18. The Malik is Generous
——Thud! The fortress's massive gate swung open with a heavy groan.
The crowd that had been trailing us until moments ago lacked the courage to approach the citadel itself. Their numbers dwindled bit by bit, and as the gate creaked open, they scattered entirely. Once their cheers faded, all that remained was a cold, solemn silence.
"Dismount from here on out and walk. No one rides a beast into the Malik's presence."
At Hakim's command, we slid one by one from our camels' backs and proceeded on foot beyond the gate. At the entrance's fountain, we performed the ritual ablutions. The cool water on my face and hands washed away some of the fatigue from the night spent by the forge. My companions behind me, tense as strung bows, washed their hands and straightened their clothes.
These artisans, who had spent their lives black with soot and sweat, striding boldly only before roaring furnaces and rough mercenaries, were humbled by the Malik's majestic domain. Towering columns inlaid with gold, intricate arabesque patterns, and the honeycomb muqarnas adorning the domed ceiling overwhelmed them with sheer grandeur.
"Listen up, all of you. The Malik won't waste more attention on you than necessary, so just stand tall and proud. Leave the rest to me. Keep your heads appropriately bowed and your manners in check. Got it?"
Heartened by my words, the artisans followed Hakim and me down the corridor. The Malik's guards lining the hall scanned us one by one, but Hakim's presence acted as a filter—their gazes weren't outright hostile. They'd heard of our march, so wariness flickered in their eyes, but the curiosity sparked by the Sirion armor on the artisans softened it considerably.
Better reaction than expected. If the soldiers warm to it too, then for sure...
Lost in such stray thoughts, we soon reached the corridor's end. Before the audience hall's soaring ceiling and vast openness, Hakim halted. We stopped with him, gazing up at the enormous doors. Still shut tight, denying entry, their ornate inlays and carvings hinted at the splendor within.
As the massive doors slowly parted, the secretive hall revealed itself. What first seized our eyes was the majestic arch of the towering iwan. Open to the garden on one side for airy openness, the floor beneath its vault was paved in Damascus's signature ablaq pattern—white marble alternating with black basalt, captivating in its own right.
But it didn't end there. Flanking the central red carpet, marble columns rose to muqarnas far more exquisite than those in the corridor, flowing into the domed ceiling. Damask silks, embroidered like the Milky Way, draped like veils or cosmic curtains. Sunlight filtering through the open dome scattered off them in a play of light so beautiful it nearly made one forget this was an audience hall.
Of course, that was the end of the aesthetic appreciation. At the red carpet's terminus, atop a lofty dais, lay an opulent divan. Beyond a veil shimmering like faint smoke sat Damascus's ruler, Duqaq, ensconced as if proclaiming his dominion.
Silent, he exuded an aura that tensed all around him; every gaze in the hall converged at his feet. Leaning on his masnad, his unseen eyes pierced us with a deep, chilling intensity.
His advisors, attendants at his side, and guards weren't alone—pre-existing guests filled the space: the Western delegation from Jerusalem and Edessa. Having clashed with Crusaders once and bracing for reinforcements, Duqaq's decision to grant us audience with these "envoys"—potential foes—in attendance was crystal clear.
He's flaunting his military buildup to the delegation. Smooth progress and all.
No complaints from me, though. Our goals aligned somewhat. He'd use me; I'd borrow his power to crush that arrogant young knight eyeing me. And Duqaq? He wanted to humble the envoys, my aims included.
"The factory master, Baraka, comes before the Malik of Damascus."
With a ceremonious bow, I raised my head just enough not to meet his gaze directly—and locked eyes with him. The white silk-cloaked knight with the pinched mustache and smug face didn't linger long in view; spotting the mercenary from the prison trailing me, his face twisted, brows furrowing deeper.
No time to dwell on him. All news had reached Duqaq via attendants before we entered. Eye-fighting here was a waste. Key now: stroke his ego, satisfy him, pique his interest in my words.
Duqaq's cool gaze passed over my head, lingering on the artisans' Sirion behind me, then flicking to the prisoners. He addressed it.
"Baraka, the souk's been abuzz with your parade. Dragging corpses and criminals to me since morning—what's the meaning? Explain why Damascus must endure such uproar."
His voice was low but commanded the hall. I didn't tense. Though his eyes and face were veiled, his tone carried joy over displeasure, excitement even. Wishful thinking? Unlikely. I'd processed and delivered these pawns perfectly for mutual exploitation.
He wouldn't sour on this political theater's endgame. As ruler, he'd welcome the careful handover of troublesome reins. Especially after receiving the Hashashin corpses from prior hits on me—we shared that subtle bond, sans private chat.
Parsing his inflections with that in mind yielded two conclusions: Through me, he'd warn the delegation and seize leverage over them—two birds, one stone.
Audience hall or not, I played the fawning courtier with politic rhetoric.
"Great Malik, today's events served Damascus and you first and foremost. Consider them proof no shadow hides beneath your sun. Last night, vermin dared torch the workshop graced by your favor and steal the craft you eyed. I judged them harshly to reassure your people and warn rogues—no better way."
I lifted my head higher, not to him but alternating between mercenaries and artisans.
"Behold—these are mercenaries. Hired blades who 'handle' targets for coin."
No need to embellish how one suit undid them. Attention had shifted to Sirion; he'd note my support, his esteem rising. Next words targeted elsewhere. Driving the wedge home at the twitching-shouldered knight:
"From assassins past to these mercenaries' raid—you know it well, great Malik. Under your vigilant gaze, what does it mean these faceless silver coins link them all? I beseech you: probe this deeply, punish accordingly, uphold Damascus's justice."
Only attendants saw Duqaq's faint smile. He turned slowly to the delegation.
"Owners of unmarked silver... Sir Guillaume, your thoughts? Our artisans craft such fine arms—who might envy them enough to arson?"
The envoys paled, but Guillaume, singled out, squirmed most. Brain churning, he managed:
"Ahem, tough question. We know little, so hard to say outright. But if advising, Your Excellency—novelty breeds peril. Best tread warily."
"Peril, indeed. To my foes."
Duqaq laughed heartily—a pressure the envoys wouldn't shrug off easily.
Perfect timing for my goal: unveil the promised Sirion before them. I signaled Kalim; he handed boxes to attendants.
"Great Malik, the full Sirion as pledged. Proven flawless, top-grade."
Minimal words. An attendant presented one suit. Sunlight from the high dome danced off hundreds of interlocked scales, smooth curves evoking a dragon's hide from legend.
Duqaq rose slowly, stepping from the veil to the dais's edge. His hand on the armor: cold, unyielding steel yielding to silken flex under fingers—an allure beyond words. His voice quavered faintly.
"Is this... the answer I've awaited?"
He flicked a scale with his nail. A clear ching! shattered the silence. Turning, he swept the envoys' knights with a gaze, smile now blatant mockery.
"Sir Guillaume, you warned of caution? Quite right. This beauty could blind one to folly—like loosing rats for arson. Curious about its prowess? Care to test?"
A casual wave; Hakim led two elite guards forward.
"Baraka, more ready to wear from your haul?"
"Of course. Spares for your warriors in the cart boxes."
Duqaq commanded. The guards donned Sirion over their kit in seconds—seasoned knights. Silver-scaled warriors before him, the hall's mood shifted: no vulnerabilities, pure draconic might.
"Who steps first to test their mettle? Fine chance for martial exchange—rare opportunity. Surely no fear a mere suit thwarts you."
"Belief" aside, his eyes weren't friendly—blatant taunt, humiliation bait. Refusal trashed Western honor; acceptance made them clowns.
The white-cloaked one ordered his lieutenant-knight:
"Hugh, you go. Show Adessa's blade brooks no ease."
The hulking knight Hugh gripped his sword's pommel, bowed, and followed Hakim past the iwan to the garden's sparring space. His foe: Hakim's deputy in Sirion.
The warriors faced off; all eyes turned beyond the iwan.
"Begin!"
Duqaq's cry—Hugh lunged, slashing down. Heavy steel cleaved air toward the guard's shoulder. No mere spar; force enough to snap chainmail rings and bruise bone beyond.
——Bam!
Expectations dashed. The guard twisted his shoulder into the blade. On contact, Sirion's angled scales shed the trajectory like water. Hugh faltered, recovery slow—yanking back awkwardly. A fittingly dazed response.
"What...?"
Hugh's eyes widened in shock; Hakim's deputy counterattacked. Sirion's enhanced mobility—lighter than chain—unleashed fluid, swift combos he felt innately.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Hugh barely parried, countering in gaps—but every strike glanced off silver scales like dancers. No valid cuts; thrusts seemed futile too. Overwhelming defense. Delegation knights consoled themselves with cavalry charges, blind to their pallor.
"Enough."
Duqaq raised a hand, smirking deeply; the bout halted. Hugh panted, eyeing his blade. Full-force swings on fine steel had chipped its edge irregularly—like grinding on whetstone scales.
Sirion? Indifferent. Faint scratches like badges; no broken or lost scales. A light hop realigned them with a shirrk, untouched areas gleaming pristine.
Duqaq clapped thrice—slow, deliberate. Clap. Clap. Clap. The dry sound rang clear to envoys; none took it well. Obvious verdict: their loss. No good reactions possible.
"Fine show. Hugh, was it? Impressive swordplay. Wielding that greatsword relentlessly without tiring—rare prowess."
Praise, but perfunctory. The subtext sliced pride like a razor: back to the dais, veiled, he addressed them lightly.
"Exchange is exchange; compensation for damages due. Can't send Hugh's blade chipped—I'll tell the treasurer. Collect before leaving. My eyes feasted; you'll get generously."
Hugh couldn't reply. Scooping his lieutenant's shattered pride? Impossible. He murmured assent, staring at the floor.
With taming underway, Duqaq eyed me. Veiled again, but I sensed it: joy, greed, satisfaction beneath pleasure.
"Baraka."
I bowed instantly.
"Yes, great Malik."
"You've brought me rare joy today. Thus, I grant you opportunity."
Leaning on the masnad, he tapped its armrest.
"You'll forge more iron, build your name, prove your craft."
Teasing vast reward, holding breath till he spoke:
"I cherish my soldiers. So, proposal and gift: Until every Damascus warrior wears Sirion, supplies flow—iron, charcoal priority to your factory. Guaranteed in my name."
Huge, but carrot-and-stick: resource priority detailed. Not done.
"Also, I grant lands around your factory for expansion—no delays. Seized silver funds operations; extra guards secure the grown site."
Investment in himself, boon for me—clear intent to bind without throttling. He knew mutual gain needed no force; wise Malik's line in the sand. No better shield soon.
"Praise your generosity, great Malik."
My perfunctory thanks satisfied him.
Business with me settled, his gaze shifted to Guillaume.
"Sir Guillaume, hope your delegation savored the exchange. As ever, Damascus's generosity stands open."
Guillaume bowed curtly at the loaded farewell. Amid envoys' grimaces, the white-cloaked one glared relentlessly—but that was it. Fresh from Malik's favor, nothing more before him. Suicide otherwise.
Audience over. Delegation schedule wrapped. No reason to linger.
Gates reopened. Entry under tension; exit buoyant. Crushing foes' morale left a sweet aftertaste.
Short-lived. "Free pass to the grind" awaited as victory's price.
As citadel doors shut behind, Duqaq ordered advisors to trace the silver—thoroughly. My politics ended here awhile. His job now; mine: factories to industrial zone.
Returning to the factory atop camel, Kalim and artisans trailed, shoulders as proud as the hall's guards.
"Master... we did it. The Malik shields you like this..."
Kalim's voice trembled; I replied curtly.
"What're you saying? Real work starts now—stay sharp. Outfitting Damascus's army means double shifts daily. Naïve talk? You've improved."
Sobering his elation with cold reality. My mind brimmed: raze new lands, erect vast complex. Inevitable sprawl demanded self-sacrifice—gears grinding myself mercilessly.
Grim future blurred vision with sorrow, yet the path gleamed clear: horrific workloads, myriad concerns.
Steps to Souk Wadi Barada mixed profound fatigue with faint, odd thrill. Premonition of the grind.