Part Three 5 страница

Children? ‘You mean the people made to suffer your cruel experiments? ’ Altaï r couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice. ‘They’ll be free now to return to their homes. ’

De Naplouse laughed drily. ‘Homes? What homes? The sewers? The brothels? The prisons we dragged them from? ’

‘You took these people against their will, ’ said Altaï r.

‘Yes. What little will there was for them to have, ’ gasped de Naplouse. ‘Are you really so naï ve? Do you appease a crying child simply because he wails? “But I want to play with fire, Father. ” What would you say? “As you wish”? Ah … but then you’d answer for his burns. ’

‘These are not children, ’ said Altaï r, wanting to understand the dying man, ‘but men and women full grown. ’

‘In body, perhaps. But not in mind. Which is the very damage I sought to repair. I admit, without the artefact – which you stole from us – my progress was slowed. But there are herbs. Mixtures and extracts. My guards are proof of this. They were madmen before I found and freed them from the prisons of their minds. And, with my death, madmen will they be again …’

‘You truly believe you were helping them? ’

De Naplouse smiled, the light beginning to leave his eyes. ‘It’s not what I believe. It’s what I know. ’

He died. Altaï r lowered his head to the stone and reached for Al Mualim’s feather, brushing it with blood. ‘Death be not unkind, ’ he whispered.

In the same moment, a cry went up from the nearby monks. Altaï r straightened from the body and saw guards lumbering down the ward towards him. As they drew their swords he leaped up and ran, heading towards a far door, which, he fervently hoped, led to the courtyard.

It opened and he was pleased to see the courtyard before him.

He was less pleased to see Lazy Eye, who barrelled through the open door, his broadsword drawn …

Altaï r drew his own sword and, with the blade at one arm, his sword in the other hand, met Lazy Eye with a clash of steel. For a second the two men were nose to nose, and Altaï r could see up close the scarred skin of the knight’s eye. Then Lazy Eye pushed away, immediately stabbing forward, meeting Altaï r’s sword but readjusting so quickly that Altaï r almost missed the defence. The Assassin danced away, wanting to put space between him and Lazy Eye, who was a better swordsman than he had anticipated. He was big, too. The tendons of his neck stood out, developed from years of wielding the huge broadsword. From behind him Altair heard the other guards arriving, then stopping at a signal from Lazy Eye.

‘I want him, ’ growled the giant knight.

He was arrogant, over-confident. Altaï r smiled, savouring the irony. Then he came forward, his blade sweeping up. Grinning, Lazy Eye deflected the blow and was grunting as Altaï r skipped to his left, coming at Lazy Eye from the other side – the side of his damaged eye, his weak spot – and slashing at his neck.

The knight’s throat opened and blood poured from the wound as he sank to his knees. From behind Altaï r there was a surprised cry so he started running, crashing through a collection of crazy men, who had gathered to watch, then sprinting across the courtyard, past the well and under the arch into Acre.

He stopped, scanning the roofline. Next he was vaulting a stall, the angry merchant shaking his fist as he scaled a wall behind him and took to the roofs. Running, jumping, he left the nightmare hospital behind him and melted into the city still mulling over de Naplouse’s last words. The artefact he had spoken of. Briefly Altaï r thought of the box on Al Mualim’s desk, but no. What possible connection would the Hospitalier have with that?

But if not that, then what?

‘Garnier de Naplouse is dead, ’ he had told Al Mualim, days later.

‘Excellent. ’ The Master had nodded approvingly. ‘We could not have hoped for a more agreeable outcome. ’

‘And yet …’ started Altaï r.

‘What is it? ’

‘The doctor insisted his work was noble, ’ said Altaï r. ‘And, looking back, of those who were supposedly his captives, many seemed grateful to him. Not all of them, but enough to make me wonder … How did he manage to turn enemy into friend? ’

Al Mualim had chuckled. ‘Leaders will always find ways to make others obey them. And that is what makes them leaders. When words fail, they turn to coin. When that won’t do, they resort to baser things: bribes, threats and other types of trickery. There are plants, Altaï r – herbs from distant lands – that can cause a man to take leave of his senses. So great are the pleasures they bring that men may even become enslaved by them. ’

Altaï r nodded, thinking of the glazed patients. The crazy man. ‘You think these men were drugged, then? Poisoned? ’

‘Yes, if it truly was as you describe it, ’ Al Mualim said. ‘Our enemies have accused me of the same. ’

Then he had given Altaï r his next task, and Altaï r had wondered why the Master smiled when he told him to complete his enquiries then report to the Assassins’ Bureau rafiq in Jerusalem.

Now, walking into the Bureau, he knew why. It was because it amused him to think of Altaï r once more crossing paths with Malik.

The Assassin stood up from behind the desk as Altaï r entered. For a moment the two regarded each other, neither hiding his disdain. Then, slowly, Malik turned, showing Altaï r where his arm had once been.

Altaï r blanched. Of course. Damaged in the fight with de Sable’s men, the best surgeons in Masyaf had been unable to save Malik’s left arm – and so had been forced to amputate.

Malik smiled the bittersweet smile of victory that had come at too high a price, and Altaï r remembered himself. He remembered that he had no business treating Malik with anything but humility and respect. He bowed his head to acknowledge the other man’s losses. His brother. His arm. His status.

‘Safety and peace, Malik, ’ he said at last.

‘Your presence here deprives me of both, ’ spat Malik. He, however, had plenty of business treating Altaï r with disdain – and evidently intended to do so. ‘What do you want? ’

‘Al Mualim has asked –’

‘That you perform some task in an effort to redeem yourself? ’ sneered Malik. ‘So. Out with it. What have you learned? ’

‘This is what I know, ’ answered Altaï r. ‘The target is Talal, who traffics in human lives, kidnapping Jerusalem’s citizens and selling them into slavery. His base is a warehouse located inside the barbican north of here. As we speak, he prepares a caravan for travel. I’ll strike while he’s inspecting his stock. If I can avoid his men, Talal himself should prove little challenge. ’

Malik curled his lip. ‘ “Little challenge”? Listen to you. Such arrogance. ’

Silently Altaï r rebuked himself. Malik was right. He thought of the orator in Damascus whom he had misjudged and who had almost bested him.

‘Are we finished? ’ he asked, showing none of his thoughts to Malik. ‘Are you satisfied with what I’ve learned? ’

‘No, ’ said Malik, handing Altaï r the feather, ‘but it will have to do. ’

Altaï r nodded. He looked at where Malik’s sleeve hung loose and was about to say something before he realized that no words would atone for his failures. He had cost Malik too much ever to hope for forgiveness from him.

Instead, he turned and left the Bureau. Another target was to feel the kiss of his blade.

Shortly afterwards Altaï r was stealing into the warehouse where the shipment was being prepared, looking around and not liking what he found.

There were no guards. No acolytes.

He took two steps forward, then stopped. No. What was he thinking? Everything about the warehouse was wrong. He was about to spin and leave when suddenly the door was shut and there was the unmistakable sound of a bolt slamming home.

He cursed and drew his sword.

He crept forward, his senses gradually adjusting to the gloom, the damp, the smell of the torches and …

Something else. A livestock smell that Altaï r thought was more human than animal.

Meagre flames from the torches threw light on walls that ran dark and slick, and from somewhere came a drip-drip of water. The next sound he heard was a low moan.

Eyes slowly adjusting, he edged forward, seeing crates and barrels and then … a cage. He moved closer – and almost recoiled at what he saw. A man was inside it. A pathetic, shivering man, who sat with his legs pulled to his chest and regarded Altaï r with plaintive, watery eyes. He raised one trembling hand. ‘Help me, ’ he said.

Then, from behind, Altaï r heard another sound and wheeled to see a second man. He was suspended from the wall, his wrists and ankles shackled. His head lolled on his chest and dirty hair hung over his face, but his lips appeared to be moving as though in prayer.

Altaï r moved towards him. Then, hearing another voice from his feet, he looked down to see an iron grille set into the flagstones of the warehouse floor. Peering from it was the frightened face of yet another slave, his bony fingers reaching through the bars, appealing to Altaï r. Beyond him in the pit the Assassin saw more dark forms, heard slithering and more voices. For a moment it was as though the room was filled with the pleading of those imprisoned.

‘Help me, help me. ’

An insistent, beseeching sound that made him want to cover his ears. Until, suddenly, he heard a louder voice: ‘You should not have come here, Assassin. ’

Talal, surely.

Altaï r swung in the direction of the noise, seeing the shadows shift in a balcony above him. Bowmen? He tensed, crouching, his sword ready, offering the smallest target possible.

But if Talal wanted him dead, he’d be dead by now. He’d walked straight into the slave trader’s trap – the mistake of a fool, of a novice – but it had not yet been fully sprung.

‘But you are not the kind to listen, ’ mocked Talal, ‘lest you compromise your Brotherhood. ’

Altair crept forward, still trying to place Talal. He was above, that much was certain. But where?

‘Did you think I’d remain ignorant of your presence? ’ continued the disembodied voice, with a chuckle. ‘You were known to me the moment you entered this city, such is my reach. ’

From below he heard sobbing and glanced down to see more bars, more dirty, tear-streaked faces staring at him from the gloom.

‘Help me … Save me …’

Here there were more cages, more slaves, men and women now: beggars, prostitutes, drunkards and madmen.

‘Help me. Help me. ’

‘So there are slaves here, ’ called Altaï r, ‘but where are the slavers? ’

Talal ignored him. ‘Behold my work in all its glory, ’ he announced, and more lights flared on, revealing more frightened and beseeching faces.

Ahead of Altaï r a second gate slid open, admitting him to another room. He climbed a flight of steps and walked into a large space with a gallery running along all sides above him. There he saw shadowy figures and adjusted the grip on his sword.

‘What now, slaver? ’ he called.

Talal was trying to frighten him. Some things frightened Altaï r, it was true – but nothing the slave master was capable of, that much he knew.

‘Do not call me that, ’ cried Talal. ‘I only wish to help them. As I myself was helped. ’

Altair could still hear the low moans of the slaves from the chamber behind. He doubted whether they’d consider it help. ‘You do no kindness imprisoning them like this, ’ he called into the darkness.

Still Talal remained hidden. ‘Imprisoning them? I keep them safe, preparing them for the journey that lies ahead. ’

‘What journey? ’ scoffed Altaï r. ‘It is a life of servitude. ’

‘You know nothing. It was folly to bring you here. To think that you might see and understand. ’

‘I understand well enough. You lack the courage to face me, choosing to hide among the shadows. Enough talk. Show yourself. ’

‘Ah … So you want to see the man who called you here? ’

Altaï r heard movement in the gallery.

‘You did not call me here, ’ he shouted. ‘I came on my own. ’

Laughter echoed from the balconies above him.

‘Did you? ’ scoffed Talal. ‘Who unbarred the door? Cleared the path? Did you raise your blade against a single man of mine, hmm? No. All this I did for you. ’

Something moved on the ceiling above the gallery, throwing a patch of light on to the stone floor.

‘Step into the light, then, ’ called Talal from above, ‘and I will grant you one final favour. ’

Again, Altaï r told himself that if Talal wanted him dead his archers would have filled him with arrows by now, and he stepped into the light. As he did so, masked men appeared from the shadows of the gallery, jumping down and noiselessly surrounding him. They regarded him with dispassionate eyes, their swords hanging by their sides, their chests rising and falling.

Altaï r swallowed. There were six of them. ‘Little challenge’ they were not.

Then there came footsteps from above and he looked to the gallery where Talal had moved out of the half-light and now stood gazing down at him. He wore a striped tunic and a thick belt. Over his shoulder was a bow.

‘Now I stand before you, ’ he said, spreading his hands, smiling as though warmly welcoming a guest to his household. ‘What is it you desire? ’

‘Come down here. ’ Altair indicated with his sword. ‘Let us settle this with honour. ’

‘Why must it always come to violence? ’ replied Talal, sounding almost disappointed in Altaï r, before adding, ‘It seems I cannot help you, Assassin, for you do not wish to help yourself. And I cannot allow my work to be threatened. You leave me no choice: you must die. ’

He waved to his men.

Who lifted their swords.

Then attacked.

Altaï r grunted and found himself fending off two at once, pushing them back, then straight away turning his attention to a third. The others waited their turn: their strategy, he quickly realized, was to come at him two at a time.

He could handle that. He grabbed one, pleased to see his eyes widen in shock above his mask, then threw him backwards into a fifth man, the pair of them smashing into a scaffold that disintegrated around them. Altaï r pressed home his advantage and, stabbing with his swordpoint, heard a scream and a death rattle from the man sprawled on the stone.

His assailants reassembled, glancing at one another as they slowly circled him. He turned with them, sword held out, smiling, almost enjoying himself now. Five of them, trained, masked killers, against a lone Assassin. They had thought him easy prey. He could see it in their faces. One skirmish later and they weren’t quite so certain.

He chose one. An old trick taught to him by Al Mualim for when facing multiple opponents.

Altaï r very deliberately fixed his gaze on a guard directly in front of him …

Don’t ignore the others but home in on one. Make him your target. Let him know he’s your target.

He smiled. The guard whimpered.

Then finish him.

Like a snake, Altaï r struck, coming at the guard, who was too slow to react – who stared down at Altaï r’s blade as it thrust into his chest, then groaned as he sank to his knees. With a tearing of meat, Altaï r withdrew his sword, then turned his attention to the next man.

Choose one of your opponents…

The guard looked terrified, not like a killer now, as his sword began trembling. He shouted something in a dialect Altaï r didn’t understand, then came forward messily, hoping to bring the battle to Altaï r, who sidestepped, slashing at the man’s stomach, gratified to see glistening insides spill from the wound. From above Talal’s voice cajoled his men to attack even as another fell and the two remaining attacked at once. They didn’t look so intimidating now, masks or not. They looked like what they were: frightened men about to die.

Altaï r took another down, blood fountaining from a slashed neck. The last turned and ran, hoping to find shelter in the gallery. But Altaï r sheathed his sword, palmed a pair of throwing knives, which spun, glittering – one, two – into the escaping man’s back so that he fell from the ladder. Escaping no more.

Altaï r heard running footsteps from above. Talal making his escape. Bending to retrieve his knives, he took the ladder himself, reaching the second level just in time to see Talal scramble up a second series of steps to the roof.

The Assassin went after him, arriving through a hatch in the top of the warehouse and only just jerking his head back in time as an arrow smacked, quivering, into the wood beside him. He saw the bowman on a far rooftop, already fitting a second shaft, and pulled himself from the hatch, rolling forward on the rooftop and tossing two knives, still wet with the blood of their previous victim.

The archer screamed and fell, one knife protruding from his neck, the other in his chest. Further across, Altaï r saw Talal darting across a bridge between housing then jumping to a scaffold and shimmying down into the street. There, he craned his neck, saw Altaï r already following him, and set off at a run.

Altaï r was already gaining. He was quick and, unlike Talal, he wasn’t constantly looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed. Which meant he wasn’t barrelling into unsuspecting pedestrians as Talal was: women who screeched and reprimanded him, men who swore and shoved him back.

All this slowed his progress through the streets and markets, so that soon he had squandered his lead, and when he turned his head Altaï r could see the whites of his eyes.

‘Flee now, ’ Talal screamed over his shoulder, ‘while you still can. My guards will be here soon. ’

Altaï r chuckled. Kept running.

‘Give up this chase and I’ll let you live, ’ screeched Talal. Altaï r said nothing. Kept up his pursuit. Nimbly, he wove through the crowds, hurdling the goods that Talal pulled behind himself to slow his pursuer. Altaï r was gaining on Talal now, the chase almost done.

Ahead of him Talal turned his head once more, saw that the gap was closing and tried appealing to Altaï r again.

‘Hold your ground and hear me out, ’ he bellowed, desperation in his voice. ‘Perhaps we can make a deal. ’

Altaï r said nothing, just watched as Talal turned again. The slave trader was now about to collide with a woman whose face was hidden by several flasks. Neither of them was looking where they were going.

‘I’ve done nothing to you, ’ shouted Talal, forgetting, presumably, that just minutes ago he had sent six men to kill Altaï r. ‘Why do you persist in chasing –’

The breath left his body in a whoosh, there was a tangle of arms and legs and Talal crashed to the sand along with the flask woman, whose wares smashed around them.

Talal tried scrambling to his feet but was too slow and Altaï r was upon him. Snick. As soon as his greedy blade appeared he had sunk it into the man, and was kneeling beside him, blood already gushing from Talal’s nose and mouth. At their side, the flask woman dragged herself to her feet, red-faced and indignant, about to let fly at Talal. On seeing Altaï r and his blade, not to mention the blood leaking from Talal, she changed her mind and dashed off wailing. Others gave them a wide berth, sensing something was amiss. In Jerusalem, a city accustomed to conflict, the inhabitants preferred not to stand and stare at violence for fear of becoming part of it.

Altaï r leaned close to Talal. ‘You’ve nowhere to run now, ’ he said. ‘Share your secrets with me. ’

‘My part is played, Assassin, ’ responded Talal. ‘The Brotherhood is not so weak that my death will stop its work. ’

Altaï r’s mind flashed back to Tamir. He, too, had spoken of others as he died. He, too, had mentioned brothers. ‘What Brotherhood? ’ he pressed.

Talal managed a smile. ‘Al Mualim is not the only one with designs upon the Holy Land. And that’s all you’ll have from me. ’

‘Then we are finished. Beg forgiveness from your God. ’

‘There is no God, Assassin. ’ Talal laughed weakly. ‘And if there ever was, he’s long abandoned us. Long abandoned the men and women I took into my arms. ’

‘What do you mean? ’

‘Beggars. Whores. Addicts. Lepers. Do they strike you as proper slaves? Unfit for even the most menial tasks. No … I took them not to sell, but to save. And yet you’d kill us all. For no other reason than it was asked of you. ’

‘No, ’ said Altaï r, confused now. ‘You profit from the war. From lives lost and broken. ’

‘You would think that, ignorant as you are. Wall off your mind, eh? They say it’s what your kind does best. Do you see the irony in all this? ’

Altaï r stared at him. It was just as it had been with de Naplouse. The dying man’s words threatened to subvert everything Altaï r knew of his target – or thought he knew, at least.

‘No, not yet, it seems. ’ Talal allowed himself one final smile at Altaï r’s evident confusion. ‘But you will. ’

And, with that, he died.

Altaï r reached to close his eyes, murmuring, ‘I’m sorry, ’ before brushing his marker with blood, then standing and losing himself in the crowds, Talal’s corpse staining the sand behind him.

Altaï r would make camp at wells, waterholes or fountains on his travels; anywhere there was water and shade from palms, where he could rest and his mount graze on the grass, untethered. It was often the only patch of green as far as the eye could see so there was little chance of his horse wandering off.

That night he found a fountain that had been walled and arched to prevent the desert swallowing the precious water spot, and he drank well. Then he lay down in its shelter, listening to dripping from the other side of the rough-hewn stone and thinking of the life ebbing away from Talal. His thoughts went even further back, to the corpses in his past. A life punctuated by death.

As a young boy he had first encountered it during the siege. Assassin and Saracen and, of course, his own father, though mercifully he had been spared the sight of that. He had heard it, though, heard the sword fall, followed by a soft thump, and he’d darted towards the wicket gate, wanting to join his father, when hands had gripped him.

He had squirmed, screaming, ‘Let me go! Let me go! ’

‘No, child. ’ And Altaï r saw that it was Ahmad, the agent whose life Altaï r’s father had traded for his own. And Altaï r stared at him, eyes burning with hatred, not caring that Ahmad had been delivered from his ordeal battered and bloody and barely able to stand, his soul scarred with the shame of having succumbed to the Saracens’ interrogation. Caring only that his father had given himself up to die and …

‘It’s your fault! ’ he had screamed, twisting and pulling away from Ahmad, who stood with his head bowed, absorbing the boy’s words as if they were punches.

‘It’s your fault, ’ Altaï r had spat again, then sat on the brittle grass, burying his head in his hands, wanting to shut out the world. A few steps away, Ahmad, exhausted and beaten, had folded to the ground also.

Outside the citadel walls, the Saracens departed, leaving the headless body of Altaï r’s father behind for the Assassins to retrieve. Leaving wounds that would never heal.

For the time being Altaï r had stayed in the quarters he had shared with his father, with their walls of grey stone, rushes on the floor, a simple desk between two pallets, one larger, one smaller. He’d moved beds: he had slept in the larger one, so that he could smell his father’s smell, and he had imagined him sometimes, in the room, sitting reading at the desk, scratching away at a roll of parchment, or returning late at night to chide Altaï r for still being awake, then snuffing out his candle before retiring. Imaginings were all he had now, the orphan Altaï r. Those and his memories. Al Mualim had said he would be called in due course, when arrangements had been made for his future. In the meantime, the Master had said, if Altaï r needed anything, he should come to him as his mentor.

Ahmad, meanwhile, had been suffering from a fever. Some nights his ravings were heard throughout the citadel. Occasionally he screamed as if in pain, at other times like a man deranged. One night he was shouting one word over and over again. Altaï r had pulled himself from his bed and gone to his window, thinking that what he heard was his father’s name.

It was. ‘Umar. ’ Hearing it was like being slapped.

‘Umar. ’ The shriek seemed to echo in the empty courtyard below. ‘Umar. ’

No, not empty. Peering more closely, Altaï r could make out the figure of a child of about his age, who stood like a sentinel in the soft early-morning mist that rippled across the training yard. It was Abbas. Altaï r barely knew him, just that he was Abbas Sofian, the son of Ahmad Sofian. The boy had stood listening to his father’s demented ravings, perhaps offering silent prayers for him, and Altaï r had watched him for a few heartbeats, finding something to admire in his silent vigil. Then he had let his curtain drop and returned to his bed, putting his hands over his ears so that he could no longer hear Ahmad calling his father’s name. He had tried to breathe in his father’s scent and realized that it was fading.

They said that Ahmad’s fever had abated the next day, and that he had returned to his quarters, albeit a broken man. Altaï r had heard that he lay on his bed attended to by Abbas. That he had lain that way for two days.

The next night Altaï r was awoken by a sound in his room and lay blinking, hearing somebody moving about, feet that went to the desk. A candle was put down that threw shadows on the stone wall. It was his father, he thought, still half asleep. His father had come back for him, and he sat up, smiling, ready to welcome him home and be chided by him for being awake. At last he had woken from a terrible dream in which his father had died and left him alone.

But the man in his room was not his father. It was Ahmad.

Ahmad was standing at the door, emaciated within his white robe, his face a pale mask. He wore a faraway, almost peaceful expression, and he smiled a little as Altaï r sat up, as though he didn’t want to frighten the boy. His eyes, though, were sunken dark hollows as if pain had burned the life from within him. And in his hand he held a dagger.

‘I’m sorry, ’ he said, and they were the only words he spoke, his last words, because next he drew the knife across his throat, opening a gaping red mouth in his own neck.

Blood swept down his robe; bubbles of it formed at the wound on his neck. The dagger dropped with a clunk to the floor and he smiled as he slid to his knees, his gaze fixed on Altaï r, who sat rigid with fear, unable to take his eyes from Ahmad as the blood poured from him, draining out of him. Now the dying man lolled back on his heels, at last breaking that ghastly stare as his head dropped to the side, but he was prevented from falling backwards by the door. And for some heartbeats that was how he remained, a penitent man, kneeling. Then at last he fell forward.

Altaï r had no idea how long he sat there, weeping softly and listening to Ahmad’s blood spreading thickly across the stone. At last he found the courage to step out of bed, taking the candle and carefully skirting the bleeding horror that lay on the floor. He pulled his door open, whimpering as it made contact with Ahmad’s foot. Outside the room at last, he ran. The candle snuffed out but he didn’t care. He ran until he reached Al Mualim.

‘You must never tell anyone of this, ’ Al Mualim had said, the next day. Altaï r had been given a warm spiced drink, then spent the rest of the night in the Master’s chambers, where he had slept soundly. The Master himself had been elsewhere, attending to Ahmad’s body. So it had proved the next day, when Al Mualim returned to him, taking a seat by his bed.

‘We shall tell the Order that Ahmad left under cover of darkness, ’ he said. ‘They may draw their own conclusions. We cannot allow Abbas to be tainted with the shame of his father’s suicide. What Ahmad has done is dishonourable. His disgrace would spread to his kin. ’

‘But what of Abbas, Master? ’ said Altaï r. ‘Will he be told the truth? ’

‘No, my child. ’

‘But he should at least know that his father is –’

‘No, my child, ’ repeated Al Mualim, his voice rising. ‘Abbas will be told by no one, including you. Tomorrow I shall announce that you are both to become novices in the Order, that you are to be brothers in all but blood. You will share quarters. You will train and study and dine together. As brothers. You will look after each other. See no harm comes to the other, either physical or by other means. Do I make myself clear? ’

‘Yes, Master. ’

Later that day Altaï r was installed in quarters with Abbas. A meagre room: two pallets, rush matting, a small desk. Neither boy liked it but Abbas said he would be leaving shortly, when his father returned. At night he was fitful and sometimes called out in his sleep, while in the next bed Altaï r lay awake, afraid to sleep in case the nightmares of Ahmad uncoiled themselves and came to him.