Casca 13: The Assassin Read Free Page A

always died. He was the Sheikh aI Jebal and he was not to be denied. When he cast a sentence of death on one who refused him his price, the doomed one knew the shadow of the dark angel was over him and a gold handled dagger would end his term on earth. And now even the most powerful man in Persia, the Vizier – and in actuality the regent – to the youthful Caliph of Baghdad was to receive the gold-handled dagger.
    It was with no regret that Hassad was now ready to o rder the death of his once-good friend and Counselor, Nizam at Mulk, Vizier to the Caliph of Baghdad. Nizam had been offered a chance to be one with Hassan, and thus live. But he chose the way of personal aggrandizement and power , Hassan said to his inner soul. He did not keep his word to me. He has not been faithful to the oath spoken twenty years ago when we were both young men . Hassad recalled the oath as though it had been yesterday, the oath witnessed by the strange one, the friend of both, Omar. Oaths such as that could not be broken with impunity, therefore Nizam had to die and by his death bring the world to know the awesome power that a few men can hold when they use their intelligence – and the minds of others – as their weapons. For everything is an illusion except death.
    Death, of course, was the one thing that both princes and paupers understood, and he, Hassan ibn Hassad, was the Grand M aster of Death. Only those who served him were without fear of the Dark Angel, for he had already shown them their reward and had briefly opened up the gates of Paradise to them.
    Paradise. Before him lay the parable. Twilight had already darkened the bottom of the valley, but up there it was the time of the sunset, and Hassan gloried in the view before him. The red rays of the evening sun speared through a layer of low-lying clouds that brought with them the rare promise of rain. Hassan thought of himself as one who had prepared the soil of his fields for planting and had sown the first row of seeds.
    In the rain of time, when the earth had been properly enriched with the blood of his enemies, the seeds would sprout and grow and reseed themselves until he – and those few who knew the real reason for the Brotherhood's existence – would have prepared the way for the coming of the Master.
    He looked down into the black depths of his valley, the sun painting his eagle's face the red of blood.
    "Master?"
    It was Sulman, approaching him reverently , even though Sulman wore the robes of his rank which showed him to be one of the favored three who always had access to Hassan's ear, any time of the day or night. Through Sulman and his two peers in the highest rank of Dai al Kirbal Hassan's orders were passed down to the other ranks of the Brotherhood. From the Dais and the Fidais, who were the swords of the Brotherhood, they traveled down to the lowest order, the Lasiks, who served the others, performing the thousand daily tasks required to keep the castle in order.
    All was not forever fixed, however. The Lasiks, though servants and Novices now, might, if they progressed well enough, be permitted to have a sample of Paradise before their deaths, and could even advance up through the ranks to where they would be entrusted with the high honor of the gold-handled dagger, symbol of the Brotherhood, instrument of retribution, and the path which led to power.
    "Master?" Sulman repeated diffidently.
    Hassan gave him his orders, the command that Bu Tahir Arrani, one of the first of the Fidais and now serving the slaver Mamud ibn Said under the name of Bu Ali, was to be given the glory of being permitted to strike the death blow to the Vizier, Nizam al Mulk.
    But, Hassan continued, there would be some time yet before the Golden Dagger would strike. First, Nizam had to be informed that he was going to die.
    And the world would have to be made aware of the sentence of death that all might always believe in the word of the Sheikh al Jebal. Sulman bowed his way out of the