Authors: Unknown
Kalawun looked to the side of the chamber, hearing an eager noise come from Khadir, who was seated there, cross-legged in a patch of sunlight. The soothsayer moved into a crablike crouch, his white eyes shimmering as he studied the young Assassin.
The rest of the chamber was hushed.
“Where is he?” demanded Baybars.
“Nearby,” responded the Assassin carefully. “Two of my brothers are with him. When I have received the rest of the ransom, I will go to them immediately and order him to be released.”
“Those terms are unacceptable. I will pay no ransom until I know the officer is safe.”
The young Assassin didn’t falter. “Then you will not see him again. My brothers have been given instructions to kill Nasir if I do not return within the hour.”
Baybars’s jaw twitched. For some moments, he didn’t speak, then he gestured to one of the Bahri. “Summon the treasurer,” he said, not taking his eyes off the Assassin.
Once the Assassin had been handed a bag of gold and had left the chamber, Baybars called four of the Bahri to him.
“Follow him,” he told the soldiers. “Don’t lose him. His brothers cannot be far if he is to return to them within the hour. Secure Officer Nasir, if he is with them, then kill the fidais and bring me back my gold.”
The Bahri warriors saluted him.
When they had gone, Baybars turned to Kalawun. “I want the rest of these insurgents destroyed, Amir. Send a battalion of Syrian troops to Qadamus.
They will join forces with my lieutenants and proceed to the rebel fortress from there. I want this business ended.”
“Yes, my lord,” murmured Kalawun. He saw it in the sultan’s eyes, heard it in his harsh voice: that old spark of rage, which had guttered and winked out these past months, had flared again. Khadir, too, seemed to have noticed it, for he was staring at Baybars, a look of triumph in his face. Seeing that look, Kalawun thought of the soothsayer’s desire to set Baybars back on the path to war against the Christians and his plan to start a conflict with the attack on Kabul. He recalled too that it had been Khadir who had wanted someone to be sent to look for the Assassins, and he thought of his own, private suspicion that the former Shia had been somehow involved in the plot to steal the Stone. Kalawun felt unease stir. If Nasir had proof that it had been Franks who had wanted Baybars dead, what then would be the outcome? The Mamluks and Mongols had reached a stalemate, and Baybars’s army, victorious and rested, was stationed in Damascus. Only three days’ march from Acre.
THE DOCKS, ACRE, 11 JUNE A.D. 1277
Garin tossed his bag onto a bench at the stern and planted his hands on the ship’s side, looking down at the green water eddying beneath. The sun needled the back of his neck, irritating the dark red patch it had already burned into his skin. His hair was a bleached, silvery-white against it. Behind him, the crew’s voices were coarse and loud as the ship prepared to leave Acre’s harbor, carrying a cargo of sugar to France. For Garin, their departure could not be swift enough.
He had returned to the city three days ago. Arriving at the royal palace, exhausted and embittered, he and the Cypriots had discovered that they were no longer welcome. Whilst they had been away, Count Roger had ejected the last of Hugh’s staff from the fortress, and they were only admitted briefly to collect their belongings. Bertrand and his men, as defeated as their usurped master, had departed the next day on a ship bound for Cyprus. Garin had been left alone in a tavern on the harbor to brood over his misfortunes. Not only had he failed completely in his plan, but he had also been forced to relinquish every last gold coin he’d had on him to get himself and the Cypriots out of the desert. He had been using part of the money King Hugh had given him for Edward after signing the agreement, now useless since King Charles had eased himself onto the throne. A fair amount had now been eaten away out of the pile. Not only had he wasted a year, using Edward’s money on his
qannob
and his whores and his stupid, useless idea, but he hadn’t even managed to force out of Everard and the Anima Templi the funds the king had demanded he secure. His only hope was that the members of the sugar vessel’s crew were partial to the dice and he might win back some of the lost profit, or he might as well throw himself overboard now and save Edward the job.
He had nothing. And he was nothing.
The words held a sour echo of his uncle, Jacques, and his mother, and Edward. He tried to push them out, squeezing his eyes shut against their stinging tones, but they just assailed him all the more, telling him he never did anything right, that he was useless and would never be good enough, good as his dead father and brothers, good as Will. That name entered his mind with the force of a knife stab. Almost as frustrating as the failure of the mission was his failure to remove, when he’d had the chance, that one galling thorn that had been stuck in him since childhood. He needn’t have done anything; only let that sword in Bertrand’s hand fall when it wanted to. It would have been over quickly, quietly, with no blood or blame on him. He didn’t understand why he had shouted. Why he had stayed Bertrand’s hand. All the way back through the desert, Garin had recalled that moment, over and over, without ever coming to any conclusion as to why he had saved Will’s life when he could have so easily let it be snuffed out. He had no feelings for Will, other than anger and dislike and envy. Everything the knight had should have been his. The commandership, the place in the Anima Templi, the respect and friendship of his fellows, the family who loved him whatever he had done wrong, the woman who wanted him. Even as she had given herself so freely to him that day in the palace, Elwen hadn’t really wanted him, Garin knew. If she had, she wouldn’t have cried so bitterly afterward. The only pleasure he could now find in that sullied memory was that he, at least, had taken something from Will, if only for a moment. Something precious that could never be returned.
As the mooring ropes were loosed and the crew dug the oars into the water, Garin put his head in his hands and, with numb detachment, felt wetness pressing against his fingers. He didn’t look back as the vessel pulled out of the harbor and Acre slid slowly away behind him, the empty sea swelling ahead.
THE CITADEL, DAMASCUS, 11 JUNE A.D. 1277
The minutes dragged into hours as Baybars sat, rigid and pensive. The council had been brought to an abrupt close with the arrival of the Assassin, and only Khadir and Kalawun remained in the chamber, Kalawun having been asked to stay and Khadir having been forgotten, huddled in the corner.
Finally, after three tense hours, there came a knock at the doors and four figures entered. Three of them were the Bahri soldiers Baybars had set in pursuit of the Assassins. The fourth was Nasir. Kalawun rose as he saw the officer. Nasir was thin to the point of emaciation, his hair and beard filthy and matted, his olive skin pale and bruised. He was a husk of the man he had been. Guilt took a stab at Kalawun for being the one who had ordered his officer and friend into such danger and degradation, and struck him hard in the center of his chest. He took a step toward Nasir.
Baybars stopped him with a raised hand. “Is it done?” he asked the Bahri.
One of the soldiers came forward and handed him the leather bag the Assassin had been given, filled with gold. The bag was splattered with some dark matter. Blood, Kalawun thought. There was more of it on the uniforms of the Bahri, and one of them appeared to be wounded.
“It is, my lord. But we lost one man.”
Baybars nodded whilst he weighed the bag in his hands, as if the loss was acceptable, then turned his attention on the wasted figure of Nasir, who hardly seemed able to support himself. “Do you have what you were sent to find?”
Nasir nodded wearily and opened his mouth to speak. His voice came out as insubstantial as a breeze, just the faintest breath of sound. He coughed weakly and tried again.
Baybars reached for one of the goblets of cordial left on the table. He strode to Nasir and put it into his hand. “Drink.”
Nasir took the goblet and put it to his cracked, yellowed lips. After a moment, he handed the goblet back to Baybars. “Yes, my lord,” he murmured roughly. “I have it.”
Baybars’s voice shook a little as he spoke. “Who was it? Who hired the Assassins to murder me?”
“A Frank, my lord, as you thought. A Templar, called William Campbell.”
Baybars looked around as Kalawun let out a shocked noise. “What is it, Kalawun?”
Kalawun felt words gluing up in his throat. He didn’t know what to say to cover the exclamation. He was saved, unexpectedly, by Khadir, who leapt to his feet.
“You know him, my lord!” the soothsayer gurgled. “You know him!”
Baybars started to shake his head.
“That was the name of the man who bore the treaty!” Khadir’s voice climbed to a feverish pitch. “He bore the Franks’ peace treaty five years ago!”
Baybars saw himself amidst the ruins of Caesarea, sitting on his throne in the center of the broken cathedral. He recalled the young Christian knight, a Templar, who had handed him the truce signed by Edward of England. He remembered that he had dark hair and spoke Arabic and remembered the knight asking to be allowed to go to Safed. Then, at the last, Baybars recalled his name and knew Khadir was right.
“You let him bury his father,” said Khadir, almost crowing now.
“Be quiet,” murmured Baybars, his hand tightening around the goblet, fingers pressing into the soft metal.
“You let him cross your lands with an escort of your own men!”
“I said be quiet!”
roared Baybars, flinging the goblet against the wall, where it rang like a bell and sprayed scarlet across the whitewash.
Khadir dropped to the floor, cringing from the sultan’s wrath. The soldiers and Nasir said nothing, but judiciously avoided Baybars’s ruinous stare.
“My lord ...,” began Kalawun.
“I want you to find him,” said Baybars, cutting across Kalawun and looking at the Bahri. “Find him and bring him to me.”
“Where do you propose we begin our search, my lord?” asked one of the Bahri, still keeping his head lowered.
“The Temple in Acre. If he is not there, they will know where he is.”
“My lord,” Kalawun said again, more forcefully now.
Baybars looked at him.
“How do you know it is the same knight who delivered the treaty to you? William is a common Frankish name. Maybe there is more than one who goes by the name of Campbell?”
“Then I will kill every Christian of this name that I find,” said Baybars in an iron voice, resolute, unyielding, “until I am certain that I have erased from this earth the man who hired killers to attack me at the betrothal feast of my son and heir. Killers whose blades did not find me, but the heart of the one man who loved me as a brother, unconditionally, without fear or doubt.” Baybars’s voice broke as he said these words. He stared at Kalawun a moment longer, then turned and swept out of the room. “You have your orders,” he said to the soldiers in passing.
Khadir scuttled out after the sultan, leaving Kalawun alone with Nasir as the tired Bahri returned obediently to the citadel’s stables to fetch their horses.
Kalawun went to Nasir and embraced him. “I was certain you were dead.”
Nasir managed a small smile. “So was I.”
“I feel ashamed,” Kalawun began, falteringly, keeping a hand on Nasir’s shoulder.
“You mustn’t, Amir. I was doing my duty.”
Kalawun shook his head. He stayed quiet for a moment, unsure of whether to continue. If he opened this box, he would not be able to shut it again. But the opportunity to make amends for his betrayal of Will filled him with a sense of urgency and he could keep it in no longer. “No, Nasir. I feel ashamed for what I am about to ask you.” He sighed roughly. “I do not know what to do. There is no one else I can ask. I would go myself, only I would be missed, and the only other man I trust enough with this information is in Cairo.”
“What is it, Amir?”
Kalawun crossed to the doors, pressed them to make sure they were shut, then moved to a tapestry on one of the walls, which showed a garden scene. He lifted it to check that the hidden door behind it was locked. The citadel in Damascus, like the one in Cairo, was riddled with servants’ passages. Satisfied that they were alone, he went back to Nasir. “This knight whose name you have delivered to our master, I know him.”
Nasir remained silent as the commander explained that the knight had warned him of a Western plot to steal the Black Stone from Mecca. “You stopped it from happening?” he asked quickly when Kalawun had finished.
“The knight swore that he would prevent it, but when it came to it I simply couldn’t bring myself to entrust such a mission to a non-Muslim, however good his intentions. I sent Amir Ishandiyar. I have just received word from him that the Stone is safe.”
“That is good,” murmured Nasir.
“I do not know if this knight was in Mecca himself or, if he was, whether he made it out unharmed. But if he did, he must be warned. I need you to find him before the Bahri do.”
Nasir stared at him.
“I know this is asking much of you,” said Kalawun, “perhaps too much. But I owe this knight, Nasir. We all do. If not for him, we might now be at war, a war that would be detrimental to us all. Believe me, my friend, I would not ask such a thing of you were it not for the greater good. You have to trust me. I will explain everything when you return, but right now, I need you to find him and warn him. Tell him to leave this land and never return.”
30
The Temple, Acre 14 JUNE A.D. 1277
Will started as someone grabbed his shoulder. He saw Simon behind him.
The groom smiled broadly. “It’s good to see you back.” He looked Will up and down. “God, but you’re as dark as a Saracen. I came to see you earlier in your quarters, but they told me you was meeting with the grand master.”
“I was giving my report.”
“How was the assignment?”
Will shrugged. “Mostly uneventful. We spoke with the Mongols, were entertained in their court and reaffirmed our pledge to continue our friendship with their people.”