The Bones of the Old Ones (Dabir and Asim) (2 page)

“You sound as if you have run a very long way,” Dabir said patiently.

“She was being chased,” Rami explained, “and begged me for help.”

“Chased by whom?” I asked.

Rami shook his head. “She would not say. She was very frightened.”

“Most like,” I said, “you have found a thief.”

“Oh, she is not a thief, Captain,” Rami assured me. “She is dressed like a noblewoman. She talks like a noblewoman. And,” he added, as though it were the most conclusive proof of all, “she is very pretty.”

Dabir coolly arched an eyebrow at me before turning over another of my pawns. “And you have left her in the stables?”

Rami froze, then nodded, his wind-burned face reddening still further. He lowered his eyes.

Dabir must have recognized the boy’s discomfiture, for his next question was very gentle. “What sort of help do you think she needs, Rami?”

The stable boy brightened. It was not every day he was invited to provide counsel for a great scholar. “There is something wrong with her, Master.” His voice rang with conviction. “I think someone has placed a spell upon her.”

“Do you?” Dabir managed to sound not the least bit condescending. “Very well, then, Rami, bring in your mystery lady. I will see her.”

Rami grinned and backed out of the room, bowing formally. This sober exit might have been more impressive if we had not heard him immediately thereafter scamper down the hall at great speed.

Dabir turned back to me and grinned.

I shook my head. “That boy thinks wizards and efreet lurk behind every doorway.”

“Who shall we blame for that?” Dabir asked. “I was not the one who told him about the ghuls, or the lion, or that thing formed all of eyeballs. The cook said Rami had nightmares for a week.” He waved fingers at the board. “It is your move.”

I grunted. Buthayna had told me the same thing, but likely with more venom. I studied the pieces with care, although I had lost focus upon the game—never wise when playing against Dabir. We were just beyond the opening array and he was already commanding or threatening most of the board’s central squares. “This may all be some trick to ask alms from you,” I said.

“You are so skeptical, Asim. You should try to keep an open mind. Besides, if this woman needs money, I shall give some to her.”

He’d kept his eyes on the board and crinkled them only a little, but I knew he said this to bait me; for some reason my opinion of his financial practices amused him. In the ten months since our arrival in Mosul he had wasted cartloads of money upon an immense collection of old books and scrolls, and yet had not bothered to furnish all the rooms within the house.

I was still trying to decide whether to take Dabir’s central pawn with my knight or to advance my left chariot when there came a muted screech from a nearby room. I raised my head in alarm before recognizing the cook’s voice, and the lower answers of Rami.

“I should have guessed that,” Dabir said. “Rami has brought her in through the kitchen.”

I nodded.

“Likely,” Dabir said, his head tilted to listen, “Buthayna questions the poor boy’s wisdom in bringing an unattended woman into the house.”

“She will blame me.”

“Surely not.”

“Watch,” I said. “She will blame me, for she cannot blame you.”

“Hmm. What shall we wager?”

The answer came quickly to me. “If I am right, you will take up sword practice again this week.”

Dabir was a passable swordsman, but possessed the reflexes to be far better. He seemed always to find some other thing to do than join me for morning drills.

He nodded after a short moment of reflection. “Done. If you are wrong, you will try again with that text.”

I stifled a groan. “The one where the Greeks are sulking at the siege? That’s hardly fair. I’m trying to better you.”

“I swear by the Ka’aba you would like it if you continued! You gave up before you reached the battle scenes.”

“I suppose,” I said, for I did not expect to lose.

Footfalls hurried toward us from the room adjacent even as I spoke, and within a moment the curtain was pushed smartly aside.

Buthayna entered, bowing her head to Dabir. Like Rami she brought cold air, but with her came more pleasant scents—onions, cabbage, bread. She was thin and stooped, with great gray wiry eyebrows. Many women her age dispensed with veils, but hers was thick. I think she meant the cloth to demonstrate her piety, although, as I had glimpsed her, once, veilless, it might be that she wore it as a favor.

“Master,” she said, her voice deceptively sweet and creaking with age, “my nephew says that you have told him to bring a woman into the house to speak with you.”

“This is true,” Dabir answered.

Buthayna’s eyes shifted to me with a hard look, then back to Dabir. “She has no attendants,” she persisted.

“Does she look dangerous?” Dabir asked with great innocence.

“She does not, Master, but she is alone.” She emphasized this last word as if he had somehow overlooked this crucial point. “Perhaps Rami did not convey all of this information to you?”

“It was clear,” Dabir said. “But the woman may need our help. We will see her.”

Again I received a look. I fully believe that Buthayna expected me to intercede to help her maintain proper decorum in the house. But I did not speak.

Dabir broke the silence: “Perhaps, Buthayana, it would be best if you accompany our guest.”

The cook’s yellowish eyes widened in surprise, then, apparently satisfied, she bowed her head. “As you wish, Honored One.”

The moment she disappeared through the curtain Dabir smirked. “I will bring you
The Iliad
by midday prayers.”

“Ah, ah,” I countered. “You could see from her look that she found me at fault. And you intervened before she could fully speak her mind. You, friend, need to dust off your sword.”

“But she—” Dabir fell silent as the curtains were pushed aside once more.

Buthayna poked her head through, then held the curtain open for another. “Master,” she intoned formally, “this is Najya. She has not provided me with her last name,” she finished, her voice laced with unspoken rebuke.

I had expected to be presented with a slattern in gaudy jewelry and bright fabrics, young enough to still be pretty. But our visitor was the very image of those aristocratic Persian beauties who walk with high-held heads through the court of the caliph. She not only looked the part, she had dressed it. I had been at pains to examine things more closely, as Dabir had taught me, thus I observed that the sleeves of her white gown were minutely frayed and the downward-pointing red flowers embroidered upon it somewhat faded. Likely they had been purchased from the castoffs of a real noblewoman, but they were certainly convincing enough to fool a boy. Even her movements were practiced, from her graceful entry to her dignified consideration of the room as she probably checked for our most expensive items. In those days, most of our mementos—displayed in niches Dabir had ordered built into our south wall—were peculiar rather than valuable, like the false efreet head and the mummified lion’s paw, so it was not long before her gaze dropped to us.

Here I momentarily forgot my suspicions, and I would challenge any man who ever saw Najya’s eyes to swear they were not arrested by them. Orange-brown ornaments, they were, that sparkled above her thin veil. Two perfect eyebrows arched above them, black like the long straight hair that crowned her more regally than jewels. She was no common thief.

We climbed to our feet. “Welcome,” Dabir told our visitor. “Please be seated, and take your ease. Rami has told us that you need help. Buthayna, please join us.” He gestured the cook to a nearby cushion.

Buthayna lowered herself slowly to the bare floor beyond the rug, as though determined to set an example of servile propriety.

I carefully pushed the shatranj board to one side and retreated to Dabir’s left, standing against the far wall as the others took their seats. I did not put my hand to my hilt, but I was ready to do so at need.

Our visitor bowed her head to Dabir. She spoke, her voice formal and precise. “I thank you for your welcome.” She paused, looking at the checkered board, seemingly to gather her thoughts. “And I apologize for interrupting your game. In truth, I hope only that you might be able to recommend a reputable caravan master.”

I thought then that we must be dealing with an actress who also could imitate the sound of wealthy folk.

“I know several,” Dabir answered. “Why do you need one?”

“I wish to return home.”

“You are from Isfahan?” Dabir asked.

She looked sharply at him. “How did you know?”

“From your slight accent; then there is the imperial crown flower pattern woven on your clothing, and the decorative detail upon the toe of your boot. They’re both popular among the aristocracy near the Zagros mountain range.”

She stared at him now with wary appreciation. “Your boy said that you were an accomplished scholar, but I thought he exaggerated.” Her head rose and she addressed Dabir formally. “You are correct. Isfahan is my home and I would very much like to return there as soon as possible. If there is anything you can do to assist me in finding safe passage, I would be grateful.”

I thought then that she would ask for money. She did not, though, and I realized she meant Dabir to volunteer it, which he would surely do.

Dabir rubbed the band of his ring with his thumb, his habit when lost in thought. “You have no protection, and little money,” my friend said after a time. “And unless you have some other belongings hidden in my stables, you have no traveling clothes. You are poorly prepared to venture cross country in this weather, especially as the men who kidnapped you are almost certainly still combing the city.”

“How—” Her startled eyes swept over to me and meaningfully to my sword. She rose as if to leave, looking frightened and angry at the same time. “Do you know them?” she demanded of Dabir.

I was almost as disconcerted as she. If Dabir was right, as he usually was, I had completely misjudged her; it seemed she deserved my compassion rather than suspicion.

Dabir glanced up at me, then at the cushion at my feet, and I inferred that he meant me to appear less imposing.

Thus I took a seat beside him. Do not think I relaxed my guard entirely, though.

“I know nothing of your kidnappers,” Dabir explained. “But, given your station, the condition of your raiment, and the markings upon your wrists, it seemed the most likely explanation for your presence in Mosul.”

She eyed him doubtfully.

“Please be at ease.” He motioned her to the cushion at her feet. “Why don’t we start over. I am Dabir ibn Khalil and this is Captain Asim el Abbas.”

Though I commanded no one there besides an adolescent stable boy, Dabir generally introduced me with the rank I held when we’d met.

She did not sit, nor retreat, though she seemed less likely to flee. Dabir carefully pulled at the fine gold chain about his neck and brought up the rectangular amulet normally hidden by his robes. He lifted it over his head and held it out to her.

“Dabir and I have sat at the right hand of the caliph,” I offered. “We are no friends to kidnappers.”

Hesitantly she took the thing and I saw her eyes rove over the gold lettering engraved there, commending all to respect its bearer, an honored citizen of the caliphate and friend to the caliph himself. Well did I know the wording, for I myself wore one, and it was a mark of esteem given to but a handful of men.

Her worry lines eased a little, and she looked up to consider Dabir in a new light.

“You have not told us your family name,” Dabir said. “Is there someone we may contact for you?”

She lowered herself onto a cushion slowly, regaining some of her composure. “I am Najya binta Alimah, daughter of the general Delir al Khayr, may peace be upon him.” Her head rose minutely, but proudly, and with good reason, for the general had been well-known in his day as a brave defender of the eastern border. “As to those who follow me…” Her lovely brow furrowed. “Their leader is Koury, and he commands powerful men.”

“Is he, also, from Isfahan?”

Najya shook her head. “I do not think so. I had never seen him before, or the one he called Gazi. The speech and manner of both are strange.”

“Gazi,” Dabir repeated, and I knew from his more serious tone that the name meant something to him. “What do Gazi and Koury look like?”

Najya thought for a moment. “Koury is tall with light eyes. His hair is graying, and he has a noble manner. Gazi is…” Her lips pursed beneath her veil. “He is a dreadful man. He is short and broad but swift. He smiles often but it is not a pleasant sight.” She, too, had deduced that Dabir recognized the names. “Have you heard of them?”

“They sound familiar,” Dabir admitted. “Why did they take you from Isfahan?”

“I think they wanted me to find something, but I know not what. Or why.”

“To find something?” Dabir asked, puzzled.

“That is what they were talking of when I came around. They thought I knew where something was.” Here she paused, as if uncertain how to proceed.

Dabir glanced over to me before encouraging her to continue. “Perhaps it would be best if you tell us what you remember. Start with the kidnapping.”

Najya breathed deeply. I sensed that she gathered not her memories, but her courage. “My husband and I were walking to the central square in the evening,” she said tightly. “We heard footsteps behind us, and then a demand that I come.”

“Who demanded?” Dabir asked.

“The man I learned later was Gazi. My husband drew his sword and fought them, but they…” Her voice trailed off and she did not speak for a time. When she spoke again her tone was low and dull. “He was killed.”

It sounded as though there was more to be learned about the battle, but Dabir did not ask further. “I am sorry for your loss,” he told her.

I usually remained silent when Dabir questioned folk for information, but a comment from me seemed appropriate this time. “As am I.”

She glanced only briefly at me, then bowed her head slightly to us in acknowledgment. “Gazi fought as no warrior I have ever seen,” she added.