POV: Abbasid Intelligence
After putting some distance between himself and Ruqayyah and Layla, Faris's mind replayed the night's events, each memory sharp and vivid, as if the shadows themselves whispered warnings.
The main hall of an elite Baghdad household—Abna al-Dawla—was bathed in dim oil lamp light, flickering across thick carpets and the long, polished table. Shadows leapt and swayed like conspirators. The patriarch sat at the head, jaw tight, eyes glinting with calculation, hands resting over the scrolls. Cousins crouched in near silence, pens poised, hearts thundering beneath their robes. Servants moved with careful precision, setting tea and additional candles without a sound. Every motion, every breath, carried weight. Tonight, secrecy was life itself.
In a corner, a young scribe arranged his scrolls with meticulous care. Faris, hidden in plain sight, a hawk-eyed Abbasid agent disguised as a mere recorder, absorbed every detail—the tilt of a shoulder, the twitch of an eye, the whisper of the faintest voice. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, but from knowing that a single word could turn deadly.
"Is it safe?" a cousin murmured, voice tight, eyes searching for reassurance. Life and death balanced on the conversation.
Faris leaned close to the table, adjusting scrolls as if absorbed in his work, then stepped back, eyes slicing across the room. He was no family member, yet he prowled the space like a shadow, testing loyalties. If Ibrahim were to become a rival caliph, certainty here was essential. A slip, a falter, a careless word—everything would be reported.
"We cannot wait any longer," the patriarch said, voice low but cutting. "Ibrahim must feel our support before Khurasan hears. If al-Ma'mun learns first… everything collapses."
A cousin leaned closer, whispering so softly it could have been wind. "But the scholars in the market still favor al-Ma'mun. If word escapes…"
"Silence!" snapped the patriarch, eyes sweeping the room like a blade. "One careless syllable, and it kills us all."
Faris's hand moved over a blank scroll, etching secret codes, eyes tracking the flicker of candlelight, the subtle shiver of a servant, the almost imperceptible exhale of a younger cousin. Nothing could be revealed.
"Has the letter to the southern provinces been dispatched?"
"Yes," the patriarch replied, tight-lipped, "but ensure no one reads it or diverts it to Baghdad. All factions must remain silent."
Faris's gaze lingered on each face, reading tension like a palpable fog pressing against his chest. A young cousin's eyes met his, suspicion sharpening, then darted away. Faris lowered his gaze, feigning concentration, a ghost of a smile brushing his lips. None suspected that every word they spoke would reach the caliph's court.
The patriarch exhaled slowly. "If Ibrahim ascends as rival caliph, alliances must hold. One mistake… Baghdad loses us, or we lose Baghdad."
"And another matter," he whispered, voice almost swallowed by shadow, "Wazir Alfadl ibn Sahl draws ever closer to al-Ma'mun. That cannot be allowed."
"Did you really send Mali to strike at his daughter?" a cousin asked, breath barely audible.
"Yes. She survived. Mali said… a man shone with such brightness it blinded all who saw him, protecting the Wazir's daughter. They struck lightly, and when the household guards raised the alarm, they fled."
"Hah… botched, as always…"
The door creaked. A young noblewoman stepped in, eyes blazing, jaw set. It was Zafira.
"Father! I detest the Wazir's daughter! Kill her at once! She is now in the Bimaristan with the daughter of Baghdad's governor!"
Silence pressed down like stone. Faris's chest tightened, yet he masked his alarm, sinking further into the shadows.
"Is this true?" her father, Harun, demanded.
"Yes, Father," she replied.
"Very well. Dispatch assassins to the Bimaristan immediately."
Faris's pulse sharpened. Without a sound, he melted into the night, the streets of Baghdad swallowing him as he moved toward the Bimaristan.
Inside, the air was thick with the pungent aroma of antiseptic herbs, mingled with the coppery tang of blood. The faint rustle of restless patients echoed through the corridors. Faris became one with the shadows. He could feel the deliberate, quiet steps behind him—the metallic scrape of a hidden blade against stone. Every sense screamed vigilance; one misstep meant death.
He darted behind a pillar, catching the glint of a dagger in the low lamplight. Muscles coiled, ready. The attacker lunged—Faris twisted just in time, but a hidden blade grazed his back, searing pain exploding through him. He stifled a groan, breath shallow, careful not to alarm patients or other guards.
Steel clashed against steel as he countered, moving fluidly, binding the assailant in a swift, precise sequence. The corridor reeked of iron and sweat, his own blood mingling with the antiseptic tang. Even wounded, he ensured the Wazir's daughter and her cousin.
Night cloaked his movements. Each step was measured, eyes scanning the darkened halls. Pain radiated through his back, but adrenaline sharpened him. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: "I protect the Wazir's daughter … and yet, it was she herself who tended my wound." A smile curved his lips.
That night, Faris did not sleep. He stood vigil outside Ruqayyah and Layla's room, unseen and unwavering—a sentinel in the darkness, listening to every whisper of wind, every distant footstep, every shadow that dared move.
The next morning, Baghdad's streets pulsed with life. Faris and Rashid wove through the crowded market, disguised as simple merchants, their stall laden with saffron, dried figs, and threads of vibrant cloth. The scent of spices mingled with smoke from braziers and the earthy tang of animals, a heady blur that masked the taut tension coiled in their chests.
Faris's eyes flicked constantly, noting every detail—the way a merchant's hand lingered near a dagger, the too-smooth greetings of a customer who observed more than he shopped. Rashid crouched low behind baskets of apricots, murmuring, "Whispers. I can feel it—some of the Abna al-Dawla are stirring against Ali Ridha's appointment. They do not hide it well among the crowd."
Faris's lips curved in a faint shadow of a frown. "Keep selling. Let them believe we are mere traders. Every gesture, every word—they watch, and we watch in return."
From narrow alleys, fragments of conversation drifted—soft, deliberate, cutting through the marketplace hum. "…cannot allow him to take the seat… Baghdad's tradition…" "…Ibrahim's claim is weak… better he stays out…"
Each word was a thread in a web of intrigue. Faris cataloged every syllable, every inflection, every subtle motion that hinted at loyalty—or dissent. Whispers like these were far deadlier than open defiance; a single misstep could set the city ablaze.
A shadow detached itself from a nearby corner, brushing past their stall too deliberately to be chance. Faris's pulse spiked. Rashid's hand hovered near the knife concealed beneath his cloak. The follower paused, glanced around, then vanished back into the throng.
"Abnaʾ al-Dawla," Faris murmured under his breath, tasting the words bitterly. "They care for Baghdad, for power, for caution—not Ali Ridha. Every step must be measured."
A sudden shift—a slip of an envelope under a basket, unnoticed by the bustling merchants. Rashid nudged Faris; the agent retrieved it with a careful, practiced hand. Inked symbols, terse and urgent: "The faction against Ali Ridha moves tonight. Watch the river gate. Do not be seen."
Faris's mind raced. The market, vibrant and brimming with life, had transformed into a lattice of shadows and hidden threats. One misstep, one careless gesture, and the dagger of a secret enemy could find him before he could blink.
He met Rashid's eyes. No words were needed—the choice was clear: wait and gather intelligence, or intervene tonight, risking exposure. Faris's grip tightened on a bundle of saffron, knuckles whitening, as he weighed every possibility. Around them, the city thrummed, oblivious to the silent storm coiling like a serpent in its heart.
Night would bring answers. Yet each heartbeat, every hushed word, every passing glance across the crowded stalls was a step along a razor's edge, where a single miscalculation could tip the balance of power.