Yet, no matter how interesting the book, I could not keep my attention on it.
Restlessly, I paced the room. I was no nearer to discovering the whereabouts of my father, and bribery had no chance of success here. Some things I had noticed in my walk from my quarters to those of Sinan. From the top of my window to the roof was no more than four feet, if as much, and my window was long and narrow. A man might, just might, stand on my window’s ledge and, holding himself inside with one hand, might reach up and grasp the edge of the roof with the other.
He would have to do it without being seen, and would risk a fall to the stone-paved court below. There was always the chance that he could not reach the roof’s edge, nor pull himself up if he did. Obviously, for reasons of defense there would be some connection between the roof and other roofs as well as the walls.
Below me, in the Castle of Alamut, a struggle for power was taking place in which I had no part, yet which very well might mean life or death for me. Nor dared I make any move without first ascertaining where my father was. As yet I had seen no slaves or any women.
The fortress gave the appearance of being inhabited by men only, and if my father was here, being a slave, he would be at work. Had they tortured him? Had they broken his spirit? The spirit of a strong man does not easily break, but he must be inwardly strong, secure in his beliefs and in what he is.
Although my father had often been away at sea, his image had been ever before me, and my mother had led me to assume responsibilities from my earliest youth. There is no miraculous change that takes place in a boy that makes him a man. He becomes a man by being a man, acting like a man.
Now was the time to show what I was made of. No help would be coming from the outside. I was alone. So it ever is in moments of trial or decision. One is born alone, one dies alone, and usually faces the trials and tribulations alone.
Returning to my book, I turned its pages, reading here and there to acquire as much as possible in the short period of time I would have, struggling to grasp its message while half my faculties were turned to other problems.
Even had he wished, Sinan could not save me. Much of the strength of Alamut was that no one outside could assess its strength, and that meant no one must escape. Slowly, the day dragged by. My thoughts sought out every possible escape route, every stratagem, every ruse. Nothing happened. By afternoon I could stand it no longer. I must move! I must do something. It had seemed such a simple thing to find my father once inside, but I had seen not one slave, and my food was brought me by a warrior.
And then the door opened …
Two guards waited. “The Imam will see you now.”
The Imam … that would be Sinan. Picking up my bags, I followed them.
The guards escorted me into a branch of the castle where I had not been. On every side, the walls of the rock fell sheer away. Where then was the mysterious valley?
We paused at last before a door. The passage we had followed continued on, perhaps thirty feet further. The guard tapped lightly at the door, obviously of oak and bound with straps of iron.
My eyes fell to the floor at my feet, and for an instant my breath caught. On the stone floor, mixed with a little black loam, was a fragment of a leaf, a pomegranate leaf!
Nothing grew upon the Rock of Alamut. Nor had I seen a pomegranate within miles, or any fruit that I could remember except for wild pears.
My eyes turned to the door at the end of the passage. Was that it? Had I found the entrance to the fabled Valley of the Assassins?
There were many valleys in the mountains, but there might be no real valley of that name. On the other hand, what lay beyond that door? And where was my father?
A key turned in the door before us, and the door opened. Beside the door stood a huge, powerfully muscled man with a massive sword. He was naked to the waist, and his muscles shone with oil. He stepped aside for us to pass, but his cold little eyes probed as if to read my heart.
Across the room near another door stood the twin of this guard, except that if anything he was larger and uglier. Seated on a cushion among a pile of books was Rashid Ad-din Sinan, the Old Man of the Mountains.
Around the room were vats, retorts, and furnaces, some of the finest alchemical working materials that I had seen. “Come! We will talk, Kerbouchard! We will see what kind of alchemist you are!”
54
Where was Sundari now?
Night lay upon the castle, and the wind held a promise of rain. Far off, like muted trumpets, thunder rolled down empty gorges. I lay upon my pallet, staring into darkness, my sword at hand, my bags close by.
The time was near.
The night held a warning, a threat of waiting danger. My ears strained to interpret the warning but found nothing. Nothing moved, all was still.
Today, I had spent hours with Sinan, working with retorts, furnaces, and bowls, quieting any doubts that I was not what I said. We talked of acids and powders, of the Chinese “art of the yellow and white,” their term for alchemy. Most of all I tried to build his hopes of what he might get from me.
I wanted to give him an excuse to keep me alive.
Quickly, I discovered that I knew more than he, for he was the victim of his own isolation and knew little that had happened in alchemy since Jabir ibn-Hayyam, known to the Franks as Geber.
He possessed the most complete library of the works of Jabir that I had seen, and Jabir’s methods had been sound, his knowledge of alchemical relationships beyond the usual. Aside from his search for a means of making gold, he had studied the manufacture of bronze, steel, and the refinements of metals. He introduced new methods to the dyeing processes. He knew how to produce concentrated acetic acid by the distillation of vinegar, the use of manganese dioxide in glass manufacture, and much else.
Several experiments of which Sinan had only heard, I reproduced for him … or perhaps he was but testing my knowledge. Despite my restlessness, I enjoyed knowing him and enjoyed the work. I possess a deep respect for men of knowledge and of inquiring mind, and I am only impatient with those who allow themselves to vegetate.
At last I had been escorted back to my quarters, and I lay down, thinking of the door.
Twice that day, eunuchs had come into the workroom, and where eunuchs were there were usually women.
And where was Sundari? Far and away upon the road to Hind, going to the land of her marriage. And here was I, virtually a prisoner. A stealthy step in the outer hall, a rattle of keys. Rising to my feet, in one swift movement I drew my sword.
The door opened, and Mahmoud was there with two guards who were not those I remembered. “You will not need that”—he indicated the sword—”but bring it if you wish.” He smiled in a way I did not like. “Bring your kit. Tonight we go on an errand of mercy.”
Sheathing my blade, I took up my bags and followed. We walked swiftly and silently along the passage, across the court where a few drops of rain were falling, and past the workroom where I had spent much of the day, and down the passage to that door, which I believed might lead to the hidden valley.
A key rattled, the door swung wide, and a dark passage loomed beyond, sloping steeply downward. We walked for several minutes preceded by a guard bearing a torch. Then he paused before another door. It swung open, and I stepped inside.
The room was brightly lit, and six guards stood about with drawn blades. Behind me the door closed with a clang, and a key turned in the lock. Glancing back, I saw that the guard who had followed us stood before the closed door with a drawn blade. With Mahmoud and a guard now lighting more lamps, there were nine. It was too many.
On a table in the center of the room a figure lay, covered with a white spread. Around the room were implements, running water in a tank, and other things that told me this was a room used for surgical operations. The drawn swords I could not understand.