Knights of the Black and White (58 page)

“There, you see? Now do it again.”

“Do what?”

The stranger looked at him in surprise. “Move them.

Move your toes again.”

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“My toes moved? Are you sure?”

“Of course I am sure. Did you not see them?”

“My eyes were shut.”

“Then keep them open and watch this time. Now do it again.”

The toes moved, and moments later, the toes of his left foot did, too.

“Good. If the toes work now, the legs will work later.

Time is all they will require. Now, your arms. This will hurt, too, but perhaps not so badly. Here, drink first. Did these animals feed you?”

St. Clair drank from the cup the man held, then nodded. “Yes, they did. Not much, and not often, but they fed me as often as they fed themselves. Who were they?”

“Animals. Eaters of offal, unclean and unworthy of notice. Better off dead. Now, be still.” He cut again, his blade slicing easily through the leather bindings, and this time the pain came more quickly but with less intensity.

It wore off more quickly too, and by the time St. Clair was able to stretch and flex his fingers, gritting his teeth against the pain of it, the man across the fire had removed the goat flesh from the spit and spread it, succu-lent and steaming, on an oval dish of metal that he had dug from one of his bags, along with a long, narrow oval of unleavened bread and a small container of olive oil. He set all these aside for a moment, then knelt quickly in front of St. Clair and snapped the manacles about the knight’s wrists and ankles. St. Clair tried to resist, but he was far too weak to do more than sputter in protest, and the Muslim ignored him until he was back in his own Commitment

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place, where he leaned forward and pushed the metal plate towards his prisoner.

“Here, eat. The meat is flavored with garlic—a Frankish taste I picked up while living among you
ferenghi
, years ago. The bread and salt are our own people’s, and the pressed oil of olives is Allah’s gift to a grateful world.

Eat. You will need your strength.”

St. Clair ate and discovered that he was ravenous, and when he was full, his captor gave him more water to drink and then told him to sleep, as they would probably be traveling in the morning. St. Clair listened to his footsteps moving completely around the perimeter of the little camp. It was only as he was drifting off to sleep, strangely grateful for the loose metal bands about his wrists and ankles after the cruel leather bindings, that he realized that the stranger knew who he was; had known him all along. The first word he had spoken, and repeated, “Sanglahr,” had been as close as his tongue could come to pronouncing St. Clair. All thoughts of sleep suddenly banished, St. Clair sat up and shouted, looking about him and trying to see where the stranger had gone, but there was nothing to see. The fire had died down, its fuel exhausted, and there was no response to his shouts.

“SANGLAHR.”

The infidel was bending over him again, but this time when St. Clair opened his eyes he felt better, physically, than he had since the morning he left Jerusalem.

His hands and feet felt better, almost completely free, the 562

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restriction of the loose shackles as nothing to the discomfort he had recently been undergoing. It was still almost dark, the sky above the other man’s head paling but not yet discernibly blue.

“How do you know my name? Sanglahr—that is my name, is it not?”

The man facing him blinked, puzzled. “Is it not? You are Sanglahr.”

“I am. But how did you know that?”

“I have been looking for you. Was asked to find you.”

“By whom? Who sent you?”

The infidel shrugged noncommittally. “A friend.”

“Whose friend, yours or mine?”

A hint of a smile flickered at the edge of the other’s lips. “Ask that question of yourself, Sanglahr. Would any friend of yours send you out into the desert alone to look for a lost infidel?”

“How did you find me? How did you even know where to look?”

The stranger smiled. “It was not so difficult, Sanglahr. This is my country.”

“It may be, but that is not a good enough answer.

How did you know where to begin your search? No one, not even I myself, knew where I was going when I left Jerusalem. And I rode for many days without meeting a soul.”

“Aye, but because you did not meet a soul does not mean that not a soul saw you. I sent out the word among my people that I was seeking you, a single, crazed
ferenghi
, and that you were not to be approached. It was Al-

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lah’s will that you were seen soon after that, and the word came swiftly back to me. By the time I drew close to you, you had been captured by the unclean ones. I found you, and they refused to give you to me. Now enough talking, for you know the rest and we have much to do. I have some clothing for you, to cover the whiteness of your
ferenghi
skin from Allah’s sun, but the garments are my own and I have no wish to see you wear them over the disease-ridden filth that encrusts you, so before we do anything, or go anywhere, you will bathe and cleanse yourself.”

St. Clair blinked in shock. “In the water hole?”

“No, Allah forbid! There are creatures nobler than you who must drink there. You will bathe by the side of the hole, on the bank, and I will keep watch to protect you from any jackal that comes to drink while you are there. Thus, the water that cleanses you will be cleansed again as it drains through the sand before reentering the hole. I have a bucket. Come now.”

He reached out a hand and pulled St. Clair to his feet, and half an hour later, with the sun now high enough in the sky to dry him, the Frankish knight was clean again, scrubbed until his skin was pink, and he felt utterly rein-vigorated. He suspected that it might be sinful to enjoy the sensation as much as he did, but he had come to enjoy a guilty pleasure in bathing occasionally.

Above him on the sloping bank, the tall infidel stood watching in silence as St. Clair eventually realized that it was impossible to dress himself while his hands and feet were shackled, and when the knight turned mutely to 564

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him with his arms extended and his wrists held apart, he made a show of pondering the request before moving slowly down towards St. Clair, pulling a key from the sash at his waist.

“Where would you run to?” he mused as he unlocked the irons. “But you will put them on again as soon as you are clothed, no?”

St. Clair made no attempt to answer but busied himself instead with donning the long, flowing robes the other had lent him. He had no difficulty with any of them, having discovered, as most of his fellows had soon after arriving in the Holy Land, that the local native dress was far more comfortable than the heavy, scratchy garments worn by the Franks. Only when he had finished winding the burnoose about his head did he pause and look up appraisingly towards the tall figure who stood watching him, seeing the way the fellow’s own natural height and slimness were emphasized and enhanced by the smooth, vertical lines of his armor and mail coat, topped off by the tall, slender, conical helmet. The breastplate and the mailed coat were all of burnished metal, glinting silver in the morning sun, but the rest of the man’s clothing, the tunic beneath the mail and the trousers tucked into the high boots, was all black, as were the boots themselves, fashioned of supple leather and thickly soled against the desert terrain. A long, black cape hung from the man’s shoulders to the ground. He looked not merely fierce but wealthy.

“Are you a Janissary?” St. Clair asked him. “You look Commitment

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as though you might be. I have never seen a Janissary, so I have no way of knowing. Are you?”

The man almost smiled, one cheek twitching wryly.

“What do you know of Janissaries, Sanglahr?” When he saw that St. Clair was not going to respond, he continued. “No, Sanglahr, answer the question. I ask without anger. What do you know of Janissaries? Tell me, if you will.”

“They are the finest warriors in Syria, from what I have heard. Specially selected and hand picked as the personal fighting troops of the caliph.”

The tall man inclined his head. “They are, as you have been told, everything as you say, save that they are not the finest warriors in Syria. They cannot be, in the eyes of Allah. They are Sunni.”

“And you are not? Is that what you are telling me?”

“I am Shi’a. Do you know the difference, Sanglahr?”

St. Clair permitted his expression to show nothing of what was in his mind, and then he nodded slowly. “I know a little. I know, mainly, that there are very few Shi’a in this part of the world. Almost every Muslim I know is Sunni. I know, too, that you of the Shi’a Ali—or many of you—are not great lovers of the caliphs. Which would explain your poor opinion of the Janissaries.”

“You surprise me, Sanglahr. I thought you would know nothing. And do you know, then, why we of the Shi’a despise the caliphate?”

“Aye, I do. Because you believe they usurped your faith and used their earthly rank and power to take over 566

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the work of the Prophet Mohammed, work you believe had been entrusted by the Prophet himself to his cousin and son-in-law, Ali ibn Abu Talib. But what I am wondering is why you can dare to ride around so openly, professing yourself a Shi’a in such a Sunni stronghold.”

The infidel’s eyebrows had risen high as St. Clair spoke, and now he shook his head, as though in admiration, but his words were dismissive. “We are in Syria, Sanglahr. You wandered a long way from Jerusalem before your strength gave out. This is Shi’a country more than it is Sunni, and you have reminded me that we have a long way to go. Now I must place you in restraint again, so will you permit me to do so, or should I simply hit you on the head and chain you while you are asleep?”

St. Clair looked at him through narrowed eyes and cocked his head. “Have you a name, then, or must I call you Infidel? My name is St. Clair, as you know.”

“Call me Hassan.”

“Well, Hassan, hear this. I am afoot, and I have no weapons and no armor, and I would guess that my stamina, what remains of it, is close to its lowest ebb, so I doubt that I could escape from you even if I wanted to.”

“I have a horse for you.”

“Excellent. I am grateful for that, but I will not be able to mount it if my legs are shackled.”

“You will mount first, and I will shackle you beneath the belly of the beast.”

“Uncomfortable, and not convenient for me, for you, or for the beast. Would you consent to leave me unshackled if I gave you my solemn word not to try to flee?”

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“Your solemn word? The word of a
ferenghi
Christian?”

St. Clair pursed his lips and sniffed. “You have a point there, and I will not try to argue against it. But no, not the word of a Frankish Christian. The word of a warrior who values his honor.” He did not allow himself to remember how he had come to be here in the first place, but to his surprise the black-clad Shi’a nodded without hesitation.

“Yes, I will accept that. Is it given?”

“Aye, freely.”

“Good, then we may put these back whence they came.” Hassan stuffed the shackles into a bag beside him and then hesitated before turning back and tossing something to St. Clair. “Is this yours, by chance?”

St. Clair caught the flying object and stood gaping at the small blue jewel. “Where did you find this?”

“On one of the animals I killed last night. It was tied around his wrist, but I knew it could not be his.”

Only then did St. Clair realize, to his own disbelief, that he had not once thought about the fate of his former captors since awakening. Now he looked around, wide eyed, but he could see no sign of them anywhere.

“Where are they? What happened to them?”

Hassan’s lips twisted into a sardonic little smile. “I did, Sanglahr. I happened to them. But I think you meant, where are they now. I used the horses to drag the bodies away from the well this morning. They are lying in a wadi, far enough removed for their stink to remain well clear of the water once they begin to rot.”

“Who were they, do you know?”

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“I have no idea. They were merely nomads, far traveled, from nowhere near here. I tried to speak to them yesterday but could not understand a single word of what they said. Strange language, strange men. But they were Sunni, so the world is better off without them. Now we should go. Are you ready?”

“Aye, but I would like to find my sword. This bauble was tied around the hilt of it.”

Hassan shook his head. “I saw no sign of a
ferenghi
sword. The weapons that those fools possessed were poor things, worthless. They would not have left a fine sword behind had they found one. You must have removed the bauble before you abandoned the weapon.

Now pick up, and let’s away.”

St. Clair could only shake his head in bafflement as he hoisted up the heavy bag containing the chains he was to have worn and followed Hassan to where two magnificent white horses and a pack camel stood tethered beneath a stand of palm trees. Hassan secured the bag and two full skins of water to the camel’s back, and then led the way southward into the desert.