The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “There, you see!” said the Imam quickly, coming forward. His thin arm raised, he pointed a trembling finger at Khardan. “Now do you believe, O King!”

  “So!” thundered the Amir in a voice that caused the horse to neigh shrilly, thinking it heard the call to battle. “It is true! You are spies, come to scout the city so that you and your murdering devilmen may sweep out of the desert and attack us. Your attempt has failed, Calif! Our God is all-knowing, all-seeing, and we have been warned of your treacherous plans!”

  “Spies!” Khardan stared at the man in amazement. “Guards!” shouted the Amir above the horse’s whinnyings, the commotion causing it to rear up on its hind legs. “Guards! Seize them!”

  Chapter 6

  Forced to hold on to the bridle of the plunging, excited horse, the Amir called loudly for the guards, who began running from all corners of the room. Gliding out of the way of the flashing hooves, moving near the rosewood throne, the Imam watched intently, his face grave. Beside him stood Yamina, her hand resting lightly on the priest’s bare arm, the single, visible eye staring out from the shimmering black fabric of her robes. The Amir’s bodyguards, who had been flanking the throne, ran toward Khardan and Achmed, sabers flashing.

  Thrusting Achmed behind him, Khardan kicked out at the guard nearest him. The Calif ‘s black riding boot struck the guard’s swordhand. Bone crunched, and the saber went flying, falling to the tile floor with a clatter.

  “Get it!” Khardan cried, shoving Achmed toward the blade skidding over the floor.

  Stumbling in his haste, Achmed dove for the saber. The other bodyguard swung his blade in a vicious stroke that would have parted Khardan’s head from his shoulders had not the Calif ducked down beneath it. Rising again swiftly, Khardan blocked the guard’s follow-through stroke with his forearm, seized the man’s wrist with both hands, and twisted.

  Bones cracked, the guard screamed in pain, his sword fell from limp fingers. Shoving the guard backward into another, Khardan picked up the sword. Achmed stood at his back, his own weapon raised.

  “That way!” Khardan shouted, jumping toward the antechamber through which they had entered.

  “No, it’s sealed off!” Achmed gasped. “I tried to tell you—”

  But Khardan wasn’t listening. His eyes swept the divan, searching for a way out.

  “Shut the partitions!” the Amir bellowed. “Shut the partitions! “

  The partitions! Turning, Khardan saw the balcony, the tops of the trees visible in the pleasure garden below. The garden was surrounded by a wall and beyond that wall was the city and freedom. But already servants were scurrying in a panic to obey the Amir’s command. The partitions, scraping against the tile floor, were hastily being dragged shut.

  Khardan shoved his brother toward the balcony. A guard leaped at the Calif, but a slicing swing of Khardan’s saber caused him to fall back, clutching his arm that had been nearly severed from his body. Turning, Khardan ran after his brother, his robes swirling about him as he raced toward the partitions.

  They were almost shut, but the servants—seeing the two desert nomads hurtling down on them, weapons flashing in the sun—broke and ran, shrieking, for their lives. The Amir’s voice echoed throughout the divan, cursing them all for cowards.

  Squeezing between the partitions, Khardan and Achmed ran out onto the balcony.

  “Shut those!” Khardan ordered Achmed while he hurried to look over the smooth stone balustrade. It was a twenty-foot drop, at least, into the garden below. Hesitating, he turned around. Behind him could be heard the stomping of feet; he could see the partitions being forced apart again. There was no help for it.

  Grabbing hold of Achmed, he helped his brother over the stone railing.

  Keeping one eye on the slowly parting partition, Khardan climbed over the balustrade, perching precariously on the narrow lip of stone.

  “The flower bed! Jump for it!” he ordered.

  Dropping his sword down first, Achmed prepared to follow. He couldn’t make himself jump, however. Clinging to the railing with both hands, his face white and strained, he stared down at the garden that seemed miles beneath him.

  “Go!”

  Khardan shoved his brother with his boot. Achmed’s hands slipped, he fell with a cry. Tossing his own sword down into the flowers, the Calif leaped after him, falling through the air and landing in the flower bed below with the grace of cat.

  “Where’s my sword? Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” Achmed managed to answer. The heavy fall had jarred him, leaving him dazed and shaken. Blood trickled from his mouth; he’d bitten his tongue on landing and wrenched his knee painfully, but he would die before admitting this to his elder brother. “Your sword’s there, by those pink things.”

  Seeing the hilt flash in the sunlight, Khardan swiftly bent down and caught hold of it. He glanced around, getting his bearings, trying to remember what he knew of the palace and its environs. He had never, of course, been in the pleasure garden before. Only the Sultan, his wives, and his concubines were allowed here, spending the heat of the day relaxing amid the shade trees and orange blossoms, dabbling in the ornamental pools, playing among the hedgerows. Located at the eastern end of the palace, far from the soldiers’ barracks and surrounded by a high wall, the garden was private and effectively cut off from the city noises and smells.

  “If we climb the northern wall, we should come out near our men,” Khardan muttered.

  “But which way leads north?” Achmed asked, staring helplessly at the maze of hedges and branching paths.

  “We must pray to Akhran to guide us,” the Calif said.

  At least there weren’t any guards here, he thought, knowing that only the eunuchs were allowed in the pleasure gardens with the women. But he could hear shouts and orders being issued. That would undoubtedly change. They hadn’t much time.

  Plunging out of the flower bed, he jumped onto a path, startling a gazelle that bounded off in fright. Glancing back, he motioned for his brother to come behind him. The boy’s face was pale but grim and resolute. Khardan saw him limping.

  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “I’m fine. Just get us out of here.”

  Nodding, Khardan turned and selected a path that appeared to lead toward the north. He and Achmed followed it until it opened into a wide patio around a pond. Achmed was about to step out, but Khardan pulled him back into the bushes. “No! Look above!”

  Archers lined the balcony, their bows ready, their arrows aimed into the garden below.

  Keeping himself and his brother hidden as best he could among the hedgerows, daring to raise his head only now and then to see if he could locate the wall, Khardan tried first one path, then another, becoming increasingly frustrated as each seemed to lead him deeper and deeper into the garden’s sweet-smelling labyrinth. Achmed kept up, never complaining. But Khardan knew the boy was nearly finished; he could hear Achmed’s breath come in in painful gasps, his limp was worsening.

  Rounding a corner, the Calif finally caught a glimpse of the wall and he breathed a sigh of relief. By this time he was so disoriented he didn’t know if it would bring him out to the right place or not, but he didn’t care. Once he was in the open, he would take on the Amir’s army if he had to.

  But as he drew nearer the wall, Khardan’s heart sank. It was over twenty feet high, smooth and sheer, without a handhold or foothold visible. Vines that might have grown over it had been cut away. The trees that stood near it had all been pruned to prevent any branches from overhanging the wall. Obviously the Sultan had been careful of his wives, making certain that no would-be lovers had easy access to his garden.

  Gnashing his teeth in frustration, Khardan ran along the base of the wall, hoping desperately to find a crack in the surface, a vine some gardener might have overlooked, anything! The whiz and thud of an arrow near him let him know that even if they couldn’t be seen plainly, their movements through the foliage were easily detected. Already guards must
be pouring through the gates. . . .

  “No! Please, let me go!” begged a voice. “I’ll give you my jewels, anything! Please, please don’t take me back there!”

  Khardan stopped. It was a woman’s voice and it sounded very near him. Holding up his hand, warning Achmed—coming along behind him—to stop, the Calif peeped cautiously through a stand of rose trees. Thankful for the rest, Achmed leaned dizzily back against the wall, massaging his leg that throbbed and burned with each move.

  About five feet from Khardan a woman was struggling with two of the palace eunuchs—big men, their bodies had run to flab as often happens among their kind, but they were strong nevertheless. Holding the woman’s arms, the eunuchs were dragging her down a path, presumably toward the palace. The woman was young, her clothes were disheveled and torn, and her veil had been ripped from her head, leaving her face and head visible. Khardan—even in the midst of his own danger—gasped in awe at her beauty.

  He had never in his life seen hair like that. Long and thick, it was the color of burnished gold. When she shook her head in her pleadings, it billowed about her in a golden cloud. Her voice, though choked with tears, was sweet. The skin of her arms and breasts, plainly visible through the torn fabric of her clothes, was white as cream, pink as the roses that surrounded him.

  That she had been ill-treated was obvious. There were bruises on her arms, and—Khardan sucked in his breath in anger— marks of a lash could be seen on her bare back.

  “Stay here!” Khardan ordered Achmed. Running out onto the path, his sword drawn, the Calif accosted the eunuchs.

  “Let her go!” he demanded.

  Startled, the eunuchs turned, their eyes opening wide at the sight of the desert nomad in his long robes and riding boots, the saber in his hand.

  “Help!” cried one of the eunuchs in quavering, high-pitched squeaks, still holding firmly to the girl. “Intruders in the seraglio! Help! Guards!”

  His captive turned a lovely face toward Khardan, peering up at him through a golden shower of hair.

  “Save me!” she begged. “Save me! I am one of the Sultan’s daughters! I have been hiding in the palace, but now they have discovered me and are taking me to cruel torture and death! Save my life, bold stranger, and all my fortune is yours!”

  “Shut up!” One of the eunuchs slapped the girl with the back of his fat hand.

  He screamed in pain himself the next moment, staring stupidly at the bloody gash that had split his arm open from shoulder to wrist.

  “Let her go!” Khardan leaped menacingly at the other eunuch, but he already let loose of the girl’s arm.

  “Guards! Guards!” The eunuch cried in panic, backing away from Khardan and finally turning and running down the path, the flesh of his flabby body jiggling and bouncing ludicrously. The other eunuch had fainted dead away and lay with his head in a pool, his blood staining the water red.

  “How do we get out of here?” Khardan demanded, catching hold of the girl as she threw herself into his arms. “Quickly! There are guards hunting for me as well! My men are outside the wall, by the slave market. If we can just get to them—”

  “Yes!” she panted, clinging to him. “Just give me a moment.”

  Her breasts, pressed against Khardan’s chest, heaved as she sought to catch her breath. Her fragrance filled his nostrils, her hair brushed against his cheek, shining as silken web. She was warmth and roses and tears and softness, and Khardan put his arm around her, drawing her closer still and soothing her fright.

  She was as courageous as she was beautiful, apparently, for she drew a quivering breath and thrust herself away from him. “There is . . . a secret way. . . through the wall. Follow me!”

  “Wait! My brother!” Khardan darted back into the bushes, coming out with Achmed behind him.

  Beckoning with a hand so slim and white it might have been the petals of the gardenia blooming around them, the girl motioned Khardan and Achmed to follow her down a path that neither of them would ever have seen, so cunningly hidden was it by the twists and turns of the maze. No more arrows fell around them. They could hear questioning shouts of deep voices, however, and the shrill piping of the eunuch.

  The girl did not hesitate but led them confidently through a veritable jungle of foliage in which both of them must immediately have been lost. Khardan could no longer see the wall; he couldn’t see anything through the tall trees, and the vaguest suspicion of doubt was starting to form in his mind when suddenly they rounded a corner and there was the wall, a stand of bushes with long, wicked-looking thorns backed up against it.

  Khardan stared at it gloomily. They might use the bushes to climb the wall, but their flesh would be in shreds by the time they reached the top. He wondered, too, if the thorns were poisonous. A drop of something waxy glistened at the tip of each. Still, it was better than languishing in the Arnir’s prison. He started to shove the girl behind him, planning to climb the bush, when—to his surprise—she stopped him.

  “No, watch!” Hurrying to the wall, the girl pulled out a loose rock. There was a grinding sound, and to Khardan’s astonishment, the thorn bush slowly moved aside, revealing an opening in the wall. Through it, Khardan could see the marketplace and hear the babble of many voices.

  Other voices behind them—the guards’—were growing louder. The girl darted out into the street. Grasping hold of Achmed, Khardan thrust his brother through the hole in the wall and followed after him.

  He found the girl kneeling down beside a blind beggar who happened to be sitting just near the wall’s opening. She was talking to him hurriedly. Khardan, watching in amazement, saw her draw a golden bracelet from her wrist and drop it into the beggar’s basket. The blind beggar, with amazing dexterity for one who couldn’t see, snatched up the bracelet and hurriedly stuffed it down the front of his rags.

  “Come!” The girl grasped Khardan’s hand.

  “What about the opening in the wall?” he asked. “They’ll know we’ve escaped. . .”

  “The beggar will take care of it. He always does. Where did you say your men are waiting?”

  “By the slave market.”

  Khardan glanced around the streets. Achmed was looking at him expectantly, waiting for orders, but the Calif had no idea which way was which. The bazaars all melded into one another; he was completely lost. The girl, however, seemed to know exactly where she was. Hurriedly she drew Khardan and his brother into the crowd around the colorful stalls. Looking backward, the Calif was astonished to see the wall smooth and unbroken, the beggar sitting there, his milk-white eyes seeing nothing, a basket with a few coppers on the ground before him.

  No one else seemed to be paying any attention to them. “The soldiers will suppose they have you trapped in the garden!” The girl, holding on to Khardan tightly, pointed. “There is the slave market. . . and . . . are those your men?” She faltered. “That. . . rough-looking group. . . .”

  “Yes,” said Khardan absently, thinking. “You believe the soldiers will concentrate on searching the palace?”

  “Oh, yes!” The girl looked directly at him, her eyes wide, and he suddenly noticed that they were blue as the desert sky, blue as sapphires, blue as cool water. “You will have time to flee the city. Thank you, brave one”—she flushed, her eyes lowering modestly before his gaze—”for rescuing me.”

  Khardan saw the girl swaying on her feet. Catching hold of her in his arms as she fell, he cursed himself for not having realized she must be weak and dazed from her terrible ordeal.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured faintly, her breath soft as the evening wind against his cheek, “to be so much trouble. Leave me. I have friends. . .”

  “Nonsense!” Khardan said harshly. “You will not be safe in this city of butchers. Besides, we owe you our lives.”

  Opening her blue eyes, the girl looked up at him. Her arms stole around his neck. Khardan’s breath came fast. Her hand with its cream-and-pink fingers raised to touch his bearded cheek. “Where will you take me . . .
that I will be safe?”

  “To my tribe, to the desert where I live,” he answered huskily.

  “That means you are a batir, a bandit!” Her face paled; she averted her eyes from his. “Put me down, please! I will take my chances here.” Tears glistened on her cheeks. She pressed her hand against his chest. Such gentle hands, they could not have torn the petals from a flower, Khardan thought. His heart melted in his breast.

  “My lady!” he said earnestly. “Let me escort you to safety! I swear by Hazrat Akhran that you will be treated with all respect and honor.”

  The lovely eyes, shimmering with tears, raised to his. “You risked your own life to save mine! Of course I believe you! I trust you! Take me with you, away from this terrible place where they murdered my father!”

  Overcome by weeping, she hid her face in his chest.

  The blood beating in his ears so that he was wholly deaf, Khardan held the girl close, his soul filled with her perfume, his eyes dazzled by the radiance of the sunlight on her hair.

  “What is your name?” he whispered.

  “Meryem,” she replied.

  Chapter 7

  “Brother!” said Achmed urgently. “Let’s go!”

  “Yes! We should not linger,” Meryem said, glancing around nervously. “Though the soldiers are not out here, there are spies, who may report us to the Amir. You can put me down now,” the girl added shyly. “I can walk.”

  “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, and Khardan set her upon her feet. Seeing his admiring eyes on her, Meryem realized she was half-naked. Blushing, she gathered up the torn shreds of her clothing, trying to draw them together to preserve her modesty and succeeding only in revealing more than she covered.

  Glancing about quickly, Khardan saw a silk merchant’s stall. Snagging a long scarf, he tossed it to the girl.

  “Cover yourself!” he ordered harshly.