The Waters of Eternity

by Howard Andrew Jones

  “That is an interesting theory, Asim,” Dabir said. “But I wonder why a djinn would leave footprints. Then there is the matter of other women being killed before this.”

  I grunted. “The djinn stalks him,” I said.

  “It is certainly a possibility that something stalks him,” Dabir said. “But one cannot gut fish until they are netted. We must gather more facts.”

  Gathering facts with Dabir was almost always tedious, and I was relieved to see that we did not turn down the Boulevard of the Ebony Stallion, which would have meant Dabir planned to gather his facts within the library of Iskander.

  After we paused for morning prayers, we worked our way toward Marid’s house—for that was our destination, as I learned when Dabir asked a grocer for directions.

  Shortly thereafter we arrived at a two-story home along a modest side street.

  Dabir rapped upon the door, which was soon opened by an ancient Nubian of many wrinkles. There was barely space between door and jamb for him to show his face. He eyed us in the aloof, suspicious way of elderly servants.

  “Peace be upon you,” Dabir told him.

  “And upon you, lord.” The old man did not sound as if he meant it, and opened the door no farther.

  “It is a pleasant morning, is it not?”

  The old man replied gruffly that perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn’t, and added that his knee joints ached the longer he stood in place.

  “I am Dabir ibn Khalil,” the scholar said, “and this is Asim el Abbas, my right arm. We wish to speak with the elder of the family of Marid ibn Haydar, for we have news of him.”

  The old man’s bushy brows rose like white cobras, and he then opened the door. “Please, come in,” he said. “I will summon the mistress.”

  After he closed the door behind us, we passed through a narrow hall and into a tiled courtyard. Columned archways supported an overhanging balcony on three sides. The servant strode off through a door under one balcony, tired knees or no, with great speed.

  Dabir and I walked to the center of the courtyard and admired the small fountain and its pond. The enticing aroma of baking bread rose from a stone stove sitting in one corner. Nearby lay some uprooted tiles, a shovel, and leafy green bushes awaiting planting.

  We heard the old man advancing across the tile, and turned. “The mistress will see you now,” he said, mustering a stiff partial bow before returning to the shadows under the balcony. I ceased to notice him further, for a very font of beauty had entered our midst. She was no sapling, but a woman molded for the pleasure of man, firm of build with full curves. Her skin was smooth and without blemish. Her hair flowed like silken midnight to her waist. Her veil was thick, but no veil could hide the luster of her large brown eyes.

  Dabir made the introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, and once Dabir explained that he had questions that might aid the lady’s brother, she invited us into a reception room. I regathered my wits to note that the servant followed.

  We soon were seated comfortably on pillows, the woman across from us. A serving girl brought us slices of sweet melons and some of that warm bread I’d smelled in the courtyard. The Nubian waited on a stool by the door.

  “Lady Iamar,” Dabir said, “I do not believe your brother killed this woman, but I need more information to clear him of blame.”

  “Gladly would I give it,” Iamar replied. Her voice was like that of an houri, soft and delicate, but also clear and sure.

  “From where would he have been coming last night?” Dabir had already asked this of the guards, but this did not surprise me, for Dabir had the habit of asking the same question of many people.

  “My brother…” Iamar looked away before straightening and eyeing us directly. “He craves the company of women as some men crave the forbidden wine. He was most likely with a day wife, or singing girl.”

  “Did you know the other women who died?”

  “I knew one of them.” Iamar paused, then continued sadly. “She was the daughter of our grocer, and still rather young. She would sometimes follow Marid about the square, for he was kind to her and would give her treats.”

  “Do you know anything of the other?”

  “She was a seamstress with whom he had spent some time. I know nothing else of her.”

  “Do you know anyone who dislikes your brother?”

  She blinked calmly. “I do not.” Iamar sounded almost insulted. “This Captain Fakhir has accused my brother of these killings, and he had nothing to do with any of them.”

  “The captain said that there was a third woman—your brother’s intended, and that she also haddied.”

  Iamar nodded once, with great dignity. She glanced my direction. “Kahlya was attacked, and died, in Raqqa, not here. Her death is clearly a different matter. I told the captain this.”

  “Why Raqqa?”

  Iamar blinked, likely taking a moment to decipher Dabir’s abbreviated speech. “Kahlya was the daughter of the spice merchant, Yacoub. They had relatives there, and customers.”

  “This food,” I said, “is most excellent.”

  Iamar looked at me and I suddenly felt foolish. Not only had I interrupted Dabir’s questioning, it occurred to me just after I spoke that it took no great talent to either prepare bread or slice melons.

  Fortunately Dabir changed the subject. “Might I see your brother’s rooms?”

  “Of course. Sohrab, show the honored one to my brother’s chambers.”

  Dabir followed the old servant out the doorway. I remained with the font of beauty, looking only at the bowl that I had nearly emptied.

  “I am pleased that you like the melon,” I heard her say. “They have been exceptionally sweet this year.”

  I looked up and found her gaze upon me. It was not unkind. It may be that some madness seized me, for I spoke again without thinking. “It sorrows me,” I said, “that one so beautiful must suffer so.”

  Her eyes shone. “I have heard tell of your friend Dabir,” she said. “If half of what they say of him is true, he will prove my brother’s innocence with ease.”

  I smiled. “The tales could not begin to describe the truth of things.”

  “Oh?”

  “Dabir can do whatever he sets his mind to achieve,” I told her. “Why, his wit saved Baghdad from a magian sorcerer. Efreet, infidels, wizards—they all know him and fear his name. Together we have thwarted evils near and far, small and large.”

  She prodded me for details, and listened with interest as I told her of a journey by boat for the caliph, and the unlikely attack we endured along the banks. God willed that I should have time to finish my story with flourish before Dabir returned with a sheaf of papers beneath one arm, the servant following.

  “Your brother is a writer of many letters,” Dabir said.

  Iamar opened her mouth to speak, but unlike other women, hesitated to consider her reply.

  “Do not worry,” said Dabir. “I am only interested in matters related to your brother’s innocence. All else will be read and forgotten.”

  She nodded once, gravely. “You have my permission, honored one. Nay, if there is any other way I can aid you, I will do so gladly.”

  “I thank you. Now we must go. Come, Asim.”

  “I insist you stay to share a meal,” Iamar said, rising.

  “We thank you,” Dabir replied, “but we have few hours left us. We need them all for your brother.”

  “Then go with God.”

  It seemed to me she favored me with a long look as we made our good-byes.

  Dabir left the home at a fast stride.

  I could not quite suppress my irritation. “We should have stayed,” I told him as we turned down the street. “I fear we may have seemed rude. And,” I added, “I was hungry.”

  Dabir laughed. “What sort of sweets do you crave this day, Asim?”

  When I did not answer, Dabir laughed again, but the merry sparkle in his eyes faded fast. “I want you to speak with your friend Tarif. Find out
about Captain Fakhir, then meet me at home after midday prayers. Or sooner.”

  “You suspect the captain?”

  “I suspect everyone but Marid, Asim. Even your lady love. Now go. We’ve little time.”

  I had become friendly with Tarif, a scarred fellow who was captain of the governor’s palace guard. He had heard mostly good things of Marid, but little even of those. He had served with Captain Fakhir and thought well of him. “A stern man,” Tarif said, “but just, praise God, and you don’t want the receiving end of his sword stroke.”

  When I returned home the cook told me Dabir had gone to the library of Iskander, and so I hastened after, cursing. It was not mete for Dabir to walk far without my protection, but I found Dabir whole and well in the catacombs of the tower library, his pointed chin buried in an ancient tome.

  He looked up at my boot heels striking the tiled floor, and smiled thinly. “You will chide me, I suppose, for venturing here alone?”

  “It was not safe.”

  “If, as you say, my fate is writ, what matter my actions?”

  I was not about to enter into a philosophical discussion with Dabir. Sometimes a devil set him with a mood and he would harangue me with subjects that bordered on the heretical. “God writes our fate, but if he wishes to set fire to our beds he shall use lightning—do not spread your mattress in the hearth.”

  Before Dabir could respond, I launched into my report.

  I had learned never to summarize information for Dabir, but to relay word for word what was told me, as best as I could recall. In other situations he would sometimes exhaust me by asking for particulars of the speaker’s manner or the surroundings, but he knew well enough that Tarif had no hidden motives.

  When Dabir nodded at my conclusion, I again gave him no time to philosophize. “What have you learned from the papers?”

  “Marid has many friends, and fancies himself a poet.” Dabir’s thin lips twitched into a smile, but settled quickly into solemn lines. “He has written lately that he thought someone might be following him, but has been unable to confront the skulker. Earlier letters talked of the hatred borne for him by Yacoub, the man who would have been his father-in-law. It seems that his marriage had been arranged in years before the spice merchant rose to wealth. Yacoub opposed the union once he improved his station, but could not break the contract.”

  “And what have you learned here?”

  Dabir beckoned me closer. I looked both ways and saw only a few graybeards bent over distant tables beside their lanterns, and long rows of high shelves weighted with books and scrolls. I sat down beside Dabir.

  “A hundred years ago a group of assassins was stamped out by the general Bashshar. One of their favorite methods of flaunting their power was to remove the hearts from their victims and leave them in prominent places.”

  “You said that they were destroyed.”

  “Assassins are as difficult to root out as garlic,” Dabir said. “That does not trouble me. I have other questions, though. Why hire an assassin to frame Marid with killings? It would be less expensive simply to have the assassin kill Marid.”

  I had no answer, so said nothing.

  Dabir closed the book with a dull thud. “We will return to the graveyard, and then we shall see to the spice merchant.”

  “Him?”

  Dabir turned up an empty palm. “He does hate Marid. And who else among those in Marid’s life could afford an assassin?”

  “What about the dog?”

  “Are dogs not common in graveyards, Asim? I think it was an opportunist, as the captain suggested.”

  I grunted to admit this was a possibility, although I was not yet ready to dismiss my thought that it was something more, and I kept watch for it as we crossed the graveyard wall so that we might start from the same place we had begun our search the day before. As might be expected, the tracks were largely obliterated disturbances in the still muddy earth. The sky that afternoon was dark, but only threatened rain without delivering.

  Without tracks to guide us I would have been challenged, but Dabir had counted trees and tombs, and within a quarter hour we stood at the base of the hill, staring up at the bushes that had hidden the body. Dabir explained that prints under the bushes might have been more sheltered from the rain, and that we should look carefully.

  As usual, Dabir was correct. It pleased me that I found dog prints—and sizable ones—beneath the plants. There were also signs of the murderer’s tracks, and Dabir found an earring, crusted with dry blood. I stepped away while Dabir searched the area more closely. When he finally stood and brushed off his jubbah, he frowned. “Come,” he said, and walked slowly around the tomb, examining its front. Two others stood nearby, and he turned in his time to them, stopping before one with narrowed eyes.

  Words of God were written across the tomb’s face and along its sides, and its roof was a beautiful dome decorated with green and white tiles. Over its closed horseshoe doors was inscribed the name of the house of Yacoub, the merchant.

  “No worthwhile assassin would leave a victim so close to something of his employers,” Dabir said.

  We strode forward. My neck hairs rose, as though someone watched us, and I put hand to sword. I expected to sight the wolf-dog at any moment.

  Something had attracted Dabir’s eye, and he reached for the doors. They, too, were rich with the words of Allah, the merciful, the compassionate. To my surprise, Dabir pulled one of them open. There was a thick lock inset in the door, but someone had unlocked it, or a thief had broken in and looted the place.

  I did not mean Dabir to walk unguarded into a breeding ground of evil spirits, and grabbed his arm. “I shall go first.” I thrust open both doors and peered within.

  There were but three bodies laid out in the dozen niches carved into the walls of the tombs. I sorrowed to see that one was an infant. The plaques below the level of the shelf where the other two shrouded bodies lay declared one as a man and the other a woman. I looked then toward where the body of the infant lay. Surely Marid had not been married to an infant, though it was not completely improbable. And then I espied an empty niche, inscribed with a woman’s name, Kahlya.

  “The woman’s resting place is empty,” I said. And then I beheld a stranger mystery, for beside her name, in a long row, were four others. They had been scratched out with a stone or other sharp implement, with no great skill, and stood in stark contrast to the well-carved letters beside them. Further, a line had been drawn through the first three.

  “Dabir,” I said, feeling a chill creep over me, though I knew not why, “there are four more names here—”

  Dabir came suddenly to my side and stared at the letters. “This third is the murdered girl we found,” he said. “I expect the first two are the others.”

  The fourth name was that of Iamar, sister of Marid.

  “It is not yet drawn through,” I said.

  Dabir turned quickly back to the door and crouched beside the lock.

  I stepped around him, liking not to stand within the tomb any longer. “The assassin must be moving against Iamar—should we not protect her?”

  Dabir rose. “Fool that I have been!” His face had taken on a peculiar ashen look. “Curse me for my arrogance, Asim!”

  It was often hard to know how to respond when one of Dabir’s moods seized him. “Nay, it was writ in the book of fate that you should make whatever small oversight—”

  “The lock has been broken from the inside, Asim.”

  IV

  Dabir commandeered two mares from the nearby garrison and we rode through the wide streets of Mosul, galloping when we could, and disturbed so many folk that they shouted curses as we swept past. No doubt the house servant was surprised to find us, panting and reeking of horses, just outside his door, but we had no extra time. I pushed through him, demanding that Dabir be allowed to speak with Iamar.

  Scowling, the old man led us once more to the shadowed courtyard. Once again the pleasant aroma of baking bread wafte
d from the oven, but this time Iamar already waited within the garden, weeping beside a body beneath a brown sheet. Captain Fakhir stood nearby, looking uncomfortable. He and Iamar glanced up at us in the same instant. Iamar’s tears abated somewhat, but her expression was a sad thing to behold. It did not warm me to have to convey what we had learned.

  “What has happened?” I asked.

  “Officer Marid died of his wounds,” the captain explained. “I brought him here with two men, and have remained to try and console the lady.”

  “Your hakim let him die,” Iamar said spitefully.

  The captain opened his mouth to respond, but Dabir stepped forward, holding up a hand. “Marid is innocent, but we must act quickly lest a horror befall him.”

  “He is dead,” Iamar explained softly, as though addressing an idiot child.

  “There are worse things.” Something in Dabir’s voice silenced her sobs. “He has been stalked by the ghul of his former betrothed,” Dabir continued. “She has attacked and killed all others whom she considered rivals, and removed their hearts so that they, too, will not transform into ghuls. For it is written that those slain by such a creature become like unto it.”

  Iamar only looked piteously at us.

  The captain laughed. “You cannot clear his name with this child’s fable. He is dead now, and the stain of his crimes will not shame his family. It can be forgotten, but do not claim that he is innocent.”

  Knocking sounded upon the door. The servant sighed and left the courtyard.

  “He is innocent!” Iamar cried, her aplomb shattered.

  I picked up Dabir’s line of thinking and hastened to clarify. “We must cut his heart from his body, or he will rise,” I said. “By God, I am sorrowed by—”

  Iamar’s eyes widened in shock. “No!”

  There came a horrific masculine scream and the sound of smashing wood. Dabir and I whirled toward the archway that led to the door.

  “What was that?” the captain asked.