Free The Bones of the Old Ones (Dabir and Asim) by Howard Andrew Jones

his tool and scribbled some notes.
    I then considered the tower height. Roofless and open to the elements, it was empty of decoration or any furnishings apart from Shabouh’s weathered desk, a stool, and a few hooks or metal loops for lanterns and banners. The space was no more than twelve paces from side to side, and on the north face, just a step or two from the battlement, was the square opening to the stairwell.
    “So. What are you doing up here?” I asked him.
    “Looking over Shabouh’s calculations.”
    This pleased me, somewhat, though I tried not to gloat. “Didn’t you tell me stars and planets could not map a man’s fate?”
    “They can’t. But they surely hold many secrets we have not yet unraveled.” He set down the pen and sighed. “Shabouh’s right. The planets haven’t been in this kind of configuration for almost a thousand years.”
    “And what happened a thousand years ago?”
    To this he could only shake his head. “I can’t recall reading of anything calamitous taking place around here then.” He met my eyes. “But that is the problem with astrological predictions. Somewhere, something horrible is always happening to someone, and something pleasant to someone else. All under the same star sign.”
    “Well, was something especially bad happening somewhere else?”
    “Not that I know of. I’ll have to do some more research. Now. What did you find out?”
    “Najya’s agreed to accompany us.”
    “Did you ask her whether she had experienced any visions?”
    “Aye.” I then relayed what the woman had seen, and he plucked details up for examination like a jeweler eyeing diamonds. I went on to describe her “true dreams.” He seemed merely curious until I mentioned what Najya remembered about lying on a table. At mention of the Greek woman Dabir’s eyes widened and his mouth opened a little in surprise.
    “What has you worried?” I asked.
    He gathered up his composure and, after a moment, spoke calmly. “Did you think to ask Najya what the woman looked like?”
    In point of fact, I had not. “No,” I admitted. “But what does it matter if one of the Sebitti’s attendants spoke Greek?”
    “What if she’s not an attendant, Asim?”
    I was not sure what he meant by this, and could only stand in silence.
    “Blood powers magic, Asim.” He seemed unduly impatient. “Think. What magic worker do we know who is Greek, and a woman?”
    That answer was simple, for we had met only one person with both qualifications. “Lydia?”
    Dabir lifted his hands in exaggerated elation. “Yes! Lydia.”
    “You think it was Lydia?” I was surprised. Had he not warned me about galloping toward conclusions before saddling facts? “Surely there are other Greek women who practice sorcery.”
    He stared at me for a long moment. “You are, of course, correct that I should not automatically assume the worst.”
    I bowed my head in acknowledgment but, rather than calming, Dabir took to pacing as he thought aloud.
    “Lydia is a sorceress of singular power. She called a spirit up from hell and placed it in a living man.”
    Her plan had been to do this to Jaffar, and not only had she almost succeeded, she had nearly entombed Dabir and me alive in the bargain. I needed no reminding. Dabir, though, went on.
    “Even so great a necromancer as Diomedes could not conjure a complete soul. The bodies he animated were but husks, moving through a shadow of their former lives.” He shook his head. “If the Sebitti were interested in working with any Greek sorceress, it would almost surely be her.”
    I realized then what he was driving at. “You think the Sebitti are in league with the Greeks?!”
    “Behind them or merely involved, this cannot be good for the caliphate.”
    I grew conscious of the sound of footsteps. Dabir and I turned and saw the spill of lamplight on the steps, drawing closer as the scrape of boot sole on stone grew louder. I wondered if it might be Kharouf, or even Shabouh.
    Instead,