One of the lovely things about El-Adar is the quiet. Other than the strong winds that blow between the mountains and across the plateau and the constant burbling of the channels running through mosaic floors to end up, maze-like, at one of the fountains, things are quiet.
     Well, and the cantons singing in the minarets. And the call to vespers. Or the bells at mass. Or the consors, calling the rabbis to prayer. Or the herded horses storming across the southern field to corral.
     Other than that, it's terribly quiet at El-Adar.
     Oh, the shouts of the caballeros, cheering each other on. And the trucks and servants, coming in with fresh vegetables and fruits from the gardens and orchards. Almost forgot: the shuffling of feet, the cleaning of rooms, the girls singing in the scullery.
     Ah, yes. There is a serenity at Al-Edar found nowhere else. The glorious haven, awash in the shining sun or covered in gleaming twilight, gives quiet rest to the spirit and nourishment for the mind, all delivered on the open plain of silent solitude.

     "Goddammit," Edward says, sitting up from the bench near the Sforza fountain by his room. "Does this place ever shut up?" He glances at his watch, then shoots a look over where the end of prayer is being sung, far across buildings and walls. The Islamic Quarter. "No one can rest!" he screams, certainly loud enough so that floors around this part of the Christian Quarter's open plaza may hear. He looks up to the third floor colonnade, then down the first. Edward projects to the open doors of the shared suite at Valan, "I guess we'll see him once they're done with prayer," a snort rushing thereafter. "But then," Edward looks again, as if his x-ray vision penetrates the quarter-mile of structure to the Other Quarter, "...it may be time to head back to his knees again for Allah, so...who knows."
     It's good most of the twelve libraries are in the sub-basements. Someone was smart around here. For once.

     "Allah likes His men on their knees and His women blindfolded," comes the drawl of French. "...and they have a problem with me doing the same." Valan is visible, looking down the length of his own person and brushing a hand over his shirt.
     "I do not understand religion. They make it hard on themselves." Them. Christians, Jews and Muslims alike. Valan looks down the hallways and byways. His green-gold gaze is bemused. But no longer impressed.
     But the wardrobe is impressive. A dark brown suit with a crimson shirt. Dark brown shoes. Golden hair given a good muss most Modern. And already Valan is fishing for a cigarette. He may light up in the halls. Well, when people pray here they pray with incense, am I right?
     Valan taps the dark clove on the pack and looks to Edward. "Shall we go see?" He starts to move that way, to move through the noise. He doesn't care about all the racket. It's soothing, in its way. It's quiet you have to worry about.

     "See what?" Edward asks, swinging booted feet over the bench to face the open doors of his rooms. "We can't...not allowed." Such is the way of the infidel. "He'll come when he can," Edward says, standing up and stretching. "I have only been there in emergencies, myself," he notes for the record. "House security is one thing. Visiting, well," he grins. Not that he's ever had much need or desire also helps.

     This is the prayer:
     In the name of Allah, the Most Compassionate, The Most Merciful.
     All praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of all the Worlds.
     The Most Compassionate, the Most Merciful; Sovereign of the Day of Judgement.
     Thee do we worship, And from thee we seek help.
     Show us the straight Path, the Path of those and on whom Thou hast bestowed Thy blessings.
     Not on those On whom Thou art angry, nor on those who go astray.
     Amen.

     For six centuries, three times a day have such been uttered by The Sultan, Nasr Ben Yusef. For six centuries these words have left his lips and escaped into the ethereal, with faith that it is heard by God. The Prayer and its Call have become so natural and so inate that it has become like breathing... that is... a replacement for breathing. The blood in his veins is not his own, nor does it require oxygen any longer. The blood only requires faith and prayer and tradition.
     Nasr Ben Yusef then greets his fellow Muslims, offering them a handshake and a compassionate word. They are brethren here, some familiar for many, many years. Some familiar only tonight.
     And then it is done, as thousands upon thousands of nights before. Nasr Ben Yusef turns towards the guest quarters and his appointment.

      "Not allowed," the young vampire murmurs, murmurs as if he doesn't quite believe it. As if, by speaking it, he shall understand it. A golden eyebrow lifts, a gilded question mark to punctuate the thought and then he shrugs. And lights up.
     Disillusionment moves along the smoky veins that move through a deep red light. The soul must move from the disappointment of ruined visions to disillusionment to, one would hope, resignation and acceptance. But there is a loss of respect that he must either counteract with his own humility -- or that must be re-earned and relearned.
     Valan smiles to you, Edward, and the smile is love, but his mood is detached. He is suspended upon the air of El-Adar like a leaf blown from its tree. Without emotion and, now, without affilitation.

     Edward gives a sympathetic smile, seeing the disappointment. "It is not...us in particular It is the way," he shrugs. "We could visit the central mosque," there are multiple prayer rooms, "...if we really wanted. But the quarters..." Edward looks down at his feet, "...well, maybe it is a rule from centuries ago. It's stuck. Perhaps things are different in the present." He shrugs a little. "There are long memories," he chuckles.
     "You can ask him when he arrives. For me," Edward corrects, separating habits from rules, "...I am content to meet associates in the common areas, studies, and libraries." No need to invade anyone's space, for lack of a better choice of words.

     Nasr walks the halls towards the guest quarters. El-Adar is an expansive structure, much of it largely unchanged for several hundred years. Nasr has lived in many different places but there are few that he would consider home. El-Adar is one of them. There is not a resident here whom he hasn't shared coffee with at one time or another, be it servant or student. For the Muslims of El-Adar, this is all that remains of the Bagdad of long ago. The new Bagdad has no place for tolerance and even less for learning.
     Finally, he enters into the plaza looking around for Edward and his young charge. Some things move frighteningly slow in this place, being in many ways removed from the hustle and importance of modernity. It must be no small source of annoyance for his old friend and his childe.

     The slow pace is not what is annoying. Double-talking academics who profess learning and yet narrowly confine themselves and those around them in outdated constructs annoys him. But, Valan smokes, and the world becomes a better place. A clove between the lips, silk on the body. All that is missing is a hearty red wine.
     Senses will come, they will improve. In the distance he catches only the faint sound of steps. But those could be coming from anywhere. Valan pulls clove-scented breaths, inhaling fire, feeling the crackle on the borrowed blood. "Someone is coming," he murmurs. But truly, Edward, you knew long ago.
     "I have no need to go there," Valan notes for the record. "He will show when he shows. It does not matter to me, Eduard. I just find the concept... amusing." Amusing, but not funny. Valan exhales and plops down upon the bench at the fountain. He turns to Edward, a slight smile on his features. He offers the clove to him. Want a taste?

     Edward's not sure how he feels on that. He pushes himself up from the bench, a single stride to the cigarette. "It's not a concept, for them," he reminds. No need to be disrespectful in any public way. Despite his own lack of attachment to these traditions, he's happy to continue the protocols. Edward takes a drag from the cigarette, then gives it back to Valan. A smile comes. "There's nothing wrong with it," Edward surmises, grinning at the annoyance. "Really." Now, you're too harsh, though Edward understands your point.
     And indeed, a Muslim walks the Christian corridors. Edward lets the smoke drift from his parted lips, his head soon encircled in a cloud.
     "Infidel on the hall!" he calls, just in case no one's noticed. Edward laughs and looks down the outside corridor, not truly expecting tomatoes or cleansing prayers. At least everyone's gotten beyond that.

     Nasr lets out a roaring laugh in response to Edward. He approaches the two men and shakes his finger with amusement, "Watch your tongue Edward. You forget this is Spain! There is nothing these Catholics like more than a good Inquisition!" Nasr laughs again, his laughter a rolling infectious gale that effects his whole body.
     "Ho! You should have been here in the 16th Century. Now if I was only a wiser man, I would have got into the iron forging business. I could have made a fortune of the pokers alone! Alas, seizing opportunity seems to fall into your cousin Williams talents and not mine." He winks at Edward and quickly embraces the man into a large bear-like hug. Valan gets the same treatment, regardless of his heathen ways.

      Edward looks skeptical, one of his brows arching. "Hmm. If you had been here in the fourteenth century, you would have been hoisted on your own petard. Ha. I said petard," Edward laughs, taking a seat outside on the bench again to watch the doors. Edward is quiet when Valan is hugged, stifling a laugh, more likely.
     "So, what did you think?" Edward asks about the data chip. Might as well move the conversation on before someone says something. "They want Godfrey and Christos," Edward laughs. "Remove the head, yadda. But I'm not buying it, nor do I know who's all in town." They may have all fallen back to Malaga to regroup. "And they want Christos...I guess cause of clan ... whatever. To make their point."

     A hand comes up to save the cigarette. It must be preserved! "Good evening, sultan," comes the French, no more attempts at Spanish or Arabic are made at this point. He's a bit easier to get the arms around than Edward, but what there is of him is lean muscle mass. An athelete he was, as the modern world makes them. But regardless, he's gathered up with all the grace of a kitten being squeezed by a much taller bear.
     Once it's over, feline-like Valan attempts to smooth out now wrinkled fabric. He sits back upon the bench and inspects the cigarette. It made it through the storm of Nasr better than he did.
     You immediately drop into business, so Valan immediately turns his eyes to the fountain, watching the rise and fall of chiming water. "I am only amazed he is not announced by seven dancing virgins tossing roses..." he murmurs, gold-green eyes lifting to Nasr and to Edward. And then Valan smiles.

     Those were the days. Nasr frowns and his brow furrows, "I miss the dancing virgins most of all." He takes a seat on the bench and turns to look at the fountain. He is silent for a moment, pondering Edward's proclamation. Finally, he answers thusly, his voice quiet and barely audible "Well that is better than the whole coven." Apparently he doesn't like to use words like 'coven' around Christians for very obvious reasons.
     "I think that we can do what they wish. Christos, as is typical of his ilk, leads an extravagant and public life. That makes him easily accessible. On the other hand, he has a strong fear of being alone and it is exceedingly unlikely that we will catch him by himself." Nasr grins, a bit toothily. He looks back to the fountain and dips his fingers into the swirling water.
     "Godfrey will be a different matter all together." Nasr intones, sounding less enthusiastic.

      "Agreed," Edward murmurs. "Perhaps Christos would be inclined," nice choice, "...to point out Godfrey. Well, if Godfrey hasn't already reeled him in." Edward looks at Valan for a long moment. When it seems he's to say something to him, an exhale simply comes. "But, we can't half-do this," Edward thinks. "I don't like looking over my fuckin' shoulder all the fuckin' time."
     And then there's Valan.
      "And I don't want to sound the alarms." With tons of others, suddenly in Spain. "What a bleedin' mess," Edward murmurs, putting hands over his eyes. His own mess. Blancheflor should never have come to London.
     "They knew the rules and they fucked them," Edward remembers and shifts blame. No Sabbat in London, no noise, no screwing in The City...or any other ones for that matter.
     Suddenly, Edward looks up and blinks.
     "Think they know about...the dead Toreador..." and the other crap, "...in Madrid?" The larger group lying low. "I'm going to assume...they know. And they're not happy. I'd hate a bloody light shined on me..."

     Yes, and then there is Valan. Valan who insisted upon coming, whose distemper with his current environs compells him to leave it, even unto death. Who, if he were thinking clearly at the time, would realize that his going only endangers his own lover and his friends, friends that have taken him into their already complex lives. There was a look to Edward, there was speech on the tongue, but then business continued and the matter goes on, unaddressed.
     Will anyone tell him that he cannot go, that he endangers them? Will anyone say what he is thinking, what they may all be thinking, Nazari al Sa'ad included? You should stay home, Valan. You should go to Fleurlil and wait. This is no place for you.
     Valan finishes his cigarette, he stamps the remaining embers out against the lip of the fountain. "It sounds complicated," he finally says. "And dangerous." Gilt-green eyes that were once hazel look between Edward and Nasr, cupped in a serious expression. "You two... are thinking of going in on this alone?" He is worried. "Even with the matador, it sounds as though you will be outnumbered." Maybe you should call someone else. "I am thinking, suddenly, that I should be in France, out of the way," he notes to Edward. I am distracting you. I am making this more difficult.

     Nasr rubs his tongue along the sharp point of an incisor, making a thoughtful tongue clicking sound in the process. So many questions and so many answers. Too many answers. "They must know in Madrid... surely? But I doubt they would expect the Parisian to be so incensed on the matter..." Nasr scowls and shakes his head, "I have no answers on this. I have never been able to understand His mind. Would Madrid?" Understanding the Prince of Paris's mind is like staring into thick pea soup. Except with less green and more pastels.
     Nasr waves a hand at Valan as if to dismiss, or perhaps ward off, the man's words. "Yes yes... dangerous indeed. How could it be anything but? The Malagians know what they have done. They are survivors, one and all. They will be tenacious, strong, and guarded. Another, yes, certainly another. Perhaps two." These thoughts run downhill and across rocks and through crevasses as if a small mountain stream. A stream of consciousness. "The Welshman would be my first choice. If not him, then your cousin...And one of our more reclusive friends." The reclusive ones... the Nosforatu. Henri, or the Sicilian, Francesco.

     "If we're smart, we don't...go in... at all." Edward Meurelle? Thinking of more sophisticated means? He sighs. "I'd rather not have Francesco involved. Or William," he admits. "Maybe Niall," Edward suggests. "Georg," he even opts. Reticence for the others. "Henri." Edward makes a face, his brows slanting.
     For a moment, he takes another tack. Edward considers Valan. "You and the Matador should stay here, perhaps. I don't want you at Fleurlil by yourself either." He smiles at Valan for reading his mind. "You are too smart."
     "Henri and Niall," Edward finally comes up with. "Maybe Georg." That's his recommendation.

     "That is what they tell me," Valan murmurs upon the edge of a smile, tapping yet another cigarette. It is a good thing he cannot die by natural means, ne c'est pas? Clove is placed between his lips, his fingers thereafter seeking his lighter in his coat pocket. Dark brown on red, he is a vampiric chocolate-covered cherry. How ...Franc of him. "Frequently," he tacks on.
     Valan's features are awash in gold, just for a moment, but he is as incandescent as the face of a saint, for a moment flickering beautiful, then merely good-looking as the light departs. "I would like pleasant company while you are off getting yourself killed. That will make me feel better." He is such a smart-ass. It is nevertheless accurate. Valan exhales clove smoke and looks to Edward first, Nasr second and back to Edward. "Nazari will teach me how to fight the bulls. I will keep out of the way," of your work, "... and we will see each other here when you return." So he states the deal, expecting to find it acceptable and accepted.
     "Niall...Henri..." he ruminates. No, I do not know them. "Who're they? No Davydd?" he wonders. "Not William?"

     Nasr smirks slightly looking at Valan, "Umm.. I do not think Nazari will be happy to stay behind. She is strong headed and there is no surer way to heat her blood up than to tell her there is something she cannot do. But Edward is right." He nods his head in deference to his friend, "We all must do our duty. Edward to his Prince, I to my friend, and the apprentices to their masters. Such is the will of Allah, may we be in his mercy."
     Nasr leans back on the bench, his eyes searching Edward's face. "Yes, we are settled on Henri then. We would be hard pressed to do this task without the talents his kind bring." Nasr pauses for a moment, finally remarking, "I have not seen Niall in many, many years. Not since Franco." Nasr chuckles softly and shakes his head, "Ahh, Niall and I had quite a time during all of that. Yes indeed. I wonder how he is? Has he turned into a clump of mud yet? From the earth we have come, so shall we return again." Nasr's references tend towards the cryptic and the eccentric. It gets worse the longer he spends here. This place eventually causes everyone to speak in tongues, like the ancient Tower of Babel.

     "Oh, he's alright," Edward waves off, face mostly downturned. He's thinking -- something he doesn't normally need to do when William is around. Eyes slip to Valan as to his questions, but Edward gives no response. His list is as he suggests. "Niall will go, if we call. Henri..." Edward looks up to Nasr, "...what think you of Georg?"
     There is a theme among the names suggested. Nasr perhaps sees it.
     While waiting for Nasr's thoughts, Edward says softly to Valan, "No. I...would prefer not to call them." He was not ignoring you, see.

     What to say of Niall O'Dubhlain. Anglo-Irish. Malkavian -- but who can tell? He's Irish. The wolf in the hen-house. The bat up the belfry tower. Most folks think he's Gangrel. Mostly because he thinks he's Gangrel. Who's going to tell him otherwise? Sure, he's nuts. Sure, he's eccentric. But that's easily glossed over. He's also from Dublin.

     Valan doesn't know the patterns, but this isn't his mission. He doesn't have missions. He has hobbies. One of them is smoking. Another drinking. And so on. Valan looks to Nasr as Edward speaks. Recommendations being made. A second Alhambra in the works. Ah! "Niall the one who painted his face with the blood of the fallen," he smoothens out upon a puff of clove smoke. Now, I remember. He looks between you both, the detachment of earlier moments peeling back into genuine interest....

     Was that him? Oh, yeah. Edward cocks his head and then nods. "That's him..."

     "Georg? He is a mountain among men." Nasr grins broadly, a white flash on a black face. "It is a shame that Alfonso would have -no- interest in an endeavor such as this, else we would have our whole clan gathered in one place." Nasr laughs and nods his head, as if the idea causes him great amusement. He presses his finger against the side of his nose and then points with it to Valan, "That is Niall alright. There is something about his madness that is infectious. Although not in a bad sort of way. He has been touched by God, and no man remains the same when such happens."
     Nasr holds out in his hands in apology, "But back to Georg... he would come of course. He would enjoy something like this immensely. I suggested the Ventrue soley to diversify our talents. Alas, I lack something of the subtle, as does Georg. You, Edward my old friend, do not suffer so strongly from this flaw."

     Valan smiles, face lit by the cigarette. "Maybe Nazari and I could go to Alfonso's library." Yes, he still is trying to get out of El-Adar. It is a ceaseless endeavor. Odd, no? This place is so beautiful, why should anyone ever wish to leave?
     He flicks dead ash upon the spanish cobblestones, the remainders of that incense consecrating the stone. "The poet of the book called you the second coming of Hannibal," he notes to Nasr. "He said your spirit parades upon this earth, borne like a king and general upon the backs of elephants." He has memorized this book, it seems.
     Valan stands, crushing the remains of his second cigarette as he does so. "I think I am going to take a nice long, hot bath and not think about it for a while. And pack," he mentions. For whether he goes to Alfonso's library or not, he will not be staying here much longer. It will make him feel better, to think his departure is more imminent.
     Valan bows to Nasr. "Sultan." And straightening, he turns to Edward with a quiet smile. "I will see you in a while?" In the bath.

     Did Edward just get called somewhat subtle. His expression is one of 'are you mad'? "Now I know you've lost it," he mumbles, looking away from Nasr while shaking his head. He sighs. "I'd almost rather a Tremere," Edward says. "But, this isn't a campaign. It's a simple removal." That's it. No drama, no horses, no armies. "A Tremere and Henri to figure out where they are..." Edward's hands lift, "...and that's it. Pinpoint and..." Edward waves his hand, as if something magical will transpire. It's nothing like.
     "Oh," Edward nods at Valan. "Sure, ami," Edward says, rising and leaning to place a kiss upon Valan's cheek, hand to squeeze Valan's arm.

     The Sultan tilts his head and shrugs his shoulders as if to suggest to Edward that his comment was offhanded and shouldn't be pryed into to deeply. "William wouldn't have it. His sire has a deep hatred for the Tremere, though I know not from what it derives. While the mages might give me a cold shiver from time to time, one would be hard pressed to deny their avid hatred of the Covens." .
     Nasr clears his throat, "Anyway... that is of no matter. Good night to you Valan. I thank you for your kind words. Perhaps the poet may have been under more sway than is justified, yes?" Nasr chortles and nods his head.

     Yes, this makes the young man brighten, and he does not hide his joy to make the Sultan comfortable. No, there is none of that. Nor is there anything overtly intimate, no long embrace, nothing 'in your face' about the farewell at all. There follows a simple, short nod, a look of understanding and one last smile and nod of his head to Nasr. "I will note that in the margins," he murmurs.
     Valan gives respect where he feels such is warranted. One does not have it automatically because of one's supposed standing. Not from a child of the 20th and 21st centuries...
     And the idea of Alfonso's library was not denied. Hmmm... oui. To be in a house of true learning. A library. That is what I need...
     Soft steps carry him away and toward his chamber that he shares with Edward. Infidels and sinning infidels at that. The thought causes him to ... smile. Grandly.

     "I wasn't going to call William, now was I?" Edward grins in reminder. "What William doesn't know won't kill him. I'll send a message to Niall. He'll find Henri. And I'll see about more information from..." those he waves his hand at, far away in Paris. Justicar and Princes alike. "We'll find out who's actually in Malaga and then we'll go."

     Nasr rubs his hands together, obviously gleeful. "As you wish Edward." He rises to his feet, "And do not worry so. We have faced worse challenges in our time. I can already confirm where Christos lives. It is Godfrey that I am lacking information on. Find what shadows he is hiding in, and we have this little... mission almost wrapped up."
     Nasr turns himself to leave, "Goodnight to you my friend."

Posted by rowan at July 07, 2003 02:20 PM