The Necromancer's Grimoire Page 20

  Corbett stood. “I will prepare myself for my part.” He made a wry face. “If I time myself correctly, the necromancer will be finished before I begin and I will save myself the mortification of forsaking my vows in such a despicable manner.”

  Nadira saw what he saw. She lowered her hand from her mouth. “That’s right. When the necromancer is finished, he will know the book is gone. There will be some excitement among the revelers as he takes his leave…will you escape at that time?”

  Corbett agreed. “Yes. When he is spent and his sense returns he will immediately know we have taken the Grimoire. He will rise up and flee to try to intercept you. He will fail if the book is yours. He will try to kill you all if it remains bound to him, and the book will strike at you. Nadira, it is important that you make the book your own the moment you have it in your hands. You must open it to the third page and place your left hand on it,” he frowned. “I have not seen the book, but have been told there will be an illuminated drawing on the third page near the left margin, a drawing of a man’s head, a drawing of an old bearded knight in a helm. You must cover this drawing with the palm of your hand and claim the book as yours. Perhaps say ‘This book is mine’ or something to that effect.”

  Montrose growled, “You do not know the actual words?”

  Corbett glared back. “I have never seen the book. I work from the old secrets our Order has protected these hundreds of years.” To Nadira he said, “Somehow the book becomes yours when you take it and claim it. I trust that Nadira will know when she has it in her hands. When she becomes the master of the book, he will no longer be able to track it. She will be safe. The book should then protect her from dark spirits.” He looked at William. “And those with her. That is what the legends say.”

  “And you?”

  “If the vizier’s house is in an uproar, I may be able to escape my fate. If not…” he hung his head. “I will do penance afterwards. I trust God will forgive me, for I am doing His work.”

  “Then I hope you remember where the pointy-end goes, old man,” Montrose said dryly. He buckled his baldric across his chest and tightened it with a jerk of the strap. He buckled the smaller sword and its scabbard to his belt with deft twists of his fingers and then buckled the heavier sword to the baldric’s clasps at his hip. He tested their holds and aligned them to the angle he would need for the draw. Only then did he look up and meet Nadira’s eyes. His own were grim. “Semper Intrepidus,” he said to her.

  Chapter Ten

  They separated soon after dark. Corbett left for the vizier’s house and Nadira, wrapped in veils, accompanied William and Montrose in the shadows of the city’s walls. Montrose towered over her, eyes scanning the streets. William stood firmly at her side, watching the top of the wall.

  Montrose wore the loose robes of a Turkish merchant over his brigandine, and a turban enclosed his dark hair in its folds, but no amount of slouching could disguise his height. William wore the rich clothing of a Turkish merchant, but kept his head bare but for a small cap to emphasize his youth. Nadira was fully covered, only her eyes were visible. The streets began to empty. The muezzin’s call for Maghreb was their signal to go.

  They made good speed in the street at first, then slowed when they neared the necromancer’s house. His sanctuary was an impressive three-story building with an arched entry on the main avenue. The wood screens in all the windows that faced the street were dark. Corbett had assured them that the apprentice would be there all night. William and Nadira waited across the street as Montrose scouted the area around the house.

  William had been perfumed with sandalwood and myrrh. Nadira leaned closer to him to inhale the pleasant scent. William chuckled softly. “If it works on you…”

  “It is heady, indeed. You will be irresistible, but it will be your eyes that ensnare him.” Nadira had lined his eyes with kohl, just a thin line to emphasize the gold specks in the honey-brown color. His hair had been trimmed so it was one length all over, though much shorter than how the native men wore theirs. She touched the soft hair on his cheek. His beard was thin and barely noticeable unless he turned his head and the light reflected on the golden hairs. “You are beautiful,” she whispered. “Are you not nervous?”

  “Perhaps a little,” he admitted. “But you are with me. And my lord Montrose. Body and soul are protected. What have I to fear?”

  Montrose returned and nodded for them to be silent. He pointed to the smaller side door. “That is the entrance for servants and merchants,” he whispered. “There are five janissaries posted to guard his house. They are bored. There is no real threat to the necromancer, so they act merely as gatekeepers. Nadira will make sure they will pass you through as visitors, but I must stay away from them. The apprentice is on the second floor in the back overlooking the garden. Once you are inside I will be in that tree.” He pointed to an old almond whose branches extended beyond the building’s wall. “I can leap quickly to the balcony when the time comes,” he looked at Nadira, “But I doubt I will be able to hear anything at that distance. You must call for me when you need me, or do that thing you do...” He tapped the center of his chest with a finger.

  “Understood.”

  “Go, then. I will watch from here to make sure they pass you through.”

  They stepped from the shadows of the moonlight and walked boldly across the street directly to the front doors. The janissaries stood.

  “Farshad Bey is not at home,” one of them said.

  William responded in prompted Turkish,” The master of Assad Bey sends his apprentice a gift.” He took Nadira’s arm and pulled her forward into the light from the torch that sputtered in a sconce over their heads. The janissaries looked at one another. Nadira batted her eyes prettily as she sent suggestive tendrils into them. One of them turned and pushed through the gate and entered the house.

  “Wait.” Another guard said.

  It was not long before the first guard returned and gestured for them to follow. The necromancer has done very well for himself, she thought. The high ceiling of the entry opened into arched passages at all four walls of the interior courtyard. A fountain stood in the center in the Roman fashion, water poured at four corners into a small pool sunk into the ground. Bright tiles decorated all the walls, and beautifully carved screens filled the open windows. Potted plants brought the garden inside and freshened the air. The guard made a noise for them to hurry and William tugged her along with him toward the stair.

  At the top of the stair, they turned to the left and stopped at a pair of large double wooden doors. The guard called inside and waited for a response. A moment later he pushed open the doors and stepped back.

  Aryah Assad stood as they entered. He had been seated at a large table near the large window that Nadira knew opened onto a balcony that was very near an almond tree. He appeared to be in his late twenties. He was dressed in a loose caftan as though ready for sleep. A small white turban covered his hair. He wore his beard short and finely trimmed. He was darkly handsome and knew it. His pride emanated from him like a cloud. He was puzzled by their appearance and she could sense that when he sent a questioning tendril to his master, he received no response. The necromancer was deeply involved in his own business and was not communicating with his apprentice. Nadira understood better what Corbett had meant when he said tonight was a perfect opportunity to reclaim the book.

  The wood screens had been pushed out to encourage the warm evening breezes. Three large lamps hung on chains from the ceiling at various heights over the table. Two wide carpets, knotted red and gold in exquisite detail, covered the floor. She saw the stacks of books there and on the sturdy wooden shelves on the opposite wall. She took in the diamond shaped shelves that held hundreds of scrolls against the plaster walls. Tags hung down on thin cords from each of the many scrolls, making the wall seem to move with the breeze from the window and the open door behind them. Behind them the servants closed the double doors with a soft thud.

  She brought her eye
s back to the apprentice. She could not risk a tendril to his heart. He would see it or feel it. Instead she tried to read his eyes. Years of practice as a servant had taught her to anticipate a master’s desires. Instructions always appeared in a man’s eyes before his mouth would order them. Moods could be detected in the cast of the eyes and the planes of the face. Nadira had mastered these skills as a child long before she opened any of her master’s books.

  Assad was wary and surprised. She saw he was eager to believe he was being rewarded. His face was carefully composed with the face that he turned to society, but his greedy eyes told her he deserved such a gift.

  William bowed low and removed his cap. His golden hair caught the light from the lamps as intended and created a halo effect around him. His fair skin was flushed with the adventure. Nadira smiled behind her veils. He is beautiful. She glanced at the apprentice. Yes. He thinks so too.

  “I have been sent here by Evren Farshad, the great Padishah’s magus” he said in Latin. “I have been instructed to bring you this woman.”

  Assad moved his arms and tented his fingers on the scrolls that were spread upon the table. He regarded Nadira with curiosity and she whispered to William. “Explain quickly.”

  William nodded to Assad. “She will recite poetry. She has the voice of sweet birds, and knows a thousand verses. Your master also said that her beauty may entice you to taste something different.” He paused for effect, “Yet if you still prefer familiar flavors…he offers you,” William made a flourish across his body with both hands that suggested he was also available as a gift. They both felt relief when the apprentice smiled with genuine pleasure. William cued her with an elbow.

  Nadira cleared her throat and began in Arabic with a verse from a Persian love poem that she only knew in translation. She deliberately changed the pronouns to suggest that William was the subject. She watched his face to see if the apprentice was intrigued. He was.

  William saw it, too. He continued in Latin, “You are greatly honored, Bey, and your master desires that you be pleasured with his gift.” Assad moved from behind the table. His feet were bare. He did not speak as he moved by them, and his eyes did not leave William’s face until he reached the door. He opened it a crack and called for his servant, then turned again to William. “Have her continue,” he said softly.

  Nadira pitched her voice as low and sensual as possible, like the oil in the burning lamps. She chose a different poem to emphasize the quality of her repertoire.

  The servant returned with a silver tray. Wine in a pitcher. Two cups. A bowl of grapes and dates. Nadira continued with her recitations, taking tiny steps backwards until she was standing unnoticed against the wall. She sent a tendril out the window. Montrose was there. Ready. She felt his relief. He had been waiting for her contact.

  Assad and William were looking at scrolls, their heads together discussing Plato. William sipped from his cup. Assad’s eyes had grown darker as he became aroused by the conversation and the wine. It is hard to resist beauty and truth. If Assad decided to take the next step, she might be quickly dismissed. Nadira glanced about the room making plans. The window was open, the guards could be summoned easily if a cry was loud enough.

  She began on a new poem and sent a tendril to Corbett.

  He lounged in a great room. Braziers burned in the corners providing coals for the hookahs that were scattered throughout. Beautiful women from the Caucasus moved gracefully among the cushions and the smokers and carried trays of delicate sweets. Others carried pitchers of drink. Sumptuous fabrics in all colors were draped across divans and low stools. The ministers of court and several foreign merchants relaxed in various poses, enjoying the luxuries of Turkish hospitality. A few women were already being fondled by the Rus and the Tartar merchants. Nadira could look only through Corbett’s eyes, and his eyes avoided the women. They were focused more directly on the necromancer.

  Evren Farshad was dressed in his richest caftan. Gold threads were embroidered at each seam, and a rainbow of colors bloomed from a garden of embroidered flowers on his wide sash. He wore an impressive headpiece that made him appear taller. In his hand he held his staff. He was talking to the Rus traders, but his eyes were fixed on two tall blonde women behind them. Corbett refused to look at them, so Nadira prodded him with her tendril.

  How can you tell me when to take the book if you will not even look at the women?

  He responded reluctantly. He turned his eyes to Evren and his gifts. Nadira studied the women carefully. They were a matched pair, dressed alike and standing a head taller than most of the men in the room. Their breasts were large and held in place with winding cloths that went over their shoulders and around their ribs. Red silk skirts covered their hips and legs. Their feet were bare. Their experienced eyes took in the room around them. Nadira knew they did not know any of the languages being spoken. It mattered not. They knew their purpose and it was the same in all languages.

  Corbett turned away as the Rus trader lifted one of the skirts to expose one of the women’s long thighs.

  She made Corbett look about the room to find the host. There he was. On a large cushioned bench with his best friends around him. They laughed as they smoked. There was no hurry to get to the many servant women. That would be the climax of the gathering, and they had just begun the pleasures of smoke and drink and food, but she did not want the evening to last into the wee hours. Working through Corbett was tedious. It would be better to get a tendril in the necromancer.

  Nadira sent a thin silver thread through Corbett’s chest and then snaked it behind the necromancer and hovered the shining end near his ear. The magus was eager, and impatient. Good. She waited, and when he finally reached his hand out to touch one of the women, she threaded her tendril into his body. As she had hoped, he perceived the entry as pleasure in the touch, and his mind was full of thoughts that had nothing to do with his work.

  She suggested that instead of waiting for the other men to begin to fondle the slave women in the public area, he take his gifts to an empty room. There were many smaller chambers off the long corridor of the meeting room. She told him he was young enough to take his pleasure more than once this evening. She sent the tendril lower to intensify that thought.

  She was rewarded with stiff agreement. The necromancer politely dismissed the Rus trader and moved to the door, the two women in tow. Nadira made sure that Corbett noticed his departure.

  Corbett pulled away from the wall where he had been standing, watching the crowd. She prompted him move to the other side of the room. He asked her, If he leaves, how can I watch him?

  I have a tendril in him. She assured him. Corbett’s relief was palpable.

  The necromancer had, indeed, found a private room. The women were experienced and had clearly worked as a team before. Nadira was confident she would be informed of their progress with their new master as they worked their syncopated wiles on him. She brought herself back to the apprentice, willing to feel neither the necromancer’s pleasures nor Corbett’s discomfort. Instead she tried to remember a long poem and kept her voice low and sweet as she recited by rote.

  William glanced at her over the rim of his cup. His eyes held a question, how much longer?

  Assad must place the book on the table. Touch his elbow.

  William made a slight nod and Nadira readied another tendril. He said something to Assad and as he did he laid his hand lightly on the other man’s arm. Nadira snaked a thread into the apprentice at that moment. Assad blinked and looked up. His eyes met hers, but just for an instant. Her tendril told her he had felt it, recognized the sensation of being tapped by a thread, but dismissed her as incapable of being the sender. He looked at William and sent his own tendril into him, seeking the source. The jolt from William’s body caused Nadira to stumble over the next line of the poem.

  William was thoroughly searched. Nadira quickly withdrew her tendril from William’s heart before the apprentice could detect it.

  She paused in her re
citation, ready to call for Montrose. Through the thread she had in the apprentice, she inserted William’s own love of literature. She flooded him with images of William’s scriptorium, with his passion for words and ideas. She hoped Assad’s tendril would recognize the flood of sensation as William…not her. She waited.

  Assad moved to another shelf and slid a scroll from its holder and presented it to the scribe. His soft smile told her she had been successful. She looked around at the library. His pride in his books and scrolls was another weapon in her arsenal. She kept up the low murmur of Rumi’s love poems, but her suggestions were no longer needed. Assad was growing warmer and more infatuated. It was not William’s glowing hair and golden eyes, or even the warm scent of sandalwood. It was the books.

  Outside Montrose was becoming concerned. She reassured him, told him to stand down for now. A check on the necromancer suggested that she needed to work harder on Assad. It would not take long for his master to finish. She put a hand to her head with the effort of keeping all the men in order.

  She thickened her tendril in Assad, hoping to glean more information about his duties. He would not be easy to break, and he would notice a powerful intrusion. He was near in power to his master.

  The men raised their voices. She looked up. The poem faltered on her lips. They were not fighting…no…but they were excited. The Latin they shared as a common language was flying fast, but she caught “Opus Majus” and “Roger Bacon”. Both young men were waving their hands and their faces shone with joy. That Nadira had stopped reciting poetry was not even noticed. Assad was pulling scrolls from the holders and filling William’s arms with them. She watched, incredulous, as Assad led him to his table and the two of them began to unroll the scrolls, setting smooth stones on the edges to hold them open. Assad said, “Summa contra gentiles” and tapped a book on the table “Aquinas”. William clapped his hands with glee and then went off in rapid Greek.