The Many Assassinations of Samir, the Seller of Dreams: Chapters 11–16

The cleverest and oldest girl informed Samir that Stone Fist technique was for fists, but Samir taunted them all with a guffaw.

His smile was simpering but seemed to hide a sneer.

I would have thought that Samir, a master peddler, would have a distaste for someone so clumsy in the art.

“I sell many good oils for cleaning, tinctures for rheumatism, plague, soreness, warts, and bad luck.”

I scuttled back over to Samir and whispered, “That must be him! The Chinese ablutionist.”

“But he’s here to poison you.”
Samir looked at me like this was obvious.
“Here’s the point,” said Samir. “You’re a very dour little monk for someone so young, and our treacherous friend here doesn’t speak so well.”

Then a notion struck me. I wondered if Samir was still as brokenhearted as before.

I’ve still got you and Rostam, and that Smithy’s a good sort, and Mara could be my daughter-in-law if you play your charms right, and I have Rasseem, my stench-ridden confidant.

I was momentarily appeased.

The ablutionist placed the frothy cup in front of Samir with a bow.

Maybe he had arranged the match knowing that after years of hustling emirs at the game he would be unbeatable.

Maybe a man as cumbersome as this one needed a higher dose?

For the next move, Samir took a piece, and the wiry chemist took a drink of raki.

Do you see how awful it is to be in love with someone who disdains you?

Their secret method wasn’t the all-powerful hand of accident. It was just a bunch of convoluted schemes.

He spat at Samir, made gestures to pantomime Samir’s inconvenient fatness, and pointed at the upturned cups.

I imagined the poison had begun to boil in the man’s stomach, and the fumes had finally wafted up to his nose.

Samir stifled a giggle.

The frantic ablutionist lifted all the cups. Each had a sea sponge underneath, like a rigged shell game.

I carried the body on my back, with the arms over each of my shoulders like a yoke.

He was obnoxiously cheerful in the face of our predicament.

But as I opened my mouth to tell him that he had been betrayed, we were interrupted by the sound of a snap, a rustle of stones, and what might have been a polite cough.

Samir took the brunt of the collision in his belly.

Rostam nickered his disapproval.

It seems to me, brothers, that you’re spending a treasure on this lark, and for what? For killing a fellow Mussalman and a holy monk.

Never leave food on your plate. Never write someone else’s name on your body. And never skimp on assassins.

I thought, Was there no end to the indignities suffered by the weak and the infirm for the conveniences of the strong and the well-fed?

A wild olive tree marked the end of the thicket, which must have been fed from an underground tributary of the Tarim River.

We both knew this was his most farfetched idea. How could we climb the Pamir Mountains faster than five professional soldiers?

In that moment, I understood the expansive and expensive nature of Samir’s love for me. He was willing to die on the bridge, so I would live.

I scowl at him, but scowling at him only ever riles him up.

“As though Samir, the Seller of Dreams, who sold the scrolls of the Gospel of Rostam to the Crusaders; who once turned to the Doge of Venice and said, ‘You know, if you keep it this way, you could sell boat rides to the tourists’; Samir, the personal supplier to Ibn Sina and the child emperor of the Walled City—him. Me. As if that man would be duped by a dirty bird-catcher like Rasseem.”

I wring out my sleeves. The water that pours out is still dyed red.

“Mara said we’d never escape them.”
“Mara is too cynical,” says Samir.

We walk along a ravine, into the Pamir Mountains. A sheer cliffside rises up beside us as we go.

A hail of pebbles clatters off my skull until a rock the size of a fist bounces off the wall and smashes into my cheek.

When we come to the main road, we see a camel rider approaching from the direction of the east bound caravan settlement.

His satchel is stuffed with sealed letters, scouting reports from surrounding outposts, receipts of sale, and several leather folios engraved with the crest of local magistrates, bound for the Capital King of Samarkand.

“Rasseem is dead,” I say, handing him the papyrus. “He really should have bought your toothpaste.”
“Nonsense,” says Samir, distraught. “I would have given it.”

We are a caravan of three.
The great Samir, Seller of Dreams—a man six times dead and reborn.
Even greater is his servant, Monkey, who defied the mark of Cid.
And greatest is Rostam—a warhorse to Neptune, a pallbearer of the Nazarene.