The Waters of Eternity (2 page)

The rain did not fail until evening prayers were an hour past. Gloom masked the stars, rendering even the widest streets as dark and treacherous as narrow alleys.

Dabir and I sat beside an open window in the office of the captain of the southeast gate. He was a big man, given to chewing on the beard hairs near his mouth.

This captain, Fakhir, had given us towels to dry with, then listened to our tale—the wounded guard, the woman’s body—and we had all been taken to his gatehouse.

“I thank you both,” he said, settling into his cushions across from where we sat. “Your labored investigations have at last provided the proof needed to send Officer Marid before a quadi, and thence to his just fate.”

“How so?” Dabir asked. The captain did not know him, and thus did not recognize the warning tone in my friend’s voice. He always grew more succinct when challenged.

“How so…” Fakhir paused to gnaw on his beard. “Why, by following the tracks to the woman he had slain, lord, and recovering her remains.”

“Then your reconstruction of the events would be…?” Dabir’s voice was sharp.

“Clearly Marid overpowered the girl, carried her over the wall, slew her, and left her body behind the tomb. The dog chanced upon it, and partly devoured her.”

“I did not mistake the tracks,” Dabir stated coolly. “There were three sets. Officer Marid and the woman were attacked by someone outside the graveyard. He made none of those within the graveyard.”

“Allow that you may be mistaken by the prints, Honored One,” the captain said. “Marid probably slipped on the wall after killing her and knocked his head then.”

“There were no tracks back to the wall from the tomb,” Dabir objected.

Fakhir frowned slightly, then offered a polite smile. “How could you tell, Honored One, surrounded as you were by rain and darkness?”

Dabir stared at him until Fakhir cleared his throat uncomfortably. Somewhere far away a dog howled, and I wondered if it was the same unworldly animal we had seen in the graveyard.

“You are predisposed toward your officer’s guilt, Captain,” Dabir said. “Why?”

Many are made uncomfortable by Dabir’s bluntness, but this man, being a soldier, was more accustomed to plain speech, and seemed almost glad. His formal veneer slipped away as fleetly as a maiden’s promise. “Two other women died after being seen in his company these last months. And there is the matter of his bride-to-be, who died this year.”

Dabir and Fakhir studied each other intently, as if their wills warred through their eyes.

“I am not mistaken about the tracks, Captain,” Dabir said, carefully enunciating each word for emphasis. “A smaller foot than Marid’s, with a different tread, made the tracks in the graveyard.”

“I believe what you say.” The captain sat back and dismissed all with a hand wave. “But I also know mistakes can be made. Perhaps, in your zeal to save the girl, you did not see Marid’s tracks. Perhaps he forced her along before him.”

“The tracks were burdened, as I said, as though they carried a weight.” Dabir’s voice was tight. He disliked repeating himself.

The captain tugged at his beard and brushed some of its hairs across his lips. His politeness now was a little too pronounced, as though Dabir were a simpleton. “Is it not possible, Honored One, that in the rain and darkness, and in the hurry you confess, that you—”

“You do not listen, Captain,” I interrupted, more loudly than intended.

In the ringing silence that followed, the captain stared blankly at me, and Dabir fingered the chain holding the caliph’s amulet about his throat, though he did not draw it from beneath his clothes. Finally he spoke in more measured tones. “Tell me how these other women died.”

“They were found, just like this one, dead.”

“How, dead?”

“They were attacked.”

Dabir’s mouth curled in frustration. “Their wounds, Captain. Did they have their hearts?”

The captain frowned back. “How should I know? His betrothed was attacked but survived her wounds for a time. The others were found in alleys, with chest wounds.”

“You did not examine the wounds?”

“They were dead,” the captain said simply.

Again he and Dabir locked eyes.

Dabir folded his arms together with an air of finality. “Do not judge your officer until I have gathered more facts.”

The captain scowled. “Would you rather justice be a turtle, or a lion?”

“I would rather it be an arrow that finds its proper mark,” Dabir said. “Besides, you cannot try an unconscious man.”

The captain turned up a palm. “It is true. The hakim is not even sure Marid can be made to live.”

“Then give me leave to look into this. Two days.”

The captain leaned to one side, played with his beard, and frowned again. “What is he to you, Honored One? Is he a relative? A former retainer?”

“He is an innocent—at least of this murder. Give me leave, Captain.”

Fakhir’s eyes strayed to Dabir’s fingers, still playing with his neck chain. Doubtless he knew what Dabir wore about his neck—enough authority to demand most anything from anyone, if he so wished. Only a select few were honored with such an amulet from the caliph.

“Very well,” the captain said. “I will permit it. But I do not see what you hope to find.”

“That is why I will do the looking.”

Upon leaving the captain’s office, Dabir spoke to Marid’s fellow officers loitering nearby, asking many questions of them. They proved strangely reticent and it took long moments to drag forth the information Dabir desired. It was late when we reached home to the cook’s complaints that our absence had ruined another meal. She always blamed me at such times, even if it was only with her eyes.

Dabir sometimes melted great quantities of wax at night, failing to rise until midday prayers. That next day, though, he roused me well ahead of dawn prayers and we entered the streets of Mosul before even the beggars had crawled from their hovels. Here and there a few merchants crept from their shops to clear dirt from their walks, but the city was otherwise deserted.

Fashioned from the bones of a city of Ashur, which lay still across the river, Mosul was an ancient place of ancient secrets, beautiful in its way, with winding gardens and old trees. Some called it the city of two springs because its autumn was so very fine. Certainly it was less ugly than other cities, though it still stank on some days.

“This captain has a grudge against this man, I think,” I said, breaking the silence. Dabir was lost in thought and made no reply, so I voiced a thought that had plagued me since our rain-soaked walk through the graveyard. “Perhaps a djinn lured Marid and the woman to the wall with a song, then attacked them both, taking the woman. It transformed into a great dog to eat her, then ran away, praise be to God, when it beheld us.”

“That is an interesting theory, Asim,” Dabir said. “But I wonder why a djinn would leave footprints. Then there is the matter of other women being killed before this.”

I grunted. “The djinn stalks him,” I said.

“It is certainly a possibility that something stalks him,” Dabir said. “But one cannot gut fish until they are netted. We must gather more facts.”

Gathering facts with Dabir was almost always tedious, and I was relieved to see that we did not turn down the Boulevard of the Ebony Stallion, which would have meant Dabir planned to gather his facts within the library of Iskander.

After we paused for morning prayers, we worked our way toward Marid’s house—for that was our destination, as I learned when Dabir asked a grocer for directions.

Shortly thereafter we arrived at a two-story home along a modest side street.

Dabir rapped upon the door, which was soon opened by an ancient Nubian of many wrinkles. There was barely space between door and jamb for him to show his face. He eyed us in the aloof, suspicious way of elderly servants.

“Peace be upon you,” Dabir told him.

“And upon you, lord.” The old man did not sound as if he meant it, and opened the door no farther.

“It is a pleasant morning, is it not?”

The old man replied gruffly that perhaps it was, and perhaps it wasn’t, and added that his knee joints ached the longer he stood in place.

“I am Dabir ibn Khalil,” the scholar said, “and this is Asim el Abbas, my right arm. We wish to speak with the elder of the family of Marid ibn Haydar, for we have news of him.”

The old man’s bushy brows rose like white cobras, and he then opened the door. “Please, come in,” he said. “I will summon the mistress.”

After he closed the door behind us, we passed through a narrow hall and into a tiled courtyard. Columned archways supported an overhanging balcony on three sides. The servant strode off through a door under one balcony, tired knees or no, with great speed.

Dabir and I walked to the center of the courtyard and admired the small fountain and its pond. The enticing aroma of baking bread rose from a stone stove sitting in one corner. Nearby lay some uprooted tiles, a shovel, and leafy green bushes awaiting planting.

We heard the old man advancing across the tile, and turned. “The mistress will see you now,” he said, mustering a stiff partial bow before returning to the shadows under the balcony. I ceased to notice him further, for a very font of beauty had entered our midst. She was no sapling, but a woman molded for the pleasure of man, firm of build with full curves. Her skin was smooth and without blemish. Her hair flowed like silken midnight to her waist. Her veil was thick, but no veil could hide the luster of her large brown eyes.

Dabir made the introductions and pleasantries were exchanged, and once Dabir explained that he had questions that might aid the lady’s brother, she invited us into a reception room. I regathered my wits to note that the servant followed.

We soon were seated comfortably on pillows, the woman across from us. A serving girl brought us slices of sweet melons and some of that warm bread I’d smelled in the courtyard. The Nubian waited on a stool by the door.

“Lady Iamar,” Dabir said, “I do not believe your brother killed this woman, but I need more information to clear him of blame.”

“Gladly would I give it,” Iamar replied. Her voice was like that of an houri, soft and delicate, but also clear and sure.

“From where would he have been coming last night?” Dabir had already asked this of the guards, but this did not surprise me, for Dabir had the habit of asking the same question of many people.

“My brother…” Iamar looked away before straightening and eyeing us directly. “He craves the company of women as some men crave the forbidden wine. He was most likely with a day wife, or singing girl.”

“Did you know the other women who died?”

“I knew one of them.” Iamar paused, then continued sadly. “She was the daughter of our grocer, and still rather young. She would sometimes follow Marid about the square, for he was kind to her and would give her treats.”

“Do you know anything of the other?”

“She was a seamstress with whom he had spent some time. I know nothing else of her.”

“Do you know anyone who dislikes your brother?”

She blinked calmly. “I do not.” Iamar sounded almost insulted. “This Captain Fakhir has accused my brother of these killings, and he had nothing to do with any of them.”

“The captain said that there was a third woman—your brother’s intended, and that she also haddied.”

Iamar nodded once, with great dignity. She glanced my direction. “Kahlya was attacked, and died, in Raqqa, not here. Her death is clearly a different matter. I told the captain this.”

“Why Raqqa?”

Iamar blinked, likely taking a moment to decipher Dabir’s abbreviated speech. “Kahlya was the daughter of the spice merchant, Yacoub. They had relatives there, and customers.”

“This food,” I said, “is most excellent.”

Iamar looked at me and I suddenly felt foolish. Not only had I interrupted Dabir’s questioning, it occurred to me just after I spoke that it took no great talent to either prepare bread or slice melons.

Fortunately Dabir changed the subject. “Might I see your brother’s rooms?”

“Of course. Sohrab, show the honored one to my brother’s chambers.”

Dabir followed the old servant out the doorway. I remained with the font of beauty, looking only at the bowl that I had nearly emptied.

“I am pleased that you like the melon,” I heard her say. “They have been exceptionally sweet this year.”

I looked up and found her gaze upon me. It was not unkind. It may be that some madness seized me, for I spoke again without thinking. “It sorrows me,” I said, “that one so beautiful must suffer so.”

Her eyes shone. “I have heard tell of your friend Dabir,” she said. “If half of what they say of him is true, he will prove my brother’s innocence with ease.”

I smiled. “The tales could not begin to describe the truth of things.”

“Oh?”

“Dabir can do whatever he sets his mind to achieve,” I told her. “Why, his wit saved Baghdad from a magian sorcerer. Efreet, infidels, wizards—they all know him and fear his name. Together we have thwarted evils near and far, small and large.”

She prodded me for details, and listened with interest as I told her of a journey by boat for the caliph, and the unlikely attack we endured along the banks. God willed that I should have time to finish my story with flourish before Dabir returned with a sheaf of papers beneath one arm, the servant following.

“Your brother is a writer of many letters,” Dabir said.

Iamar opened her mouth to speak, but unlike other women, hesitated to consider her reply.

“Do not worry,” said Dabir. “I am only interested in matters related to your brother’s innocence. All else will be read and forgotten.”

She nodded once, gravely. “You have my permission, honored one. Nay, if there is any other way I can aid you, I will do so gladly.”

“I thank you. Now we must go. Come, Asim.”

“I insist you stay to share a meal,” Iamar said, rising.

“We thank you,” Dabir replied, “but we have few hours left us. We need them all for your brother.”

“Then go with God.”

It seemed to me she favored me with a long look as we made our good-byes.

Dabir left the home at a fast stride.

I could not quite suppress my irritation. “We should have stayed,” I told him as we turned down the street. “I fear we may have seemed rude. And,” I added, “I was hungry.”

Dabir laughed. “What sort of sweets do you crave this day, Asim?”

When I did not answer, Dabir laughed again, but the merry sparkle in his eyes faded fast. “I want you to speak with your friend Tarif. Find out about Captain Fakhir, then meet me at home after midday prayers. Or sooner.”

“You suspect the captain?”

“I suspect everyone but Marid, Asim. Even your lady love. Now go. We’ve little time.”

I had become friendly with Tarif, a scarred fellow who was captain of the governor’s palace guard. He had heard mostly good things of Marid, but little even of those. He had served with Captain Fakhir and thought well of him. “A stern man,” Tarif said, “but just, praise God, and you don’t want the receiving end of his sword stroke.”

When I returned home the cook told me Dabir had gone to the library of Iskander, and so I hastened after, cursing. It was not mete for Dabir to walk far without my protection, but I found Dabir whole and well in the catacombs of the tower library, his pointed chin buried in an ancient tome.

He looked up at my boot heels striking the tiled floor, and smiled thinly. “You will chide me, I suppose, for venturing here alone?”

“It was not safe.”

“If, as you say, my fate is writ, what matter my actions?”

I was not about to enter into a philosophical discussion with Dabir. Sometimes a devil set him with a mood and he would harangue me with subjects that bordered on the heretical. “God writes our fate, but if he wishes to set fire to our beds he shall use lightning—do not spread your mattress in the hearth.”

Before Dabir could respond, I launched into my report.

I had learned never to summarize information for Dabir, but to relay word for word what was told me, as best as I could recall. In other situations he would sometimes exhaust me by asking for particulars of the speaker’s manner or the surroundings, but he knew well enough that Tarif had no hidden motives.

When Dabir nodded at my conclusion, I again gave him no time to philosophize. “What have you learned from the papers?”

“Marid has many friends, and fancies himself a poet.” Dabir’s thin lips twitched into a smile, but settled quickly into solemn lines. “He has written lately that he thought someone might be following him, but has been unable to confront the skulker. Earlier letters talked of the hatred borne for him by Yacoub, the man who would have been his father-in-law. It seems that his marriage had been arranged in years before the spice merchant rose to wealth. Yacoub opposed the union once he improved his station, but could not break the contract.”

“And what have you learned here?”

Dabir beckoned me closer. I looked both ways and saw only a few graybeards bent over distant tables beside their lanterns, and long rows of high shelves weighted with books and scrolls. I sat down beside Dabir.

“A hundred years ago a group of assassins was stamped out by the general Bashshar. One of their favorite methods of flaunting their power was to remove the hearts from their victims and leave them in prominent places.”

“You said that they were destroyed.”

“Assassins are as difficult to root out as garlic,” Dabir said. “That does not trouble me. I have other questions, though. Why hire an assassin to frame Marid with killings? It would be less expensive simply to have the assassin kill Marid.”

I had no answer, so said nothing.

Dabir closed the book with a dull thud. “We will return to the graveyard, and then we shall see to the spice merchant.”

“Him?”

Dabir turned up an empty palm. “He does hate Marid. And who else among those in Marid’s life could afford an assassin?”

“What about the dog?”

“Are dogs not common in graveyards, Asim? I think it was an opportunist, as the captain suggested.”

I grunted to admit this was a possibility, although I was not yet ready to dismiss my thought that it was something more, and I kept watch for it as we crossed the graveyard wall so that we might start from the same place we had begun our search the day before. As might be expected, the tracks were largely obliterated disturbances in the still muddy earth. The sky that afternoon was dark, but only threatened rain without delivering.

Without tracks to guide us I would have been challenged, but Dabir had counted trees and tombs, and within a quarter hour we stood at the base of the hill, staring up at the bushes that had hidden the body. Dabir explained that prints under the bushes might have been more sheltered from the rain, and that we should look carefully.

As usual, Dabir was correct. It pleased me that I found dog prints—and sizable ones—beneath the plants. There were also signs of the murderer’s tracks, and Dabir found an earring, crusted with dry blood. I stepped away while Dabir searched the area more closely. When he finally stood and brushed off his jubbah, he frowned. “Come,” he said, and walked slowly around the tomb, examining its front. Two others stood nearby, and he turned in his time to them, stopping before one with narrowed eyes.

Words of God were written across the tomb’s face and along its sides, and its roof was a beautiful dome decorated with green and white tiles. Over its closed horseshoe doors was inscribed the name of the house of Yacoub, the merchant.