"Are you through with your poem?" I asked.

"Almost." He joined me by the bodies. "The master said many curious things had transpired, and that he was going to write of them. What are these?"

"Dead men."

"What wit! Did you slay them?"

I only grunted and looked down at the slain men once more. I expected the poet to grow bored and leave me be.

"Why do you stare so? Do you admire your handiwork?"

"Dabir set me to examining the bodies."

"For what?"

"For information."

"You seem somewhat far away to learn much information."

"You seem somewhat sober for a drunkard."

"Huh. I would see this gold the master spoke of."

"It is there, in the satchel."

Hamil stepped around me while I considered what might be learned from the dead. Two were murderers and thieves, one was a victim. I could tell that the victim had once taken greater care with his person than the other two had likely ever known, but his clothing was travel-worn, his face and hair dirty with road dust.

"This is quite a treasure," the poet said from my right.

"Yes." I glanced over, saw him slide the pull back in the satchel.

"And Dabir can read the language on the gold?"

"I believe he went to find some books about them."

Hamil came and stood at my elbow. He was a short, slight fellow, and the height of his turban was barely level with my eyes.

"Have you seen to their money yet?"

"No," I answered.

"Let's count it, then. Those money bags look full."

I couldn't see how that would help anything, but it was a better suggestion than I had developed, and had been offered without malice. "Very well," I said, and in a short time we had cut free the coin purses, dumped their contents in a pile, and sorted them. I kept watch on the poet to see that he palmed no coins, but he seemed motivated more by curiosity than avarice.

There was more in those purses than I would have guessed, but the poet and I separated the money into piles in a short time. We were uncertain what to do then, but fortunately for us, the servants arrived at last with food, so we washed, moved the platters away from the bodies, and set to eating. It was one of the few amicable moments Hamil and I had ever shared, united as we were both by the mystery of the events and our own consternation, for we could not imagine that anything useful might be learned from the dead men's possessions.

We were to be rudely surprised.

As I was wiping my hands on a napkin, Dabir entered, burdened with books and scrolls. I hurried to a.s.sist him as the poet rose with a greeting.

I caught one of the scrolls as it rolled about on top of Dabir's stack. "What did you find?" he asked me.

"More coins than you might think."

Dabir set the books and papers on a table and walked to the piles of money, which he eyed critically.

"We counted them for you," the poet told him.

"You mixed the coin purses together?" Dabir sounded horrified.

"Yes," Hamil answered.

Dabir put his hand to his face.

"What?" I asked.

"Are you trying to ruin me, Asim?"

"What is it?" I was solicitous; I was all too aware that I had put the man's career in jeopardy by suggesting his name to Jaffar earlier today.

"Which coins came from which man? Do you have any idea?"

The poet and I traded glances. "Well," I ventured, "the man who had the door pull had few coins upon him at all. The others had a month's wages."

"Your pardon-what could the coins tell us?" Hamil asked.

"All manner of things," Dabir said quietly, "to those who would look."

"I looked," I said, "but I did not see anything."

"Exactly! Those Greek coins, there-from whom did they come?"

"The ones who attacked us," I answered.

"Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? It might be important!"

"I'm sure," I answered, although now that he mentioned it, I couldn't be, completely.

"He is right," the poet said.

"Why do you think these Greek coins were in the possession of these men?" Dabir asked.

"They're Greeks?" the poet offered helpfully.

"No, a Greek paid them," Dabir said. He stepped to one of the bodies. "Look here, at these men, and their finery. These are not their normal clothes, judging by their treatment. Do they otherwise seem the sort of men to wear such excellent garments?"

"Do you think them stolen?" the poet asked.

"No-see how well they fit. These are but recently purchased. Someone paid them well to do something."

"Somebody Greek," I said.

"Probably." So saying, Dabir bent over the men who'd attacked us and tore open their jubbahs to reveal old, stained undergarments, as though to confirm his earlier suspicion. He studied their footgear momentarily, then spent a much longer time going over the victim, inspecting boots, belt, sleeve, even his beard. The poet hovered nearby, watching all.

"What do you see?" Hamil asked.

"These two are no more than we supposed. I would we could trace them back to the neighborhood from which they were hired, but I lack the necessary information. This man, though..."

Dabir undid the fellow's sword belt and opened his robe. Beneath it was a thin white garment. "His sudre. He was Magian. Note also the belt he wears here. I glimpsed it while I was seeing to his wound."

"A wool belt? It holds nothing up."

"It is a symbol of faith. Those who revere the fire tie and untie it while praying. It is woven," Dabir continued, "from seventy-two threads, to honor one of their holy texts."

"Was it a Magian door pull?" I asked.

"It does not seem to be." Dabir climbed to his feet. "Hamil, would you call for the slaves? These men must be shrouded. This other-the Magians have different rites."

"The fire worshippers leave their dead exposed to the elements," the poet said. "As like we can throw him into the alley."

"They do not worship the fire," Dabir said. He sounded faintly annoyed. "Do you worship the rug upon which you kneel?"

Hamil stared at Dabir in answer.

"Send word for a Magian priest. They will want the body. It may be that they will recognize this man."

The poet bowed his head and left without complaint. I did not yet understand that Dabir could inspire people who might normally be contentious into aiding him because they desired involvement in the unraveling of his mystery.

Dabir carefully rubbed his hands with a cake of soap and rinsed them in the bowl of water the slaves had brought, then considered the food. The sherbet had melted; Dabir selected a wrinkled fig.

"Dabir," I said, "if you translate the scratches on the door pull, Jaffar will be so pleased he is likely to forget the magic woman's words."

"He will not forget. He knows I can translate this, which he desires. If it pleases him, he will pa.s.s me on to some other house, likely the caliph's."

I smiled. "Then you will wax higher."

His look was dark and long, and I could not escape the feeling he thought me stupid at that moment. His tone, when finally he spoke, was not welcoming. "The caliph's household is large; he is surrounded already by courtiers who do not wish for rivals. And I am not especially interested in sparring with them for a place. Besides, I am pleased with my work here. Was pleased."

I spread my hands. "Allow me to speak with Jaffar, on your behalf. I think I can persuade-"

"You have done enough, I think, today." Dabir sat down heavily with one of the books and began to read. He made no other sign to me, nor did he speak.

Almost I spoke against his rudeness, but I held my tongue as I departed, though I did not leave off slamming the door behind me. Somehow it did not satisfy.

It occurred to me that the old woman had, indeed, confused the bowls and that Jaffar likely did Dabir a favor that he did not appreciate; moreover, that if it had not been for me, Dabir would not have learned he was destined to die for love of Sabirah. Now he might yet change his fate, if such a thing could be done, and he had me to thank.

I spent the rest of the afternoon rounding through my duties; inspecting the arms of the men, the organization of the barracks, and the overall security of the palace. All the men under my command there were dependable, for Jaffar had given me authority to hire and fire as needed, but that did not mean they were not tempted sometimes to cut corners. I set three to work polishing helmets that had been neglected.

For most of that afternoon and early evening I thought only of my duties, but my mind turned occasionally to Dabir and the bodies and the pull. Would he be able to translate the thing, and what would it say? Were the men I'd slain after it solely because it was gold, or had they, too, valued the words? Would I be renowned as a slayer of monsters? What monsters, and from whence would they come?

What use asking questions for which I had no answers? I put them from my mind.

I was leaning over a shatranj board across from my nephew Mahmoud-my chief lieutenant-just after evening prayers, when there came a knock upon the door. Mahmoud bade the knocker to enter, and Boulos himself stuck in his head and asked for me. The chief eunuch explained why as we walked.

"Mistress Sabirah desires a word with you," he said.

"What is this about?"

"You do not know?" he asked.

"No."

"Hmm. I was hoping you did." He chewed on that thought a moment as we advanced through the shadowy corridors. Here and there torches flickered in cressets set into pillars, but despite them, evening always lent the palace a cavernous feel. Expensive carpets dulled our pa.s.sage, but every eight feet or so there was a gap, and our boot heels would echo on the flagstones for two paces before we crossed again to fabric.

"Did you really slay two men in the s.p.a.ce of a single breath?" Boulos asked.

I thought for a moment. "Perhaps three breaths."

"Zip, zip, zip!" Boulos brandished an imaginary sword before him, then chuckled. "A Magian priest arrived and spoke with Dabir at length before leaving with the other fellow's body. I would give much to know what they said! You know how closemouthed Dabir is. And he seems in a mood besides."

"He said nothing to me."

Boulos tried prying out more information about our trip, but I was seasoned enough to ask if Jaffar had shared details with him yet, and Boulos was wise enough to admit to me that the master had not.

"The master," I said, "may intend to surprise the caliph with the story and not wish it spread."

"You can tell me, Asim, for I am the very soul of discretion."

"Boulos," I said, "you are known far and wide as a fine relayer of tales, which is to be commended. But in this instance, it is not to be encouraged."

Boulos pouted, but fortunately by this time we had reached the harem. Here the halls were not so lofty, and more narrow as well, though decorated with even finer hangings. Gold filagree showed upon some of the door lintels. The floors were of stained wood.

He conducted me through the central hall and into Sabirah's apartments. She sat beside a screened window, through which fading sunlight shone. A candle flickered upon the sill.

Boulos and I were both permanent fixtures of the house; he the chief slave and me guardian of the family blood, and thus Sabirah did not bother with the veil. Perhaps it was the wan light or her grim countenance, but she seemed older than her eighteen years. One of her serving girls sat in the corner reciting a sura. Sabirah corrected her, then requested she leave off.

"Mistress," Boulos said, "here is Captain Asim, as you requested."

"Thank you, Boulos. You may go."

"You do not wish me to remain?" There was almost a rebuke in the tone of the smiling eunuch's question.

"Ghadya is here," Sabirah said, flicking her fingers toward the serving girl.

Still Boulos hesitated.

Sabirah was unexpectedly sharp-tongued. "Do you linger because you did not hear, because you do not trust the captain, or because you are desperate for new gossip?"