The Waters of Eternity (5 page)

Azzam obediently looked at his daughter. Rabi, though, looked at me.

“The golem is tired,” she said to Acteon.

Her father cuffed her cheek. “Do as he bids!”

The golem stirred. The Greeks, who doubtless had seen more of the thing than we if it had led them here, stepped back.

“Is this what you wish, Rabi?” Dabir said quickly. “Are you a murderess?”

“Silence!” Acteon cried. “Have the thing kill Asim!”

The golem’s head turned and seemed to stare at the girl. I watched it, wondering if I might fling myself at Acteon as it attacked.

“Inshallah!” Azzam slapped her cheek so hard it jerked her head back. “Do as the Greek bids!”

The girl cried out. The golem shifted, but did not move against me.

Acteon scowled. “Very well,” he said, and came at me with his knife.

The golem flung up both hands and stepped in front of me. Acteon leapt back, his guards rushed to his side…

And I praised God and stopped to grab my blade.

“Stop him! Stop him!” I heard Azzam crying.

But the golem did not stop: it waded into the Greeks, its stone arms lashing out like clubs. Armored men were cast from him like cloth dolls to lie crushed and moaning along the slope. In a moment I was at its side, my heart leaping with joy.

Nawaf and Musa fell in behind me with glad shouts.

“Acteon!” I called.

A wide-shouldered Greek unknown to me, with gray in his beard, stood ground. He parried my first strike, then my second, then he fell as I struck through his helmet and half his face in a spray of blood. I meant to have Acteon, who was backing away just beyond.

Acteon stumbled backwards, lost his footing, and rolled down the slope into the darkness. An armored Greek dodged beyond my strike, then slipped in the mud along the cave. As he struggled for balance, the golem’s stone arm swung out and caught him in the chest. He folded around the arm until momentum flung him clear. He arced high in the air, landed in the distance with a crunching noise, and did not rise.

Only two Greeks survived to flee. From somewhere in the darkness Acteon cursed us. I was about to ask the golem to seek him, but it turned and stomped to the right, crushing the pelvis of a prone Greek body. Azzam was shaking his daughter by the shoulders, shrieking unpardonable names at her. Dabir was trying to force them apart.

It was Dabir’s gaze, lifted up toward the oncoming golem, that drew Azzam’s attention. The scholar let go his daughter and fumbled with something at his neck as he backed toward the side of the cave. He produced a small gold tablet hung on a neck chain. “Stop him, daughter!”

But the golem came on, its fist rising.

“Stop him!” The scholar lifted the tablet with shaking fingers.

It was no shield for the coming blow. The fist of the thing smashed through the scholar’s tablet, hand, and rib cage. Blood and skin and flecks of bone sprayed outward. The girl screamed.

Her father gurgled and slumped against the golem’s arm. It ceased motion altogether.

“Butrus!” Rabi cried. “Butrus!” She clutched his arm, weeping. “Why don’t you move?”

Dabir shook his head, slowly, and his eyes were sad.

Musa, panting, stared toward the direction the Greeks had gone. “Should we go after them?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Tell me, where were your eyes, when the Greeks sneaked close?”

Musa lowered his head.

“I thought as much. Give thanks to God that we all still live, and ask him to strike me with lightning when next I think to set you watching.”

Musa hung his head farther and slunk out to peer into the darkness.

The girl clung to the golem’s unmoving arm, crying.

I stepped up to my friend. “Dabir,” I said quietly, “what’s wrong with the golem?”

“When it killed Azzam it also destroyed the tablet that brought him life. The creature’s one weakness.”

“That is a shame. It was a mighty warrior. I am glad it chose to fight at our side.”

Dabir’s tired look spoke volumes. “The girl chose its side, not the golem. It was a thing of stone.”

“But she said…”

“You were kind to her; who else in her little world was ever so? She showered affection upon a creature with no heart, no feelings, and imagined it gave them back. Perhaps she even thought it avenged her honor against Sabih. I do not know.”

“So she has killed her father.”

“Yes.”

“And her friend.”

“Yes. With them dies the secret for the golem’s making. It may be we are fortunate in that, Asim.”

I did not see how we were so, but I did not press him. “It has all been for nothing, then.”

“Indeed.” He raised a hand, as if he meant to rest it upon the girl’s shoulder, but did not touch her.

And then there was only the sound of the pounding rain, and a girl weeping.

“There.” Captain Fakhir threw back the winding sheet. “Have you ever seen anything like that?”

I had looked on scores of dead men, and at first I saw nothing remarkable about the one who lay upon the table in the guard captain’s office. When alive he had been a young man of moderately wealthy means. His arms and legs were bent stiffly in his well-tailored red jubbah. His thin brown beard stretched down his chest, as if he’d sought to make up in length what he lacked in thickness.

In the dust-speckled light that filtered in from the high, narrow windows I did not immediately see why Dabir muttered a curse and reached out to touch the corpse’s face.

And then I stepped closer, and cried out to God.

The corpse had no eyes.

Fakhir reached up with one broad hand and brushed his own beard. “What do you think of this, Honored One?”

Dabir said nothing. He removed the emerald ring from his left hand and set it down near the corpse’s head. Then he probed one of the empty sockets carefully with his fingers. His cool blue eyes narrowed, and the mobile lips above his spade-shaped beard shifted to the right and left.

“How did he die?” Dabir did not look up from his inspection.

“We have found no wounds,” Fakhir answered.

“Asim,” Dabir asked me, “does this man’s flesh seem a little rosier than common in death?”

“Perhaps he was always so complected,” I remarked, thinking of my unfortunately ruddy cousin Qaraja.

Dabir made no reply but pinched his fingers within the corpse’s beard. He raised his hand into one of the sunbeams.

“What is that?” Fakhir asked. I knew better than to question Dabir during one of his examinations, but the scholar betrayed little irritation.

“Crumbs.” Dabir raised a tiny dark speck to his nose.

“He was found last evening,” the captain relayed, “lying beside the Eastern wall. He could not have been there long, for the rats have worried only his fingers. The rest of him was covered beneath old blankets, lest you think birds responsible for the eyes. Is it the work of a ghul?”

Dabir pointed to the rim of the eye socket. “Here a knife was used, to pry out the eye. The incision into the skin was probably unintentional. And here. If a monster did this, it was a human one.”

“But why?” the captain asked. “Who would want eyeballs?”

Dabir answered the question with one of his own. “How many incidents like this have there been?”

“Bismallah!” The captain stared at Dabir. “Surely you are a man of wonders. How did you know there had been other bodies found?”

“Because you would not have spoken of ghuls after one curious death.”

The captain’s head bobbed curtly, the helm wrapped in his turban flashing in the light. “It is so. Only two reliable reports have reached me of bodies found with missing eyes. But rumors race through the town of more and it is hard to know which are true and which are tales. It is clear that some thing has struck more than once, likely more than these two times.”

“He was a dyer,” Dabir said after inspecting the man’s mangled hands.

The captain nodded.

Dabir peered into the mouth and prodded with his finger. “You have the names of those who found the bodies?”

“Indeed, Honored One. The first body was mourned last week. I do not think that the family would allow you to examine it now, or that it would be pleasant to do so.”

“Dabir has explored far more grisly things than this,” I pointed out. Fakhir bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Dabir stepped away and washed his hands in a bowl of rose water Fakhir’s attendant had set aside for him. He replaced his ring.

“Do you not wish to examine him more?” Fakhir asked.

Dabir shook his head. “No. I assume there was not a coin to be found upon him?”

“Not a one. You think thievery was the motive?”

“No. This man—have you yet found his family?”

“We have. My men recognized him. He is the son of Abdul al-Hamid, the dyer, as you have said.”

“You may turn him over to his family now. I will need the names and homes of the victims. I will speak with their relatives. The victims are not, by chance, related in some fashion?”

“Not so far as I know.”

“As expected.” Dabir looked to me. “It is never so easy, Asim.”

“You shall see to the heart of the matter,” I said, “and when the time comes, show me where to strike.”

Dabir knew the proper questions. The dead men—a potter’s son, and Abdul, son of Abdul—had not known each other, so Dabir asked their daily habits. It happened that both relished the forbidden wine, though only one of the families knew where their son partook: a tavern near the Eastern wall.

I assumed we would journey there with haste, but following midday prayers we stopped for a leisurely meal at the souk. We ate of lamb while the merchants cried out about their wares and the food sizzled and the musicians sang. Sometimes Dabir thought best when surrounded by distractions. He ordered a platter of sugared dates but let me dine on them alone while he brooded. I nursed them with relish, and did not interrupt his silence. As I reached for the last, Dabir sighed and climbed to his feet. “Come, Asim.”

“Where do we go?”

“To an alchemist I know. We cannot see,” he added, “until we look.”

From previous comments I knew that Dabir had experimented with alchemy but had not embraced its study. I was glad of that, for an alchemist’s workshop smells almost as foul as that of a dyer.

A gray cloud hung over the chimney of the home before which Dabir stopped. In appearance the house’s walls were like any other upon the street—a blank, white, windowless façade—but I’d noticed on approach that it differed in the number of chimneys. I had counted five, four of them clustered near to one another. When I pointed this out to Dabir he explained simply that alchemists needed many fires.

A young man opened the door for Dabir, wiped a great deal of sweat from his brow, and mumbled a greeting.

“Tell Jamilah that Dabir ibn Khalil would like to speak with her.”

The boy said to wait, but rather than inviting us in, he closed the door.

“I guess that we will wait,” Dabir said wryly.

Seeing a captive audience, beggars limped out to thrust toothless faces at us and wave withered limbs. I growled them away, but Dabir stepped past and gave out alms. My friend was a good Muslim in his way, especially when it came to almsgiving. I do not know whether this was through a natural inclination toward charity or merely an outgrowth of the fact Dabir had no head for finance.

His generous flow of daniks and kerats brought smiles to wrinkled and dirty faces. No sooner would one beggar salaam and depart than two more would rush from the shadows and side streets. Dabir had just asked to borrow my own coin purse when the door behind us opened, praise be to God, and a woman’s voice called out to Dabir.

“It
is
you, Dabir,” she said. “I thought my student mistaken. Please, come.”

I saw nothing of the speaker, for the door was only a slim distance ajar. I must confess to no small amount of curiosity, for this strange woman was addressing my friend in a most familiar way.

Once within the entryway, door closed and barred to the disappointed beggars, I could inspect the woman Dabir had come to see.

Though a Muslim by her dress, the woman wore no veil. She squinted overmuch, in the habit of those who must bring things close to their face to observe details. Also she stooped a little. But as she smiled at Dabir beauty took fire and lit her features, from her long lashes to her full lips.

“It has been too long,” she said in a kindly way. “The peace be upon you.”

Dabir bowed his head. “And upon you. It is a pleasure to see you once more.”

She laughed, her hands fluttering to her face before dropping again. Powdery white stains discolored her fingertips.

I strove not to betray astonishment. I knew many of Dabir’s secrets, even the name of his true beloved, who lived yet but must remain ever apart from him, but I had no knowledge of this woman. I was no fool, and sensed that they must once have been something more than friends.

Dabir turned to me. “You do not know my friend Asim el Abbas. Asim, this is Jamilah, the daughter of a former tutor, and an alchemist of some skill in her own right.”

“I have heard of Asim, and of your exploits together. Who has not? But tell me. Have you pursued the art, Dabir?” she asked curiously.

“I did not find further experiments rewarding. I fear that I lack your patience. Answers are simpler and cleaner when working with numbers.”

“But are they as enlightening? Come, we will eat and drink together. What brings you here?” She clapped her hands.

“Asim and I have just eaten.”

“I insist,” she said.

Before long we sat amongst some discolored old pillows and cushions, and her student with the help of an old hunched servant had delivered platters of fruit and bread before us. Also there were sweet cakes, which proved delicious. There was nothing about but wine to drink, which was unfortunate, for I grew thirsty.

Dabir sipped at the wine, and our host, in the sunlight of the high windows, proved younger than I thought. Surely she could not be older than two dozen years, near our own age.

Dabir commented upon the worth of the food and the kindness of the welcome. Both traded words about the pleasant weather and sundry unimportant things. Finally, as I was starting on the third cake, Dabir said something curious.

“Is there not a treatise by Khalid,” he asked, “that discusses the eyeballs of goats?”

Jamilah blinked in surprise. “Indeed there is. Is that why you have come?”

“It is.”

“I thought you had no interest in alchemy.”

“I am interested in it, but I do not study it. Do you have this book?”

“I do. I shall retrieve it for you.”

She left quickly, the scarlet alcove curtains swaying after her passage.

I waited only a moment before turning to Dabir. “You have never mentioned this woman, and you seem most…familiar.”

“She is a friend,” Dabir replied, “from my youth.”

His tone did not invite further discussion, but I was not about to let him dismiss the subject so simply. “A friend?”

His eyes narrowed. “I was barely thirteen when I studied here,” he said. “She and I
did
talk, but…”

“Oh?” I prompted.

Dabir replied to this only with a stare, which amused me, but I did not think quickly enough how to pry further before Jamilah returned with a slim book and passed it to him. She sat down opposite us as he began to read.

“What is this regarding?” she asked.

Dabir thumbed carefully through the pages. “The goats’ eyeballs were to be prepared for an elixir of life, were they not?”

“Your memory is as sharp as ever, Dabir. That is true.”

“And was there not some discussion of using the eyes of men?”

“There may have been—why do you ask these things?”

He glanced up. “Because I believe some reader of Khalid, or of his sources, has taken this message to heart, for at least two men have turned up dead and eyeless in the passing weeks.”

Jamilah laughed shortly. “You jest! No, I see you do not. Much of those writings are but chaff, as any wise one knows.”

“Didn’t your father test the experiment with the goats’ eyes, in later years?”

Her mouth twisted in an unpleasant fashion. “And it yielded nothing, as I told him. Do you mean to insult my father again?”

Dabir glanced up. “I mean only to point out to you that even the wise are deceived when someone they revere mixes clever words with foolish ones into a single paste. In a book, such words somehow bear more water than they do when spoken aloud.” He must have found the passage for which he searched, for he fell silent and stared at a page. Jamilah watched him, hawklike.

He set down the scroll. “There are many fools, Jamilah, and some of them are alchemists. Surely you know some?”

“You look for suspects.”

“I do.”

She pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “Alchemists as a whole seem more inclined to madness. There is Ferran, though. He dwells near the Western gate. He is…stranger than most. If you wish to speak with him, be careful.”

“How is he strange, Jamilah?” Dabir asked.

“It is said he looks for forbidden knowledge. He is secretive and dangerous.”

That described most scholars and miracle workers whom we encountered, but I held my tongue.

“Twice he has been investigated by the city guard because of rumors that he was found haunting the burial yard,” Jamilah explained further, “and it is said that he acted most suspicious, but that nothing incriminating could be found.”

That certainly sounded suspicious to me, and I traded a glance with Dabir. The fellow might have gone from the troubling practice of harvesting from dead men to creating his own.

“I thank you,” Dabir said formally to Jamilah, bowing his head. “I thank you likewise for allowing me to peruse this book, and for your fine hospitality. Asim and I must now depart.”

“So soon?”

“We must speak with this Ferran while the day is young.”

She rose to her feet. “You are always welcome in my home, Dabir. As is your fine mind. You would take pleasure in many of my experiments.”

“I thank you. Perhaps I will return.”

I swatted at a beggar who dared our heels as we left the home. “Did you learn what you wished from the book?”

“I may have learned more than I wished,” Dabir said, though he did not explain. “Khalid was one of the greatest alchemists,” he continued after a moment, “but he did not hesitate sometimes to relay anecdotes or incidents that he himself had not witnessed. I altogether prefer the approach of Thucydides.”

“A Greek alchemist?”

“Greek, yes; alchemist, no. I am thinking of style, not subject.”

A thought had been scratching at me, and I could not help myself from attending it at last. “Have you taken pleasure in some of her experiments before?” My voice was without guile, but a grin betrayed me.

Dabir smirked. “Sheath your wit, oh braying ass. I was but a boy.”

“She is fair,” I observed, “if a trifle thin.”

“All but the roundest women are too thin for you, Asim.”