “If it was large enough, Yazid would be tempted.”
“Would that allay his irrational hatred of necromancy?” asked the youngest man at the elbow of our host.
“No,” admitted the eldest. “It might turn his ire away for a year or two, but it would not solve the problem.”
“Why should we throw away good gold on that besotted pig?” demanded the Egyptian.
Several others voiced agreement with his view.
“We might try to frighten him,” Harkanos mused. “Yet he has grown so irrational in his mind, a threat could cause him to move against all of us at once.”
“For too long have we bent like reeds to his bluster,” the Egyptian continued. “I say we end it. For if we turn our faces away and let this newcomer suffer his fate, the next time it will be one of us who is driven from his home.”
To this view there was general accord.
“You are but recently arrived in Damascus,” the Egyptian said to me. “You don’t know what it has been like, to be mindful of every action or word, lest it trigger the anger of the Caliph.”
“The last three years have been difficult,” the ghoul agreed.
“Yazid must be eliminated,” Harkanos said. “How are we to accomplish it?”
“Poison?” the younger man on his left murmured. “Simple, but effective.”
“I’ve heard that he has food tasters who sample everything he eats or drinks,” said the ghoul.
“Whatever way we choose, it must be certain,” Harkanos said. “If we fail and it becomes known that he was attacked by necromancy, we are apt to face even greater oppression.”
“A demon,” the Egyptian began in a musing tone, gazing at his fingers, which he joined at the tips, “would be messy,” he concluded.
&nbs
p; “That’s an understatement,” said the bearded ancient. “There would be parts of Yazid scattered through half a dozen rooms of the palace.”
We all sat in silence, considering the ways of murder.
“It is not necessary that Yazid be killed,” the Egyptian said. “Only that he be sent away.”
“Far enough away that he can never return,” the ancient agreed.
“I know of a portal spell,” I murmured. “It was taught to me by . . . one well versed in such magic.”
In a few words I described the spell of opening the portal between worlds by means of a whirlwind that was shown to me so long ago by the dark man in the desert. They were an attentive audience.
“The difficulty with such portal magic is control,” the ancient said. “Easy to open a portal, but difficult to know where it leads.”
“What matter where it leads, as long as it is to some other plane of reality,” observed the Egyptian.
This evoked chuckles from several men at the table. They found the idea of Yazid cast off into an unknown void amusing. I admit, it brought a smile to my own swollen lips. I remembered the different worlds I had visited in soul flight while beneath the lost city of Irem. Any one of them would serve for Yazid’s exile. The Plateau of Leng seemed especially appropriate for a man of his vulgarity.
“We would need a way to open the portal at a distance,” Harkanos said.
“That is not beyond possibility,” said the ancient, his cold blue eyes glittering beneath his snowy eyebrows.
Other ideas were brought forward, but none held as much appeal as opening a hole in the fabric of space itself for the drunken Yazid to tumble into.
We spent an hour discussing the mechanical aspects of the portal ritual. The spell taught to me by Nyarlathotep was to be used as the foundation. I did not see the need to admit the origin of the spell to the necromancers. Harkanos was able to provide the locator for the spell by using an astrological birth chart of Yazid. A birth horoscope was as distinctive as a portrait. He also possessed a scrap of underclothing stained with the Caliph’s semen, no doubt purchased from one of his concubines.
