The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The moment Zeid’s djinn, Raja, had come to him with news that Majiid and Jaafar had combined forces, Zeid determined to see for himself if this disquieting news was true. The Sheykh had at first discounted it. Zeid did not believe that even Akhran could draw the poison from the bad blood that ran between the two tribes. Traveling north on his swift camel, Zeid had seen, from a distance, the altercation taking place beneath the Tel and he had smiled, his belief confirmed.

  “You are mistaken, Raja,” he told his djinn, who was concealed in a golden jewel box in one of the Sheykh’s khurjin. “They have met here to fight, and it seems that we are going to be fortunate enough to witness a good battle.”

  It struck him as odd, however, that the two tribes should have chosen this remote location—far from their accustomed dwelling places. On riding closer, Zeid was further disconcerted to see the tents of both tribes pitched around the Tel, with the outer signs of having been here for some length of time.

  “It appears you may be right, after all, Raja,” Zeid had muttered out of the corner of his mouth as he drove his camel forward.

  “You play rough, young man,” the Sheykh said now in awe, staring at the large patch of blood on the Calif ‘s trousers and the purpling marks of teeth in his hand.

  “Boys will be boys, you know, my friend,” Majiid said with a deprecating chuckle.

  Putting an arm around the Sheykh’s shoulder, Majiid turned Zeid away from the sight of churned-up, bloody ground, using slightly more force than politeness dictated.

  “Fun is over, young men!” Jaafar shouted. His back to Zeid, he glared sternly at the combatants, indicating by hand gestures that they were to clear the area as rapidly as possible. “Help each other up. That’s good men!” he continued in a cheerful, hollow voice.

  Reluctantly—eyes on their Sheykhs—the Akar stretched out their hands to the Hrana, assisting those they had been attempting to kill a moment before.

  “See if anyone’s dead!” Jaafar said in an undertone to Fedj.

  “Dead?” Zeid, coming to a halt, twisted out of Majiid’s extremely friendly grip.

  “Dead! Ha! Ha!” Majiid laughed loudly, attempting to get hold of Zeid once more.

  “Ha! Ha! Dead! My father-in-law is such a jokester.” Putting his arm around Jaafar, Khardan gave the old man a hug that nearly strangled him. “Did you hear that, men? Dead!”

  Scattered laughter rippled through the tribesmen as they hurriedly doused their torches while surreptitiously bending down to check for pulses in the necks of those few who were lying ominously still and quiet on the ground.

  “Come, Zeid, you must be hungry after that long ride. Allow me to offer you food and drink. Sond! Sond!”

  The djinn appeared, looking grim, dazed, and wild-eyed. If Majiid noticed, he put it down to the interrupted fight and immediately forgot it in the press of other troubles. “Sond, you and Fedj, the djinn of my dear friend Jaafar, go along ahead of us and prepare a sumptuous feast for our guest.”

  Sond bowed unsteadily, bringing shaking hands to his head, a sickly smile on his lips. “I obey, sidi,” he said, and vanished.

  Majiid heard stifled groans coming from behind him and hurried the Sheykh along until Zeid was practically tripping over his shoes.

  “Will your son be joining us?” Zeid asked, turning, attempting once more to see what was going on.

  Glaring at Khardan above Zeid’s head, Majiid indicated with several urgent nods that the Calif was to remain on the field and keep the fight from breaking out again.

  “If you will forgive me, Sheykh Zeid,” Khardan said with a bow, “I will remain behind to take care of this remarkable camel of yours and to make certain everyone finds his tent. Some,” —he glanced at a limp Hrana being dragged through the sand by two Akar—”have been celebrating overmuch, I’m afraid.”

  “Yes,” said Zeid, thinking he saw a trail of blood in the sand but unable, because of Majiid’s large body blocking his sight, to get a closer glimpse.

  “My dear cousin Jaafar will join us, however. Won’t you, my dear cousin?” Majiid said, his voice grating.

  Jaafar wrenched his gaze from the body being hastily dragged off into the desert and managed to mutter something polite. He fell into step beside them.

  “But surely he is not coming to eat dressed in his nightclothes?” Zeid said, glancing at Jaafar in considerable perplexity.

  Gazing down at himself, having completely forgotten his state of undress, Jaafar flushed in embarrassment and hurried off to his tents to change, thankful for the chance to regain his composure. But as he went, he heard Majiid loudly telling their guest, “New wife. Wanted to see the fun but didn’t want to waste time getting to bed afterward.”

  Groaning, Jaafar clutched his aching head. “Cursed! Cursed!” he moaned as he darted into his tent and hastily pulled out his best robes.

  Khardan, standing in the midst of the horses, glaring sternly about to see that his orders were being carried out, heard a step behind him and caught the flash of steel out of the corner of his eye.

  “This fantasia isn’t over, Akar!” came a voice in his ear. Whirling, Khardan struck his attacker a sharp blow to the stomach with his elbow, hearing the breath leave the man’s body with a satisfying whoosh. A well-aimed right to the chin persuaded Sayah that the fun, for him, had ended.

  Khardan assisted the groggy young man to his tent and pitched him unceremoniously inside, then hastened back to attend to the dead. Planning to bundle the bodies into hurriedly dug graves, he discovered to his relief that, though several were critically wounded, no one on either side had been killed. Seeing the wounded delivered safely into the care of their wives, hearing laughter and loud talk coming from the tent of his father, Khardan cast a glance at Zohra’s tent. It was dark and silent.

  Looking at the tooth marks on his hand, the Calif shook his head and smiled, then wearily turned his steps to his own tent and fell, exhausted, into bed.

  Teetering on the edge of sleep, the Calif was vaguely conscious of Pukah’s voice in his ear.

  “This was all my doing, Master! All my doing!”

  Chapter 12

  The seventy-two hours of the guest period crept along with the slow, dragging steps of a lame and blind beggar. Following the storm, the Tel sweltered beneath a fiery sun that appeared determined to remind them that the unbearable heat of summer was not far off. The tribes themselves sweated in the heat of unresolved anger. They had the taste of blood in their mouths, yet were forbidden to reveal by the least sign, look, word, or deed that all were not the best of friends, the closest of brothers.

  This unnatural friendship became such a strain that most of the tribesmen forbore to walk about camp, preferring to skulk about in their tents, plotting dark deeds when the guest period ended. Fortunately the heat of the day gave them the perfect excuse, although the Sheykhs found it difficult to explain why the camp was unnaturally silent and somber during the customary hours of socialization after dark.

  Nothing was seen or heard of Zohra during the three days, much to the relief of her father and her husband. This was not unusual, since it was the custom of the tribes to keep their women hidden as much as possible during the visit of a stranger. There was one slight incident: a child, scampering past Zohra’s tent, discovered a brass charcoal brazier lying in the sand outside of it. Picking it up to return it to its owner, the child noted with some wonder that the brazier was badly dented and appeared to have been smashed with a rock.

  Dinner was the most trying period for everyone concerned. Always an elaborate affair—in honor of the guest a sheep was butchered each night—dinner demanded that Majiid and Jaafar not only exhibit every politeness to their guest but to each other as well. Majiid’s forced smile made his face ache. Jaafar was so nervous that the food he ate sat in a lump in his stomach and he was up half the night with belly cramps.

  Meanwhile, all feasted on roast mutton; fatta, a dish of eggs and carrots; berchouks, pellets of sweetened rice; and almo
nd cakes; spread before them on the food carpets by the servants. No one talked during meals, this time being spent in enjoying the food and allowing the digestion to proceed uninterrupted. But after dinner, drinking sweet tea alternated with dark, bitter coffee, nibbling on dates and figs, or sharing the hubble-bubble pipe, the men conversed pleasantly, each keeping his tongue dull and his ears sharp—as the adage goes—hoping to say nothing that would give himself away, hoping to hear something that might be to his advantage.

  The burden of conversation fell naturally upon the guest, who was expected to share news of the world with his hosts in exchange for their hospitality. Zeid felt safe in such discussions; the rapidly changing political situation in Tarakan provided him a perfect topic. His first news gave his hosts a shock, however.

  “The Amir in Kich—” Zeid began.

  “Amir?” Khardan appeared startled. “Since when is there an Amir in Kich?”

  “My friends, haven’t you heard?” Zeid reveled in the position of being the first to impart important information. “Kich has fallen to the Emperor of Tara-kan!”

  “What has happened to the Sultan?” demanded Jaafar.

  “Put to death along with his household by the Amir,” answered Zeid grimly, “supposedly for refusing to worship Quar. Actually, I don’t think the Sultan was offered the choice. He might have been perfectly content to worship Quar, but the Imam needed an example for the remainder of the populace. The Sultan, his wives, concubines, children, and eunuchs were dragged to the top of the cliffs above the city and hurled over the edge; their bodies left to feed the vultures and the jackals. The fortunate ones,” he added, chewing a fig, “died in the fall. The less fortunate were rescued and what remained of them turned over to the torturers. Some, it was said, lived for days. As you might imagine, the town’s population converted almost to a man; the grandees pooled their funds to build a new temple dedicated to Quar.”

  “I trust this will not affect our trading with them,” said Majiid, frowning, smoke curling from his bearded lips.

  “I don’t see why it should,” replied Khardan coolly, lounging back on the cushions and leisurely sipping his coffee. “In fact, it might just prove more favorable. I presume this Amir is anxious to extend the Emperor’s holdings down into Bas. He will undoubtedly be needing horses for his troops.”

  “But will he buy them from a kafir, an unbeliever?” queried Jaafar smoothly, delighted at the opportunity to toss cold water on his enemy’s fire while maintaining the guise of concerned friendship. “Perhaps he will throw you from the cliffs Majiid.” Jaafar’s unspoken words adding, May I be there to witness it.

  Hearing that silent comment as clearly as the voiced, Majiid’s beard bristled, his eyebrows coming together so alarmingly over his hawk nose that Khardan hurriedly intervened.

  “Come, now. The Amir is, after all, a military man. Military men are practical, by and large, and certainly not accustomed to being led around by the nose by priests, no matter how powerful. If the Amir needs horses, he will buy ours and we will have the secret satisfaction of knowing that the horses of Hazrat Akhran will bear the followers of Quar into what we devoutly pray is disaster.”

  “The Amir, as you say, is a practical man,” said Zeid cautiously, not wanting to contradict his host impolitely, yet, just as eager as Jaafar to thrust a verbal knife into the ribs of his enemies. “And he is an excellent commander, as you may judge by the fact that he defeated the Sultan’s armies in a single battle. But do not underestimate the Imam. This priest is, so I have heard, a charismatic man of great personal beauty and intelligence. He is, as well, a zealot, who has dedicated himself body and soul to the service of Quar. It is rumored that he has great influence not only over the Amir, but—what is more important—over the Amir’s head wife, as well. Her name is Yamina and she is reputedly a sorceress of great power.”

  “I trust you are not implying that my son will be in danger from the Amir’s wife!” Majiid demanded forgetting himself.

  “Oh, certainly not.” Zeid made a graceful smoothing gesture with his chubby hand. “No more than he is in danger from his own wife.”

  Khardan choked, spilling his coffee. Majiid bit through the pipe stem, splitting it in two with his teeth, and Jaafar swallowed a date whole, nearly strangling himself. Zeid gazed around in perfect innocence, smoothing his beard with his jeweled hand.

  Having been commanded by a glum and dour Sond to serve, Pukah hurriedly chose this juncture to pour more coffee. The conversation turned to safer topics, and a friendly argument over the relative merits of horses versus camels allowed the evening to end in harmony.

  But before going to his bed that night, Zeid peeped from the guest dwelling, his shrewd eyes following Khardan to his tent— the Calif ‘s tent, not the tent where his wife resided.

  “Raja was right. It is a marriage of convenience, nothing more,” Zeid muttered to himself. “So—I am resolved.”

  The end of the guest period came at last. The evening of the third day saw Zeid mounting his camel, intending to take advantage of the coolness of the night to make the desert crossing. Khardan offered to serve as escort, taking two of his younger brothers with him.

  Zeid left with many protestations of friendship. “It pleases a pious man such as myself that you are carrying out the wishes of our God and living in harmony together. You may rest assured that I will be keeping my eyes on you, cousins. Imbued as you are with Akhran’s blessing, you soon might grow as wealthy and powerful as myself.”

  Seeing Majiid and Jaafar exchanging grim glances, Zeid concealed his smile.

  Leaving this barb to rankle in his hosts’ flesh, the Sheykh rode off with a flourish, taking the opportunity to exhibit the great speed of his animal. The horses of his escorts galloped along behind.

  Following the Sheykh’s departure, Majiid saddled his warhorse and went for an hour’s gallop in the desert to vent his pentup rage. Jaafar took to his bed. Pukah, alone in his basket, was relaxing with a plate of sweetmeats when he was surprised to hear a familiar voice asking permission to enter his dwelling.

  “Enter and welcome,” said Pukah, rising to his feet, somewhat amazed to see Raja. “To what do I owe this great pleasure? Your master and mine are in no danger are they?”

  “None, I assure you,” Raja replied. Opening his hand, the djinn revealed a lovely little jewel box. “My master sends this to your master, with thanks for his timely ‘warning.’ “

  “Warning?” Pukah’s mouth dropped open. “My master gave him no warning. What are you talking about? Are you certain this was intended for the Calif? Perhaps you are seeking Fedj or Sond—”

  “No, no,” said Raja smoothly, dropping the box into Pukah’s limp hand. “It is obvious to Sheykh Zeid that these two tribes have joined together solely for the purpose of attacking him and that he was brought here in hopes that he would be intimidated.”

  Raja’s bland, polite smile changed to a sneer. “Tell your master his plan to frighten Sheykh Zeid al Saban has not succeeded. My master goes now to organize his army, and when he returns, he will crush your tribes into the ground!” The djinn bowed. “Farewell, ‘friend.’ “

  Raja disappeared in a clap of thunder that shook Pukah’s basket and set the bowls rattling. The stunned young djinn stood staring at the dark cloud of smoke—all that could now be seen of Raja as he swirled away.

  “Sul’s blood!” murmured Pukah in despair. “What do I do now?”

  Chapter 13

  “Wife, wake up!” A touch on her shoulder roused Zohra from a fitful sleep. Quick as a striking snake, her hand darted to the dagger. Khardan was swifter. His own hand closed over her wrist.

  “You have no need of that. I came to tell you that you are wanted in your father’s house. We must talk about what has happened.”

  He was kneeling beside her bed. An oil lamp burned on the floor near him. Holding Zohra’s wrist tightly until he felt, from the relaxing of her tense muscles, that she understood what he wanted of her, Khar
dan stared intently into his wife’s flushed face, nearly hidden from view by masses of black hair. The usually fiery black eyes were misty with sleep, confusion, and—deep in their depths—fear. He could guess what she must be thinking. Disgrace, divorce. . . He smiled grimly.

  “What time is it?” Pulling her arm away from Khardan’s, Zohra drew the sheepskin blanket close about her body. “Why am I being summoned?”

  “Two hours before dawn,” Khardan replied tiredly, rubbing his eyes. Standing up, he turned his back upon her, ostensibly out of regard for her modesty, but really in an attempt to forget the softness of her face in sleep, the shadow of her long lashes upon her cheeks, the faint fragrance of jasmine. . .

  “If you want to know why you are summoned, I suggest you dress yourself and come to your father’s tent to find out. I have ridden all day and night without rest or food, and I have no energy to argue with you or force you to come if you do not choose. So, wife, you may do as you please.”

  Turning on his heel, he left her tent, allowing himself a moment’s satisfaction in thinking of the turmoil that must be raging in those soft breasts beneath the sheepskin blanket.

  If Khardan had truly known the extent of the agony this mysterious and ominous summons in the dark hours before dawn was causing his wife, he would have felt himself well repaid for the dagger thrust in his leg four nights previous. Once her husband was gone, Zohra shrank back into blankets that had suddenly grown cold and comfortless, her mind a storm of emotion that came near blinding her with its fury.

  The three guest days had been difficult for everyone, but torture to Zohra. Accustomed to drowning serious thought in the rushing water of action, she rarely spent a moment in reflection or consideration of her acts. Her self-imposed confinement during the last three days had given her ample and unwelcome opportunity to think. She came to realize the enormity of her crime. Worse, to consider the possible outcome.