Sultana's Legacy (38 page)

“So there is peace again?”

“I did not say that. You and Nasr share the blood of your brother, Sultan Muhammad. Lest you forget, vengeance begets vengeance. Nasr has reconciled with me for now, but I doubt he shall forget this uprising.”

Chapter 24

The Assassin’s Blade

Prince Faraj

Malaka, Al-Andalus: Shawwal 711 AH (Malaga, Andalusia: March AD 1312)

The overzealous guardsman, who led Faraj and his company through the narrow, torturous streets of the marketplace, earned the irate stares of those whom he shoved aside. “Make way for the
Raïs
of Malaka! Move, fool or you’ll feel Damascus steel in your gullet!”

His eagerness did not impress Faraj either. He looked askance at his captain, who strolled beside him.

Khalid shrugged. “We’ll never clear a path through the vendors, if we are polite and patient.”

At his father’s right, Ismail nodded. “If we must reach the market inspector’s house before he attends to his duties, we’ll never get there in this crowd without dispersing them.”

The guard sent a fruit vendor sprawling across the cobblestone street. Clusters of figs, plump oranges and ruby-colored pomegranates spilled from sacks. Grasping hands from voluminous cloaks pilfered the fruit. Dim light peeked around the awnings of each building and made it difficult to tell where the thieves had gone. In his haste and carelessness, the guardsman mashed bits of fruit to pulp beneath his booted feet.

Khalid and Ismail helped the merchant as he regained his footing and gathered his goods, while Faraj grabbed the shoulder of the one who had shoved him. “This man has had his wares stolen. You shall remain and help him find the thieves….”

“But, my prince, I did not see them.”

“Or, your wages shall compensate him for the value of what he has lost,” Faraj continued, as though the guardsman had not interrupted him.

The man’s jaw dropped and he stared at him wordless.

The vendor grabbed Faraj’s ankles and kissed his feet. “Thank you, my prince! Truly, you are merciful and generous to your people.”

“Get up man, no need for that.”

Despite Faraj’s protestation, the merchant would not leave off. His balding pate glistening as he bowed in supplication, his lips making loud smacking sounds on the rounded tips of Faraj’s red leather boots. Exasperated, Faraj glared at Khalid and Ismail, who barely hid their bemused smirks behind their hands.

Ismail pulled the grateful vendor to his feet again. The man was unable to resist one parting acclamation. “You are the best among men who serve God. A prince fit to rule Gharnatah.”

Faraj scowled at him. The man displayed his gap-toothed smile before haranguing the guardsman about his stolen fruit.

Ismail touched his father’s arm. “He only says what the people are thinking.”

“Anyone would be a fool to think it, my son, much less speak of it. More than a year has passed since I reconciled with Nasr at Gharnatah, yet people believe I want the throne.”

Khalid said, “Despite all your denials, the rumors persist. Perhaps, you should consider their source.”

Faraj ignored him. The cause remained the same, the malcontents who thought Nasr was a secret Christian, like his
Hajib
. In the intervening months, since Faraj’s rebellion had ended, the stares, whispers and pointing, the deferential bowing wherever he went in Malaka still rankled him. He was not the Sultan. How long could he keep the rumors that he still wanted the throne from reaching Nasr at Gharnatah? Or, was it already too late?

Camels laden with bolts of precious fabric blocked the ground floor entrance to the market inspector’s house.

Khalid bellowed for the caravan leader, who at length pushed his great bulk through the camels. He spied Faraj and bowed in deference.

“Great prince, your presence honors us today.”

“Enough with your salutations, man. Just move these beasts out of the way. I must see the market inspector.”

“Begging your pardon, great prince. The market inspector is gone. It’s his daughter’s wedding in Qumarich. I don’t think he’ll return before month’s end. I follow in his wake, with gifts for the bride.”

The caravan leader patted the lead camel. The beast snorted and urinated.

Faraj’s hands clenched into tight fists. He cursed under his breath. He had informed the market inspector of his intent at the end of the previous week. Still, the fool went away without speaking to Faraj.

He grabbed the caravan leader by the folds of his robe. The man yelped in surprise as he dragged him closer.

“You tell that son of a donkey to see me when he returns. He shall explain why the eastern ports have rejected our shipments of figs for the past year. If he has not done his duty to ensure that the fruits are preserved for their transport, I’ll have his head!”

The trembling caravan leader could only nod.

Faraj and his men returned the way they had come. They found the fruit vendor still yelling at the guardsman.

From an inn across the muck-filled street, cardamom-scented tisane wafted down from the upper floor through latticed windows. The carved door on the first floor opened and revealed a heavily veiled woman. She stepped out into the cobblestone thoroughfare, followed by two maidservants. She glanced at the men and bowed demurely, her dark eyes sparkling between the slits of her veils. Her fragrance, cassia and jasmine, filtered through the air.

It seemed so long since Faraj had smelled jasmine in Fatima’s hair. His gaze followed the woman’s form, hidden under billowing folds of silk, through the marketplace. Longing filled him, but not for her. He wanted the woman who smelled like her, who awaited him at home. He had not looked upon Fatima with any emotion untainted by anger in years. The sight of the woman reminded him of her.

For the first time in years, he admitted to himself that he missed Fatima at his side. He had buried his feelings deep. Now, he only wished to return to their home and hold her in his arms, recalling the days when they loved and trusted each other. Could they return to the past?

Ismail cleared his throat. “Shall I follow the woman you’re staring at, Father?”

Faraj jerked his gaze away. “Of course not!”

He rubbed his hip, which had started aching every morning. A general stiffness in his bones accompanied the twinge. Often, he felt very much like the sixty-five year-old man he was.

His hand alighted on Khalid’s shoulder. “Put a watch on the market inspector’s house for the next month. Inform me the moment he returns.”

A flurry of dust rose up and made the men cough. The Marinid commander Uthman emerged from the haze.

From atop his horse, he grinned at the men and exposed his overbite. “A fine morning.”

Faraj had not liked Uthman from their first meeting. Whether in his cadaverous face with the sunken eye sockets or the pale skin that never seemed to darken even under the bright Malaka sun, Uthman unnerved Faraj. The man had the cunning of a fox.

After Faraj’s reconciliation with Nasr, Uthman had been quick to ingratiate himself again with the Marinid princes Abd al-Haqq and Hammu, who supported Nasr still. Faraj did not know how Uthman managed to retain command of the garrison, but he doubted Uthman accomplished his methods through fair means.

Uthman said, “I have heard the Sultan’s troubles continue, Prince Faraj. Now the
khassa
of Gharnatah have kicked his tax collectors from their doorsteps. The nobles claim the Sultan has unduly burdened them.”

Nasr had bought peace with Castilla-Leon, Aragon and the Marinids at cost to his own people.

Faraj responded, “It is interesting how you are always aware of events in the capital, commander.”

“I have a keen interest in the politics of Al-Andalus, my prince.”

“I do not doubt it.”

He strolled past Uthman, who jerked the reins of his horse and wheeled his mount around. “You have nothing more to say than that?”

Faraj halted. He did not face Uthman. “Do you think I await the downfall of Nasr in Gharnatah? Did you believe I would rejoice in the end of his regime, in watching the birth of anarchy and strife destroy my beloved land?”

“There are those who believe the days of your Sultan on the throne cannot last for much longer. They wait for you to lead them.”

“Then they wait in vain….”

“My prince!” Khalid shoved Faraj aside, but not before a sharp pain stabbed into his chest. Faraj staggered and looked down. The hilt of a dagger protruded from his breast. A crimson stain spread slowly across the yellow tunic. He gaped at the sight and fell.

A heavily garbed figure ran toward him. A sword gleamed in his hand. Uthman’s horse whickered, the stallion’s hooves striking the ground. Then there was the clash of steel. A gurgling cry followed.

“Khalid!” Ismail’s voice echoed through the haze of Faraj’s pain.

Faraj gripped the hilt of the dagger. Warm, sticky wetness coated his fingertips. Darkness threatened to overwhelm him, though he fought against it. He struggled in vain.

Princess Fatima

Fatima swung the lattice window open and welcomed the mid-morning rays. She leaned against the windowsill and inhaled the draft of sea breeze gusting over the shore. Behind her, Niranjan’s raspy chuckle dissolved into a cough.

“You reminded me just then, my Sultana, of the little girl leaning out of the camel caravan.”

The memory of the child rescued by the boy who would become her lifelong friend made her turn and smile at him, but it was a sad gesture. For months, she recognized the symptoms of decline in Niranjan. He had never been the same after his imprisonment at
al-Jabal Faro
.

His claw-like fingers reached for a cup of peppermint tea on the floor, beside his pallet. With trembling hands, he raised the hot drink to his lips before setting it down again. She brushed away moisture from the corner of her eye.

“Do you shed such lovely tears for me? You should not.”

She sat beside him and took his gnarled hand in hers.

He squeezed her fingers in his dry, rough hold. “My sole regret is that I cannot always be at your side now, when you have found peace again. You are the good, gentle mistress I have ever known. My heart is glad. I can die a happy man one day.”

She sighed. “Who shall I be without you, Niranjan? You have always stood by me, at my best and worst. What shall there be for me of comfort in this world, when you are gone from it?”

“You shall live for your family and the future. Then one day, you shall die also, an old woman in your bed, surrounded by those whom you love.”

She raised his hand and held it against her cheek.

A terrifying wail rang through the hallway outside. The tranquility of the moment ended. A furious knocking came at the door and without waiting for permission, Haniya burst into the room. Her red-rimmed gaze flew to Fatima’s face.

“The master, I think he’s dead! An assassin attacked him. You must come to his room.”

Fatima stared at her, as though uncertain of what she had said. Niranjan cupped her cheek. “Go, now.”

She dashed to the room, where their servants had placed a body stiff and unmoving on the bed. She could not believe it was her husband, whom she had seen an hour before he went to the marketplace. Faraj lay on his back, the hilt of a dagger embedded in his chest in the area above his heart. His tunic clung to him, mired in the blood.

She scrambled to his side and looked down at his pallid expression. No sound issued from between his pale lips.

“My Sultana, let me see to him.” Niranjan shuffled into the chamber, using the walking stick he now required.

Her lips trembled. She could not move from the spot.

Niranjan touched her shoulder. “Please let me help your husband.”

She drew back, though not far from the bed. Haniya rested her chin on Fatima’s shoulder. Soft sobs wracked the maidservant’s body.

Niranjan knelt beside the bed. He peeled away the matted cloth around the wound, and then placed his hand on Faraj’s chest, over the heart. Niranjan pressed his ear to Faraj’s mouth and listened.

Niranjan raised his head and nodded. “He is not dead. The master’s heart beats with life still. It is very faint. Haniya, send for the physician.”

Fatima stayed with Faraj, even after the physician arrived and suggested, then ordered her to leave. Her gaze never wavered, no matter how the wound bled or stained the bedclothes. When he withdrew the weapon with care, breath rattled in Faraj’s chest. Fatima covered her mouth and stifled her sobs.

After the doctor’s assistant closed and bound the savage cut, she offered the pair payment and sent them away, with the command that they should not leave Malaka in case Faraj worsened.

Niranjan said, “Prince Faraj has lost a great deal of blood. This wound is dangerous. Still, it should not have caused this result. I want to examine the blade.”

He grabbed the weapon the doctor had set aside. He sniffed the dagger and studied it. “Do you recognize the weapon, my Sultana?”

She shook her head, her gaze on Faraj’s wan features.

Niranjan grasped her fingers and slid the golden hilt between them and her palm. Blood clung to the blade. “Look at the handle. Does it not seem familiar?”

Carved with an overlay of gold, the pommel was the shape of a goblet.

Niranjan said, “It is shaped like the Holy Grail, what Christians believe to be the cup of Jesus Christ before the crucifixion.”

“I know of the Christian religion, but what does this have to do with an attempt on my husband’s life? Are you saying someone among the Christian kingdoms has tried to kill him?”

“The flag of the Galician people bears the same symbol. The Galician guards of the Sultan’s court carry such daggers as a symbol of their heritage. One of them has tried to kill your husband. This cannot have happened without the knowledge or sanction of the Sultan.”