The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The family was an honored and sacred institution for on it rested the survival of the tribe. Divorce—or “repudiation”—was therefore considered a great evil and came about only following dire circumstances. A divorced woman might be taken back into her father’s tent, but she was considered disgraced, her children had neither rank nor status in the tribe, and they generally lived worse than the indentured slaves who might—in time—expect to be free.

  If the woman had been caught committing adultery, she might further be disfigured in some way—her nose slit, her face scarred—so that she should never tempt a man to sin again. A man caught violating another’s wife was treated little better. He was driven from the tribe, his worldly possessions confiscated, his wives and children permitted to enter other families within the tribe or to return to their own parents with honor.

  A woman could divorce a man if he failed to provide for her and her children properly or if he mistreated her. A man could divorce a woman if she refused to perform marital duties, just as a woman could divorce a man for the same reason. In all cases of family disputes the matter was taken to the Sheykh, who heard both sides of the story and then made a ruling to which there was no appeal.

  Zohra had not only considered the possibility of divorce when she first began planning the wild scheme of stealing the horses, she had welcomed it, looking forward to regaining her precious freedom. Three days of considering what that freedom might cost her, however, had made it seem less and less appealing.

  Biting her lip in frustration, Zohra huddled in her bed and considered what to do. She could refuse to go; let them come and drag her out of her tent! That would be humiliating, she realized quickly, and was probably just what Khardan hoped she would do. Far better to go and face him with dignity, she decided. After all, she had as much grounds to divorce him as he had to divorce her. Let him claim she refused to sleep with him. Everyone in the tribe knew he never came near her tent. After all, Zohra realized suddenly, there was the matter of the wedding sheet. If the truth were revealed that she was still a virgin, Khardan would be disgraced before everyone!

  As for the incident with the horses, no harm had been done. Well, not much. Not as much as she would have liked! Her decision made, she rose from her bed. Leisurely washing, she dressed herself carefully in her finest clothes, brushed and arranged her long hair, and adorned herself with her favorite jewels. Then she relaxed. Let them wait, she decided. Let them all wait for her pleasure.

  When Zohra finally made her way to her father’s tent, the first faint rays of the rising sun had drenched the sand in rose pinks and purples. The camp was stirring already, most hurrying to finish their daily work before the intense heat of afternoon drove them to seek the cool shade of their tents. Ignoring the many curious and hostile glances cast in her direction, Zohra left the camp of the horsemen and entered the camp of her own people, where she was accorded almost the same chill reception. Smothering a small sigh, holding her chin rigid, she entered her father’s tent.

  When she chose, Zohra could make herself beautiful. Generally she did not choose to do so, preferring the freedom of men’s clothing. This morning, however, out of a desire to further irritate these men by enhancing her femininity, she had taken extraordinary care with her appearance. She was dressed in a fine silk caftan of a deep rose-red color that became her dusky skin. A veil of the same rose color, trimmed in gold, covered the sleek black hair. Silver bracelets gleamed on her wrists and around her ankles. Her feet were bare—she had rouged the heels and toes with henna. Her black eyes were outlined with kohl, making them appear large and liquid. Her bearing was regal and proud, her face cool and impassive.

  It was still dark enough inside the tent for oil lamps to be burning. Within sat—in grim silence—Sheykhs Majiid and Jaafar, the Calif, and their three djinn. Zohra’s resolution wavered, the proud gaze faltered. Lowering her eyes, she did not notice the severe, stern expressions on the faces of the men and djinn change as she entered the tent. She did not see Khardan’s face—pale with fatigue—soften in admiration. She did not see her father’s perennial gloom lift for an instant or see Fedj nod to himself in satisfaction. She might have even seen—had she looked—Majiid’s old eyes flash. But Zohra saw nothing except in her mind, and there they were all regarding her with scorn and contempt.

  Zohra felt all her disdain seep from her like blood from a knife wound. Truly they considered her crime a heinous one. Some terrible punishment was to be meted out to her. A sudden weakness swept over her. She felt her legs give way and sank down upon a cushion near the entrance. The tent blurred in her vision. Fixing her gaze firmly on a point above the men’s heads, she concentrated every fiber of her being on not giving them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No matter what they did to her, she would face them with pride and dignity.

  “Why have I been summoned to my father’s tent?” she asked, her voice low.

  The men looked to Khardan, who, as her husband, had the right to answer. He was forced to clear his throat before he could reply, but when he did, his voice was cool and smooth.

  “Since you have chosen, wife, to meddle in the affairs of men, it has been decided that you be included in this discussion that affects the future and well-being of both Hrana and Akar. It is considered the responsibility of men to deal with matters of politics. Women should be protected from the troubles of this world. You elected to become involved, however, and therefore it is right and fitting that you be forced to accept responsibility for your actions and share in bearing the burden of their consequences.”

  Mentally bracing herself for whatever dreadful weapon they intended to hurl at her, Zohra heard Khardan without truly comprehending what he said. When he finished speaking, he regarded her intently, obviously awaiting some response. But his words made no sense. This was not what she had expected. Raising her gaze, she stared at him in perplexity.

  “What are you saying, husband?”

  Fatigue got the better of Khardan. Dropping the formality, he spoke bluntly. “I am saying, wife, that you behaved like a damned fool. Because of you, our people came near slaughtering each other. We were saved by the intervention of Hazrat Akhran, who sent our enemy to us to act as a mirror in which we might see ourselves reflected. Now that enemy has departed, having gained respect for us, giving us assurances of his friendship—”

  “Yech!” A strangled sound came from Pukah.

  Khardan, startled, glanced at his djinn in astonishment.

  “What? Do you have something to say?”

  “N-no, Master.” Pukah shook his head miserably. “Then keep silent!” Khardan snapped.

  “Yes, Master.”

  The djinn retreated back into the shadows of the tent.

  Scowling at the interruption, Khardan resumed, now speaking to all those assembled.

  “Hazrat Akhran is wise as always. This alliance of Akar and Hrana brought the light of newfound respect to the eyes of Zeid al Saban—eyes that once gazed on us with scorn. We can use that respect to bargain as equals with the camel breeder now, instead of coming to him as beggars.” (Or thieves, the Calif might have added with more honesty, this being the traditional method by which the Akar acquired the few camels they owned.) “Zeid is a wary old fox, however. He will be watching us, as he warned, and if he sees the tiniest crack in the rock he will smash us with a hammer of steel. “

  “Yrrp!” Pukah, huddled in the corner, covered his mouth with his hand.

  Khardan glared at him.

  “I—I’m not feeling well, Master. If you do not need me—”

  “Leave! Leave!” said Khardan, waving his hand.

  Pukah dwindled away in a wispy cloud of smoke, appearing as unwell as was possible for an immortal, and Khardan, heaving an exasperated sigh, paused to recall what he had been about to say.

  It was slowly occurring to the dazed Zohra that this wild scheme of hers to steal the horses—far from angering her husband—had actually won his grudging respect.

  Ah
, well, she reflected, what could one expect of a thief? “Therefore I advise,” Khardan was saying, “that we declare an end to the fighting between our two peoples. Further”—the Calif fixed his father with a piercing gaze—”I suggest that we trade the Hrana horses—”

  “No!” shouted Majiid. The Sheykh clenched his fist. “I swear I will—”

  “—Make no unwise or foolish oath until you have listened to what I propose,” Khardan said firmly.

  Majiid, glaring fiercely, snapped his mouth shut, and his son continued.

  “We trade the Hrana horses in return for a monthly payment of twenty sheep. The Hrana will use the horses for crossing the desert to reach their flocks in the hills. No shepherding.” The Calif transferred his piercing stare to Jaafar. “Would that be agreed?”

  “Yes! Yes! I assure you!” Jaafar stammered, regarding Khardan with amazement mingled with profound relief.

  Ever since the night of the raid the Sheykh had resigned himself to taking his daughter back into his tent and being miserable for the rest of his existence. Now, suddenly, instead of a wayward daughter, he was being given horses! “Praise be to Akhran,” the Sheykh added humbly.

  By contrast, Majiid’s face flamed red, his eyes bulged with anger. He glared at his son with a look that had sent many another man scurrying away in terror. Khardan returned the glare with a calm, steady, unwavering gaze, his bearded jaw firm and unyielding.

  Watching from beneath lowered eyelids, Zohra felt a sudden warmth of admiration for her husband. Alarmed and frightened by this unexpected feeling, she told herself she was merely exulting in her victory over him.

  “No. . . sheep. . . herding!” The words burst out of Majiid’s throat, hissing through his teeth.

  “No, no!” Jaafar promised.

  Majiid went through a final, agonized internal struggle; saliva bubbled on his lips as though he were being poisoned.”Bah!” he said, rising to his feet. “So be it!”

  Ripping aside the tent flap, Majiid started to leave.

  “I ask you to listen to me one more moment, Father,” Khardan said respectfully.

  “Why? What are you going to give him next?” Majiid roared. “Your mother?” He turned to Jaafar, waving his arms “Take her! Take all my wives!” Yanking his dagger from his belt, he held it out to the Sheykh. “Take my stomach! My liver! Cut out my heart! Rip out my lungs! My son, it seems, wants you to have everything else of value!”

  Khardan suppressed a smile. “I merely wanted to suggest, Father, that—in order to allow tempers to cool—I leave for the city of Kich somewhat earlier than when we had originally planned. This will give the hotheads on both sides something to do other than brooding and licking their wounds. We can offer escort to Jaafar’s people as far as the hills, then continue on to the city from there.”

  “Escort him to Sul for all I care!” Majiid snarled, and stalked out of the tent.

  Sighing, Khardan looked after him then glanced at Sheykh Jaafar. “My father will keep his word and I will see to it that our people keep theirs.” The Calif ‘s voice was cold. “But know this. We are still enemies. However, we pledge by the Holy Akhran that for the time being”—he emphasized this—”there will be no more raids, no more insults, not a hand raised by the Akar against the Hrana.”

  “I pledge to the same. When do we get the horses?” Jaafar asked eagerly.

  Khardan rose to his feet. “Undoubtedly my father is handling the matter now. Select those of your men you wish to ride with us and have them ready. We leave with the setting of the sun.”

  Bowing coldly, Khardan left the tent of his enemy, his dignified bearing an indication that this was only a temporary settlement of their age-old dispute. Zohra lingered a moment after he had gone to cast a triumphant glance at her father, then hastened after the Calif.

  News of the agreement was spreading through both camps, bringing reactions of suspicious disbelief in the Hrana’s tents and outraged disbelief among the Akar. But as Khardan had planned, there was no time for either side to dispute the matter. The news was also spreading that the Calif intended leaving for the city this very evening, and both camps were thrown into a flurry of confusion—men oiling their saddles and sharpening weapons; women hurriedly mending robes, tucking charms of protection in their husbands’ khurjin, preparing food for the road, all the while chatting excitedly about the fine gifts their husbands would bring them on their return.

  Zohra ignored all of this activity as she hurried through the camps, her one thought to catch up with Khardan, who was walking wearily toward his tent.

  Reaching out a hand, Zohra touched his arm.

  Khardan turned. The smile on his lips froze, his face darkened. Zohra started to speak, but he forestalled her.

  “Well, wife, you have won. You have what you wanted. If you have stopped me with the purpose of rubbing salt in my wounds, I suggest you think twice. I am tired and I see no rest for myself this night. Further, I have much to do in order to prepare for my journey. If you will excuse me—”

  Now Zohra had planned to gloat over her victory. The sharp words were on her lips, ready to shoot forth and deflate his pride. Perhaps it was the perversity of her nature that made her inclined to do the opposite of what anyone expected of her, perhaps it was the warmth of the admiration she had felt for the Calif in the tent. Whatever the reason, the spears she had ready to cast at her enemy suddenly changed into flowers.

  “My husband,” said Zohra softly, “I came only to . . . to thank you.”

  Her hand lingered on Khardan’s arm. She could tell by the almost dumbfounded expression on his face that she had startled him, and she tried to laugh at him. His hand closed tightly over hers, however. He drew her near him. The laughter quivered in her throat, disrupted by the rapid beating of her heart.

  He was not regarding her with disgust now. His eyes burned with a fire brighter than the sun, forcing her to lower her gaze before them.

  “How deep is the well of your gratitude, madam?” he whispered, his lips brushing her cheek.

  The sun’s flame kindled in her body. “Perhaps you should cast in your bucket, my lord, and find out,” she answered, closing her eyes and lifting her lips.

  “Master!” came an agonized voice.

  “Not now, Pukah!” Khardan said gruffly.

  “Master! I beg an instant only!”

  Zohra came to her senses. Glancing around, she saw that they were standing in the center of the camp, surrounded by people laughing and nudging each other. Ashamed and embarrassed, Zohra slipped from her husband’s grasp.

  “Wait!” He caught hold of her.

  Backing away from him, she murmured, “Perhaps, upon your return, my lord, you can plumb the well’s depth.” Then, breaking free, she fled.

  Khardan stared after her, more than half-inclined to follow, when the hand tugged at his arm again.

  Turning, he glowered at the djinn. “Well?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “What is it, Pukah?”

  “If you do not need me, sidi, I beg leave to be gone from your service for a short time. Only the shortest of times, I assure you, sidi. An eyeblink will seem long compared to it. You will never miss me—”

  “I can guarantee you that! Very well, be gone!”

  “Thank you, sidi. I am going. Thank you.” Bowing, backing up, bowing again, and backing up again, Pukah hastily faded from view.

  Khardan turned to follow his wife, the blood throbbing in his temples, only to find that others were crowding around him now, wanting to know who was going to ride with him arguing about whose horses had to be given to the sheepherders, and badgering him with countless other fool questions.

  Looking over their heads, hoping for a glimpse of rose-red silk, Khardan saw nothing but the confusion in the camps. Zohra was gone. The moment had passed. He turned back to his men, forcing himself to remember that he was Calif of his people, they had first claim upon him—always.

  With an effort the Calif wrenched his mind from thoughts of rose-r
ed silk and jasmine to deal with the business at hand, answering questions somewhat incoherently, finding that wells and buckets kept getting mixed up in the conversation. The need to settle a fight between one of the Akar and a Hrana effectively cooled his ardor. Then Majiid appeared, demanding to know why his son didn’t just rip off his father’s head and be done with it, and swearing that he would not give up the oldest nag in his possession to the sheepherders. Patiently Khardan went through his reasoning once again.

  His own preparations for the journey took the rest of the day, and before Khardan knew it, the shadows of evening had stretched out their cool, soothing fingers over the sand. It was time to leave. Standing beside his black horse, Khardan glanced around. His spahis on their war-horses were gathered in a restless, excitement-laced knot behind him. Further behind them, several Hrana men were seated on their new mounts, their awkwardness and uneasiness on the tall, prancing beasts masked by fierce looks of pride that dared anyone to say they hadn’t been born in the saddle.

  Trouble would break out before this ride was finished, Khardan knew. He found his gaze straying to Zohra’s tent, hoping to catch a glimpse of her.

  The other women in camp were bidding good-bye to their husbands, calling out to remember this or that, lifting babies to be blessed. Husbands bent to kiss their wives. Zohra was nowhere to be seen. Thinking suddenly that this trip was a confounded nuisance, Khardan swung himself up into the saddle. Waving to his father, he wheeled his horse. Hooves flashed in the sand, a cheer went up from the men, and the spahis galloped after their leader, showing off their riding skills as long as they were within sight of camp.

  As he rose past the Tel, Khardan noted with some astonishment that the Rose of the Prophet, previously thought to be dying, seemed almost on the verge of blooming.

  Chapter 14

  As Khardan’s men traveled west over the Pagrah desert to the city of Kich, a slave caravan was traveling eastward over the plains of northern Bas, bound for the same destination. The slaver’s journey, unlike that of the spahis, was made at a slow and leisurely pace. This was done not out of kindness for the slaves but for reasons of economics. Merchandise put upon the market after being marched halfway across a continent appears to disadvantage and fetches far below its actual worth. The slaves were, therefore, permitted to walk at a relaxed pace and were adequately fed. Not that any of this mattered or was even apparent to Mathew. The young man’s misery increased daily. He lived and breathed fear.