Arabesque

Dassai

Silence.

Gone were the screams of unspeakable pain as wax-acid poured over feet and then legs, eating away tissue, muscle, and bone. Still, there were no pleas from Tariq Alyalah—nothing revealed out of desperation and terror.

The torture of the sufi mystic had lasted for more than two hours. Each drop of candle wax sizzled as it seared skin and mingled with blood—a sickening sound that could be heard quite plainly once the wailing had ceased and the old man had finally died.

Fajeer Dassai looked over the corpse that leaned against the curved side of the room. The white distemper paint on the wall around the body, now charred black, had peeled away, and a thin layer of ash dusted the stone floor. Lifeless eyes stared out of Alyalah's emaciated face. Its mouth was agape. Shriveled, cracked lips receded to expose a scattering of brown and yellow tobacco-stained teeth. The sufi's blood-soaked suriah robe was torn away at the navel as though he had been bitten in half by a shark; there was nothing left of him below the waist.

The stench of melted flesh invaded Dassai's nose despite the clove-laced cotton stuffed into his nostrils. He blew out the last of the candles that had been used to torture the sufi, his face so close to the flame that it flared amid the gray, death-tinted shadows.

He had already worked his way through every room, from the top of the misal'ayn down the three hundred sixty-five steps to the crypt and anbar buried deep beneath the surface. This was the last room left. Soon enough he would locate Alyalah's private records. Somewhere within the walls or floor of this mirsd—this sacred chamber—rested a hidden cache of books that contained secrets so powerful they would change the beliefs of nearly everyone alive in Mir'aj.

Tariq Alyalah would have had Hiril Altaïr smuggle them out of Qatana, possibly turning them over to the Eliësans. Dassai had outwitted him, though, by sending Sarn out to murder Altaïr. The assassin would kill the siri before he could take possession.

It was imperative that Dassai possess these relics. This tower would not keep them secret from him much longer. Once found, these books would endow him with wealth and power to rival the mightiest of sultans. First the Carac now this—his plans were coming to fruition.

The room was small and barren, with no windows or furnishings. Embedded in the floor was a mosaic of brown and tan square tiles laid out in an intricate circular pattern, progressing from large to small until it formed a ring, one foot in diameter, in the center of the mirsd. Within this ring was set a copper seal engraved with a burning sun. Light filtered down from a gap in the high domed ceiling, illuminating the pattern set in the floor.

It was here.

Dassai picked up a brushed brass candleholder, twenty-six inches long, fashioned like a spear. He rapped it hard against the floor, sending the stick of wax skidding across the tiles. Wedging the pointed end beneath the copper seal's edge, he worked it clockwise around the perimeter until it stopped against a hiddenclasp. He pried until he had exposed the clasp, applied a quick, hard snap, and broke the barrier. Removing the disc revealed a shallow recess with just enough room to house several small books.

The cache, however, was empty.

Impossible!

Dassai screamed in rage, slamming his fists on the floor. He stared down at the empty hole, noticing that stone had been crudely chipped away from the bottom and filled with fresh dirt. Dassai dug his hand into the loose soil, searching until his fingers found the slender neck of a wine bottle. He pulled it out and wiped the grime from the green glass. Empty. He examined the smudged lettering.

It was his own fucking label!

Dassai seethed with rage. He should never have counted on Sarn. Hiril Altaïr was dead; there was no question about that. He'd received word himself only an hour before setting off to deal with Alyalah. But what he hadn't realized, until this very moment, was the possibility that the assassin had come here first. Dassai had wasted precious time waiting for Alyalah to return to the tower, obviously unaware that his abettor in the plot had been here only hours previous.

Did the assassin take them for himself?

The more he thought about it, the more enraged he became.

Sarn, he thought. I will cut your head off and shit down your throat.

Somewhere in Havar he knew the assassin was laughing.