The Waters of Eternity

by Howard Andrew Jones

  Read on for a preview of the first full-length novel of Dabir and Asim’s adventures, “highly recommended” by Glen Cook

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  1

  The parrot lay on the floor of his cage, one claw thrust stiffly toward the tiny wooden swing suspended above him. The black olive clenched in his beak was the definitive sign that Pago was a corpse, for while he had fooled us all by playing dead in the past, he had never failed to consume an olive. To be sure, I nudged the cage. It shook, the swing wobbled, and the bird slid minutely but did not move a single feather of his own accord.

  “He is dead,” Jaffar said simply behind me; simply, but with the weight of the universe hung upon the final word.

  I turned to my master, who sat with his back to me upon the stone bench of his courtyard. The second-story balcony, from which the cage hung, draped Jaffar in shadow. Beyond him, sunlight played in the rippling water that danced from a fountain. Flowers blossomed upon the courtyard plants and wild birds warbled gaily. Another parrot, in a cage upon the far wall, even called out that it was time for a treat, as he was wont to do. But my master paid no heed to any of this.

  I stepped into the sunlight so that I might face him. Upon another bench, nearby, the poet Hamil sat with stylus and paper. There was no love in the look he bestowed me, and he returned to his scribblings with the air of a showman.

  “Master,” I said, “I am sorry. I, too, was fond of Pago.”

  “Who could not be?” Jaffar asked wearily. He was but a few years younger than my twenty-five, but due to time indoors looked younger still, no matter his full beard. His face was wan, from a winter illness that had also shed some of his plumpness.

  “He was the brightest bird here,” Jaffar continued in that same miserable tone.

  “Brighter than many in your employ,” Hamil said without looking up.

  “Too true,” Jaffar agreed.

  “Is there some way that I can help, Master?” I was the captain of Jaffar’s guard and sometimes his confidant; the matter of bird death, however, was outside the field of my knowledge, and I did not understand why he had summoned me. It is true that I had found Pago entertaining, for in addition to playing dead, he could mimic the master and his chief eunuch, and even sometimes answered the call to prayer by bowing thrice. He did this only when it pleased him to do so, which, as my nephew Mahmoud once noted, was far too much like many men he knew. Also Pago had once perched upon the poet’s chest when Hamil had passed out from consuming the fruit of the grape, and pinched his long thin nose heartily. That had pleased me so that I brought Pago the choicest of olives whenever I knew I would pass by his cage.

  “Do you suspect he has been killed?” Jaffar asked.

  I blinked. “It had not occurred to me.”

  “The master lay ill for weeks,” Hamil said with the patient air of one explaining to a simpleton. “Might it be that someone, in failing to poison him, poisoned one of his most cherished companions?”

  “It may be,” I replied, wishing that someone had, instead, poisoned the poet, “but the hakim did not believe the master to have been poisoned.”

  “The hakim has declined to examine Pago,” Jaffar said, “saying that he is no expert on birds.”

  “I shall look at him,” I said. “But, Excellency, if I may be so bold, Pago was your father’s before he became yours. He lived a fine, long span of years. It may be that his fate was writ.”

  The master did not answer. I stepped back to the cage containing the rigid parrot, uncertain about what I was expected to see, but fully determined to ape the manner of someone looking with full concentration upon a weighty matter. It occurred to me then that the olive might be poisoned, and so I opened the cage. Pago, dead, was no easier to part from an olive than when he’d been alive, and that tiny beak resisted my attempts to pry it open. I resorted to sawing the olive back and forth until I’d worked it free. I stepped into the sunlight, the fruit between thumb and forefinger. There was nothing obviously wrong with the olive save the shredding it had endured at my hand. “I see no sign of poison, Master.”

  Jaffar sighed. “I did not think there would be.”

  “He is but a captain, Master, not an expert of poisons, or birds. Perhaps a specialist should be called.” Hamil seemed determined to make much of this occurrence.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “Why don’t you go fetch one?”

  “I,” the poet said, brandishing his stylus, “am composing a memoriam for Pago.”

  It was all a bit much, what with the self-important poet and my morbid master, and the parrot’s last meal held tightly between my thumb and forefinger, and I chuckled.

  The poet’s head snapped up. Jaffar fixed me with his own eyes, his brow knitted. The very air was charged then with tension; Jaffar was a kind master, it was true, but he was one of the three most important men in Baghdad and only a fool would mock him to his face.

  “He laughs!” said Hamil, and mixed in with his incredulity was a note of pleasure. A stunned smile spread across almost the whole of his narrow face.

  “I laugh,” I said, “because an excellent idea has come to me.” I do not know who inspired such a fine lie, but it gave them pause, and at that moment I would have thanked hell-bound Iblis himself if he were responsible.

  “What sort of an idea?” the poet prodded, with all the manner of a cat playing with prey.

  “I am not sure,” I said, bowing slightly to my master and thinking rapidly, “that it is appropriate to discuss at this time.”

  “No, please, Asim,” Jaffar said. By all that was holy, I had gained his interest, and I had no idea whatsoever what I might say. “What is your idea?”

  “A diversion,” I managed, thinking as I spoke.

  The master raised his hand dismissively. “No poem or pageantry would wash this sorrow from my soul.”

  “Of course,” I said, a desperate inkling taking shape, “no ordinary diversion would help. Only a truly unique experience would gladden your wounded heart.”

  “I await astonishment,” the poet said quietly, setting down his stylus, “and will be astonished if it arrives.”

  “When last the caliph visited, did he not regale you with a fine tale?” I asked.

  Jaffar bowed his head in assent. “Yes.”

  “He and his comrades dressed in common attire so that they would not be recognized, and walked the streets.” The caliph had said he would have invited Jaffar, had he not lain ill, and, recognizing the disappointment upon my master’s face, told him he hoped Jaffar would join him on some similar venture in the future. The master had mentioned the incident regretfully a number of times since.

  Jaffar shook his head. “Yes, but the caliph hunts this week. I cannot venture forth with him.”

  “I had not forgotten, Master. It is my idea that you venture forth with comrades of your own, so that you might have an adventure to share with the caliph upon his return.”

  Jaffar did not brighten, exactly; his head rose and he ceased movement altogether. The little poet watched him for reaction, probably wondering whether he should mock or praise me, though he would certainly prefer the former. At the upturning of the master’s lips, Hamil quickly said, “I think you have something there, Asim. If you go on this mad enterprise, Master, I hope that you will allow me to accompany you, so that I may record all that transpires.”

  Jaffar was nodding. “Yes—it would be good to leave the palace. We might go down to the market and see what has come from downriver. In disguise, I would be bothered only by beggars.”

  He referred indirectly to the courtiers who would always swarm about him wherever it was that he set his feet.

  “Indeed, Master. But Hamil should remain so that he may finish his composition in silence.”

  “Hah! Who then will tell the story to the caliph?”

  “I will do the telling,” J
affar said.

  “But surely”—the poet halted in midsentence—“You need men of wit to accompany you. Who does Asim plan? A trio of guardsmen, I suppose?”

  He knew me too well. That is exactly what I had planned. A brief foray out; my master well protected. I smiled only.

  “You might as well go in accompaniment of dung merchants,” the poet said. “Nay, you need me. Allow me to suggest other companions, as well.”

  “Nay, Master,” I said. “Take the scholar Dabir. He is crafty, and does not lack for wit.”

  Jaffar nodded and climbed to his feet. “That is a fine thought. Go and gather him. Tell him that we shall meet at the west servants’ entrance. Just after midday prayers. Oh—tell him not to wear anything extravagant. You, too, should disguise yourself. Something common.”

  I bowed. “I hear and obey.”

  The poet was still politely protesting as I left the courtyard and made my way through the palace halls. The master’s palace was nearly the size of the caliph’s, and no place for an aimless search. While I was friendly with Dabir, I did not know him so well that I was familiar with his rounds, and thus I asked directions from one of the slaves.

  The little man bowed. “At this hour he is most likely tutoring the mistress, Sabirah, off the main courtyard.”

  Of course. It was only my miraculous escape from potential dismissal or death that had left me unthinking. The slave’s expression was blank, but there was a hint of derision in his tone, as if all the palace surely knew Dabir’s daytime assignment. I left him and made my way through the hall.

  That a male tutor should be used for the master’s niece had set many tongues to wagging. The situation had begun after our return from the dig in Kalhu, where my actions and those of Dabir had not only brought us higher in the eyes of Jaffar, but, through him, garnered a word of praise from the caliph himself. The master had brought me closer into his confidence, and augmented Dabir’s position, entrusting him with the teaching of his beloved niece.

  Sabirah’s father, Musa, had declared that as God had seen fit to bless his daughter with so excellent a mind, God must have meant for it to be used. Musa had been appointed governor of Syria, but had left his eldest child in Jaffar’s care with instructions that she receive the best education available in Baghdad.

  I neared the twin doors to the room where she was being taught and caught the warm tones of a young woman’s laughter from within. She sounded no brighter than any other girl. I rapped on one door and then walked straight in, as was my right as guard captain.

  Two crones looked up from a backgammon table. They apparently did not mind their charge giggling at a man, but fixed me with a glare that would shrivel a ready groom. Dabir and Sabirah sat at a nearby table, each holding a book.

  I did not look first at Dabir, but to Sabirah. Though I sometimes saw her without a veil, she had been told to wear thick ones while under Dabir’s tutelage. In that day, amongst the wealthy folk, it was not uncommon to show hair, but this too was concealed. She was a slip of a thing, with a slim nose. For myself, I preferred a woman of more ample curve, but I admit that her eyes were large and clear, her voice sweet.

  “Good morning, Captain,” she said.

  “Good morning, Mistress. Forgive this interruption.”

  “The mistress is taking lessons,” one of the crones told me curtly.

  “Are they lessons in courtesy?” I asked her, then looked back to Jaffar’s niece.

  Sabirah’s eyes crinkled as though she smiled.

  “I come at your uncle’s behest to fetch Dabir,” I told her.

  “He’s not in trouble, is he?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Why do you need him?”

  She had me there. Apparently my well of inspiration had run dry for the morning, and I stood statue-still for a moment too long trying to think of an explanation that did not reveal my purpose.

  “It must be something very important,” Sabirah prompted.

  “Yes,” I agreed, though it was not important in the way that she supposed. Doubtless behind her eyes lurked the fancies of a maid; that Dabir was needed to consult about some important affairs of state involving marriages and horses, most like. In truth, I felt suddenly awkward, for I understood then that if I had maintained my composure around the stupid poet, the girl, the scholar, and the crones would have gone the morning uninterrupted.

  “Take him if you must, then,” Sabirah said. “Though I would gladly have read more.”

  “Read on,” Dabir said, “while I gather my things. First in the original, then translate.”

  The girl began to recite curiously worded Greek.

  Dabir stood, searching me with a look. His eyes were a clear blue, more vibrant than that of the blue jubbah he wore, a gift from Jaffar. In those days the hair below his turban was dark and thick. There was no gray yet in the well-trimmed beard, shaped spadelike below his lips, nor in the mustache perched above. Elsewise his beard was thin, only following the shape of his jaw. He searched, I think, for some reassurance that all was truly well, and I nodded once.

  “Some lucky Thracian has my noble shield,” Sabirah continued. “I had to drop it in a wood. But I got clean away, praise God. I’ll get another, just as good.”

  Dabir chuckled as he stuffed his own papers and a stack of books into his satchel. “Quite right. You see?”

  “It mocks the Spartans,” Sabirah said.

  “Yes. What do you think? Is pragmatism more important than glory?”

  Sabirah stared into space as Dabir closed his satchel.

  “It must depend upon the circumstance. Practicality might excuse evil practice.”

  Dabir nodded. “Well said. Keep reading; we will meet again in the morning.”

  “You won’t be traveling, will you, Captain?” Sabirah asked me.

  “Not very far,” I said. I judged by her look that my reply brought no satisfaction, but she wished us good day and said nothing further.

  Dabir and I walked at each other’s side then, down the hall.

  “What has happened?” he asked.

  I told him that Pago had died and that the master craved a diversion. “Hamil had suggested he go; I thought of you.”

  “I see,” he said, not sounding especially pleased.

  I bade him stop in the shadow of a column, and lowered my voice. “It is folly, but I hope to make the best of it. The master desires clever conversation. You can provide that, but you also have a head upon your shoulders. I expect you to help me keep watch upon him.”

  “Where does he intend to go?” Dabir asked.

  “He mentioned the market.”

  “We should shape his steps, then, to safe places.”

  “They must also hold his interest,” I said.

  “Of course. Do you suppose we should take him to a seller of birds?”

  “I would prefer to keep his mind from the parrot.”

  I conveyed the rest of the master’s instructions. Dabir listened without question and then we parted, he for his preparations, me for mine.

  All too soon came the call to prayers, and then I hastened to the west servants’ entrance. There I found Dabir already attending the master. The scholar had donned a dusty brown robe. Jaffar smiled and nodded to me. Boulos, the plump old eunuch, stood behind him, making final adjustments to the master’s turban, which seemed especially bedraggled. On any other day the master would have pitched the dirty cloth through a window. His own jubbah was threadbare and stained; I am not sure from where it had come, but it was considerably worse than my own travel garments. It did not quite work, in truth, for his beard was so well trimmed, his nails so clean that he seemed less a poor man than a child playing dress up. The master was well known for his handsome face and fine figure—though of course poets exaggerated—and he carried himself with confidence that belied his clothing.

  “How do I look?” he asked me.

  “Your garments are suitably ragged,” I replied.

  “I was think
ing,” Boulos said, “that a smudge of dirt upon one cheek might complete the look.”

  “Do you think?” Jaffar asked. He turned to me.

  I wished to say that he would then resemble a clown, but Boulos, no matter that he was slave and eunuch, had more power within the palace than I, and only an idiot antagonized him.

  “It would be a fine touch,” Dabir said, “but the girls will look with less favor upon His Excellency then.”

  “I seek adventure, not wives,” Jaffar said.

  “Oh, you should always be prepared,” Boulos said cheerily. “Who knows when God shall send some tidbit to cross your path?” He and Jaffar laughed; I groaned inwardly.

  Boulos bent to buckle on Jaffar’s sword belt.

  “Is it sharp?” my master asked.

  “It was seen to. I found you an older sheath, though.”

  “Thank you, Boulos,” Jaffar said, and again I groaned internally, for a proper warrior would see to his own weapon; it had not even occurred to Jaffar to be embarrassed to ask. He turned eagerly to us. “I’m quite pleased with all this. Are you two ready?”

  “We await only your word, Master.” I bowed.

  “This was a fine idea, Asim,” Jaffar said. Boulos hustled forward; the two guards waiting to either side of the door pretended not to notice us, although they reached for the door pulls.

  The master held up a hand and the sentries stepped back. “I’m sure you know,” he said as he turned to us, “that you are not to call me by title, or, indeed, by any honorific whatsoever, once we leave the palace.”

  “Of course, Master,” I said.

  “Of course, Andar,” Jaffar corrected with a smile. “I am to have an adventure, so why not name myself after one of the greatest adventurers?”

  “An excellent idea,” Boulos said. “Captain, see him safely home.”

  “Of course.”

  “What time shall we expect your return, Master?” Boulos asked.

  “There is no telling,” Jaffar replied. “We may be gone through the night.” He turned to the door, thought better of it, and faced Boulos again with raised finger, as though he were ticking off a point from an invisible list. “Do not let word spread of our adventure.”