The Winding Ascent

Chapter 4

"Disaster!" the man screeched, the whites of his eyes flashing out against the red of his face. The wind threw a fine mist of grit swirling around his feet, as though cowering before the ominous words. "Another Outlander Raid! Muslims massacred!"

Eyes narrowed, one hand clutching the richly embroidered curtain, the Caliph watched the streets below him, staring as a pool of people seemed to form around the Town Crier, faces pinched with fear, the lines around their eyes like taut thread.

"Northern village razed to the ground!" the Crier went on, oblivious to the fearful glances he was receiving, but still turning his head slowly from side to side so that his voice would carry. "No survivors!"

Other sights and sounds rose to Mazin's senses as he watched, the giggling of the children as they darted in and out of the crowd, blissfully oblivious to the fear settling in the air, the shutters of the windows of the nearby buildings flying open as waste water, discarded by busy housewives, splattered into the empty narrow passageways. Castleton was brimming with life and the Caliph was grateful that they'd decided to hold their meeting here in the local resthouse rather than at the palace.

The meeting itself had left a sour taste coating his tongue. Despite all the eager reports of increased trade and income, the Caliph couldn't help but feel that something had been torn from the heart of his people ever since he'd signed the accord with the Outlander Emissary. Or was it, he mused, that something had actually been torn from his heart?

Unfurled flags, depicting the crest of his family, fluttered in the breeze above the window as Mazin's eyes found the Crier once again. "Outlanders rejoice as Muslims defeated again!" the man said. "Outlander Prince denies all responsibility!"

Mazin's gaze dropped to the surging throng of people pushing and prodding to get close to the Crier, as though they were leaves cast aloft by the wind. Seeing the familiar angle to their faces, the minute habits that singled them out as his own people, the Caliph felt a rush of fierce love burn into his heart. And yet, there was something out of place, too. He studied them closer, saw that, despite a general adherence to the attire of the Believers, many had adopted clothing worn by the Outlanders themselves. Curious that they would rush to embrace a people that seemingly hated and feared at the same time.

The Caliph, his lips pursed in a thin line, turned away from the window, the gentle hum of the town falling away behind him. "Why is it," he asked as he slid into a chair at the table, "that these criers only ever give bad news?"

Midafternoon sunlight poured in through the small window, washing the room with a burnt orange light. Beside the table, spread out on the floor, was the remains of their meal, unfinished bread resting inside stained earthenware bowls.

The buzz of conversation withered away at Mazin's question and Umair, meeting the eyes of Junaid, AbdurRahman and finally the Caliph himself in turn, licked his lips before speaking. "Commander of the Faithful," he said. "I'm not sure I understand the question?"

Mazin winced inwardly. He was tired of playing this game. It was, after all, his Vizier who had been the most passionate supporter of this new policy. "I think you do," Mazin said simply, gesturing with his hand.

Umair picked at the table for a moment, then gave a slight cough. "We've found that the people are more receptive to that kind of talk," he said, his words slow as though explaining a simple equation to a child. "Keeps gossip up."

"But spirits down," Mazin replied quickly. He held his Vizier's gaze. If it wasn't for the fact that his own father had made him promise to keep Umair in such a dignified position, Mazin would have entertained serious doubts about his Vizier by now. What was he thinking? He already was entertaining such doubts. The zeal with which Umair was taking to recent developments was disconcerting to say the least.

"Lowly spirits lead to a healthy economy," Umair said. He quickly averted his gaze as the Caliph arched an eyebrow. "People need to find solace – and we give them solace with the Horns. Almost a thousand sold in the past month. Is that right, Junaid?" The big man gave a short nod. "We're working on a newer, better design – then we can flood the market once again. I do not believe our people can get enough."

"Still…" Mazin said, his eyes dropping. Waves of shadow flitted across the wooden table as the sun began its descent. The air was musty, warm, the stifling heat of this late summer's day seeped into his bones, lethargy tugging at his eyelids, begging him to sleep.

Images danced through the Mazin's mind as he tried to keep focused– pictures of lush forests, breathtaking mountains, sparkling waterfalls. Knitting his fingers, he rested his hands upon the cool surface of the table, then shook his head. "The world isn't like that," he said. "I mean, not like how the criers are depicting it. The world isn't a dark place at all. The people are getting a distorted view, filtered through…" He sucked on his teeth as he flicked a quick glance at his Vizier. "…whoever it is that is writing their scrolls for them."

"True!" They were all surprised to hear the normally stoic Honour Guard, AbdurRahman, finally speak his mind. "There's honour out there, and goodness and kindness. And taqwa!" The Honour Guard's hand curled into a fist and Mazin thought he saw Umair twitch for just a heartbeat. The fist struck the table, rattling the wooden frame and making their mugs tremble. One cup spun, tottered on the edge, then fell clattering to the floor, rolling away to be swallowed by a corner of the room draped in shadow.

Mazin favoured his Honour Guard with a smile. "Go on."

AbdurRahman stared around the table, his eyes widening a fraction, as though he, too, had been shocked by the outburst. Noisily clearing his throat, he continued, his voice measured and calm, his words slow, as though drenched with forethought, then picked off a tree.

"If the Criers spoke of this," he said, "this taqwa…this wholeness, the people would be filled with hope and joy." He hesitated. "At least I believe that they would. They would be praising Allah constantly – what certain people," he said those two words with a hint of subtle force, "have done is fill them with despair and gloom. Now they walk with fear, their shoulders slumped with lethargy. They've been given them an illusion to be afraid of, instead of reality that, no matter how bad our condition, would still fill them with love for Allah!"

The Caliph almost raised an eyebrow yet again. Strange that this near spiritual stream had winded its way into his Guard's life. A cold net, clammy in its seeping doubt, fell over his soul. What did he really know about any of them after all?

His Vizier, apparently struggling not to fume, caught the accusation in the Honour Guard's voice. "What certain people have done? Let's not mince words, you mean what I have done, yes?" he said, touching his chest with his fingers. "What I have done is keep the people on their toes." He leaned back in his chair until it creaked. "Besides – we know that they're safe."

"They don't know that," AbdurRahman mumbled.

"Maybe they shouldn't!" It was Junaid now, growling. The Caliph frowned, almost shrinking back from the big man's presence. Another of his Vizier's projects. A strong show of force, that's what he'd said, to show the people that the Caliph had real men under his wing, just as the emissary had had.

Happy to see that he had everyone's attention, his chest swelling visibly, Junaid went on. "They should be aware of what's happening in the world, so that they can prepare for the great fight. Anger and a sense of revenge are just the fuel that our armies are missing, if I may say so myself."

"No." AbdurRahman's eyes were thinned, the light from them burning. An orange mask, set upon him by the sun, fell across his face. "Those qualities are the last things we need."

Junaid barked a rough laugh. "Then where will they get their motivation? From adab?" He almost spat the word, Mazin noticed. Umair, too, seemed to be leaning forward, as though he were actually watching the two soldiers in battle.

"That," the Honour Guard replied calmly, "is where they'll get their tawfeeq." He paused for a breath before adding, "Unless of course you believe that the Lord of the Worlds Himself comes to the aid of bloodthirsty warriors whose hearts are filled with rage?" His words smouldered with conviction, though he not once raised his voice. "That path leads to bitter defeat after bitter defeat."

MashaAllah! The Caliph almost grinned; there was truly more to his Honour Guard than had first met the eye.

"How would you know?" Junaid countered. His Vizier, Mazin noticed with a touch of dismay, was nodding wildly. "Have you even tried?"

"I do not need to try." Again AbdurRahman was the very picture of serenity. Had it been a verbal joust within the Amphitheatre itself, the Caliph was certain that his people would side with his Honour Guard. At least, he mused as doubt hooked into his heart, he hoped that they would.

"Ridiculous," Junaid added with a dismissive gesture. He slouched back in his chair. "How can you not possibly rage at the deaths of the Believers?"

"Our dead are in Jannah, theirs are mostly likely not. There's nothing to despair of. Perhaps when we see their reward on the Day of Judgement, we would wish we'd been in their place." AbdurRahman's words, gently delivered, still split the air like razor tipped knives. "All is good for a Believer."

"Then what use are the mujahideen?"

"The mujahideen are tools in the Creator's Hands," the Honour Guard's voice took in an insistent tone, "but unless they've rid their hearts of everything but Him, they're no better than animals."

Junaid bared his teeth, rising out of his chair. "How dare you-"

Umair raised a hand for calm, stilling the big man instantly. The Caliph, still a silent spectator, found his head beginning to swim. Inwardly, though he found himself agreeing with his old Honour Guard, another realisation had dawned upon his heart, one that intensified the chill he already felt. Battle lines were being drawn here. Umair and Junaid on one side, himself and AbdurRahman on the other.

"None of this of any consequence," the Vizier said. "What matters is this – the people are afraid and so, as I said, to quell their discontent, they spend more on Ivory Horns and more at the tournaments. This, then, leads to more coins for the Treasury. Tawfeeq itself, if I may so myself."

"Ivory Horns," AbdurRahman muttered, glowering. "Worthless invention."

"Oh?" the Vizier replied, wearing an expression that mimicked a hunter closing in on prey. "It was the Caliph's decree that we construct and sell them. Surely you, of all people, are not going to find fault with the Commander of the Faithful are you?"

The Honour Guard coloured instantly, a stricken expression exploding over his face and, turning to Mazin with eyes lowered, he muttered a hurried apology.

The Caliph, feeling distinctively uncomfortable, raised his own hand, and forced a smile. "No apology is needed," he said. A molten surge of determination jolted through him. This would not do. This would not do at all. How had he become so quickly enslaved to the whims of others? No, he vowed, no matter what game was being played here, he would show them that he would not be led around by his nose. He would show them who was still in charge here

Sincerity flowed into Mazin's smile, and he felt his shoulders relax just a tad. "And…" he said. "A wise man once said that only we can open the paths to the accursed one into our hearts. As such, I think it is only right that we close one such path - the Town Criers cease their dire pronouncements, effective immediately. If people only hear of the evil, they will feel helpless, and this will lead to despair."

Umair bristled instantly. "But-"

Mazin silenced his Vizier with a hot glare. "Is there something the matter with what I said?" He flicked an amused glance at his Honour Guard, then turned to face his Vizier with a broad grin. "Surely you, of all people, are not going to find fault with the Commander of the Faithful are you?"

The Vizier's lip twitched then, as the bulge in his neck bobbing as he swallowed, he sank in his chair. "No, of course not." His voice was hoarse. "It will be done, insha'Allah."

"Good!" Mazin smiled at each of them. "Well, that's settled then."

As they all shuffled to leave, the Commander of the Faithful, noticing his Vizier's surreptitious glare of pure venom, couldn't help but feel that he was prey trapped fast in a slowly tightening snare.

*

The veil of night fell upon Castleton, and with it came the sounds of a city at peace - the insistent wail of a newborn, the hopeful laughter of a freshly married couple, the metallic trill of dropped merchandise. Umair tightened the hood around his face as he marched through the cobbled streets, winding and weaving his way through the crowds.

Lantern light smudged the darkness with fingers of light, molten flame that seemed to reach into the surrounding gloom. As he passed each one, a flickering fire sputtering within the dirty glass, heat would blossom upon his face momentarily, then grow ice cold, then blossom up once more. It didn’t bother him. A different type of heat, hungry and impatient, raged in his heart.

Umair gave a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes drifted upwards, past the old trade quarters – the gold souk here, the fruit souk there - past the freshly minted buildings standing unoccupied – paid for with money born from his foresight - past the old, withered warehouses, past the people's Meeting House, now derelict, until he came to a stop on the silent form of the palace itself.

It hadn't been easy, pretending to be taken ill so that he could ostensibly retire to his quarters. Then, of course, hooded and cloaked, he'd had to sneak out, hitching a ride on one of the hay carts – the stench still assaulted him even now – until he was free to walk the streets.

Umair let out a small sigh. The deception was necessary – he was sure Allah would understand. After all, wasn't he simply trying to bring fortune back to the Muslims? A thrill of pride trilled in his heart – of course he was. There was no way Allah would disfavour him. Actions were by intentions after all.

Stopping outside a resthouse, Umair heard a wave of noise- laughter, conversation, merrymaking – ghost out from within. He took in another breath, then with a gentle push at the door, he entered. Warmth enwrapped him, bringing blood rushing back to his skin. While the summer days of Castleton were stifling, the nights were bitter in their chilly bite.

The Vizier's eyes trailed across the room, searching, searching, as he chewed his lip, his heart thudding in his chest. Very few people noticed him as he stood there, and for those that did, their gazes did not linger.

His eyes came to rest on the series of lights set into niches in the wall, glass lanterns that held in burning wickers like entrapped, twinkling stars. He then shifted his gaze, peering through the curtain of cooking smoke that hung in the air, and saw a crowd of men huddled around a wooden target piece, cracked and stained from many summers of use.

Umair shook his head. This wasn't what he'd come for. He tried to shut out the noise of the resthouse, the hum of voices, the conversations that would crack into bellowing laughter without a moment’s notice, and then, with a jolt to his chest, he found the one he was looking for.

Hooded and cloaked like himself, the soothsayer sat by himself in one corner, his lips moving as he declined invitations from others to join them, no doubt wondering why any Muslim would want to be by himself.

Umair slowly approached the table, cursing himself as his legs began to tremble. Everything seemed too loud now – the whispers, the squeak of cloth as it rubbed against a shining glass, the hiss of the lamps. All of a sudden, the Vizier felt that everyone was watching him – that glance there, did it linger? That flicker on a furrowed brow – did someone recognise him? It felt too hot, the air, like the atmosphere, stifling. Umair suddenly wanted to leave, but his legs treacherously propelled him onward.

It was a dangerous game he was playing, he knew. If it became common knowledge that the Vizier was secretly visiting a soothsayer – condemned in the Law – he would be finished. But how, given the help he'd received from his man, could it be possibly wrong? The Muslims had benefited from the knowledge Umair had gained, and after all, he was doing it all for them, wasn't he? Still. It irked him that the soothsayer insisted on meeting with him here, so out in the open.

"Peace," he said as he dropped into the chair opposite the soothsayer. The other man, a mug filled with sloshing liquid in his hands, said nothing, his face hidden in shadow.

Umair felt a prickly sensation on his neck. "I suppose you want the money first, then?"

The soothsayer took a sip from his drink, licked his lips, but still offered no conversation.

Biting back a sigh, the Vizier reached into his belt then pulled out a pouch, bursting to the brim with coins. "As usual," he muttered, then dropped the bag onto the table with a dull thud. The pouch opened slightly, flashing its contents, metal clinking against metal, before it was swept out of sight in an instant.

There was a moment's pause, then the soothsayer leaned forward. Umair shifted in his seat, eager to listen.

"The news from the Jinn is not good." The soothsayer's voice was hushed, raspy.

Fear struck the Vizier's heart, mixed with the murky sense of the surreal that accompanied him whenever he conversed with this man. "What? What is it? Will it all go wrong?" He paused as thoughts rushed into his head. "Is it the Outlanders? Or that fool, the Honour Guard?"

"Nothing of the sort," the soothsayer replied. He paused and leaned back, slouching casually over the back of his chair. His eyes made furtive glances all around them.

"Tell me," Umair insisted.

"It would seem-" The soothsayer's words died as a serving boy stopped at their table, eyes wide with enthusiasm, and asked if either man would like any refreshment. Umair waved him away impatiently, then turned back to the soothsayer. The other man lapsed into silence.

An itch of irritation bit at the Vizier's heart. "Time is short!"

There was a ripple of quiet laughter from another table. A quick glance told Umair that it wasn’t directed at them.

The soothsayer lowered his head. Time seemed to slow, the air around them appearing to shimmer, like the sand under the desert sun. Umair cursed himself for his foolishness – what childishness was this? And yet, still. He couldn't quite release his chest from whatever it was that was clutching at it at that very moment.

"Someone is coming," the soothsayer said simply. "Someone who will- if you'll pardon my way with words - be a thorn in your plans."

Brow furrowed, blood pounding in his ears, the Vizier leaned forward. "Who?" he whispered. He was surprised to feel his clothes clinging to him, sticky sweat coating his skin.

The soothsayer straightened in his seat. "One from-" One of the patrons walked by and soothsayer fell silent, gazing at the floor as he waited for the man to pass. Umair felt his jaw clench, felt yet more sweat spring up on his palms. Finally, the soothsayer spoke again. "One from outside," he waved vaguely towards the direction of the city's gate, "and from within." He gestured towards the palace. Like stars peeking through the shroud of the night, the man's eyes suddenly appeared from within his hood. "They will put an end to everything."

Confusion throbbed in the Vizier's head. His throat parched, when he spoke next it was in a harsh whisper. "What do I have to do?"

A smile joined the soothsayer's eyes. He tapped his fingers against the table, licked his lips once more, then said simply: "I'll tell you."