Casca 13: The Assassin (6 page)

Afterwards, when he was back in the barracks with the other Novices, Casca became aware of the Change.

He was no longer Casca. He was no longer the Kasim he had been. He was a new Kasim, some new and purified creature who existed for only one purpose:

He was now an Assassin.

Some days later Hassan sent for one of his lieutenants, receiving him as usual on the parapet of the castle in the blood red rays of the dying sun.

"The Frankish Novice, Kasim?"

"Ready, my lord."

"Then give him a golden dagger and send him to Jerusalem."

"Against whom, my lord?"

"The Frankish monk, Friar Dilorenzi, the infidel beast who eats the flesh of the followers of the Prophet and boasts about it."

It was not known how the Friar Dilorenzi acquired his liking for human flesh. Certainly it was true that he hated the Turks. But so did most Christian pilgrims to the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem, if for no other reason than that the Turks were infidels. But no Christian had eaten a Turk until Dilorenzi.

Not only eaten one but bragged about "the sweet taste of the Turk," a phrase which soon got back to Europe and caused something of a seven day sensation.

Friar Dilorenzi, however, was not the sensational type. Mostly he was a tub of lard bastard, a big, fat, greasy, dirty son of a bitch who was no credit either to Italy or to the Knights of St. John of Jerusalem, the order to which he belonged. The order had been formed a couple of dozen years earlier "to succor and protect Christian pilgrims visiting the Holy Sepulcher." At the moment Friar Dilorenzi was neither succoring nor protecting. He was getting ready to feed his face.

It happened to be a fairly dirty face, but so was the rest of the Friar Dilorenzi. The only thing close to being attractive about this wonderful representative of the Church was his habit
, his clothes. He wore the dress of the order: a black robe and cowl with a white cross of eight points on the left breast. This particular uniform was brand new. Friar Dilorenzi had worn it less than an hour. It was about to endure its first meal, after which the white cross would no doubt no longer be white.

Suddenly there was a shriek from the kitchen, from Friar Dilorenzi's young Greek slave. (Nothing in Church law permitted him to have slaves, but then if the Pope had known how Dilorenzi was going to turn out at the time of his conception, there might have been at least one exception to the Church's stand against birth control.)

At the second shriek, louder than the first, Dilorenzi waddled into the kitchen, his pudgy face red with anger.

The young Greek was standing as far away from the larder as possible, pointing at it, and babbling incoherently. Friar Dilorenzi looked in the open door. There was his haunch of Turk, which he had intended to eat tonight (particularly tasty since it was from a young one). And stuck into it was a gold handled dagger.

"What... ?"

Behind him came the voice of the cook: "The Assassins.
The Hashishi. They have marked you. You are a dead man."

Friar Dilorenzi laughed.
Stupid natives. Silly superstitions...

Casca's disguise was that of a Sufi. He knew little of this sect of Islam other than that the Whirling Dervishes might be Sufis, that Sufis were sometimes great poets, and that Sufis usually wore wool. The first two of these things meant nothing to him. The third did. The rough wool clothing of the Sufi made an excellent disguise. Hunkered down in the shadows of an alley in Jerusalem, watching the living quarters of Friar Dilorenzi in the twilight, he was as inconspicuous as it was possible to be.

It had been easy to plant the dagger. Now he was supposed to wait until such time as he thought it proper to kill Dilorenzi. Casca did not intend for there to be much of a delay. Cannibalism brought back memories of Jubala, the very thought of whom was enough to make the blood vessels stand out on Casca's neck and cause his hands to clench. Even though the Change had made Casca calm and outwardly mild, he no longer used the language of a Roman legionnaire. He could not ignore the memory of Jubala and transferred the hatred he had for him to Dilorenzi. In fact, in his mind he was killing Jubala all over again in the killing of Dilorenzi, and he looked forward to it with pleasure.

Now in the alley watching Dilorenzi's living quarters, he was ready. As the twilight turned the street red he made one last check of his objective. A second floor was being added to the building where Dilorenzi lived, and there was a heavy scaffolding covering the front. Good. There was even a ship's block fastened on a beam not far from the door. Unfortunately there was no rope in the sheave, but the bag beside Casca would take care of that. Fortunately, though, the friar's household servants were slovenly. All kinds of lumber lay piled up against the walls and the scaffolding, and since the kitchen was being added to, some of the stores were outside, in particular two big amphorae of oil. Casca could see their shapes, dark against the stone wall of the building, and he fingered the two small objects he had hidden under his robe, the jar and the vial of seawater a renegade Greek had sold him in the thieves' market that afternoon. Casca had his doubts about this Greek Fire, but if it didn't work, there would probably still be coals banked in the kitchen fire. Lazy as Dilorenzi's cook appeared to be, he was not likely to start a fresh fire each morning. Anyway, Casca didn't worry. For that matter, he hadn't worried about anything since the Change...

He waited patiently until the street was dark. Night finally came and Jerusalem slept. Then, in the silence, he climbed the low courtyard wall, pulling his bag over with him, and made his preparations. Climbing the scaffold and threading the rope through the block was easy. It was a little farther from the door than he would have liked, but he made the loop just the same. It would show, of course, in bright light, but in the morning... The oil was a different matter. It had a rancid smell. Casca debated the matter, wrinkling his nose to sample the odors coming from inside. No, they won't be able to tell the difference. He emptied the oil where he had planned, then went back to his place in the alley.

Casca slept. His dreams, as they had been ever since the Change, were delicious, though the details he knew would be gone when he awakened...

The Change.
It meant he had gone through the rites to become the perfect Assassin. And as the perfect Assassin he automatically had the right to Paradise. Becoming an Assassin definitely had its good points...

Casca was awake before Jerusalem, but he waited until the city stirred, until long after "the phantom of false morning died" as one Persian poet said and true dawn was bloodying the stones of the ancient city. When he was certain Dilorenzi's household was awake, he climbed the courtyard wall and went to the oil soaked timbers piled by the scaffolding. He took from under his woolen robe the purchase from the Greek soldier, and broke the jar on the oil as he had been instructed, but when he tried to take the stopper from the vial of seawater, the resin that made it waterproof resisted. He was pulling on it when the surprised face of the cook appeared in the kitchen window. The cook yelled in alarm.

Giving up on the stopper, Casca picked up a rock and held the vial over the Greek fire mixture. When he broke the vial, and the water hit the mixture, flames exploded, and one piece of broken glass drove itself upward, narrowly missing his face. But the oil caught fire as planned, and the flames roared up the scaffolding. Casca ran to the side of the doorway.

The young Greek slave was first out. Casca felled him with a single blow of his fist and pulled him clear of the rope loop. The big cook was next. Casca used a timber on him, hitting the dirty head with enough force to topple the cook forward. His left foot, though, was still on the rope loop, and at that moment Diorenzi, naked, eyes bleary with sleep, appeared in the doorway.

Casca did not have time to move the cook. He grabbed the rope and heaved, hoping the loop would clear or the cook would move, and yelled at the top of his lungs.

The ruse worked. The cook jerked his foot at the yell, and Dilorenzi was transfixed. The loop caught him around the ankles and tightened. Immediately Casca dropped the rope, moved to the friar, felled the fat monk with a blow behind the ear, ran back to the rope, and heaved. The monk was heavy. Casca threw his weight into it. The naked Dilorenzi rose, head down, hanging by the heels. Casca pulled him up, secured the rope to the scaffold, drew the butcher's knife from under his robe, and moved toward the dangling friar.

By now the young Greek slave had come to and the cook was trying to rise to his feet. Most of the scaffolding was in flames, but not yet near the doorway.
An uproar was beginning in the streets, and men were running, hoping to peer over the courtyard wall.

Casca slit Dilorenzi's throat. Blood gushed out, a red fountain now in the bright sunlight. The fat monk, dying, hung like a side of meat from his own doorway.

He had considered his Turkish victims fit only for slaughter, so Casca paid him back in his own coin – slaughter. Then Casca headed toward the courtyard wall, bloody knife still in his hand.

Nobody tried to stop him.

Bu Ali had completed his assignment. Dressed as a Sufi like Casca had been, he assassinated Nizam al M
ulk with a dagger while Nizam was traveling with the court between Isfahan and Baghdad, in the Frankish reckoning October 14, 1092.

Bu Ali got clean away and returned to Castle Alamut expecting high praise from Hassan al Sabah for a job excellently done.
He arrived an hour after word of Kasim's much more gaudy execution of Friar Dilorenzi had come, electrifying the castle.

Kasim...

Jealousy burned in Bu Ali's heart. One of these days...

Hassan al Sabah's eagle eyes gleamed. This Kasim was a find. One must make better use of his talents. There was, for example, the matter of the Emir of Apnea. The Emir had already been given the Golden Dagger, and B
u Ali had been given the assignment since it was recognized at Castle Alamut that Bu Ali was the best. Now Hassan called for Bu Ali.

Bu Ali was with Casca at the time, both heading for their "trip to Paradise," the reward for their deeds. Bu Ali looked forward to this, and there was need for haste since he had to get back to Baghdad and Mamud. The slaver must not discover that the captain of his Mamelukes was an Assassin and the cock and bull story of a visit to a sick uncle a bald lie. Therefore it pained Bu Ali to watch Kasim go ahead of him, and it pained him even more when he had to wait for Hassan. The leader of the Assassins was in one of his meditative moods, and by the time he had Bu Ali in his presence it was already too late for the Ma
meluke's "trip to Paradise."
But perhaps he has some special reward for me...

"The matter of the Emir of Apnea..."

"Yes, my lord?"

"I have changed my mind. Kasim will get that assignment."

"Kasim?"

"Yes." For a moment Hassan saw an odd look in Bu Ali's eyes, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps Bu Ali might know of Kasim's past.

But there was no need to pump the Mameluke. Kasim himself would supply any answers needed. He had already seemed eager to talk. Up to now it had not seemed important to Hassan. Now he began to consider more and more the possibility of using Kasim as an impostor for Longinus. The matter of the scarred face could be taken care of. After all, one could put on a man's face as many scars as one wished...

Unknown to Hassan, the Assassin spy in the Emir's household, the man who had planted the dagger, had been caught and taken to the Emir's torture chamber. Before he died he had told his torturers the only pieces of information which he had the date, the place, and the method of the Emir's assassination. Unlike most such matters this Hassan had revealed the details of his victim's demise. Now the Emir knew these details but not who the Assassin would be.

He also knew the place. And the method...

Ah...!

Yousef the bandit did not know of Casca's role as an Assassin. But the image of the scar faced man had been branded in his brain. Yousef had fallen upon hard times ever since the ill
-fated raid, and he blamed his bad luck upon the scar faced one. It was he who spotted Yousef and his bandits up in the high ground just before Mamud and his slave caravan would arrive safely in Baghdad. He had alerted the slave master at the moment when his archers were about to release their arrows. It was a brilliant ambush, but the scar faced one had ruined it. Everything had gone wrong since that time. Even now, as Hassan gave the assignment to Casca, Yousef was standing in an alley in the Emir of Apnea's city, having gone there for temporary refuge and reduced to the status of a petty criminal who stole from those unwary enough to go out into the streets alone at night.

The scar faced one...

If Yousef ever saw him again he would make him pay dearly.

One of these days...

Hassan gave Casca his orders as he showed him a map of Apnea and the route the Emir would take on the day of his death. He even had a selection of good sites from which Casca could pick the one that suited the moment. Oftimes it amused the Old Man of the Mountain to advise his victim of the manner of his death. This he did with the Emir of Apnea. It would be by spear. That of course did nothing to relieve the Emir's anxieties for he had spearmen by the thousands under his command. Any one of them could be the instrument of his death.

Taking a good solid horse from the stables of Castle Alamut, Casca rode off across the high valleys toward Apnea. The journey would take some days, but he had to arrive in the city in time for the ceremony which marked the eighth anniversary of the Emir's rise to the throne. For the journey Casca affected the look of a wandering mercenary. There were no shortages of these usually lone men who traversed the deserts and valleys of Central Asia and Persia. Casca had been riding on his journey six days when he first spied the spires of the minarets that stood like sentinels over the walls of the city of Apnea. As he did time and again, he waited for the busiest hours of the day before entering. Once the Golden Dagger had been found in the Emir's bedchambers the sentries had been placed on special alert for any strangers who came into the city. By mixing with the camel and donkey drivers who brought the day's goods to market, Casca looked like just one more of those lonely, hard faced men who crossed the face of the world in search of plunder or death. The guards gave him a curious but cursory inspection. He was obviously not of Persian or Arabic or even Turkish blood. Therefore it was unlikely that he could have belonged to the Shiite faction of which the Assassins were members.

Still he was taken into consideration and upon questioning, the name of the inn at which he was to take quarters was duly noted and, with the changing of the guard, passed onto higher authority for consideration. To them the name and description meant nothing. He was only another of the wandering infidels who sought employment for their swords. And perhaps might even one day be brought into the ranks of the guard the Emir was forming of men who were born outside of the boundaries of the Seljuk Turks' Empire. There was even a name for them. Janissary. Most would come from the ranks of young slaves who had never known any other life and who served their masters as loyal beasts to the death. Though they were technically ferengi they would have privileged status and be made to feel that they were part of a new elite in the world and be totally devoted to serving the interests of their masters.

Casca did not know or care about the new idea of using units comprised totally of foreigners as a fighting force. He just moved easily through the crowded streets ignoring the outstretched hands of the beggars who cried plaintively and piteously for alms, and cast pleading eyes on him as he approached, then cursed him as he passed. For a fleeting second he thought about the beggars of the world and how at one time an edict had been passed stating that thieves would no longer lose their right hands or have a leg chopped off for running away from the authorities. In protest the beggars had banded together in their thousands in the streets of Baghdad and demanded that the punishments be reinstated. If the populace did not feel pity for their mutilated limbs then the thieves would either starve or have to go to work. The state relented and gave in. The old time punishments for transgressions were reinstated.

High on Castle Alamut, Hassan al Sabah held conference with a man who had once opposed him. This man had been part of the former inner council but had not been killed during the purge by which Hassan took control of the Brotherhood of the Lamb. This man, Hakim ben Souk, had fled, not to be found till this time. It was with the understanding that he had no choice but to cooperate or go over the parapets to the distant valley below, that he gave to Hassan the information which the master of the mountain had been lacking concerning the physical description of the one who had slain the Lamb. All this Hassan knew, till Hakim mentioned the scar, which like a bracelet circled Casca's left wrist.

Maybe? Could it be? He had seen such a scar on the left wrist of Kasim and he was a ferengi. It seemed impossible that he should have been that close to the "damned one." Yet he had to know. To Bu Ali, who had returned to his duties with the slave master Mamud, he sent word that it was to be arranged for him to go to Apnea and to observe the actions of Kasim and to make certain the scarred one was returned to Castle Alamut with all dispatch, even if it meant that Bu Ali took over the job which Kasim was sent to do. He had to have the scarred one back. There were too many questions he had to ask. He knew that Kasim had not taken to the Shiite faith with any sincerity and that did not bother him. One used such tools as were at hand or could be molded. He had long known that Kasim was not one to be readily molded, and that presented Hassan with the challenge of finding out what would bind Kasim to him as much as blind faith bound the rest of the Hashassin.

Casca never checked into the inn figuring it was wiser to keep mobile. He went over the events of the past months in his mind. He thought that the Old Man of the Mountain might be a little bit mad, but then who in this country wasn't? He had to admit, though, that he still admired old Hassan al Sabah. He was intelligent but not given to wild flights of fancy. As for the selective removal of those he considered undesirable, as far as Casca could tell, Hassan hadn't had anybody liquidated that didn't need liquidating.

Nizam al Mulk? Well, that one might be a mistake, but on the other hand, maybe there was something about him Casca didn't know. Give Hassan the benefit of doubt. Certainly he had been right about Friar Dilorenzi. Casca smiled to himself. He had been tempted to give Dilorenzi the
shegita
treatment – kosher slaughtering. But that might have been too much. Hassan might not have had a sense of humor when it came to mixing religions. Most people who took religion seriously did not.

His thoughts broke away from Hassan to the more pressing needs of the moment. There would be a thieves' market
– there always was. He might even locate a little wine somewhere, not having had a drink now since that night in the Cafe of the Infidels, and his throat was getting dry.

"To Apnea?" Bu Ali repeated Mamud's words as though he had not heard right.

"Yes. I have just received a purchase order on these three men
” – he pointed at the slaves with a horsetail fly whisk – "with the request that they be put in your charge and delivered to a dealer there most expeditiously. For a fee, of course." Mamud was in one of his "efficient businessman" moods, and he didn't notice the lack of surprise on Bu Ali's face.

Times and distances were going around in Bu Ali's mind. They were two days' travel from the Emir's city. That meant he, Bu Ali, would be present at the time when Kasim was to assassinate the Emir.

What if Kasim were not successful escaping?
Ah...! Temptation.

However his orders from the Master were quite clear. He would return Kasim even at the cost of his own life, for the failure to do as he was ordered would bring about his death without his just reward. But if he did die following the Master's commands was he not guaranteed a place in Paradise? He would obey.

"What's your name?"

"Yousef, lord."

"Get your ass out of my sight. Do you think I'm fool enough to give alms to a filthy beggar who has all of his parts and eyes, and is therefore capable of being able to work for a living?"

The captain of the Emir's bodyguard aimed a kick at the scruffy little man in front of him, but Yousef scurried out of reach and headed down the nearest alley.

The captain forgot him immediately, his mind on a more important subject
; the corner before him where the attack on the Emir was to take place. His practiced eye took in all the possible places from which an assassin could throw a lance. He had already prepared his men for just these places. Observers had been placed strategically so they would be able to observe any who visited these places. Some were housewives and fishmongers, others soldiers in mufti. All had been ordered to use their eyes very carefully or they would lose them. It was all taken care of. This final trip was to see if he had missed anything.

He hadn't.
The trap was set.

The captain smiled. He liked the torture sessions. He wondered what kind of man they would have this time. The tough ones were always the best. The torture lasted longer with them. Like the last one. The source of their information
had been one of the Emir's own body servants. An Assassin. Of course they had to torture all the rest of the Emir's servants to get to the right one. But that was a small price to pay and slaves were easy to replace. The now dead body servant had tried to take his own life when they took him to the dungeons below the palace. Only the captain's sharp awareness bad prevented the man from hanging himself before questioning. Stroking his forked beard in pleasure the captain gave a short laugh at the memory of the servant's balls being lowered gently into a pot of boiling water and the exquisite look of agony in the man's eyes. It was positively delicious. Next, the threat of telling the man they were going to make him eat his own cooked oysters had done the trick. He broke. Telling everything in the hope of an easier death. Now they knew the date of the attempt and the general location. The slave was to have accompanied the Emir on his pilgrimage to the mosque. He had been given orders to kill the Emir if the spearman failed. Of course the fool's hope for an easy death was a futile thing. Even now he was hanging from a meat hook in the dungeon, the hook strategically placed between his shoulder blades so it would take some days for him to die. Normally his head would have been placed above the gates leading to the city but that would have warned the accursed eaters of Hashish that their plans were known.

Twilight reddened the dome of the mosque. It reminded the capta
in again of torture. He turned to go back to the palace. A caravan was coming down the street. Idly, the captain glanced at it.

Nothing remarkable.
One man who dodged between the line animals caught his attention for a moment. A foreigner, perhaps a Rh'shan or a Frank. He had the look of a soldier about him. But as with the guards at the gate, he gave him no more than a curious look.
Well it takes all kinds,
the captain thought tolerantly.

At last finding a tavern which catered to the foreign element, Casca settled in to wait a while, taking a tankard of crude wine cut with water to ease the dryness in his throat. He then called for an Arab hookah, which apparently wasn't on the Emir's forbidden list since every café – and there were plenty of these and plenty of coffee – was full of the Faithful puffing away. After the second pipeful he was feeling very happy, content with a life which had no problems. He felt as though he was floating high up, and that was why he was now out on the street juggling two happy decisions in his mind: whether to look for better wine, or to look for a woman.

That was when Yousef made the mistake of trying to rob him.

Casca saw this scrawny little beggar standing at the dark entrance to the inevitable alley – Arab towns had more alleys per square foot than anywhere else and he would probably have given him "alms" if the little bastard had asked. Casca was feeling very generous. He loved everybody in the whole damned world. But Yousef made the mistake of trying to take him.

Laughing, Casca mildly applied one of the simpler blows Shiu Tze had taught him a long time ago.

"Now, why did you try that, little fellow?” Casca asked. He was floating twenty paces high over the fallen assailant, and some little genie in the back of his mind whispered: "Look there! Somebody trying to assassinate an Assassin!" Casca roared with laughter.

He thought it was a marvelous joke.

Ah...  Suddenly it occurred to Casca that not only did he love everybody, everybody in the world loved him. He looked down at the fallen Yousef who by now had the look of a man who had caught the wrong tiger by the tail.

"
Mu salam aleikom
--Peace be with you!" he said benignly. "Now get the hell out of here before I bust your balls." He raised his foot to kick, but had a little trouble deciding whether he wanted to use his right foot or his left.

Yousef scrambled away.
However... There was one moment there when the combination of the dim moonlight, the lamp from an open window, and Yousef's sharp eyes brought recognition to the mind of the ex-bandit.

The gray-blue-eyed Circassian with the scar on his face.
The one who had warned the Mamelukes at the raid. The bad luck man. The one Allah had allowed to cause his, Yousef's, problems.
By all the djinns of the dark!

Somehow he would get revenge before this one passed out of his sight again and he was reduced once more to disguising himself as a beggar in order to scout out houses. Since their fortune had changed the men remaining in his band were forced to rob or to find a few purses to cut. He, Yousef, who planned one day to be Yousef the
Great was reduced to this. He would not stand for it!

There were still remnants of his followers encamped outside the city.
This one would pay...

As for Casca
he, too, had recognized Yousef but in a different way. Waiting to cross the street that afternoon, he had seen Yousef being booted by the Emir's captain, and the beggar had seemed mildly familiar, someone he had seen before. But Casca had seen many people before, and it just wasn't important to him. Now, tonight, he had a vague feeling about it – but everything was lost in the euphoria of the hookah. At the moment he just didn't give a damn about anything. And that was his downfall....