Barry Sadler - The Assassin

Twilight reddened the dome of the mosque. It reminded the captain again of torture. He turned to go back to the palace. A caravan was coming down the street. Idly, the captain glanced at it.

Nothing remarkable. One man who dodged between the line animals caught his attention for a moment. A foreigner, perhaps a Rh'shan or a Frank. He had the look of a soldier about him. But as with the guards at the gate, he gave him no more than a curious look.

Well, it takes all kinds, the captain thought tolerantly.

At last finding a tavern which catered to the foreign element, Casca settled in to wait a while, taking a tankard of crude wine cut with water to ease the dryness in his throat. He then called for an Arab hookah, which apparently wasn't on the Emir's forbidden list since every cafe — and there were plenty of these and plenty of coffee — was full of the Faithful puffing away. After the second pipeful he was feeling very happy, content with a life which had no problems. He felt as though he was floating high up, and that was why he was now out on the street juggling two happy decisions in his mind: whether to look for better wine, or to look for a woman.

That was when Yousef made the mistake of trying to rob him.

Casca saw this scrawny little beggar standing at the dark entrance to the inevitable alley — Arab towns had more alleys per square foot than anywhere else — and he would probably have given him "alms" if the little bastard had asked. Casca was feeling very generous. He loved everybody in the whole damned world.

But Yousef made the mistake of trying to take him.

Laughing, Casca mildly applied one of the simpler blows Shiu Tze had taught him a long time ago.

"Now, why did you try that, little fellow?" Casca asked. He was floating twenty paces high over the fallen assailant, and some little genie in the back of his mind whispered: "Look there! Somebody trying to assassinate an Assassin!" Casca roared with laughter. He thought it was a marvelous joke.

Ah…! Suddenly it occurred to Casca that not only did he love everybody, everybody in the world loved him. He looked down at the fallen Yousef who by now had the look of a man who had caught the wrong tiger by the tail.

"Mu salam aleikom — Peace be with you!" he said benignly. "Now get the hell out of here before I bust your balls." He raised his foot to kick, but had a little trouble deciding whether he wanted to use his right foot or his left.

Yousef scrambled away.

However…

There was one moment there when the combination of the dim moonlight, the lamp from an open window, and Yousef's sharp eyes brought recognition to the mind of the ex-bandit.

The gray-blue-eyed Circassian with the scar on his face. The one who had warned the Mamelukes at the raid. The bad luck man. The one Allah had allowed to cause his, Yousef's, problems.

By all the djins of the dark!

Somehow he would get revenge before this one passed out of his sight again and he was reduced once more to disguising himself as a beggar in order to scout out houses. Since their fortune had changed the men remaining in his band were forced to rob or to find a few purses to cut. He, Yousef, who planned one day to be Yousef the Great was reduced to this.

He would not stand for it!

There were still remnants of his followers encamped outside the city.

This one would pay…

As for Casca, he, too, had recognized Yousef — but in a different way. Waiting to cross the street that afternoon, he had seen Yousef being booted by the Emir's captain, and the beggar had seemed mildly familiar, someone he had seen before. But Casca had seen many people before, and it just wasn't important to him. Now, tonight, he had a vague feeling about it — but everything was lost in the euphoria of the hookah. At the moment he just didn't give a damn about anything. And that was his downfall…

He found the woman first, a small-breasted, hard titted young Turkish whore. Casca was never quite sure what took up the next day and night. He was supposed to meet Hassan's spy — a slave in the Emir's household who had planted the Golden Dagger — but something went wrong with that. Casca was fuzzy about the details because sometime in the two-day spread he had gotten his hands on a couple of amphorae of trade wine. The wine and the hashish turned his wait into a very satisfying interlude, but unfortunately he was still a little drunk when it came time to make his appointment with the Emir. He still hadn't gotten in touch with the spy, but he figured that didn't make all that much difference. On his first evening in town he had passed, with a caravan, the place he was to lie in wait for the Emir, and it took only a quick glance to see that there were really only two places he could pick, both of which were adequate. He had good cover in both spots, and, unless the Emir knew where he was to be, the target would never know he was there, even after the lance was in his guts.

Piece of cake…

He got to his ambush site — a gnarled and twisted old olive tree that stood near three different buildings, which would provide him with a choice of routes by which to make his escape. He arrived there hours early, of course, since he went in darkness. His jirad, which had a joint in the center, was carried under a cloak to be assembled later. Since it was going to be a long wait he also carried, in his left hand, a leather bag which held a stoppered jug containing the last of the trade wine. Might as well go first class…

The mood of happiness had not left him. Everything took on the appearance of an omen of success. Casca took the stopper out of the jug…

Yousef the bandit looked at the eight men he had left out of his original band, a sour expression on his face. "There're going to be large crowds at the ceremony today, so I don't think anyone will pay much attention to us if we're careful. It is said that Hassan al Sabah has sent the Emir the Golden Dagger, so don't make any sudden moves close to the Emir. That bodyguard of his will cut us to pieces. If the Assassins want to kill the Emir, let them. What I want is that scar-faced bastard. I am not going to be happy until he's out of the way. So if you can take him alive, fine. It will be a pleasure to kill him myself. To take him out some place and really work on him, make him suffer for the bad luck he has caused us. Perhaps if we can get him alive we'll be able to sell him for enough to get started again. There are sure to be many who would pay well for one with his strength. That would of course be after we removed his manhood to make him into a more docile beast of burden." Yousef's face screwed itself up into a grimace of pleasure at the thought. "I have watched him and know he has taste for the grape and pipe. He will be somewhere on the streets today as all of the public houses are closed by the Emir's order. Keep your eyes open and we will find him."

Bu Ali, too, intended to look for Casca — only he knew where to look. But at the moment he had a problem; he couldn't get away from the man who had bought the three slaves. He had already drunk enough coffee to piss the Tigris over its banks, but here came the damn stuff around again.

The host droned on and on.

The hour of the parade was fast approaching…

Bu Ali made a silent prayer to Allah to intercede and release him from this long-winded ass. But if the finger of Allah had been in the deal, it apparently wasn't around this morning. The host droned on and on. The hour of the parade was fast approaching…

By the time the streets had filled with people waiting for the parade, Casca had polished off the last of the trade wine and was feeling no pain. No pain whatsoever. Now from the distance came the sound of the advancing parade. In fact, from up in his olive tree, Casca could see the tops of the banners over the roofs of the intervening houses.