The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The throat of each person had been slit, neatly and skillfully, from ear to ear. And, most horribly, by some mysterious means, each body had been completely drained of blood.

  The Book of Quar 1

  Chapter 1

  It was the noise—the noise and the stench of the prison that disturbed the nomads most. Accustomed to the music of the desert—the song of the wind over the dunes, the hum of the tent ropes stretched taut in a storm, the barking of camp dogs, the laughter of children, the voices of the women going about their daily chores, the cry of a falcon making a successful kill—the sounds of the prison tore at the young men until they felt as if every inch of their skins had been flayed from their bodies.

  The soldiers of the Amir did not mistreat the desert dwellers, who had been captured in the raid on the camp around the Tel. Far from it. Although the nomads had no way of knowing, they were being accorded better treatment than any other prisoners. Physicians had been sent to treat their wounds, and they were allowed exercise and a small amount of time each day to see their families. But to the imprisoned Akar, Hrana, or Aran tribe members, being deprived of their freedom was the most excruciating torture the Amir could have devised.

  When the captives were first brought in, they were assembled in the prison yard and the Amir spoke to them.

  “I watched you in battle,” he said, sitting astride his magical, ebony horse, “and I will not hide from you the fact that I was impressed. All my life I had heard the stories of the bravery and skill of the followers of Akhran.”

  The nomads, who had previously been standing sullenly, eyes on the ground, looked up at this, pleased and startled that Qannadi should know the name of their God. The Amir made it a point to keep such details in his mind, often surprising his own men by speaking to each by name, recalling some act of bravery or daring. An old soldier, he knew such small things touched the heart and won undying loyalty.

  “I did not believe it,” he continued in his deep baritone, “until I saw it for myself.” He paused here dramatically, to let his words slide like oil upon the troubled waters. “Outnumbered, taken by surprise, you fought like devils. I needed every soldier in my command to defeat you and even then I began to fear that the might of my army was not strong enough. “

  This was not exactly true; the outcome had never been in doubt and—considering the strength of the army the Amir had built up to conquer the south—Qannadi had thrown only a token force at the nomads. He could afford to lie at his own expense, however, being ten times rewarded by seeing the sullen eyes gleam with pride.

  “Such men as you are wasted out there.” Qannadi gestured dramatically toward the Pagrah desert. “Instead of stealing sheep, you could be capturing the wealth of cities. Instead of knifing each other in the dark, you could be challenging a brave foe in glorious combat on an open field. I offer you this and more! Fight with me, and I will pay you thirty silver tumans a month. I will give your families free housing in the city, the opportunity for your women to sell their wares in the souks, and a fair share in the spoils of any city we conquer.”

  Most of the nomads growled and shook their heads, but some—Qannadi noted—dropped their eyes, shuffling their feet uneasily. Many here had ridden with their Calif in the raid on the Kich. Qannadi skillfully conjured up visions in their minds of galloping their horses through rich palaces, snatching up gold and jewels and Sultans’ beautiful daughters. The Amir did not delude himself. He did not think it likely he would gain any recruits this moment. After all, the men had just seen their families carried off, they had seen some of their own die in battle. But he knew that this arrow he had fired would pierce their imaginations and stick there, festering, in their minds.

  Sayah, Zohra’s half brother, stepped forward. “I speak for the Hrana,” he cried, “and I tell you that we serve no man except our Sheykh!”

  “The same for the Akar!” came a voice and, “The same for the Aran,” came another.

  Without responding, Qannadi turned and galloped out of the prison yard. The nomads thought he rode off in anger and congratulated themselves on having tweaked the Amir’s nose. So rowdy were they that the guards thought it best to beat soundly the most vocal before driving them back to their cells.

  Qannadi was not angry, however. The true, underlying meaning of what these men said struck the Amir with such force it was a wonder he didn’t fall from his saddle. Absorbed in thought, he returned to the palace and sent at once for the Imam.

  “Bringing their Sheykhs in is out of the question,” the Amir said, pacing back and forth the length of the room that had once been the Sultan’s private study and was now his, never noticing that his boots were tracking mud and manure on the handwoven, priceless carpets covering the floor. “They are old dogs who will bite any hand other than their master’s. But these young pups are different. They might be taught to jump through the hoops of another, especially if it is one of their own. We need to raise up a leader in their midst, Feisal, someone they trust and will follow. But someone who, in turn, must be under our complete control. Is that possible, do you think, Imam?”

  “With Quar, all is possible, O King. Not only possible, but probable. It is too bad,” Feisal added, with a subtle change of expression in his voice, “that their Calif, this Khardan, should have vanished so mysteriously.”

  Qannadi glanced at the priest sharply. “Khardan is dead.”

  “His body was not discovered.”

  “He is dead,” the Amir said coldly. “Meryem reported to me that she saw him fall in battle, mortally wounded. As for why the corpse was not discovered, it was probably hauled off by some wild beast.” Qannadi fixed Feisal with a stern, blackeyed gaze. “We both want these nomads on our side, Imam’“

  “There is one difference, O King,” said Feisal, not at all discomfited by the Amir’s baleful gaze. “You want their bodies. I want their souls.”

  The following day, and many days after that, the Imam visited the prison. Though he would never admit as much to the Amir, Feisal realized Qannadi had grasped hold of the tail of a valuable idea. It would be up to the Imam to soothe the beast attached to that tail and make it work for them. Consequently, he talked to the young men, bringing them news of their families, assuring them that their mothers, wives, and children were being well cared for, and extolling the virtues of settled city life, drawing subtle differences between it and the harsh life of the wanderer. Wisely, the Imam never mentioned Quar. He never mentioned Akhran, either, but left the young men to draw their own conclusions.

  One person in particular drew his attention. Sitting alone in the tiny, narrow, windowless cell in the Zindan, Achmed, Khardan’s half brother, foundered in a despair so black and murky he felt as though he were drowning in it.

  The smell in the prison was poisonous. Once a day, the prisoners were allowed outside to walk around the compound and to perform their ablutions, but that was all. The remainder of the time they had to make do with a corner of the cell, and though it was cleaned out daily by slaves, the stench of human excrement, as well as that of sickness, was always in the air.

  Achmed could not eat. The stink penetrated the food and tainted the water. He could not sleep. The noise, that spoke of pain and suffering and torture, was dreadful. In the cell next to his, an unlucky follower of Benario’s had been captured inside one of the bazaars after curfew, making away with stolen goods. The wretch’s hands had been cut off, to teach him a lesson, and he moaned and howled with the pain until he either lapsed into unconsciousness or one of the guards—irritated at the clamor— clouted him over the head.

  In the other side cell, a debtor to the followers of Kharmani, God of Wealth, had developed an insidious cough and lay hacking his life away while bemoaning the fact that he couldn’t raise the money to payoff his debts while confined in prison.

  Across from Achmed, a beggar caught exhibiting fake sores to a gullible audience was developing real ones. Two cells down a man condemned to be hurled from the Tower of Deat
h for raping a woman pounded on the walls and pleaded with an unhearing Amir for another trial.

  At first, getting out of the cell was a welcome release, but after a few days Achmed grew to dread the time they were allowed to walk in the compound. No loving wife came to stretch her hand out to him through the bars of the gate, no mother came to weep over him. His own mother—one of Majiid’s many wives—had been captured in the raid on the camp. She was in the city, but too ill to come and see him. This Achmed heard from Badia, Khardan’s mother, the only one who occasionally visited the young man.

  “The soldiers did not hurt her,” Badia hastened to assure Achmed, seeing by the dark, violent expression on the young man’s face that he might commit some foolish act. “They were really very kind and gentle and took her to a house of one of their own Captains, whose wives are caring for her like a sister. The Imam himself has been to see her and said a prayer for her. But she was never strong, Achmed, not since your baby sister was born. We must put our trust in Akhran.”

  Akhran! Alone, despairing, Achmed cursed the name of the God. Why have You done this to me, to my people? The young man questioned, head in his hands, tears creeping through his clenched fingers. This day would have been my birthday. Eighteen years. There would have been a baigha held in my honor. Khardan would have seen to that, even if Majiid—Achmed’s father and Sheykh of the Akar—forgot. Majiid very likely would have forgotten; he had many sons and took pride in only one—his eldest, Khardan.

  Achmed didn’t mind. He, too, admired Khardan with all his heart and soul, feeling—in many ways—that Khardan was more of a father to him than the rough, bellowing, quicktempered Majiid. Khardan would have seen to it that this day was special for his younger halfbrother. A present—perhaps one of the Calif ‘s very own jeweled daggers. A dinner just for the two of them in Khardan’s tent, drinking qumiz until they couldn’t stand and listening to Pukah’s tales of bloodsucking ghuls, the flesheating delhan, or the alluring and deadly ghaddar.

  The thief in the next cell began to rave deliriously. A sob burst from Achmed’s throat. Slumping down onto the straw spread over his floor, he hid his face in the crook of his arm and wept in lonely, bitter anguish.

  “My son.”

  The soft, sympathetic voice spread over Achmed’s bleeding soul like a soothing balm. Startled—the young man had been so lost in his grief he had not heard the sound of the key in the door or the door being opened—Achmed sat up and hastily wiped away the traces of his tears. Glancing suspiciously at the slender figure of the priest entering his cell, Achmed crouched down on the dirty mattress that was his bed and affected to be intently interested in a crack in the wall.

  “I hear that you suffered a wound in the battle. Are you in pain, my son?” the Imam inquired gently. “Shall I send for the physicians?”

  Sniffing, Achmed wiped his nose on the sleeve of his robe and stared fiercely straight ahead.

  The priest smiled inwardly. He felt instinctively he had arrived at precisely the right moment, and he thanked Quar for having been led to the suffering lamb in time to save it from the wolves.

  “Let me examine your injury,” said the Imam, although he knew well that it was not the wound on the head but the wound in the heart that brought the tears to the young man’s eyes.

  Achmed ducked his head, as though he would have refused, but Feisal pretended not to notice. Removing the haik, he examined the cut. During the battle, Achmed had been struck by the flat of a sword blade. The blow had split the skin and knocked him unconscious, leaving him with a terrible headache for a day after but doing no serious injury.

  “Tsk,” the Imam made a clucking sound, “you will have a scar.”

  “That is good!” Achmed said suddenly, huskily. He had to say something. The attention the priest paid him and the gentle touch of his fingers had come dangerously near to making him start to cry again. “My brother has many such scars. It is the mark of a warrior. “

  “You sound like the Amir,” said Feisal, his heartbeat quickening in secret delight. Many times he had looked in on Achmed and the young man had never spoken to him, never even looked at him. The Imam smoothed back the black hair. “To me, such scars are the mark of the savage. When man is truly civilized, then all wars will cease and we will live in peace. There.” He handed back the headcloth. “The wound is healing cleanly. It will leave a white mark on your scalp, however. The hair will not grow back.”

  Holding the cloth in his hands, Achmed twisted it with his fingers. He did not put it back on. “Civilized? You’re one to talk. This”—he pointed to his head—”was the work of your ‘savages’!”

  The Imam carefully concealed his joy by glancing around the cell. It was impossible to talk here. Next door the mutilated thief was screaming feverishly. “Will you come outside and walk with me, Achmed?”

  The young man glowered at him suspiciously.

  “It is a fine day,” the Imam said. “The wind blows from the east.”

  The east. The desert. Achmed lowered his eyes. “Very well,” he said in a low voice. Rising to his feet, he followed Feisal out the door of his cell, trudging down the long, dark corridor. The guard started to follow, but the Imam shook his head and warned him away with a gesture of his thin fingers. As they passed the cells, those inside stretched out their hands to the priest, begging for his blessing, or tried to snatch up and kiss the hem of his robe. Stealing a glance from the corner of his eye, Achmed saw the Imam react to all this with extraordinary patience, murmuring the ritual words, reaching through the bars to touch a bent head, offering comfort and hope in the name of Quar.

  Achmed recalled the first time he had seen the priest, when Khardan had come to the palace to try to sell horses to the Amir. Achmed had been frightened of the Imam then and he was frightened of him now. It was not that the priest’s physical presence was formidable. Days and nights of fasting and praying had left the Imam’s body so slender and delicate that Achmed could have picked the man up and broken him in two with his bare hands. The fear did not generate from the gaunt and handsome face.

  It was the eyes, aflame with holy zeal, whose fire could burn holes through a man as a hot iron burns through wood.

  Emerging into the sunshine, Achmed lifted his face to the heavens, reveling in the welcome warmth on his skin. He drew a deep breath. Though the air smelled of city, at least it was better than the stench in the prison. And, as the Imam had said, the wind was from the east and Achmed could swear he caught the faintest breath of the desert’s elusive perfume.

  Glancing about, he saw Feisal watching him intently. Shoulders slumping, Achmed dove back into sullen uncaring like a startled djinn diving back into his bottle.

  “Your mother’s health is improving,” said the Imam.

  “She wouldn’t have fallen sick if you’d left her alone,” Achmed returned accusingly.

  “On the contrary, my son. It was well for her that we brought her to Kich. Our physicians have undoubtedly saved her life. Out there, in that wretched land”—the Imam looked to the east— “she would surely have perished.” Seeing stubborn disbelief on the young face, the priest turned the conversation. “Of what were we speaking?” he asked.

  “Savages.” Achmed sneered.

  “Ah, yes. So we were.” Feisal gestured to what little shade existed in the compound. “We are alone. Shall we sit down to talk more comfortably?”

  “You’ll soil your robes.”

  “Clothes can be cleansed, just like the soul. I see that no one has brought you a clean robe. Disgraceful. I will speak to the Amir.”

  The Imam settled himself comfortably on the hard rock pavement. Leaning against the prison wall, the priest appeared as much at home as if he had been lounging on a sofa in the finest room in the palace. Awkwardly, Achmed squatted down beside him, the young man flushing in embarrassment at the deplorable condition of his clothes.

  “You have a younger sister,” the Imam said. Achmed—all his suspicions aroused once more—scowled
and did not answer.

  “I have seen her, when I visited your mother,” Feisal continued, gazing unblinking out over the compound that was bathed in brilliant sunlight. “Your sister is a beautiful child. How old is she? Two?”

  Still no reply.

  “An interesting age. So full of curiosity and testing one’s limits. I suppose that, like all children, she put her hand into the cooking fire, didn’t she?”

  “What?” Achmed stared at the priest in puzzlement.

  “Did she ever put her hand into the fire?”

  “Well, yes, I guess so. . . . All little kids do.”

  “Why?”

  Achmed was confused, wondering why they were discussing small children. He shrugged. “They’re attracted to it—the bright light, the colors, the warmth.”

  “They don’t understand that it will hurt them?”

  “How could they? They’re too little.”

  “What did your mother do when she caught your sister starting to put her hand in the dancing flames?”

  “I don’t know. Smacked her, I guess.”

  “Why didn’t your mother reason with the child, tell her that the fire will hurt her?”

  “You can’t reason with a twoyearold!” Achmed scoffed.

  “But the child understands a slap on the wrist?”

  “Sure. I mean, I guess so.”

  “Did she understand it because it gave her pain?”

  “Yes.”

  “And did your mother enjoy hurting her child?”

  “We’re not barbarians, no matter what you think!” Achmed answered hotly, thinking this was a slur on his people.

  “I am not saying that. Why does your mother choose to hurt her child?”

  “Because she’s afraid for her!”

  “A slap on the wrist hurts, yet not like the fire.”