The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Mathew’s parents sent him to the finest school for wizards open to young men. He left home at the age of six, returning once a year for Holy Day. Except that his father grew a little grayer and the lines about his mother’s eyes grew more pronounced over the years, Mathew always came back to find his parents unchanged. Once yearly they welcomed him home, raising their heads from book or glass tube, smiling at him as though he hadn’t been gone over an hour, and calmly going back to their work with a quiet invitation for him to join them. Within moments of his return, Mathew was seated at his own desk, a warm feeling inside him that he had never been away.

  He was sitting there now, in the high-backed wooden chair, listening to the scratching of his mother’s pen across the page on which she was writing, hearing her murmur to herself, for she spoke aloud while she wrote. A cool breeze, scented with the sharp smell of pine, blew through the open casement. From the laboratory below the house came a muffled thud and then a yell. His father. . . strange, he never shouted like that. Mathew raised his head from the book he was perusing. What was wrong? Why this yammering?

  With a jolt the young wizard woke up, catching himself just before falling from the saddle. The pain of terrible, bitter knowledge that he had been dreaming twisted inside him. Waking was always agony, the price he paid. But it was worth it to escape this wretched life, if only for a few brief moments. He was just about to try to lose himself in that wonderful haven again when he realized the shouts had not been part of his imagination. Peeping through the fabric of the bassourab, Mathew looked to see what the commotion was about. His heart died within him.

  They had reached the walls of the city.

  Accustomed to the thatched and gabled roofs of the dwellings in his own land, the buildings that he could see rising above the walls appeared as strange and awful to Mathew as the land through which he traveled. Twisting upward in fantastic designs, with spires and towers and minarets that bulged like onions, they seemed to have been built by some insane child.

  Mathew could even smell the city from this distance—thousands of unwashed bodies sweating, eating, defecating, beneath the merciless sun. He could hear the noise—a low murmur of hundreds of voices raised in bargaining, praying, fighting. . . And he would be taken into this city, dragged to the marketplace in chains, made to stand and endure the gaze of countless merciless eyes. . . Sick with fear, he hung his head down to allay the dizziness that assailed him and waited for the order that would send him into hell.

  The only order that came immediately, however, was one which brought the camels to their knees. The white covered palanquin was set upon the ground. A slave came hurrying around with water. Drinking greedily, Mathew peered through the curtains and watched the goums fonning hastily into ranks. When their lines were dressed to the satisfaction of the leader, they galloped off toward the city walls with a fine display of horsemanship, unfurling banners as they rode. Staring across the plain, Mathew saw riders dash out from the city gates to meet the goums. This must be some sort of request for permission to enter the gates, which—as far as Mathew could see—were still closed.

  The preliminaries took a long time. A slave came around with food, which Mathew was careful to eat, having the uncanny feeling that the eyes behind the curtains of the litter could see through the camel tent. Although he had watched for her anxiously, Mathew had seen the slave girl only occasionally after that first night. When he did catch a glimpse of her, coming or going from the tent of the trader, she appeared to be as well fed as any of the slaves, and at least she was still alive. She glanced at Mathew once but did not speak to him. Mathew was just as glad. Fearfully guarding his secret, he did not encourage conversation with anyone lest they discover it was a man to whom they spoke, not a woman.

  After what seemed like eons, although it was probably only an hour at most, the city riders galloped back to the gates, the goums wheeled their horses and returned to the caravan. For the first time Mathew saw the trader actually leave the comfort of his covered palanquin. His white robes billowing around him, he walked out to meet Kiber. Kiber in turn jumped off his horse in mid-gallop and with an ease and grace Mathew found remarkable, ran alongside the animal to come to stand, panting, near the trader.

  The other goums arrived a few seconds behind, their excited voices shouting to the slaves to come for their horses or calling for water. In an effort to escape the clamor and the dust, the trader and Kiber moved toward the rear of the litter.

  Their walk brought them close to Mathew’s camel. Leaning forward, careful to keep hidden behind the curtains of the bassourds, he held his breath so that he could hear their conversation.

  “What is the problem?”

  “There is a new ruling in effect, Effendi.”

  “And that is?”

  “All magical objects and any djinn we possess must be turned over to the Imam, to be kept in Quar’s holy temple.”

  “What?” Mathew heard the trader’s voice grate. “How is this possible? Did you not tell him I was a loyal and faithful follower of Quar?”

  “I so told him, Effendi. He said that all who are faithful followers of the God will be happy to perform this act of sacrifice that has been ordered by the God himself.”

  “The Imam is a fool! What man will give up his djinn?”

  “Apparently many men, Effendi. According to the captain, there is not a djinn left in Kich and the people have never lived so well. They go to the Imam with their needs now, and he handles them, dealing with Quar directly. The city is prosperous, says the captain. They lack nothing. There is no sickness, the markets are filled, their enemies fall beneath their feet. Already the people speak of the djinn as remnants of a bygone age, not needed in modem times.”

  “So it is true, what we heard. Quar is deliberately getting rid of his own djinn. I do not like this.” The cold malice in the voice made Mathew shiver despite the heat. “You know the importance of what I carry. What are the chances of getting inside the city without its being detected?”

  “Very little, I should think, Effendi. The caravan will be thoroughly searched upon entering the city walls. These people are naturally suspicious of outsiders, particularly, it seems, since that band of kafir was able to cross the ocean and set foot upon the shores of their land. I told the captain that it was we who dispatched the kafir in the name of Quar and he seemed impressed.”

  “But not impressed enough to let us enter without harassment?”

  “No, Effendi.”

  The trader snarled, a low, growling rumble of anger, like a cat denied its prey. “Would that we had heard this news earlier. It is too late to leave. It would appear suspicious for a trader in slaves to turn back once he reaches the marketplace. And I need the money from their sale to pursue our journey.”

  He was silent long moments, lost in thought. Mathew heard Kiber’s horse shuffle restlessly. The other horses were being watered and it wanted its share. The leader of the goums spoke to the animal softly, and it quieted.

  “Very well. Here’s what we will do.” The trader’s words were quick and cool. “Gather the magical objects of everyone in camp and put them together with those we took off the slaves when we captured them. Add to that my personal objects—”

  “Effendi!”

  “There can be no help for it! Hopefully this will satisfy them and they will be careless in their search. This and the fact that it was by my orders that the kafir died should convince the Imam that I am a loyal follower of Quar. My way will be clear to act.”

  “What about—” Kiber hesitated, as though reluctant to speak.

  “I will take care of that, you may be certain. The less you know, the better.”

  “Yes, Effendi.”

  “You have your orders. Proceed.”

  “Yes, Effendi.”

  The two parted, the trader returning to the covered palanquin, Kiber leaving to carry out his master’s commands. Mathew, sighing, sat back. He had listened to the conversation hoping to learn what was g
oing to happen. But nothing he heard made any sense. Djinn! He had read of these immortal beings. Supposedly similar in nature to angels, they dwelt on the human plane and were said to live in lamps, rings, and other such silly objects. They talked to men—to all men, not just priests—holding discourse with ordinary humans and performing for them the most trivial of deeds.

  Mathew found it astounding that someone as cold and calculating and obviously intelligent as this trader could actually appear to believe in such foolish tales. Perhaps he did so only to humor his men. As for magical objects, the young wizard hungered to know what they might be. For the first time he saw a glimmer of hope in his desperate situation. If he could get his hands on one of these objects. . .

  A whispered voice near him made him start in fear. “Mistress!”

  Mathew parted the curtains of the bassourab a crack. The slave girl stood beside his camel.

  “Mistress,” she said again, beckoning. “You come. He want you.”

  Mathew shuddered, terror overwhelming him, turning his hot hands ice cold, constricting his throat muscles.

  “Come, come!” The girl cast a swift, fearful glance in the direction of the palanquin, and Mathew realized that she would be punished if he was remiss in following orders. Trembling in every limb, he climbed down slowly from the camel saddle.

  Glancing around to see if anyone was watching, the girl took Mathew’s hand and tugged him after her, guiding him swiftly across the sandy ground to the litter. Mathew noticed that they kept to the outside of the line of camels, steering clear of the crowd that was milling around in the center where some of the goums were preparing the slaves for their march into town. Others were collecting the magical items as ordered; still others were seeing to the horses or spreading fodder for the camels. No one paid the least attention to them. The girl led Mathew around to the far side of the palanquin, out of sight of everyone.

  “I have her,” the girl said to the curtains of the litter. “Come close, Blossom,” came the trader’s voice.

  His heart pounding so that he could barely breathe for the intense pain, Mathew hesitated, trying to gather his courage.

  The girl motioned for him to obey, again with the look of fear. Shivering, Mathew stepped closer. The slender hand came out, caught hold of the robes around his neck, and drew him closer still.

  “I have just discovered that we are going to be searched when we enter the city. On my person I carry a magical object of rare and immense value. For obvious reasons I do not wish it to be found by these slum dwellers. They will go through my possessions carefully, but they will probably not be too interested in what a slave girl such as yourself carries. Therefore I give this object to you, to keep for me until such time as I may come to claim it.”

  Mathew gasped. Was it possible? Was he going to come into possession of some arcane relic so easily? The trader could not know he was a wizard; he would suppose him incapable of using the object. It must be powerful. Mathew had seen enough of the harshness of this God, Quar, to understand that the trader was risking his life in defying the orders of Quar’s priest. Mathew’s hands trembled with eagerness. He needed to gather what information he could about the object in order to use it, however, and hastily searched for some way to do so that would not appear suspicious. At the last moment it occurred to him that a slave girl, such as himself, should probably seem reluctant to take on such a burden.

  “I . . . don’t understand, Effendi.” Mathew stammered. “Surely there are others more worthy. . . of—of your trust.”

  “I don’t trust you in the least, Blossom. I give this to you because you will be sold to someone wealthy and important, consequently easy for me to find.”

  “But what if I should lose it or something should happen to it—”

  “Then you will die most horribly,” said the cool voice of the trader. “The object is blessed—or cursed as the case may be—so that it cannot be lost or mislaid by accident.” The slender hand upon Mathew’s robes suddenly tightened its grip, twisting the fabric expertly, cutting off Mathew’s breath. “One who attempts to do so deliberately will meet the most excruciatingly painful death that my God can devise. And believe me, my dear Blossom, his talents in that area have long been admired.”

  There was no doubting that voice. Mathew began to strangle, the slave girl stared at him with huge, frightened eyes. At the last moment the hand removed itself from his robes, gliding back into the curtains of the palanquin. Mathew gasped for air. The curtains parted once more. Reaching out, the trader caught hold of Mathew’s hand and pressed something inside.

  Mathew stared in confusion.

  He held a globe of glass. Small enough to fit comfortably in his palm, the globe was decorated on the top and the bottom with the most intricate gold- and silverwork. It was filled with water, and inside the globe swam two fish—one the color of black velvet with long sweeping fins and a fanlike tail; the other a shimmering golden color with a flat body and large, staring eyes.

  He had been given a fishbowl!

  “I— What—” Mathew could not speak coherently.

  “Shut up, Blossom, and attend to me. We haven’t much time. You must keep this hidden from sight. The globe itself will help you, for it is naturally loathe to reveal itself to anyone. You need not feed the fish nor care for them, they can fend for themselves. Carry the globe on your person at all times—sleeping or waking. Speak of it to no one. Do not tremble so, Blossom. You will have this in your possession for only a few days, if that long. Then I will come to relieve you of this burden. Serve me well in this matter and you will be rewarded.” The slender hand moved to stroke Mathew’s soft cheek.

  “Betray me and . . .”

  There was a rustle of curtain, a flash of metal in the sunlight, and a kind of startled gasp from the slave girl. Mathew, staring at her, saw her eyes widen with pain, then slowly drain of life. The girl crumpled to the ground at his feet, a large red stain spreading over her clothes. The trader’s slender hand, holding a small, silver dagger, was wet with blood.

  Mathew started to recoil in horror, but the trader caught hold of his wrist and held him fast. “Now no one knows about this but you and I, Blossom. Return quickly to your mount.” The voice was soft, low. “Remember what you have seen of my wrath.”

  The slender hand let loose its grip and disappeared inside the palanquin. Dazed, Mathew slid the fishbowl beneath the bodice of his clothing. The glass was cold against his hot flesh. He shuddered in reaction, as though he had pressed a handful of ice against his breast. Hardly knowing where he was or what he was doing, Mathew turned, stumbling blindly over the hard, sunbaked ground. Instinct alone led him to the camel.

  The rest of the party was preparing to continue to travel. The slaves removed the halters from the camels’ knees, coaxing them to rise with encouraging shouts and taps of the camel stick. The goums mounted their horses; the litter bearers lifted their burden to their shoulders; the slaves rose to their feet, their chains clashing together in an off-key jangle. Two slaves walked alongside the palanquin, each slave carrying in his arms a huge rattan basket filled with objects strange and curious—amulets, charms, jewelry—anything that might possibly be construed as possessing magic. Kiber galloped up and down the line, casting his darkeyed gaze critically over the assembly. Finally, with a glance at the litter, he nodded and urged his horse forward. Banners hanging limp in the hot, breathless air, the caravan set off at a leisurely pace.

  Mathew’s camel lurched to its feet, grumbling in protest. Peering through the folds of the camel tent, the young wizard stared down at the body of the slave girl, lying forgotten on the desert sand.

  Ahead of him, rising up out of the plains, were the city walls—a prison house of misery and suffering. The city’s stench hit his nostrils. The camel picked her way around the body of the slave girl; vultures were already flapping down to the ground.

  Twisting in the saddle, Mathew gazed back at the corpse with envy.

  Chapter 16
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  The ‘efreet Kaug did not dwell in a sumptuous palace on the plane of the djinn. For reasons best unknown to anyone, he lived in a cave far beneath the Kurdin Sea. Rumor had it that he had, centuries before, been banished to this cave by the God Zhakrin during one of the cycles of faith when that dark God reigned supreme and Kaug’s God, Quar, was but a humble licker of boots.

  Swimming through the murky salt water of the inland sea, Pukah pondered this story. He wondered if it was true, and if so, what dread deed Kaug had committed to merit this punishment. He also wondered, if Kaug was now so powerful, why he didn’t move to a better neighborhood.

  Despite the fact that he could breathe water as easily as he breathed air, Pukah felt smothered. He missed the blazing sun, the freedom of the vast, open land. Cutting through the sea with slashing strokes of his arms, the djinn deeply resented having to endure the cold and the wet and what was worse, the stares of goggle-eyed fish. Nasty creatures, fish. All slimy and scaly. No desert nomad ate them, considering them food fit only for city people who could get nothing better. Pukah’s skin crawled in disgust as one of the stupid things bumbled into him. Pushing the fish aside, taking care to wipe the slime from his hand on a nearby sponge, Pukah peered through the water, searching for the cave entrance.

  There it was, light streaming from within. Good, Kaug was at home.

  Kaug’s cave stood at the very bottom of the sea, hollowed out of a cliff of black rock. The light from inside illuminated long, greenish-brown moss that hung from the cliff, drifting about in the water like the hair of a drowned woman. Coral rose in grotesque shapes from the seafloor, writhing and twisting in the constantly shifting shadows. Gigantic fish with small, deadly eyes and sleek bodies and rows of razor teeth flashed past, eyeing Pukah hungrily at first, then cursing the djinn for his ethereal flesh.

  Pukah cursed them back just as heartily—for being ugly, if nothing else. The young djinn was not in the least overawed by his surroundings, beyond a certain repugnance and a desire to gulp a draft of fresh air. Confident in himself and his own intelligence and what he assumed was the correlating stupidity of his opponent, Pukah was actually looking forward to tossing a verbal sack over the head of his enemy.