Richard's lips twitched in spite of themselves. "You know," he said, "that I should have you executed as a deserter and a spy."
Moustafa did not even blink. "You probably should, my lord," he said. "I stayed with the lord Saphadin, and I watched Saladin's caravans fill the city. It's provisioned for a great siege. Yesterday-yesterday I stood with the Sultan while the last of the supply-trains came in, and afterwards I followed him as he went with his brother to pray in the Dome of the Rock. And in the hour of the evening prayer, while we all performed the prostrations toward Mecca, two of the Sultan's mamluks, the most trusted of his servants, whom he had loved like sons, rose up and killed him.
"I was there beside him, my lord. I killed one of the Assassins. The other almost killed me, but the lord Saphadin cut him down."
"You weren't paid well for the service, from the look of you," Richard observed.
Moustafa shook his head, perhaps more to clear it than to shake off the chill of Richard's words. "I didn't give anyone time to be grateful. I left as soon as I could. The city was in terrible disorder. The lord Saphadin was doing what he could, but it was like a madness. People were running wild, shrieking and striking at one another-crying out that every man was an Assassin. They set fire to a street of houses near the Wailing Wall, and tried to loot the storehouses, but the garrisons were able to stop that. I escaped when the messengers went out to summon the Sultan's emirs and his son and the rest of his brothers from Damascus. I came to you as fast as I could. I would have been faster, but my horse was shot from under me, and it took a while to steal another."
Moustafa fell silent. He had run out of strength; he was unconscious again-and none too soon, said Judah's glare. Richard rubbed an old scar that ran along his jaw under his beard, letting that narrow dark face fill his vision while the tale filled his mind.
Blondel was still there, crouched in a corner, watching and listening. The round blue eyes were narrowed a little, the full mouth tight, but then they always were when he saw Richard with Moustafa. It was a pity, Richard thought, that two of the people he trusted most in the world were so intractably jealous of one another.
"Blondel," Richard said in a tone that he knew would catch and hold the singer's attention. "Go to Hubert Walter. Tell him what you heard here. Have him call the war-council, and quickly. There's no time to waste."
For an instant he thought Blondel would refuse to move, but the boy was a good enough soldier, for a lute-player. He nodded, bowed just a little too low, and ran.
Richard set guards over the wounded man, sturdy English yeomen whom he trusted implicitly. Then he went to order the attack on Jerusalem. He was too old a soldier to skip like a child, but his heart was as light as air.
They would move toward evening and march by night, taking advantage of the cooler air and the cover of darkness. In the meantime the watchers in the hills reported that the city's gates were shut, but there were ample signs of disarray: sentries missing from their usual walk on the walls, sounds of fighting, and smoke and flames from more than the single fire that Moustafa had spoken of.
Richard found that encouraging, but he was not about to rely on it. Saphadin was a wise and canny man. Whoever, whatever had roused and sustained the uproar in the city, he would devote his every resource to restoring order. Jerusalem was too vital, too sacred, and much too well prepared for a siege. No general worth the name would let it go.
Time was short and Richard's resources thin, but if he moved quickly enough, he would win a city filled to the brim with provisions. It was a gamble, but one well worth taking.
It did not take overly long to inform the war-council of his plan, and give them their orders. Not all or even most of them were overly eager for a fight, but Richard had not asked them for their opinions in the matter. Judging from the alacrity with which the army itself moved into position, the troops were of Richard's mind: now or never. Strike fast or give up the war.
Richard took an hour in the worst heat of the day to rest: soldier's wisdom, and he had seen a good number of his men taking the same opportunity. Judah was still occupied with Moustafa, but the canopied porch in front of Richard's tent was both cooler and airier. Blondel, apparently recovered from his fit of the sulks, had lowered the veils of gauze that kept out the flies and some of the heat, and brought in a fan and a fan-bearer to cool Richard while he dozed.
Richard slept for a while with his head in Blondel's lap. He did not know exactly what woke him: whether it was the sound of a footstep or Blondel's sudden, perfect and rigid stillness.
He took stock before he opened his eyes. One person-no, two, but the second was of no account. Under cover of his body, he let his hand slip toward the dagger at his belt. His fingers closed round its hilt as he opened his eyes.
There were two strangers sitting under his canopy, as calm as if they had every right to be there, and never a sign that his guards or sentries had marked their coming. They were both dressed all in white. One was very young and surprisingly fair-skinned, almost as fair as Blondel, with grey eyes full of dreams. The other was white-bearded and old, and might have seemed frail, except that he was sitting here in the heart of Richard's camp, watching Richard with a dark and steady stare. His lips smiled, but his eyes had the cold glitter of a snake's.
By that Richard knew him. Richard judged it wise not to move, but to remain where he was, hand on the dagger's hilt, ready to attack or to defend if the moment presented itself.
The Old Man of the Mountain spoke, and his companion rendered the words into fluent French. The young Assassin's accent, Richard noticed, had a strong flavor of Provence. "A good day to you, king of the Franks," he said.
"I am the king of the English," Richard said.
"You are all Franks," the Old Man said mildly. He seemed a harmless creature, no more strength in him than a bundle of sticks. And yet, like a spider crouched in the center of its web, he kept watch over all the strands of power in this part of the world.
He did not frighten Richard. If death had been on the Old Man's mind, he would have sent a party of his Faithful, armed with daggers. He had come himself-which was half a gesture of contempt for the strength and vigilance of Richard's army, and half a signal honor. For the Old Man to leave his mountain was a rare and significant thing.
Richard settled more comfortably, yawned and stretched and said, "I see you're keeping me in reserve."
"That is a way of putting it," the Old Man said dryly. "I see you're taking advantage of the opening I gave you."
"Did you expect that I wouldn't?"
"Franks are sometimes hard to predict," the Old Man said. "I've come to offer you a bargain."
Richard raised a brow. "Oh, have you? And what would that be? Pack up and go away and you won't kill me?"
"If I had wanted that, I would have left the Sultan alive."
Richard sat up. He was not a master of nuance-that was his mother's gift-but this was obvious enough. "You think he would have defeated me."
"I know he would have kept Jerusalem. And you would have left with your Crusade unfinished."
Richard felt the swift rush of heat, the temper that, if he let it, could rip this monstrous old man apart. But he was not ready to do that, not yet. "So now he's gone-and I'm going to mourn him. He was my enemy and it serves me well that he's dead, but he was a worthy adversary."
"Surely," the Old Man said. "Here is your bargain. I can give you Jerusalem: weaken its commanders, lure off its troops, and open its gates at your coming. As an earnest of my good faith, I've already begun to act on my promise. The riots are my doing, and the disturbances that refuse to be quieted for anything the emirs and the princes can do. In return, I ask a simple favor."