The Chronicles of Sword and Sand by Howard Andrew Jones

Author:Howard Andrew Jones [Jones, Howard Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781781859117
Publisher: Head of Zeus Ltd.

2

“I have come for my daughter,” the fellow told me in a deep, stern voice. I could not quite place his accent, although it sounded a little Persian. “I have been told that you have her.”

I was rarely a quick thinker unless a weapon was in my hand, and I was momentarily troubled by his assertion. Might he have the truth of it, and Najya be the liar?

“Open the door and return her to me immediately,” he continued, “or I shall call forth a judge.”

If he meant to threaten me with mention of a judge, he surely had no idea with whom he spoke. Dabir and I were not only honored by the caliph, we were sometimes cup companions with the governor of Mosul. “Who are you?” I asked.

He glared, giving the impression he could see more than my shaded eye through the little opening, and I studied him in greater detail. I saw one unused to bending to any man. Indeed, he held his head as though he were accustomed to instant obedience. He was slim and straight-backed and as tall as myself. His beard and the hair that showed beneath his turban were gray, but here was no old man, rather one who had prematurely silvered. His thick robes, finely trimmed, must have warded him completely from the cold, for he looked not the least bit uncomfortable.

“I am Koury ibn Muhannad,” the fellow said, his breath steaming. “Do you intend to speak to me from behind the door?” The disdain all but dripped from his voice.

I slammed home the eye slot, then opened the door and stepped forward to fill the portal. My size did not seem to trouble this Koury.

“I am Asim el Abbas,” I said.

“And do you have my daughter?”

I checked his men. Neither of them wore weapons or moved forward. Neither of them, in fact, moved at all. Both stood with their left arms raised to belt level at the same angle, their right hanging at their sides. I knew not what to make of this, unless they were especially disciplined soldiers whose master desired a uniform presentation.

Koury awaited reply.

My oldest brother, Tariq, may peace be upon him, once told me that each time you lie you foreswear a little of your own soul. As a boy I had accepted his words without question; as a man I better understood his meaning. Some lies are surely necessary, but I strove always to avoid them.

“It is true that a woman has come to ask help of my friend, the scholar Dabir,” I said. “She may or may not be your daughter.”

He nodded once, and his eyes were calculating. “The mystery can easily be solved. Bring her to me that we may see one another.”

This was such a reasonable suggestion I was not sure what to do with it. I found myself stalling that I might gain more time to think. “What does your daughter look like?”

“She is well dressed, and very beautiful, with black hair and large brown eyes.

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