The Codex Lacrimae: The Book of Tears

Chapter 18: The Poisoning of Hamzah al-Adil

"It seems that my listeners have left me," Ibn-Khaldun noted as Perdieu, Pellion, and the rest of the Hospitallers disappeared from view in pursuit of Ríg, albeit by the more mundane (and safer) routes of the Krak's halls and stairwells instead of the limbs of a cypress tree.

He smiled ruefully at Mercedier and came forward to put a restraining hand on the shoulder of Jacob. The former was struggling to rise from his sick bed, while the latter obviously was intent upon following his new Hospitaller friend.

"Hold, Boy!" Ibn-Khaldun commanded in Aramaic. Jacob stopped, looked curiously at Ibn-Khaldun and then in the direction that the Hospitallers had run.

"I'm good in a battle, master," Jacob said.

"This is a matter best left to the castle's warriors," Ibn-Khaldun explained. "Let's remain here for the moment while they sort out matters, eh?"

"Oh, my God," Jacob said, his face paling. "Marcus."

"What about Marcus?" Ibn-Khaldun asked sharply.

"He's gone from his room and he took my sword."

"Damn it, Arcadian!" Mercedier groaned. "He's gone to help Ríg. Or, rather, he probably went to stop the intruders himself."

He cast off the blankets and swung his legs painfully over the side of the bed, his words rapidly spoken in disgust. "I'm not staying here while those lads fight as the castle's being invaded. Boy, give me my weapons over there, will you?" He glared angrily at his older brother as he gained his feet, throwing off the grand-master's restraining hand.

Ibn-Khaldun frowned but moved aside as his patient leaned against a chair, panting.

"Mercedier, think reasonably. You're still suffering from your injuries and, by the time you hobbled down there, the battle's going to be long over. It's Marcus and Ríg for Allah's Sake! For all we know, the fighting might be already done."

"I should be down there," Mercedier protested, fumbling in the attempt to buckle a sword belt around his waist.

"In other times, yes. Now, no." Ibn-Khaldun paused. "Know this―Marcus wasn't very badly injured. I ordered him to stay in bed more for my peace of mind then for his well-being."

"Ahhh," Mercedier grunted. "I don't feel too good."

"You look terrible."

"Mercedier, get back in that bed immediately!" Arcadian said peremptorily, irritation in his shaking voice. As with Ibn-Khaldun, now that he was in his sixties, Arcadian tired more easily than he used to, while his threshold for patience lowered.

"You might be right this time," Mercedier agreed, as he put a weary hand to his forehead and swayed. Ibn-Khaldun ran to his side before he could fall to the floor. The older man eased the unconscious second-in-command carefully back to the bed.

He felt the fever burning in Mercedier. "Old fool," he murmured to himself with a shake of his head, "you at least, among these, should have seen this." He beckoned at Jacob.

"I need your help, boy."

"What are you going to do?" Jacob replied. "What about Marcus and Ríg?"

"They're beyond my help now―Mercedier isn't!" Ibn-Khaldun snapped. Then he inhaled a couple of deep, calming breaths. "I think Mercedier's hurt in places that weren't obvious before ... ah. Here."

The scholar pulled away most of Mercedier's garment, exposing the knight's torso. He pointed to a mass of discolored skin that stretched across the man's abdomen.

"That's a long bruise," Jacob whispered.

"Yes, it is." Ibn-Khaldun touched the damaged area with gentle, probing fingers and looked up at the boy. "There's a welt and scab in the middle of the bruise." Ibn-Khaldun explained. "There might be poison here, or an object I somehow missed. I need your help."