The Codex Lacrimae (18 page)

“Returning from another of his acquisition trips. I believe he'd found some manuscripts for the Krak's library, but he didn't talk much about it.”

“I imagine that the children have all grown quite a bit since we last saw them in Jerusalem when we saw you at Christmastime,” Guy observed.

“They have, indeed,” Khalil answered.

Guy inclined a head toward Fatima and Khalil. “Our condolences for your mother's passing. We heard the news last year from one of Khajen's students.”

“
Shukran
,
” Fatima said, her eyes welling, “we miss her much. I think that father's latest trip was so long because he needed to get away.”

“Do we really need to spend time discussing infidels' family trees?” Monachus interrupted with a shake of his head. “Perhaps if you miss your father so much and his wife is burning in hell for being a Muslim, this is a sign from our God that Ibn-Khaldun's time at the Krak should end?”

“Monachus, that's enough —” Guy started to say angrily, but then stopped when Kenezki elbowed the archbishop and almost knocked him off his mat.

“Oh, sorry there, Friend Monachus,” Kenezki slurred. “That wasn't a kind comment, though, when these ‘children' here are grieving. Wait.” He put a finger to his lips to motion the blustering priest to silence and turned his head slowly to Fatima and Khalil. “Wait. You've seen, what? Twenty-five, twenty-six winters? You're not children anymore.”

“You're a drunken fool,” Sibylla said coldly.

“In my cups a bit? Yes!” Kenezki said. “A fool? We'll see.” He turned to look at Fatima. “We've heard of your father in Constantinople, you know. He's got quite a reputation for scholarship and for producing beautiful manuscripts. I've also heard that he has a remarkable record in educating young monks who return to the European mainland.”

“Now, who's his most recent prized student?” Kenezki mused, lifting his dinner knife and casually spinning its tip on the tabletop. “Let me think, let me think. A big fellow, I've heard. A survivor of Mecina. The name's Santini, I believe?”

Clarinda couldn't have been more amazed if Kenezki had just declared himself the heir-apparent for the lordship of Kievan Russia.

What in heaven's name
,
she thought,
does a Black Sea pirate know about European monasteries and, why would he think that Santini's serving on the clerical staff of a godforsaken Middle Eastern castle?

Besides Clarinda's unspoken questions, the pirate's words seemed to affect Fatima, too.

This response startled Clarinda. No matter what the topic of conversation earlier in the afternoon, Fatima had been a study in relaxed composure. Now, Clarinda could sense her tensing.

She looked again at Kenezki, and found that the distorted feelings she'd experienced at the tavern back in Constantinople were returning.

Something beyond language was happening when he spoke, and besides losing the ability to track Kenezki's words, she started to feel a nauseous, sweat-inducing sensation yawning in her stomach.

“Father has many students,” Khalil said casually. “The Krak's renowned for its school, and the only students that father ever talks about are my brother, Marcus, and some boys named Ríg and Pellion.”

“There are always students at the Krak.” Guy added with a smile at Fatima and Khalil. “You've had too much to drink, Kenezki. I suggest you go sleep it off.”

“I seem to have gotten some bad information,” Kenezki replied, pinning Fatima with a thoughtful gaze. “Didn't your father serve the Hospitallers at Mecina? I mean, of course, before the time of the great battle and the killing spree of Servius Aurelius Santini?”

“I'd hardly call the Battle of Mecina a ‘killing spree' for one side or the other,” Fatima corrected. “There were battles and losses on both sides, and, yes, Father was there.”

“
Hmmm
,
” Kenezki murmured. “That's interesting.”

“Really? In what way?” Khalil asked. “That Master Ibn-Khaldun served at a different Hospitaller fortress than the Krak? He's always been interacting with the
franj
,
there's nothing interesting there.”

“No, no,” Kenezki said, “what's interesting is that my contacts in Damascus insisted your father's latest apprentice wasn't any ‘Ríg' or ‘Pellion,' but, as I said, Servius Aurelius Santini.”

“Your sources seem to have misled you,” Fatima said. “Since that man died at Mecina, it'd be somewhat difficult for him to be a student, eh?”

“Yes, yes,” Kenezki said, “I'm sure it would be. I wonder how many of Ibn-Khaldun's students followed him from the wreckage of Mecina, though? Strange that this Ríg would even want to remain in the Holy Land after Mecina.”

“How is it that a Black Sea...‘merchant' knows so much about my father and the Krak?” Fatima countered.

“Everyone's heard of the Battle of Mecina, my dear,” Kenezki protested softly, “and the legend makes any survivors of it all the more interesting, don't you think?”

“Only to those who weren't there,” Fatima said quietly. “Father was there for the entire siege, and its not a topic he cares to talk about.”

“I understand you wanting to change the subject” Kenezki said with a nonchalant look (and a few winks) around the table, “Once they —”

“I'm not trying to change any—”

“As I was saying,” Kenezki overrode her, “Maybe I'm wrong about this boy, Ríg. It'd be absurd, wouldn't it? It's not like your father would have brought Santini himself to the Krak, would he?”

“Not to mention, rather difficult,” Khalil said dryly, echoing his wife's earlier words, “considering the fact that that man was killed at Mecina, fighting Saladin.”

In a rush, Clarinda realized the source of the tension coming from Khalil and Fatima — they were covering something they knew about Santini, but what? and how did that something relate to Fatima's father? Was this Ríg, indeed, the Hospitaller knight from her visions?

“Enough about Mecina and Santini, Kenezki,” Evremar said impatiently. “You'll ruin my digestion with talk about dead saints and the successes of Hospitallers. I'd much rather talk about
my
Templar order, if you don't mind, particularly the
bedouin
raids happening around here lately. Those raiders —”

“The raiders who have plagued Betherias and Canet?” Khalil interjected. “We have discussed this –”

“And countless other towns and posts along the eastern boundaries of our lands!” Evremar snapped angrily, his attention back to Khalil with a glare. He raised the goblet and slammed it onto the wood of the table, spilling wine over its rim. “Caesarean territories have been virtually under siege for the last six months.”

Khalil shook his head. “We're camel traders, Milord. Walk on top of your walls here and look down. We barter in animals, and aren't warriors.”

“Your people might be traders, but then again, they might not. You've certainly fought before, Khalil; I sense it in you as much as I perceive it in Clarinda's Greek friend. Who's to say that the same is not true of all of your people who sit outside my walls?”

“Tell me,” Khalil said as he inclined forward slightly, “if I didn't personally know many here at the table, I'd think that all of your people were afflicted with the same madness that seems to have touched you! We've told you. We're camel traders, on our way to Haifa, then Aleppo.”

“No. You and your wife are
bedouin
,
and you
must
have some contact with these raiders.” Evremar gave a black look to Guy. “This I will
not
budge on. Until we get the information we seek, Khalil, you and the
bedouin
will continue to be my guests, and we'll continue to have these pleasant evening meals.”

“We all look the same to you, eh, Grand Master? You won't even entertain the possibility that I might not know who these raiders are?” Khalil shook his head. “What will prevent my people from departing in the middle of the night?”

“The garrison based in this city should prevent any problems,” Evremar commented casually, “and it's not as if you can go anywhere without permission from me. Come. You want the Writ to continue trading in the Levant, and I want an end to these raids. We can, I think, meet both our needs, can't we?”

He raised an arm to a minstrel waiting nearby. “Now, let's have music and some fun — I'm done with all this talk of politics and imminent war. Let's rejoice in the moment!”

Khalil gave a frustrated look to Fatima, but as the music began, the performer's fingers plucking skillfully on the harp, conversations resumed as another course arrived at the table. Ceramic platters arrived with
bukhari
rice, lamb cuts, beef kabobs, and more wrapped grape leaves. Evremar clapped delightedly at the appearance of the long-awaited rosemary- braised lamb shanks.

After helping himself to generous portions of each, Evremar began eating in earnest. Queen Sibylla, probably welcoming a chance
not
to have to watch Evremar eating, noticed Clarinda watching the Grand Master and asked, “Did you have something else to say to Evremar, Dear? You were asking earlier about your poor father?”

Evremar gave a dramatic groan and reached for his goblet to clear his throat. When he'd gulped enough wine to stagger a person half his size, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Yes, yes — back to your father, the apparently lost Angelo Trevisan. We were interrupted earlier, weren't we, My Dear?”

“We weren't interrupted,” Clarinda said with a quiet firmness, but looking directly into the man's beady eyes, “I told you that he wasn't dead and you changed the subject.”

“My dear Clarinda,” the Grand Master said, clucking his tongue regretfully. “As I told you and Hoplitarch Stratioticus earlier, I wish that I could assist you. I truly do. Angelo Trevisan was, indeed, due to arrive here less than a week ago, but you've seen the condition of that Genoese galley in the harbor. It's now a burned shipwreck.”

Evremar cast a conspiratorial glance at his guests, as if trying to include them in the moment. “I've told you, your navigator,
and
your friend, Clarinda, but I'll tell everyone here, too. That vessel was a plague ship, already laden with corpses when it came here. We buried the entire crew in mass graves outside the walls,” he said with a deep sigh.

“What about my father?” Clarinda repeated loudly. “The last thing he told me was that he was going to meet you here in Caesarea.”

“As I said, Child, it remains a mystery.” Evremar took a long draught from his goblet. “I must say, though, that there are larger matters of concern here. Angelo Trevisan was supposed to be carrying certain…merchandise for me. Yesterday I received confirmation from my agent in Venice that Angelo did, indeed, receive the first half of the sum due him, as well as a promissory note for the remainder. Neither my cargo nor some letters-of-exchange I expected were on the ship; or, rather, what was on the ship was
not
the consignment I paid for. You were there for the lading of
cargo, weren't you? For the goods loaded in Venice?”

“I'm aware of what was on the manifests for our five ships,” Clarinda replied, her tone neutral. “However, there was no need for him to come to Caesarea.”

“Ah, I see. Of course.” Evremar's eyebrows raised as he returned his goblet to the table and again sighed tiredly. “However, you're certain he didn't speak of this merchandise to you?”

“No, perhaps you can tell me what it was,” Clarinda lied, thinking of the caskets that had been both in her father's cabin and on the shore of the pool in her dream. “A description that might jostle my memory?”

Evremar shrugged, but said nothing as he stared at her appraisingly.

Clarinda felt a prickling sensation on the nape of her neck, and her stomach yawned wide with dreadful apprehension. It'd been bad enough seeing the burned hulk of a galley upon arriving, but as she returned Evremar's probing gaze with some defiance, she realized how remote the chances were that she would find her father alive in this place.

“While we're waiting for Signorina Clarinda to recall what was on her manifests, let's have the minstrels come sing a song,” Kenezki said distantly, his words breaking like dropped glasses on the floor of Clarinda's awareness. He grinned at Evremar. “Do you mind, Milord? It's called the
Lay of Volund
,
a famous lay in the northlands. There have even been
caskets
made in Paris whose carved ivory panels depict scenes from the story.”

“Caskets?” Evremar echoed, turning an apparently puzzled look to Clarinda as he kept talking to Kenezki. “Surely not — why ever would we want to hear a song about caskets? Any ideas, Milady Clarinda?”