The Crystal Empire (60 page)

They were the same feelings, he knew with a heart which sank and took wing in the same moment, as those he’d shared with Frae Hethri
s
tochter, that long ago, feelings which no one since then had stirred in him.

He slapped his prosthetic into his palm.

The pain brought with it resolution.

He must at least
try
to rescue Ayesha from the fate Zhu Yuan-Coyotl intended for her—the Sun had been vague about this, a dire enough warning in itself—even if he himself, and every soul upon the globe, were killed in the doing of it.

Better this, he thought, than to lose love once again and once again survive the loss.

The windows rattled with another tremor. Ignoring it, he considered possibilities. Given half a chance, the girl would help herself. That was one thing—he chuckled in remembrance of the rifle-shot she’d taken at him—he loved much about her.

The rabbi and the Commodore were useless in their present state. Oln Woeck was out of the question—Fireclaw hoped that he was dead. Best leave the loyalty of his son undivided; he’d been serving Zhu Yuan-Coyotl far longer than he’d known his father.

Just as he’d decided he could count upon no one but himself for a
s
sistance, had begun prying with his dagger-point at the locking-panel upon the door to the corridor—he’d search for Ayesha, no matter where she might be in this o’erambitious pile of bricks—he heard a gentle ra
p
ping at another door, connecting this chamber to the neighboring qua
r
ters of M
o
chamet al Rotshild.

“Fireclaw,” he offered in excellent Helvetian, “I’d a word or more with you.”

The man slid the door aside and entered.

Fireclaw noticed how the aged, unwell Saracen Commodore seemed to have enjoyed a miraculous recovery from his recent illness. His colo
r
ing was back. He walked with a young man’s springy gait.

Mochamet al Rotshild grinned.

“’Twould to me appear our esteemed young host prefers his guests to be of the harmless variety, disarmed, safely locked away. You see how I’ve a
c
commodated him: what could be more harmless than an old man? Why, of course, my friend, a
sick
old man!”

Fireclaw grunted, went back to prying at the lock.

The Saracen persisted.

“I see you’re preparing to take your leave. Well, my Helvetian friend, I wish you God’s speed. I’ll not delay you long: I’ve a confession to make, one I’d just as soon avoid, were it not for the fact I require your assi
s
tance.”

Fireclaw turned from the door, set his dagger aside.

“What is it, Mochamet al Rotshild, you require of me?”

“Why, my young friend,” the man answered, an ingratiating smile upon his bearded face, “it couldn’t be simpler.”

Striding across the room without his cane, he placed one hardened hand upon Fireclaw’s arm.

“I’m a spy, you see—and always have been—for the Mughal E
m
pire.”

“Upon the day when heaven shall be as molten copper and the mountains shall be plucked as wool-tufts, no loyal friend shall question loyal friend.”
—
The
Koran,
Sura LXX

  
“I’ve
been a spy since I was a green youth,” Mochamet al Rotshild went on, “and have come to be quite an effective one, I might add in all mo
d
esty.”

Fireclaw offered nothing as an answer, but watched Mochamet al Rotshild’s face.

“My mission, what was expected from me upon this voyage, was to prevent, at all costs, any détente ’tween the Saracens and this so-called Crystal Empire.”

He laughed, not from good humor but from irony.

“’Twould appear, upon the other hand, that this has been acco
m
plished for me already, wouldn’t it? My word, the diplomatic repercu
s
sions that will arise from the fiery sacrifice of the Caliph’s envoy-in-wedlock—”

Fireclaw stopped him.

“Sacrifice, you say?”

“If I must be the first to say it in the open. Surely, you didn’t—no, I see you, too, have known all along, but wished no more than I to have it sp
o
ken and out.”

A pause.

“Where was I? Oh, yes: Her sacrifice to a pagan deity’ll not be inte
r
preted as a friendly gesture. Howe’er great an honor ’tis meant to repr
e
sent by our little friend the Sun. Ah, me, ’twill enhance my reput
a
tion—posthumously, I’m afraid—unless you happen to have any better ideas about getting out of here than that.”

He pointed to the dagger.

The earth jolted, this time moving the table the weapon he’d spoken of lay upon. Tilting at the cross-guard, the dagger rocked, the polished surfa
c
es of its feather-hammered blade casting flickering shadows and refle
c
tions upon the ceiling.

Fireclaw seized the older man by the throat.

“’Twas you arranged for Ayesha to be ‘spoiled’ that the Caliph’s ‘gift’ would be valueless!”

Even before Mochamet al Rotshild nodded confirmation, Fireclaw burned to slay the sea-trader. Yet he kept his peace for different reasons than he had upon the night when she was raped. In an instant he realized Mochamet al Rotshild’s duties, as the Commodore had just explained them, might coincide with his own wishes.

“I should cut you in half, old man, this moment. Give me a reason why I should not!”

Mochamet al Rotshild rubbed his bearded chin.

“I could give you many a reason why you should. In some respects, I might be grateful for the release.”

He let his hand drop.

“But, since I suspect you’ll need my assistance, ’twouldn’t be pract
i
cal at this particular moment. Nor would it give me much of an oppo
r
tunity to offer proper restitution—which, I assure you, my friend, is just this m
o
ment in the offing.”

He pointed through the open door to the next room. For the first time, Fireclaw observed not just one gray, red-tailed, scaly-footed parrot, Po, perched upon the windowsill where his Saracen master had fashioned a place for him, but two.

“They’re not the strongest of fliers,” Mochamet al Rotshild nodded, “flap-hopping, in preference, from bush to tree to house to bush. But they remember instructions, seek home not just upon some random hatching location but upon a mate, and can better defend themselves from pred
a
tors than pigeons.”

Po—or perhaps it was the other parrot—began making blatant cour
t
ing overtures. Mochamet al Rotshild, a little embarrassed color in his face, rose to shut the door upon them.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ve this day discovered rescue’s at hand, some weeks earlier than I’d expected. I shall atone for what I’ve done by giving the Princess back her life.”

He stopped, awaiting answer.

Receiving none, he went on.

“And both of you more freedom than you’ve e’er now enjoyed. T
o
ward that end I shall risk—and likely lose—my own. ’Twill be up to you, afte
r
ward, whether there’s any moral debt remaining which your greatsword might collect from me.

Fireclaw once again forced back his rising rage, thinking hard.

If the manner of Ayesha’s “marriage” should displease her father the Caliph, destroying any hope of an alliance, her failure to appear in the a
p
pointed place at the time of sacrifice should also displease the Sun, with the same results.

“You shall yet live a while longer,” he told the man, relaxing his grip. As he stepped away, he saw a grin upon the Saracen’s face, looked down—in his fist Mochamet al Rotshild held a tiny pistol which had been pointed at the Helvetian’s groin.

“Boy sopranos are made, not born, son.” The older man chuckled. “Had either of us squeezed a little harder, you upon my throat, I upon the trigger, both of us would now be dead.”

The Helvetian blinked. “Where—we were all searched.”

“Concealed in the iron heel of a boot,” the older man explained, “somehow it evaded notice.”

Fireclaw brushed the matter aside.

“I can tell you something which might prove useful to a spy,” he i
n
formed the elderly Saracen. “The destruction of the fleet which you wi
t
nessed as a boy has something, I believe, to do with the great transparent sacrificial pyramid yonder.”

Mochamet al Rotshild nodded.

“You’re telling me naught I’ve not ferreted out for myself. Now I’ll tell you something. There’s a Mughal fleet waiting to pick us up once it’s a
s
sured ’tis safe to approach the harbor. I believe what we saw this morning was the Crystal Empire defending itself against that fleet’s most advanced elements.”

He thrust out a hand, palm upward.

“Fireclaw, I owed no more, at my unwelcome birth, to the Saracen Empire where it by chance occurred than you to the Helvetian cult which ruined your boyhood. I’m no traitor, but a patriot—by choice—to a land you don’t know as yet.”

He folded his arms across his chest, though in truth they rested more upon his ample stomach.

“And whye’er not? What manner of loyalty do I owe the nameless, fac
e
less Saracen father who took my mother, then left her behind? Or the family which afterward cast her out upon the street to starve—or eke her living out in the manner they’d already accused her of? Or the C
a
liph who’d prostitute his own beautiful, innocent daughter in a wise not too dissimilar, in the name of politics?”

He reached out to seize Fireclaw’s arm.

“What do I owe any of them but my hatred? Why shouldn’t I serve their enemies—to my own handsome profit—and thus destroy them? If you’ll help me to discover the pyramid’s secret, we can work together to rescue the Princess.”

Fireclaw considered.

“Upon a single condition, old man, speaking of the Cult—that we find Oln Woeck, if yet he lives, where’er he may be within this building, and bring him along with us.”

The old man laughed.

“Such fierce—and uncharacteristic—fondness you display toward your venerable mentor.”

Mochamet al Rotshild’s eyes twinkled. As from the first moment he’d met him, Fireclaw found he was having great difficulty hating this man as he should.

Together, they went to arouse David Shulieman. If such proved po
s
sible. The wounded rabbi, they knew, had been severely weakened by the long walk he’d insisted upon, demonstrating a pride Fireclaw well under
s
tood.

When the two men reached his bedside, they found the Jewish scho
l
ar at peace, his bespectacled features relaxed into a look of calm co
n
tentment. His eyes were closed. Across his chest he held a small, ye
l
lowed phot
o
graph of the Princess Ayesha.

He no longer breathed.

2

If there can be a good ending to life, the Helvetian thought, David Shulieman had had it. He had died with as much peace and dignity as the act affords. Without a spoken word of comment, Fireclaw strode from the room to don the armor of the Sun Incarnate’s bodyguard.

“This should save a deal of embarrassing questions. My single r
e
gret’s that our otherwise thoughtful host the Sun Incarnate’s once again provided me an empty gun.”

He looked at Mochamet al Rotshild, who’d followed him. The man seemed to have aged ten years—again—though Fireclaw suspected this time no ruse was involved in the appearance.

“Snap out of it, old man! We can’t help the rabbi now, but we can save the one thing he loved above aught else. Come, now—you’re a sneaky and resourceful bastard, d’you happen to have you any loaded magazines s
e
creted about your person?”

The Saracen lifted his shoulders in a shrug and spread his arms.

“Naught but charges for my little pistol. Best take the damned wea
p
on anyway, wear the helmet as well. ’Twill protect you and complete your di
s
guise.”

Fireclaw nodded.

“You’re also a bastard of the observant kind, with a talent for la
n
guages. How d’you say ‘Where’s the Sun? It’s an emergency!’ in Bod
y
guard-speech?”

With a puckered frown of frustration, the Saracen sea-captain admi
t
ted that he was not, perhaps, quite as observant a bastard as Fireclaw might have wished.