The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

“Me! Me! Me! I am the one who will be the hero. Sond and Fedj are dogs compared to Pukah! Akhran himself will bow before Pukah. ‘Without you, my hero,’ our God will say as he takes me in his arms and kisses both my cheeks, ‘I would be lost! I would be licking Quar’s boots! Here’s a palace, here’s two palaces, here’s a dozen palaces and ten dozen djinniyeh!’ “

  “Let Sond play his games! Let him plot his plots and scheme his schemes! Let him think he has won! I will snatch the fruit from his mouth and it will be so much the sweeter for having the marks of his teeth on it! Now, to make my plans. What is the name of Sheykh’s Zeid’s djinn?”

  “Raja,” supplied the Pukah in the mirror.

  “Raja,” murmured Pukah.

  Once again he resumed his pacing, this time with such concentrated thought that he completely forgot the Pukah in the mirror, who—nevertheless—did not forget him but kept up with him step for step until night fell and both were swallowed by darkness.

  Chapter 7

  Peering out from a hole in the charcoal brazier that sat within the entrance to his mistress’s tent, Usti watched a young man—at least it appeared to be a young man—stride through the camp of Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar early in the morning, almost three weeks following the arrival of spring to the Tel. The young man’s boots were dusty, his robes coated with a fine film of sand, the haik covered nose and mouth. It was obvious that he had been out riding in the cool of the day. There was nothing unusual in this. It should not have attracted any particular attention to him. It did, however, and the attention was not of a flattering kind.

  Women carrying firewood to cook the noonday meal stopped and stared at the young man with cold, unfriendly eyes or whispered to each other before hurrying on their way. Their husbands, standing about discussing the relative merits of one horse over another, glanced at each other as the young man walked by them, their eyebrows rising significantly. Conversations fell silent, the eyes of the men and the women turned to the tent of their Calif, who was just emerging, his falcon on his wrist, preparatory to a day’s hunting.

  The djinn saw that the young man was aware of the glances and undoubtedly heard the whispered words, for his head tilted higher, the lips pressed firmly together. Ignoring the stares and the mutterings, looking neither to the right nor the left but straight ahead, the young man continued walking through the camp.

  His way led him directly past the Calif, who was watching his coming with a face devoid of all expression. Usti held his breath. Nearing Khardan, the young man—for the first time—shifted his eyes from the tent that was his destination. The gazes of the two met and crossed like saber blades; the djinn swore that he could hear the clash and see the sparks.

  Neither the Calif nor the young man spoke. The young man, with a contemptuous toss of the head, walked past his Calif. Khardan went his own way, crossing the compound to his father’s tent. The women continued their chores, the men picked up their conversations, many looking after their prince with sympathy and respect, praising his patience, speaking of him as they might speak of a martyr who was being tortured for his faith.

  Seeing the young man approach, Usti groaned and immediately thrust several fragile items beneath a mound of clothes. He himself took refuge in his brazier in the sunken tiled bath that he had lined with sheepskin for just such an emergency.

  Coming to his tent, which was pitched as far from Khardan’s as was decently possible, the young man angrily jerked open the tent flap. Usti heard Zohra’s voice muttering through the folds of the haik.

  “Unwomanly! . . . Unnatural! . . . Cursed! Hah!”

  The djinn cringed, then groaned again as he heard a ripping, slashing sound. Usti risked a look.

  “No, madam! Not the cushions!”

  Too late.

  Drawing her dagger, Zohra stabbed it into a silken cushion, slitting it open from top to bottom. From the look upon her face it was obvious to the djinn that—in Zohra’s mind—it was not a cushion that she was murdering. Tossing it into a corner, she caught hold of another and drove the weapon into the fabric flesh, then disemboweled it, yanking out the wool stuffing and throwing it about the tent until it seemed a rare desert snowstorm had struck.

  “And we all know who will have to clean this up, don’t we, madam,” the djinn said to himself gloomily.

  Again and again Zohra hurled herself at her enemy, until there wasn’t a cushion left alive. Finally, exhausted, she sank back down among the remnants of her rage and gnawed her lip until it bled.

  “If this foul marriage does not end soon, I shall go mad!” she cried. “It is all his fault! I will make him pay. I will make them all pay!”

  Zohra’s hand closed over the charcoal brazier. Usti, tumbling back into his bathtub, shrieked in despair.

  “Madam! I beg of you! Consider what is left of my furniture!”

  Zohra, sneering, peered inside the brass brazier. “Why? If it is as worthless as you are, blubbering pile of camel dung, then it can be replaced by a few sticks of wood and the skin of a goat!”

  A hissing sound, like air escaping from an inflated bladder, and a wobbly column of smoke emerging from the brazier announced the arrival of the djinn. Assuming his fat and comfortable form, Usti materialized in the center of the tent.

  Casting the destruction a bitter, dismal look, the djinn placed his hands together and salaamed, bending as low as his rotund belly permitted.

  “May the blessings of Hazrat Akhran be upon you, this morning, delicate daughter of the flowers,” said Usti humbly.

  “May the curse of Hazrat Akhran be upon you this morning, you horse’s hind end,” returned the delicate daughter with a snarl.

  Usti shut his eyes, shuddered, and drew a deep breath.

  “Thank you, madam,” he said, bowing again.

  “What do you want?” Zohra demanded irritably. Tossing the brazier down upon the torn cushions, she began pacing restlessly the length of the tent, muttering to herself and twining one long strand of black hair around her finger.

  “If madam will recall,” the djinn began, carefully repeating what he and Sond had spent last night devising, “she commanded me to come up with a plan by which we could extricate ourselves from the current intolerable situation.”

  Zohra glared at the djinn. “I commanded you? To come up with a plan! Hah!” Tossing her black mane of hair, she stopped her pacing long enough to pick up a golden jewel box from out of the torn fabric and sheep fluff.

  “Per-perhaps I misunderstood madam,” Usti stammered. “Perhaps you did.” Madam sneered. “The last command I recall giving you was to—”

  “I—I remember!” Usti said, sweat pouring off his face. “And I assure madam that such a thing is physically impossible, even for those of us whose bodies, shall we say, lack material substance . . .”

  Hefting the jewel box in an alarming manner, Zohra eyed the throwing distance between herself and the djinn.

  “Please!” gasped Usti. “If you would only listen to me!”

  “Is this another of your imbecilic schemes? Flying carpets? Pig’s bladders inflated with hot air that sail through the clouds? Or perhaps my personal favorite—putting wings on the sheep so that they could fly to us!”

  Usti, his eyes on the jewel box, gulped. Drawing forth a silken handkerchief, he began to mop his forehead.

  “I . . . I . . .” The djinn’s words slipped from him like olive oil from a pitcher.

  “Speak!” Zohra raised her hand, the jewel box glinting in the light.

  Usti lifted one pudgy arm in defense and closing his eyes, gabbled in a rush: “It seems to me, madam, that if we require horses we should take them!”

  The djinn cringed, waiting for the jewel box to careen off his head.

  Nothing happened.

  Hesitantly Usti dared risk a peep at his mistress.

  She stood transfixed, staring at him with wide eyes. “What did you say?”

  “I repeat, madam,” Usti replied, lowering his arm with great dignity, “that if we
desire horses we should take them.”

  Zohra blinked, the jewel box fell from her hand to land unheeded on the wool-covered floor.

  “After all, you are the head wife of the Calif,” Usti continued, pressing his argument as Sond had suggested.

  “What is his is yours, is it not?”

  “But I asked him for the horses and he refused,” Zohra murmured.

  “That was your mistake, madam,” Usti said crisply. “Although we give alms, who among us truly has respect for the beggar?”

  For a moment the djinn thought he’d gone too far. Zohra’s face flushed a dusky rose color, the flame in her eyes nearly scorched him. Angrily she snatched up the jewel box again, and Usti hurriedly prepared to seek the shelter of his brazier. But he saw suddenly that Zohra’s anger was turned inward, against herself.

  Brushing the black hair out of her face, she regarded the djinn with grudging respect.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “That was my mistake. So you are proposing I take what is mine by right of marriage. I do not think my husband will quite see matters with the same eye.”

  “Madam,” said Usti earnestly, “far be it for me to disrupt a union made in heaven. Your noble husband has many worries. It is of the utmost importance that we do not cause Khardan a moment’s anxiety. Therefore I suggest, in order to spare him all discomfort, that we acquire the said horses in the nighttime when his eyes are closed in slumber. When he wakes in the morning, the horses will be gone and it will be no good crying over spilt mare’s milk. Then, in order to further spare him pain, we will tell him that the horses were stolen by that son of a she-camel, Sheykh Zeid.”

  Zohra hid her smile behind the veil of her black hair. “Won’t my noble husband discover an inconsistency in our story when he sees my people riding upon the backs of horses that should be a hundred miles away to the south?”

  “Is it our fault that Zeid is a notorious idiot and allowed the horses to slip through his fingers? The poor beasts, wandering lost in the desert, appeared in our camp in the foothills and we Hrana—out of the kindness of our hearts and the exhortation of Hazrat Akhran that we treat his children with respect—took in the animals, who, noble creatures that they are, did not want us to go to the vast expense of feeding and caring for them without offering their services in return.” Usti wheezed for breath, this last statement having completely winded him.

  “I see,” Zohra said thoughtfully, pressing the cool metal of the jewel box against her cheek as she pondered. “And how am I to convince my father of the merits of this plan? Pious fool—man that he is, he would never permit it.”

  “Your father, praise his name, is elderly, madam. Care should be taken to make his last days upon this world days of peace and happiness. Therefore I suggest that we do not disturb him with such unsettling matters. I am certain that there are young men within your tribe who would be willing-nay, eager—to take part in such an adventure?”

  Zohra smiled grimly. There was no doubt about that! The last dagger-wielding skirmish between the warring tribes had left several young Hrana—including a cousin of hers—lying bleeding and battered in the sand. The Hrana nursed their wounds, praying to Akhran to grant them an opportunity for revenge, and inwardly cursing Jaafar for preventing them from declaring open warfare. These young men would find this raid much to their liking and would have no qualms about keeping it secret from their Sheykh.

  “When should this take place?”

  “In a week’s time, madam. The moon will not smile upon the night and darkness will cover our movements. That will also give me time to contact those you suggest and make them acquainted with our plan. “

  “I may have underestimated you, Usti,” Zohra admitted magnanimously.

  “Madam is too kind!” Usti bowed humbly.

  Opening the jewel box, Zohra seated herself in a corner of the tent on the one cushion that had escaped her wrath. Lifting a golden sapphire-studded bracelet from the box, she slid it on her arm and studied it critically, admiring the way the jewels caught the rays of the midday sun.

  “Now,” she commanded leisurely, motioning with her hand at the destruction in the tent, “clean up this mess.”

  “Yes, madam,” said the djinn, heaving a profound sigh.

  Chapter 8

  The east glowed faint gold with the approach of dawn. South of the Tel there was one cloud in the sky, drifting ever nearer to the camps of the Akar and Hrana. It was a strange cloud, moving leisurely from the south to the north—traveling against the wind currents, which were blowing west to east. On this cloud reclined two djinn, resting comfortably among the ephemeral mists as they might have rested on the finest cushions of the most luxurious couch.

  One of the djinn was large, well-built, with skin the color of ebony. He was arrayed in gold cloth, massive gold earrings hung to his shoulders, his arms were encircled with gold enough to ransom a Sultan, and the expression on his face was fierce, for he was a warrior djinn of a warrior tribe. Seated near him, eating figs from a basket and talking animatedly, was the lithe and slender Pukah.

  “Yes, Raja, my friend, our God, the Holy Akhran, commanded that the tribes of Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar and Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar join together and live in peace and harmony at the Tel, and that they further symbolize this newly established unity by the marriage of the daughter of Jaafar with the son of Majiid.”

  “And did they marry?” growled Raja. Lying prone, stretched full length upon the cloud, he hefted a gigantic scimitar into the air, critically appraising the sharpness of the blade by the light of the rising sun. .

  “Most certainly!” Pukah nodded his head. “It was a wedding that I may truthfully say will be long remembered. But surely your master has heard of this from the God?”

  “No,” said Raja, a dangerous note in his voice. “My master has heard nothing of this . . . miracle.”

  “Ah!” Pukah sighed sympathetically and placed his hand upon Raja’s black-skinned arm. “I know how difficult it must be for you, my friend, to serve such an impious master. If only Sheykh Zeid were more attentive in his service to Hazrat Akhran, it might have been your master who was chosen to rejoice in the God’s blessings.”

  “No one knows the pangs I suffer over my master’s impiety,” Raja remarked, staring at Pukah coldly until the young djinn, with a deprecating smile, hurriedly removed his hand from the huge, muscular arm. The black djinn turned the blade of his weapon this way and that, watching it catch the light. “So you say that the two tribes are living together in the shadow of the Tel? I find this remarkable, considering that they are such bitter enemies.”

  “Were, my dear Raja, were bitter enemies,” said Pukah. “The wounds of the past have been cauterized by the flame of love. Such hugging and kissing! Such games and revelry, such comradeship we have. It makes one weep to see it.”

  “I can imagine,” said Raja wryly.

  “And then the fondness of the Calif for his wife!” Pukah gave a rapturous sigh that ruffled the feathers of a passing flock of startled birds. “From the moment the sun rises and he must leave her arms, Khardan counts the hours until the sun sets and he can rush back to enjoy her numerous charms and endowments.”

  Knowing the reputation of the lady in question, Raja raised a skeptical eyebrow at this.

  “I assure you it is the truth, my dear Raja!” Pukah said solemnly. “But perhaps you doubt my word—”

  “No, no, my dear Pukah,” Raja grunted. “It is just that I am overcome with joy”—the black djinn brought his sword down suddenly with an alarming swipe that neatly chopped the cloud in two and sent half of it scudding off in the opposite direction—”at this picture of bliss you describe! The thought of peace coming to such bitter enemies overwhelms me. I long to see for myself. . .”

  Pukah did not hesitate. “Precisely why I brought you here. Look, my doubting friend.”

  Raja, bending over, peered down from the heights of the cloud.

  It was just past dawn. Pukah considered this a p
ropitious time to present the camp for inspection, being fairly certain that if there had been any fights last night, the Tel would have attained some semblance of peace if only that the combatants must have dropped from sheer exhaustion.

  “See, what did I tell you? The tents of the Hrana standing beside the tents of the Akar!” said the young djinn, proudly exhibiting the camp.

  “What is that large splotch of blood there?”

  “Where we slaughter the sheep.” Pukah’s face was innocent and bland as goat’s milk.

  “I see.”

  Bent over the rim of the cloud so that Pukah could not see his face, Raja gnawed his lip, scowled, and cast the young djinn a swift, sidelong, angry glance.

  “It is the wish of my master, the Calif “—Pukah babbled on happily, noticing nothing of this sudden change of the black djinn’s expression—”that your master, Sheykh Zeid, come to us at the Tel and press to his bosom his cousins, Majiid and Jaafar, whose love for Zeid exceeds only the love they bear for each other.”

  His face once more carefully expressionless, Raja raised his head and looked intently at Pukah. “That is the wish of the Calif?”

  “The dearest wish of his heart.”

  “You may be certain that I will convey this message to my master.”

  “With all haste?” Pukah prompted.

  “With all haste,” responded Raja grimly. Good as his word, he disappeared on the spot.

  “Ah, I guess he could not contain his eagerness.” Pukah leaned back among the feathery cloud. “So much for Sond,” he said to himself blissfully. “Let him try to be the hero now! Let him plot his little plots and try to convince Hazrat Akhran that he was responsible for keeping peace between two tribes. Pukah, you have outdone him! Pukah, you will achieve the union of three tribes! Pukah, history will resound with your name!”

  Popping a fig into his mouth, the young djinn, arms behind his head, relaxed upon his cloud. Drifting through the sky, he began to mentally layout the floor plan of the palace a grateful Akhran would bestow upon him, populating the airy rooms of his imagination with supple beauties who danced, sang, and whispered honeyed words of love in his ears.