Glen Cook - The Fire In His Hands

Young Haroun was growing, though more in mind than in stature. His father had begun to fear that he would become the family runt. Megelin soothed him with remarks about late bloomers. He had abandoned any pretense of educating anyone else. He no longer had time to coax and coddle Yousif’s stubborner sons and nephews.

His concentration on the one child won him no friends. Not when he took the boy away from his regular shaghûnry studies and chores to accompany him on botanical and geological field trips. Not when he answered questions about the other children’s talents honestly.

Other than Yousif and Haroun, Megelin had just one real friend in el Aswad, his bodyguard, Muamar.

Muamar enjoyed the field trips and studies more than did Haroun. For him they were play. The old warrior had reached that stage in life where mental challenges were more easily negotiated than physical. He responded to them with a heart never seen in the young.

In the fourth year the rebels made a small mistake. Fuad emerged triumphant, having trapped and slain nearly three hundred marauders. The victory guaranteed a respite from guerrilla activity. Yousif declared a holiday in his brother’s honor.

Women were summoned from their quarters to dance. Yousif, Fuad and most of the captains brought out their favorite wives. The voices of kanoons, ouds, derbeckis and zils filled the hall with music. Radetic found it strident, harsh and discordant.

Laughter abounded. Even Radetic hazarded a few jokes, but his efforts were too esoteric for his audience. They preferred long-winded, intimately detailed tales about rogues who cuckolded pompous husbands and about nitwits who believed anything their wives and daughters told them.

There was no wine to modulate the merriment, but the air was sour with a mildly narcotic smoke produced in special braziers.

Haroun sat beside Radetic, taking it all in with wide, neutral eyes. Radetic wondered if the boy was becoming one of life’s perpetual observers.

“Ho! Megelin! You old woman,” Fuad called. “Get up and show us one of your infidel jigs.”

Radetic was in a daring mood. He liberated a flute from a musician and danced a clumsy flamenco to his own abominable accompaniment. He laughed with the rest when he finished.

“Now you, Fuad. Put on the zils and show the ladies how it’s done.”

Fuad took the dare, without zils. He performed a wild sword dance which won a roar of applause.

The hall was packed with victorious warriors. With the women dancing, then the teacher and the Wahlig’s brother doing their stunts, no one had any attention left over. Nobody noticed the slow drift of three men toward the leaders...

Till they sprang, one each at Yousif, Fuad and Radetic.

Each lifted a silver dagger overhead. Fuad stopped his with his dancing sword. Yousif evaded his by throwing himself into the screaming mob.

Muamar flung himself into the path of the third assassin. The silver dagger slashed his cheek as the killer desperately tried to reach Radetic.

Muamar’s wound was bloody, but should have done no more than leave a thin scar. But the old warrior froze. His eyes grew huge. A gurgling whine crossed his lips. Then he fell, stone-dead.

The assassin drove toward Radetic again, struggling past grasping hands and flashing weapons. His dagger burned with a weird blue light.

“Sorcery!” a woman screamed.

The uproar redoubled.

Haroun kicked the assassin in the groin. It was as savage a blow as a ten-year-old could deliver. The knife wielder ignored him.

Neither he nor his companions seemed to notice the blows raining upon them. Six of Yousif’s men perished before the assassins could be stopped.

Shaking, Radetic gasped, “I’ve never seen anything like it! What kind of men are they?”

“Back! Damn it, clear away!” Yousif bellowed. “Gamel! Mustaf! Beloul!” he roared at three of his captains. “Clear the hall. Get the women to their quarters. Don’t touch them!” he snarled at a man who had rolled one of the assassins onto his back.

The three silver daggers lay on the dark stone floor, glowing blue.

Fuad crouched over the man who had come after him. He was pale. His hands shook. “Nassef said he would send an assassin.”

“He waited long enough,” Yousif growled.

“This isn’t El Murid’s style,” Radetic murmured. “There’s sorcery in this. It hasn’t been six months since he preached that sermon against wizardry.”

“Nassef. It has to be Nassef’s doing,” Fuad insisted.

Something about one assassin caught Radetic’s eye. He dropped to one knee, lengthened a tear in the man clothing, gazed at his chest. “Come here. Look at this.”

A tiny tattoo lay over the man’s heart. It was not clear, but seemed to be two letters of the desert alphabet intertwined.

The tattoo faded away as they studied it.

“What the hell?” Fuad growled. He jumped to another assassin, hacked his clothing. “Nothing on this one.” He went to the third. “Hey. This one’s still alive.” Again he cut cloth. “And he’s got the same mark.”

“Gamel. Send for the physician,” Yousif ordered. “Maybe we can keep him alive long enough to get some answers.”

While they were looking at the tattoo, Haroun collected one of the daggers. A blue nimbus formed round his hand. He held the flat of the blade to the light of a lamp.

“What are you doing?” Yousif demanded. “Put that down.”

“It’s harmless, Father. The light is just a spell unraveling.”

“What?”

“There was a spell on the blade. This one includes Uncle Fuad’s name. I’m trying to read the rest, if you’ll let me. It’s hard. It’s fading away, and it’s in the language of Ilkazar.”

“If there’s sorcery...”

“The blue is the sorcery giving up energy as it decays, Father. Because the knives cut the wrong men. They’re just daggers now.”

Haroun’s assertions did not reassure Yousif. “Put the damned thing down.”

“He just died,” Fuad said of the third assassin. “Oh. There it goes.”

The man’s tattoo faded in thirty seconds.

“What are we into here?” Yousif asked the air. The air did not reply.

Haroun’s shaghûnry instructors confirmed the boy’s comments about the daggers. Spells had been placed on the blades to make even a slight cut fatal. But they could make nothing of the vanishing tattoos. Nor could they, with their most potent conjuring, determine whence the assassins had come.

The physician determined that the men had taken drugs. And everyone could see that they had bound their limbs and genitals tightly, severely restricting circulation. They had been both fearless and immune to pain when they had attacked.

“Whoever sent them has himself a potent weapon,” Radetic observed. “Yousif, you’d better tell the gate watch to stay alert.”

Once the excitement died and there was no other concern to stay him, Megelin knelt over Muamar and wept. “You were a true friend, old warrior,” he murmured. “Thank you.”

Fuad, of all people, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “He was a good man, Megelin. We’ll all miss him.”

The teacher glanced up. He was surprised to see a tear on Fuad’s cheek. “He was my weapons master when I was Haroun’s age. As he was Haroun’s.” For Fuad that seemed to be ample explanation.

The man called Beloul, who, subjective centuries ago, had escaped the disaster at Sebil el Selib, examined the dead men. He was now one of Yousif’s most savage captains. In his time, too, he had gone back into Sebil el Selib as one of the Wahlig’s spies.

“These are El Murid’s men,” he said. “This one is Shehab el-Medi, a captain of the Invincibles. He was almost as crazy as the Disciple.”