The Desert of Souls, page 13
“Should we not do as Dabir commanded,” the poet asked, “and wait for his signal?”
“We are exposed, here,” I said, “in the midst of our enemies. We must strike fast, while we have the advantage. Dabir is no military man—though I praise his courage. I can playact as well, and make a fine diversion. Once I have their attention, you and Lufti will charge in after. Hamil will wait by the door and move in if needed.”
The poet sounded skeptical. “Can’t that sorceror just set us all on fire?”
“I will trust Dabir to slay him, as he is standing close.”
Mahmoud looked doubtful, but I clapped him on the shoulder. “Do as I bid. We shall strike the head from this snake, retrieve the treasure, and be on our way.”
8
I flung wide the door and brandished my sword, striking left, then right. I meant to play my role even more finely than Dabir had played his, so I spoke in a booming voice.
“Dabir! There shall be a reckoning! Stand you forth, betrayer!” Again I slung my blade, and its passage through the air set it humming with menace. “You will pay! Serpent! Prepare thee for a smiting that shall rend your flesh, smash your bones, and send you to the courts of Iblis!”
It was a darkened room save for the fire that burned in its center hearth, yet there was light enough to gauge the reactions of the men within. Firouz and Ali whirled in surprise, while the swordsman fumbled for his weapon. Dabir managed a look of dismay that was utterly convincing.
“Ali,” Firouz shouted, “silence that cock’s crowing!”
The little knife fighter leapt to his feet, a blade in his hand before I’d crossed half the distance to him.
Dabir and Firouz stood as well, and the swordsman looked to his master for instruction.
“Lay down your weapon, fool!” Dabir demanded.
“He is too much of a nuisance,” Firouz remarked. “We shall find you another messenger.”
Reflected fire shone on a short length of metal in Ali’s hand that a moment later twirled through the air toward me. I sidestepped and swung and somehow deflected the knife, which slashed into the reed wall on my left.
I closed on Ali, laughing, but the little fellow had no end of tricks. He flung powder before me, and there was no help but to blink at the stuff—sand, I think. In that moment he leapt and thrust with his short, fat sword. I had to parry in close, deflecting the strike near the very hilt of my own blade. Dabir and Firouz argued over some point that I could not hear.
The little man spun with more acumen than many dancing girls. There were no wasted movements or flourishes—he was economy and grace and I would have admired him had I not been fighting for my life. I am used to the offensive, but between his skill and the grit that I still blinked away I found myself on defense. Worse, the swordsman was closing in on my left.
A rush of feet came from behind, at the same moment that Mahmoud’s voice called, “Right with you, Captain!”
I laughed deep in my throat then, glad to see Ali retreating. Lufti dashed in to engage the swordsman. Dabir and Firouz struggled over a satchel while Firouz hurled imprecations. Dabir snatched it clear but overbalanced, God be praised, for as he dropped Firouz swept out a hand. Flame from the hearth followed at the gesture, missing Dabir’s head by only finger spans. The fire struck the reeds on the right and licked greedily up and over the walls in a moment, spreading faster than hungry ants. Dabir scrambled off the floor and dashed toward me, teeth set in determination, a satchel hugged to his chest.
Firouz was illuminated behind him, backlit by fire like a demon, his hand uplifted. I thought then that he and Dabir and Mahmoud and I would all be suffused in flame. Yet for some reason he did not grip us with fire.
“Stop them, Ali!” Firouz’s voice cracked in desperation.
Mahmoud leapt ahead of me with a glad cry and struck at Ali. Dabir reached me, glared darkly, and moved past. I stood guard as Lufti backed from the opponent he’d slain, then called for Mahmoud to follow.
And then we were through and out the door; Mahmoud at rear guard while the height of the reed house flared blinding red.
Outside the poet waved us into a captured watercraft. Our sailors, manning the paddles, struck out furiously before any of us were settled into place. Sabirah huddled in front, watching with wide eyes. Mahmoud, the last one in, landed heavily behind us even as our vessel shot away. Ali shouted fury from the pier, already three spear lengths behind us.
“Faster, dogs!” I barked. “It is too soon for paradise!”
Other men were venturing from their own reed huts and staring as we poled past, and behind was the sound of Firouz, shouting, “Slay them! But bring me that pack!”
I grabbed up a paddle and set to work, yelling over my shoulder for Mahmoud to set his lazy arms to motion, for there was another paddle at my feet. Instead, Dabir took it up and stroked on the other side.
We sped on past two reed huts and out into the maze of lanes. “Left!” Dabir called from behind me, and I heard the poet, who sat aft, calling for the steersman to swing wide.
“How do you know the way?” I asked Dabir.
“I paid heed,” Dabir said. His voice was tight, controlled.
Mahmoud was hunched against him.
“Dabir, give Mahmoud the paddle; he is stronger.”
Dabir hissed through gritted teeth, as if he were keeping in a curse. “Left again!” he called, then, “This was your plan? To blunder through the night with no clear exit?”
“I rescued you!” I reminded him.
“I rescued you! Didn’t Mahmoud tell you to await my signal?”
“We outnumbered them and had the element of surprise. It was time to strike.” Why was he complaining? We were away and we had what we’d come for.
Dabir called for us to turn right. I risked a glance behind and by the light of the flaming reed house saw the outline of at least one boat under way behind us.
“Mahmoud, how many are back there?”
I thought at first that he was silent because he was assessing their numbers. The quiet, though, stretched on.
“Your nephew is dead, Asim.” Dabir paused between gasps for breath, for he worked the paddle furiously.
I was not sure I’d heard him properly. “Dead?” I repeated stupidly. “How?” After all, he’d thrown himself into the boat like Dabir and myself.
“A knife cast from Ali struck him between the shoulder blades as he leapt.”
The breath caught in my chest as if I myself had been struck.
“I am sorry,” Dabir said.
“Why did you say nothing?” I had a mind to turn back and seek Ali.
“I am sorry,” Dabir repeated.
And then there was nothing to do but row. It was fortunate indeed that Dabir knew the way, for I could not have seen through the tears that blinded me.
9
For all of Firouz’s power, he could not inspire those men to follow us into the dark for very long. Men given over to vengeance or greed might have pursued us more vigorously; these men, though, were weary, and it must be remembered that bandits by inclination are lazy, else they would have chosen a profession that required more sustained effort and less hazard of life.
We too were weary; but we were desperate men in fear for our lives, and so we rowed. Even when we struck the main channel of the Tigris, we rowed.
A quarter hour downriver we came upon a vessel at anchor. It was a one-masted flat-bottomed affair. The Marsh Arabs who manned it at first obeyed us out of fear, but by morning, when they better knew our circumstances, they proved generous, sharing bread and drink and telling us of the depredations of the Al-Bu Chilaib tribe. I shall be forever grateful to the ugly little monkey of a man who gave over a shroud to me, and clean dry linens. These things he did, unasked, and without mention of payment.
By midmorning it rained. The skies were gray as tombstones and there was no seeing beyond a half mile. The poet kept a lookout anyway; I sat by my nephew, and if I do not dwell upon my thoughts at that time it is because I do not recall them. I swam in grief. Each moment of that day passed like a hundred hours.
We transferred to a larger vessel come evening, Dabir and the poet convincing all that we were official representatives, despite our condition, and then came to Basra by nightfall. I would that we might have buried Mahmoud as soon as we reached dry ground, but a grave could not be readied until the morning. When at last the prayers were said and we placed him facing Mecca I knew a deeper sadness even than before, for he had no family to mourn him in that place aside from myself. His bones lay in a city strange to him and all who loved him; only I and a few comrades set him to rest.
Dabir put me in charge of Sabirah in rooms he had obtained from the city governor. For the next two days he and Hamil and the soldiers went out again and again to arrange for our return trip and certain other matters to which I did not pay heed. I had been entrusted with the contents of the satchel. The door pulls remained within, but Dabir took a folio of documents with him. He reasoned those documents alone had kept Firouz from blasting us with flame as we fled. It was all one to me.
Even now I shake my head and become silent when I recall Mahmoud. He had grown sharply, that one, and came to the sword like a fish to water—which might also describe the way in which he swam, for he was a natural with that skill as well. He was not rash, nor did he display temper; he obeyed his elders and commanders and abstained from wine drinking. In the months before his final days perhaps he had had an eye toward women overmuch, but that was as God willed, and he did not shame himself in that way either.
I had found him his post, and I was ever proud to say so. He was not one of those relatives you shamefacedly found minor positions for while hoping no one would later recall your blood tie; he was the sort you boldly pointed out as sign that God had smiled upon your family.
It saddens me even now to think of him.
I sought comfort somewhat in a Koran Dabir had obtained for me; mostly, though, I took solace from silence. And that is the one thing, that afternoon, that I could not have. Hamil and Dabir were gone, so Sabirah took it into her head that I must be lonely. First Sabirah asked if I preferred to be alone; she walked away for a time then asked if I really wished to be alone or if I were simply being polite, before again departing for the back room. Then, some minutes after that, she announced that she thought it a poor thing not to keep a man company when he had lost a close relative as I had done, and said she would sit in the same room with me.
“Perhaps we might recite a sura together.”
“No.”
The apartments had come with servants, who busied themselves in the kitchen area. Judging by the smells they had but lately come to the study of culinary arts. I thought they were about a fish meal, for which I do not especially care.
Sabirah got up to look through the tiny petal-shaped openings in the window screen, then returned. She sat down at my right elbow, looked long at me, and sighed.
“You mustn’t blame yourself, you know,” she said.
“Blame myself?”
“For your nephew’s death. It wasn’t really your fault.”
“It was not my fault at all,” I said. “It was the fault of the wretch who threw the knife.”
“Oh.”
She fell silent. Something in her manner was clearly amiss. I do not think I normally would have pried; I was, however, not in the best of moods.
“Why do you think I blame myself?”
“Well … you just seem struck especially hard. I thought perhaps you blamed yourself for not listening to Dabir’s plan.”
“Dabir did not tell me his plan.”
“Ah.” She paused briefly. “Hamil said Mahmoud told you to wait for Dabir’s signal.”
A great rage roiled within me then, and it was all I could do to keep from shouting. “Now I have it, by God. You think if I had waited, Mahmoud would still live?”
“Oh, no,” she said, backing away. “I wasn’t trying to say—”
“Are you one who can divine the different roads of fate?” I demanded.
“No…”
“Is that what the stupid poet thinks? Or is this the word of Dabir?”
“I’m only trying to help!”
“You are not helping! When do you ever help?! You have no care but for your own desires.”
“How dare you!”
“Oh, I’m sorry, mistress; a thousand pardons—”
“You mock me?”
“I call you to account! Someone should! You’ve been nothing but trouble since you joined the household! You’re selfish, and willful, and heedless. You’ve damaged your reputation, embarrassed your family, and probably doomed your teacher by mooning after him instead of doing as you’re told.”
The dark eyes over her veil blazed angrily. “I do not moon after Dabir!”
“He’s liable to be sacked or executed now because you stowed away! Is that what you wanted for your love?”
“I don’t love him!”
“Do you think we are blind, Sabirah, not to see the way your eyes light when you look upon him?”
Her eyes lit now, but it was not with pleasure. “Ai-a! At least he has a brain, which is more than I can say for you!”
She sprang to her feet and fled through the curtains into the back room. I heard a sob choked from her.
Now she may truly have meant to aid me, but for her efforts I was more angry even than before, and I took to pacing, my teeth gritted. Would that I could have faced Ali then at that moment! It was all I could do not to follow her and give her more of my mind. I had just enough sense to let her be. Arguing with a woman is always problematic. Even when you win, victory can scarcely be endured, for women are poor losers.
After a long while my mood calmed somewhat, and hunger settled upon me. It was a great hunger that gnawed at me, for I had consumed little in the last three days.
I stomped into the kitchen area to see what the servants were fixing. It was a fish stew. The two old women were all smiles, which made me regret the harsh words I uttered about the stench when I walked in. Thus I took a large bowl and pretended that, being closer, the smell had grown upon me and that I looked forward to eating.
“Where is the young lady?” the leaner of them asked.
I explained that she was in her room, and they conferred, saying that they would be sure she ate. They then asked whether they should keep the food warm for the other gentlemen, and I said they were not likely to return for some hours.
I hadn’t been in the mood for company to start with and wished it even less now. I drank the stew quickly, chewed the fish down—which did, indeed, taste as unpleasant as fish does normally—and retreated to the main room. Bad as that meal was, I debated returning for more, for I was still hungry. I sat down to stare at the stew bowl, weighing my choices, when a weariness stole over me. I had never slept on guard duty, and knew the old trick of reciting suras to stay awake. This I did … and yet somehow I fell to slumber anyway.
My dreams were languid. I swam upon great currents of air, pressing a cloud to my belly. All about me were red monkeys, who pounded drums while lovely women danced. My spirit must have been lascivious that day, for those dream women were curvaceous, wide-hipped beauties bedecked with carbuncles and diamond necklaces. Even the slippers on their tiny feet sparkled with jewels. They leapt in unison as clouds transformed to floor tiles. Great too was the skill of the monkeys, and I asked the man on my left where they were from. When he told me that they had been trained upon the north sea, my dream self-recalled that I had heard of the red monkeys of the north before.
The drumming was interrupted by a weeping Sabirah. I pointed out to her that she should be silent to hear the monkeys, and she left. Then there came a sharp pulling on my beard; a crab with the knife man Ali’s face was there, smiling at me.
The crab tugged a little more and then scuttled away. I chased him with a broom handle, then tried to rediscover the room of the monkeys and dancing maidens. When I could not find them, I lay down and slept in my dream. I dreamt that I dreamt, which is an odd memory indeed.
“Asim!”
The voice was insistent, and my body shook. I opened my eyes only reluctantly, ordering the man to leave me at peace.
“Asim!”
“Dabir.” Even I was amazed at how groggy I sounded. “Leave off. I am looking for monkeys.”
“It looks like he’s been drugged,” I heard the poet say.
Dabir’s voice was heavy with sarcasm as his head turned away. “Really.” Then he was staring earnestly down at me, concern in his eyes. “We thought you were dead at first. Sabirah has been taken!”
I struggled to rise. Each of my movements came only with great labor. I felt just as I had earlier in the week after I’d leapt from the boat. Reaching the surface this time was an even greater challenge. Even though I heard what Dabir was saying, his words lacked a connective sense. “What? What’s happened?”
“I say Sabirah’s been taken,” Dabir said with greater emphasis, “and the pulls as well. How did they get in?”
I felt my head as I sat up. “I know not. Who got in? The monkeys?”
“I do not think it was monkeys,” Dabir said quietly. “Asim, focus. Do you remember anything?”
“I remember the fish,” I said slowly.
“Listen to him,” the poet said. “Fish, monkeys—it is the bhang talking—”
“No, no…” Things were starting to make more sense. I knew a great irritation at the poet, and a growing sense of worry. Had I heard Dabir right? “The fish stew. It must have been drugged. Did you say Sabirah’s gone?”
“I did,” Dabir said shortly. “So it was the servants. They drugged Asim and let in Firouz’s men.”
“Allah!” I struggled to sit up and put my hand to my head. My senses were becoming my own at last, although the room spun. My left eyebrow felt stubbly under my fingers, and I knew a sudden sickness of heart. “Firouz came, and I lay sleeping?”
