The Waters of Eternity by Howard Andrew Jones Page A

is that?” Fakhir asked. I knew better than to question Dabir during one of his examinations, but the scholar betrayed little irritation.
    “Crumbs.” Dabir raised a tiny dark speck to his nose.
    “He was found last evening,” the captain relayed, “lying beside the Eastern wall. He could not have been there long, for the rats have worried only his fingers. The rest of him was covered beneath old blankets, lest you think birds responsible for the eyes. Is it the work of a ghul?”
    Dabir pointed to the rim of the eye socket. “Here a knife was used, to pry out the eye. The incision into the skin was probably unintentional. And here. If a monster did this, it was a human one.”
    “But why?” the captain asked. “Who would want eyeballs?”
    Dabir answered the question with one of his own. “How many incidents like this have there been?”
    “Bismallah!” The captain stared at Dabir. “Surely you are a man of wonders. How did you know there had been other bodies found?”
    “Because you would not have spoken of ghuls after one curious death.”
    The captain’s head bobbed curtly, the helm wrapped in his turban flashing in the light. “It is so. Only two reliable reports have reached me of bodies found with missing eyes. But rumors race through the town of more and it is hard to know which are true and which are tales. It is clear that some thing has struck more than once, likely more than these two times.”
    “He was a dyer,” Dabir said after inspecting the man’s mangled hands.
    The captain nodded.
    Dabir peered into the mouth and prodded with his finger. “You have the names of those who found the bodies?”
    “Indeed, Honored One. The first body was mourned last week. I do not think that the family would allow you to examine it now, or that it would be pleasant to do so.”
    “Dabir has explored far more grisly things than this,” I pointed out. Fakhir bowed his head in acknowledgment.
    Dabir stepped away and washed his hands in a bowl of rose water Fakhir’s attendant had set aside for him. He replaced his ring.
    “Do you not wish to examine him more?” Fakhir asked.
    Dabir shook his head. “No. I assume there was not a coin to be found upon him?”
    “Not a one. You think thievery was the motive?”
    “No. This man—have you yet found his family?”
    “We have. My men recognized him. He is the son of Abdul al-Hamid, the dyer, as you have said.”
    “You may turn him over to his family now. I will need the names and homes of the victims. I will speak with their relatives. The victims are not, by chance, related in some fashion?”
    “Not so far as I know.”
    “As expected.” Dabir looked to me. “It is never so easy, Asim.”
    “You shall see to the heart of the matter,” I said, “and when the time comes, show me where to strike.”

II
     
    Dabir knew the proper questions. The dead men—a potter’s son, and Abdul, son of Abdul—had not known each other, so Dabir asked their daily habits. It happened that both relished the forbidden wine, though only one of the families knew where their son partook: a tavern near the Eastern wall.
    I assumed we would journey there with haste, but following midday prayers we stopped for a leisurely meal at the souk. We ate of lamb while the merchants cried out about their wares and the food sizzled and the musicians sang. Sometimes Dabir thought best when surrounded by distractions. He ordered a platter of sugared dates but let me dine on them alone while he brooded. I nursed them with relish, and did not interrupt his silence. As I reached for the last, Dabir sighed and climbed to his feet. “Come, Asim.”
    “Where do we go?”
    “To an alchemist I know. We cannot see,” he added, “until we look.”
    From previous comments I knew that Dabir had experimented with alchemy but had not embraced its study. I was glad of that, for an alchemist’s workshop smells almost as foul as that of a dyer.
    A gray cloud hung over the chimney of the home