The Waters of Eternity

by Howard Andrew Jones

  She gasped, then her head fell upon his shoulder.

  He threw the blade far out across the stones, his teeth clenched. It struck the wall and clattered against the flagstones. Then he pressed the girl’s body fiercely to him, tears streaming down his face, his mouth working but stricken into silence.

  I searched Fadil and Tarik for challenge, but there was none there, only the sorrow mirroring that etched upon my own face.

  One thing remained to be done. I strode after the scurrying bug that had been Sarsour and lifted my heel above it.

  “Let him be!” Dabir shouted, his voice choking.

  Bewildered, I lowered my foot to the ground.

  “Leave him to his immortality,” Dabir declared, then turned to bear the dead girl from the waters that still bubbled behind us.

  What more is to be said? We used our own strength to topple the column and worked into the night to stop the pool and fill it with stones. Lina we bore to the lovely valley with its swaying flowers and interred her deep in soft earth, her slim body wrapped within a shroud. Surely she walks now in paradise.

  Marked Man

  I

  It was late in the day when Bassam ibn Habbab called at our residence, and he was dressed in the finest silk. All of his garb flaunted his wealth, from the turban glittering with threads of gold to the sandals decorated with shards of gemstones. His black beard was oiled so profusely that the hairs looked wet.

  Yet gone from him was his typical insouciance. He did not jest that I was a nursemaid as he had once at the governor’s banquet, or make sly reference to Dabir’s love of books rather than women. Politely he refused refreshment, then sat there across from us, and by Allah it was almost a pleasure to see someone with such a high opinion of himself looking so distressed. Bassam, you see, was one of the wealthiest young men in Mosul, and famous for his extravagances.

  Even after the usual pleasantries were exchanged it took a moment for Bassam to overcome an uncharacteristic hesitation. “I have monies at my disposal to hire whatever I need.” His light baritone, usually ringing with confidence, sounded uncertain. “But my own watchmen have failed me, and I think I need something more than…” He looked over to me and I bristled. “A bodyguard.” He hesitated for a moment more, managing finally, “I think what I need is advice. I have always enjoyed Asim’s tales of your adventures.”

  This was news to me, for I had endured frequent jibes from Bassam while relating them at the governor’s banquets.

  “And I think,” Bassam continued, “that you might be the man for the job, Dabir. How much do you charge for your services?”

  Usually Dabir waved any sort of fee away, for we were well cared for by a generous salary awarded us by the caliph. This time, though, he thoughtfully rubbed his beard. “For me, nothing. But the Tower of Iskander is in need of a new roof over its library annex.”

  There were several colleges within Mosul, but Iskander’s school was Dabir’s pet project, owing to its supply of texts, which Dabir had seen to augmenting.

  “Say no more,” Bassam told him proudly. “I shall see that the matter is done, and properly.”

  “That is very generous,” Dabir replied. “Now please. What has brought you to us?”

  “Someone is trying to kill me.” Bassam paused to gather his thoughts, then added, “There have been four attempts. Well, at least four. Now that I think of it…”

  Bassam looked as though he meant to keep talking, but paused as Dabir held up his hand.

  “Do you suspect who it might be?” my friend asked.

  Bassam grinned. “Who does not like me?”

  “Your tongue is sharp,” I said, more gruffly than I intended. “Maybe it has wounded the wrong man.”

  “Harmless jests,” he protested with a shrug and a short laugh. “The folk of Mosul are not so thin-skinned.”

  I but grunted.

  Dabir shot me a look, by which I understood that I was to remain quiet. “Tell me of these attempts.”

  Bassam shifted on his cushion. “Well, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but last week I was accosted late at night while coming from the Tavern of the Gray Stallion. Suddenly three bandits stepped out from an alley and ordered my guards to step aside. They did not, brave fellows, and soon sent the murderers packing after a little swordplay. I thought they were simply after my money, until, well, I realized that they hadn’t asked for any money. They had meant to kill me. And they knew who I was!”

  It occurred to me that the fellows might instead have been kidnappers, but I kept silent. Though Mosul is a lawful city, there are scoundrels to be found nearly everywhere.

  Bassam continued. “The next night, there were two poisonous snakes in my room! I thought it was strange, but, well. Anyway. The next day I received a note, telling me to avoid my usual thoroughfares that evening. I wasn’t sure if it was a threat or a joke, and deliberately took my regular route, along with a couple of extra guards. It was only when a horse-drawn cart came charging at me down Baker’s Lane that I realized the note had been a warning. If one of my guards had not helped me over a garden wall I would have been run over.”

  “Do you have the note?” Dabir asked.

  Bassam shook his head. “I crumpled it and the thing was gathered up by one of the servants.”

  Why, I wondered, do they never keep the notes?

  “But I kept the second note,” Bassam added. “I think it was in the same hand. A woman’s hand, I believe.” He flashed a smile. “Some maid in league with the murderer watches out for me.” Bassam fished about in his sleeve until he withdrew a folded parchment and passed it to Dabir, who studied it intently, both the writing and the paper itself.

  “I did not ignore that warning, about poison,” Bassam continued as Dabir read. “I took it to heart, and when the wine bottle arrived I poured the thing out. I thought to check it, somehow, to see if it were truly poisoned but, well, I couldn’t bring myself to try it on some poor animal, so…”

  “Did you keep the container in which it was sent?” Dabir asked.

  “I think so,” Bassam said. “At least, I did not throw it out. That was just this afternoon.”

  “I wish to see it. And I would like to keep this note, if you do not object.”

  Bassam waved magnanimously, as if the parchment were a valuable prize. “Certainly. If you really want to go look at the bottle, I guess you can come look.”

  He started to rise, but Dabir stayed him by holding up an open palm. “A moment. Do you have any enemies? Business rivals?”

  “Every man worth his salt has business rivals.” He grinned.

  “Are there any who come particularly to mind?”

  “Nay; I let my managers worry about all of that, anyway. They did a fine job for my father, may peace be upon him, and I’ve just kept them on.”

  “Is there anyone you’ve dismissed from your service recently?”

  “Not I.”

  “Forgive me then for asking if you owe any debts.”

  At this Bassam only laughed.

  “Or if you have broken a heart.”

  Here Bassam smiled proudly and rakishly. “My reputation precedes me. But I can’t imagine any of them being moved to murder.”

  “That’s strange,” I said, for I could envision it easily.

  Bassam shot me a look, then grinned. “Oh, come now, do you harbor a grudge just because I teased you once?”

  “I hold no grudge,” I told him, though I well recalled the flush I felt as folk down the banquet table laughed at me in the midst of my tale, thanks to his quips. “But others are less patient.”

  “Are there any recent loves who might be angry?” Dabir asked.

  Bassam waved his hand dismissively. “That dancing girl. Samar. I’m sure you’ve heard of her. My barber told me she was especially irritated when I stopped calling on her.”

  Dabir and I had once assisted the wily Samar, and we two exchanged a knowing look.

  “Did she threaten you?”
<
br />   Bassam laughed. “Samar is woman of strong spirit, and has broken many hearts of her own.”

  This at least was true.

  “Let us see what is to be seen, then,” Dabir said, climbing to his feet.

  II

  Anyone knows that Mosul, though far older, is not as vast as Baghdad; while suburbs stretch out beyond the walls, most of the grandest homes are within. This means that even the wealthy folk do not live in the sort of palaces one finds in many quarters of Baghdad, as they must make do with existing buildings, and under the governor in those days there was no bribe that would have allowed the closing down of even the most minor lane to extend a property. So it was that the footprint of Bassam’s family home was not much larger than our own. But it was stuffed to overflowing with fine things, which hung brightly or sparkled upon so many walls and shelves and nooks that the place felt as crammed as a merchant’s stall. It was impossible to rest my eyes in any one place because there was so much to see.

  Unfortunately, we had to spend considerable time there, for after Dabir’s careful examination of the wine jar with the alleged poison and the questioning of the servant who had taken it from a messenger boy, he then spoke with each of the four guards who had been with Bassam on the occasions of the attack by bandits and the attempted trampling. Every interview was conducted separately, and afterward Dabir sat down again with Bassam to ask him about certain events or the appearance of the attackers that the other accounts had differed on, then went on to speak to him at greater length of other people he knew. It was a tedious business and it was easy to see that Bassam grew irritated, though he did not protest. At least the food was well prepared, though I must admit I found even this wanting in comparison to that served by the cook of our own household.

  It was with relief that I left with Dabir in time for evening prayers. Bassam somewhat sulkily promised to heed Dabir’s suggestion to remain in the home that night.

  After prayers Dabir led us to a tavern near the city’s heart. As the weather was fine, many folk were out, and music and laughter could be heard within.

  “Why are we here?” I asked him.

  “To visit an old friend,” Dabir said. “Were you not listening?”

  “There was much to hear,” I said.

  “Perhaps you were munching at the time. You will recall that one of Bassam’s lady friends is Samar.” We turned down a dark lane to the tavern’s side.

  Samar was like Bassam in that most everyone in Mosul knew her name. They otherwise differed, for she was very clever, and a dancer in demand throughout the province. We even had once solved a problem for her. This did not mean that Dabir trusted her, for he had declined her advances after the matter was concluded, carefully, so as not to make an enemy of so influential a woman.

  “You think she is trying to kill him?” I asked. I could scarce credit the thought.

  “I doubt it. But she will tell us something of the matter. Of this I am sure.”

  I would have asked him how he knew this, but he was already knocking on the worn cedar door at the tavern’s rear. The portal was opened by a big bored-looking fellow, garbed only in pants and a vest. From his squinty-eyed look of displeasure it was clear he was used to dismissing drunkards seeking either the wrong way in or attentions of the women, but he recognized Dabir’s name, and my own, and bowed over his potbelly, gesturing for us to enter. He sealed the door behind us, then lifted a lantern to light the way. So far as I recall, he never did speak, leading us on past several open doorways until he paused at one closed door and rapped on it with hairy knuckles.

  “What is wanted?” came a woman’s shrill voice. It did not sound, to me, like Samar.

  The guard bowed his head to us and stalked back down the corridor, leaving us in the dark save for the voice and a single lantern to the right of the door. The distant sound of merriment reached us through the walls.

  “It is Dabir ibn Khalil and Asim el Abbas, come to call on Samar,” my friend said.

  There was no immediate answer; Dabir glanced over to me.

  The door came open suddenly and a short woman looked up at us. Her unveiled face was fair, if truth be told, but she was not Samar.

  “My apology,” Dabir said. “We were led to believe—”

  “My mistress will see you,” she said. “Enter.” She then rolled her eyes at me and I gathered that she liked what she saw, for she smiled.

  That was a womanly place, hung with long mirrors and draped with scarves; also there were candles and lanterns and soft cushions and a carpet. It smelled of costly perfumes. The maid slipped out into the hall and closed the door behind her. Either she found us sufficiently trustworthy, or Samar had ordered her out.

  Samar stood with her back to us, adjusting cloth over a dressing screen. She was slim, and I was reminded again of her splendid grace, noticeable even in ordinary motion as she turned to face us.

  “Dabir and Asim,” she said. “What are the odds?” Her voice was husky. She swayed closer to us, her ornaments jangling, and those dark eyes looked up into Dabir’s. “To what or whom do I owe the pleasure?”

  “You are lovely as ever, Samar,” Dabir told her, and it was no less than the truth. “Peace be upon you. We have come because a man is in danger, and we seek to help him.”

  She laughed musically. “I am but a defenseless dancing girl,” she said. “I will be of no use to you.”

  “You are many things, Samar,” Dabir said gently, “but you are surely not defenseless. I know that you have danced for Bassam ibn Habbab.”

  “Indeed I have,” she said. “He is a generous man.”

  “Yes,” Dabir agreed. “And someone is trying to kill him.”

  “So you come to me? Tell me I am not one of your suspects, Dabir.”

  My friend smiled and did not answer her question, exactly. “You are surely in the know, Samar. Someone has four times tried to kill Bassam. He has left a trail of sad women and angry male relatives throughout the city.”

  “And you think I might know whom he most upset? Ah, Dabir, there are too many. What of Jala, the daughter of Ahmed, the grain merchant? Or Laila, whose brother is Wasim, the caravan owner? There are so many possibilities, I don’t know how you could begin such an investigation.”

  “What about you?” Dabir asked softly.

  She laughed fetchingly. “Surely Bassam is not suspicious of me.”

  “He is not,” Dabir said, with just the slightest inflection on the pronoun.

  Samar studied him. “You? But you know me better than that.”

  “I know that you are no fool,” Dabir said.

  She smiled, considering him. “You are a peculiar fellow, Dabir ibn Khalil. All this time in the city, yet you have found no wife.”

  Now I did not care to hear her bait him, though I could not help but agree that a woman would keep Dabir’s mind from his lost love, Sabirah, and from thoughts of his poor wife, who had died in childbirth. The last time I had raised the topic of marriage, though, he had quipped that a spear cast at that target might hit either one of us.

  “As to my question, Samar. Is there anything you would like to tell me?”

  She blinked at him. “I will dance in the next little while, and after, it might be pleasant to speak with you alone. That is, if you have any additional questions for me.”

  All of this was spoken with great innocence, but only an idiot would have mistaken her meaning. Dabir only smiled and bowed his head. “I have other matters to attend to, Samar, so I am likely to miss your performance. I shall do my best to return, though I cannot guarantee it.”

  Almost I let my mouth fall open in shock. This I had not expected, for Dabir had once warned me about the woman, whose nature had not been as immediately obvious to me as to him.

  “I cannot guarantee that I shall be waiting,” she answered, “but I would like to see you.”

  We left the same way we’d come, the grunting slave opening the door for us without comment, and made our way out into the
darkening street. Folk wended to and from various taverns and caravanserai.

  I did not want to pry about Dabir’s change of heart regarding Samar, so I started with something else. “So she is innocent?”

  Dabir did not answer the question. “Handwriting can be like a footprint, if one knows how to look. Samar sent me letters over the last months, inviting me to various events.”

  I nodded, for I remembered this.

  “The note warning Bassam seemed in a familiar hand—”

  “Inshallah,” I hissed, then looked both ways, and before and behind, to make sure no one listened. There were a few folk in the street, but none seemed to be paying us any heed. “And did it come from her?”

  “I cannot say for sure, without comparing them side by side…but I believe so. I wish to return home and compare them to this note from Bassam.”

  “Why did we not question her more fully, then?”

  “If she did not confess the matter to me, and she seeks to warn Bassam of the attempts on her life, she herself may be in some kind of danger. And that may be why she wants to speak with me.”

  “Ah. I thought your interest was more…”

  “She is a beautiful woman, is she not, Asim? But some snakes too are beautiful.”

  “So we are to return home?” I asked.

  “We shall divert to Bassam’s home—it is not too far out of the way. I wish to make sure that he followed my instructions.”

  That he had not done. We reached his house in under a quarter hour, and found him gone. His manservant, a dwarf, tried to put the matter in Dabir’s lap. His voice rose in agitation as he explained. “My master waited and waited for you to return after he received the letter, but you did not come, and he finally threw up his hands and departed.”

  I could tell from the expression upon Dabir’s face that he was at pains not to reply caustically. “What letter?” he demanded. “Did he leave it?”

  The dwarf pressed it into Dabir’s palm, chattering as he did so. “He said that if you bothered showing back up that you should read it and follow. Your pardon, Excellency,” he continued, impudently, “but those were his very words, and he wished them conveyed to you.”