Countermeasures, whether in diplomacy or war, are never so good as direct measures. Attack, always attack should be the policy of all men, all nations, when facing an enemy. Attack here, there, somewhere else; always keep the enemy on the defensive and in a state of uncertainty as to where the next blow may fall.
Word of my presence would reach Sinan, and Mahmoud must be clever indeed if his explanations would satisfy Sinan. Sinan, in control of a set of fanatic believers, must know at all times what is happening. He must be a skilled musician of men ready to play on all the strings.
Mahmoud had planned and acted without him, and I did not believe Sinan would appreciate the fact. Mahmoud was skillful at working himself into positions of importance, but his own conniving methods were sure to defeat him eventually. And I must see that eventually was now.
The dried leaves of autumn are lightly blown away, still more easily is the fortune of man destroyed. My fortune, or his?
And then I did what all men must … I slept. Dawn came with lemon-yellow light upon my wall, and I went swiftly to the window and peered into the court. Shadows were still deep there, so I bathed, dressed carefully, and rewound my turban. From my saddlebags I took the materials Khatib had gathered for me, the charcoal, sulphur, and the white crystals from the stable walls. These I mixed in their proper proportions and placed in a white bag inside a saddlebag. The mixture filled the saddlebag when completed.
From the herbs gathered, I prepared several preparations, crushing dried leaves into powder and tucking them away in small papers in the folds of my turban. This could be my last day on earth. That I must face. If I escaped and rescued my father, it would be nothing less than a miracle. In this place a weapon might help but could not bring victory. What had I said that night in Constantinople? My mind is my sword. And so it must be.
There was a rush of feet in the passage, and my door was thrust open. In the doorway stood Mahmoud, his eyes hot with hatred. “What have you done? If you think to escape me—”
Smiling, I remembered a saying: Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad.
My smile infuriated him, as I was sure it would, so I added, “Escape you? You misunderstand the situation, Mahmoud. It is you who shall not escape me.”
His fury astonished me, and I learned something else about Mahmoud. As he had grown older and stronger he had also become impatient of restraint, impatient to a degree that approached imbalance.
“What is the reason for this outburst?”
“Sinan wishes to see you!”
Could I shake his confidence? “Mahmoud, when will you learn to consider not only what you are doing but what others may be doing also?
“Sinan is a master of intrigue, you are only the student. You may be sure he knows more of what you are planning than you suspect. If you believe you will ever replace Sinan, you are mistaken.”
Of course, he had been thinking of that, for there was no loyalty in Mahmoud. No matter who his master might be, he would begin at once to try to supplant him. He loved authority, hated to bow to it, yet he was a man who might kill viciously and suddenly, from sheer frustration. I walked a thin line between his ambition and death.
Rashid Ad-din Sinan was a man noted for the majesty with which he surrounded his position. He never allowed anyone to be present when he was eating. He listened much, spoke little, and then only after careful consideration of the problem. He conducted himself carefully when appearing, ruling more by personality than fear.
Assassination was used by the Isma’ilis as a means of war, waged in this manner because they lacked a large army. It was carried out with deadly efficiency. Yet Sinan was a diplomat also, managing the affairs of his sect with skill.
He was also noted for wonders he was said to perform, yet how much was due to second sight, mental communication, or clairvoyance was a question. The same effects could be produced simply by possessing secret information. Upon one occasion he was foretold the deaths of a number of his enemies following a dispute on the subject of religion. He told each one the day and place of his death, and all died approximately as he foretold.
Of those forty deaths none was by dagger, so he was feared even the more. My eyes were busy as I was shown into a long room where Sinan was seated upon a dais. As we approached, he kept his eyes on us, studying us.
Some fifteen feet from him we were stopped by a guard. Ignoring Mahmoud, he studied me with attention.
“Ibn-Ibrahim or Kerbouchard, why do you use a name not your own?”
The Isma’ilis were considered heretic by old-line Moslems, and there had been many freethinkers among them, so I decided upon frankness.
“To travel with greater facility, and to avoid discussions. I cannot claim to be a Christian, nor yet a true Moslem, although I have studied the Koran.”
“What are you then?”
“An inquirer, Your Excellency, a seeker after knowledge. I am something of a physician, a geographer, and when opportunity offers for experiment, something of an alchemist.”
“You knew Averroes?”
“He was my good friend. John of Seville, also.”
“And why did you come to Alamut?”
Mahmoud started to speak, but my voice overrode his. “I was invited to come. I understood the invitation was from you. I accepted quickly, for I had heard of your great knowledge of alchemy, but when I arrived I discovered that Mahmoud al-Zawila had invited me. He is an old enemy from Córdoba.”
Sinan gestured Mahmoud to silence. “What was the nature of the enmity?”
“Your pardon, Magnificence. I did not say I considered him an enemy. It is he who holds enmity against me. Not,” I added, “that I am inclined to forgiveness.
“We were friends as students in Córdoba until I fled the city with a girl. When we returned we were seized, betrayed to Prince Ahmed by Mahmoud.”
“Prince Ahmed, you say? And Aziza?” Sinan’s expression had changed. His eyes were suddenly cold and attentive. He glanced at Mahmoud, then back to me. “I have heard the names.”
Mahmoud was deathly pale. As skillfully as it could be done, I was scuttling his ship, but only by telling the truth. Mahmoud might succeed in having me killed, but now he must be wary of his own life.
“I should believe,” Sinan suggested, “Prince Ahmed would reward such service.”
“He did, Magnificence. He gave Mahmoud a position at his side.”
“Ah?” Sinan’s fingers tapped upon his knee. What I had said might warn him of Mahmoud, might even destroy Mahmoud, but there remained my own safety, and I had an idea the interview was about to end.
“Your Excellency, you are considered among the greatest of alchemists. I hoped to study at your feet, and”—I paused just long enough—”to exchange ideas. Some discoveries of mine have been curious indeed, and of a sort that might interest you.”
He arose and was taller than I had thought. Also, he was two steps higher, an interesting position strategically, for we must look up to him. This man thinks of everything, I thought. He keeps himself ever in a commanding position. It might be nonsense, but it was shrewd nonsense, and effective.
“You will return to your quarters, Kerbouchard, and I shall send some books from my library. Later, you may visit my place of experiment.”
He gave a gesture of dismissal, and we turned about and walked from his presence. We had reached the door before Sinan spoke again. “Al-Zawila, you will answer for the presence of Kerbouchard.”
Mahmoud did not speak until outside my door. His face was still pale, but he was in control of himself. “You believe you have defeated me, but know this: Once within these walls, only one of us may leave, only an Isma’ili, and I shall see that if you do leave, you will not be the same man as when you arrived.”
He was speaking in Arabic, which he evidently knew the guards did not understand. They were Persians from Daylam. “He will not move against me, and if he does, we shall see who is master here.” He smiled. “No, I shall not submit you to torture … not yet. There is first the patient you must attend.”
Only a few minutes later a slave appeared at my door with a book. It was the Ayennamagh, the book requested from Mas’ud Khan, in Tabriz. Was it coincidence? Or did the lord of Alamut’s ears reach so far? No doubt Mas’ud Khan was his man. Yet such a small detail? I was impressed. The Ayennamagh was a book written or compiled during the years of the Sassanian Empire of Persia, translated into Arabic by ibn-al-Muqaffa. It was a compilation of history, court annals, government regulations, and laws, containing discussions of strategy in war as well as politics, archery, and divination.