The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Saiyad’s face flushed in anger. “For his sake and for yours, I hope so!” he snarled.

  Halfblind with rage, Achmed hurled himself again at the bars, thrusting at Saiyad with the broken sword as though it had a blade still.

  Alarmed at this sight, afraid that the young man would hurt himself, the Imam shoved Saiyad away from the gate. “Go back to your home!” the priest instructed in a low voice. “You can do nothing more here!”

  Guards came running from across the compound. Grabbing hold of Achmed by both arms, they wrestled the young man away from the gate. Glowering at the priest defiantly, Saiyad moved closer. “Listen to me, Achmed! We are finished as a people and a nation. Akhran has abandoned us. You and the rest of them in there”—he nodded at the prison—”must face that. Now you know why I turned to Quar. He is a God who protects and rewards His own.”

  With his last strength, Achmed hurled the broken sword at Saiyad.

  “You have done enough, my friend,” the Imam said coldly. “Go back to your home!”

  Gathering the remnants of his dignity about him, Saiyad turned and headed for the souks.

  “Take the young man back to his cell,” the Imam ordered. “Treat him well,” the priest added, seeing glances pass among the guards and guessing that they intended to use this display of defiance as an excuse to punish their prisoner. “Any marks on his body and you will answer to Quar!”

  The guards dragged their prisoner away and deposited him in his cell without a bruise on him. But they grinned at each other as they left the young man, rubbing their hands in satisfaction. The Imam had much to learn. There are ways and methods that leave no marks.

  In the darkness and stench of the cell, Achmed lay upon his bed, doubled up with a pain that twisted his soul more than the beating had twisted his body.

  Khardan was dead. And so was his God.

  Chapter 3

  Leaving the prison, Feisal walked slowly through the crowds that parted at his coming, many sinking to their knees, hands outstretched to seek his blessing. He granted it reflexively, absentmindedly touching the foreheads with his thin fingers, murmuring the ritual words as he passed. Absorbed in his thoughts, the Imam was not even consciously aware of where he was until the incensescented, cool darkness of the inner Temple washed over his skin, a relief from the noonday heat.

  Pacing back and forth before the golden ram’shead altar of his God, Feisal considered all that he had heard.

  Believing that Achmed was wavering in his faith, the Imam had brought the nomad, Saiyad, to the prison with the simple intent of showing the young man that his people remaining in the desert were scattered and despairing and that those who came to Quar were finding a chance for better lives. That was all. The Imam had been as shocked as Achmed to hear this news of Khardan, and now Feisal considered what to make of it.

  The Imam had his spies—exceedingly good ones, devoted to him and to Quar. The priest knew how many segments of orange the Amir ate for breakfast in the morning; he knew the woman the Amir chose to sleep with at night. Qannadi had kept his voice low—but not low enough—when he gave his favorite Captain, Gasim, secret orders to make certain that Khardan’s soul was one of the first to be dispatched to Quar. The Imam had been angry at the flouting of his God’s wishes, at Qannadi thus acting against the Imam’s expressed command that the kafir, the unbelievers, be brought to Quar alive. Nevertheless, anger did not draw the veil of folly over Feisal’s eyes. The priest detested bloodshed, but he was wise enough in his knowledge of man’s stubborn nature to know that there were some who would see Quar’s light only when it gleamed through the holes in their flesh. Qannadi was a skillful general. He would be needed to bring the southern cities to their knees in both surrender and worship. Feisal knew he must occasionally toss a bone to this fierce dog to keep him friendly, and therefore he said nothing about his knowledge that Khardan’s death had been a deliberate act of murder.

  But now—was Khardan dead? Apparently Quar did not think so. If not, how had the Calif escaped? Feisal could hardly credit this strange tale about the Calif disguising himself as a woman. And, more important, where was he?

  One person might know the answer to this. The one person who had been acting very mysteriously since the Battle at the Tel.

  Ringing a tiny silver bell, the Imam summoned a halfnaked servant, who flung himself upon the polished marble floor at his master’s feet.

  “Bring me the concubine, Meryem,” ordered Feisal.

  Leaving the inner Temple, Feisal walked a short distance down a corridor to the chamber where he held audience. Like the inner Temple, the room gave the appearance of being closed off from the outside world. It had no windows and the only doorways were reached by means of circumnavigating long and winding corridors. The floor was made of black marble. Tall marble columns supported a ceiling of carved ivory that had been shipped in squares from the Great Steppes of Tarakan and whose ornate figures represented the many blessings that Quar bestowed upon his people. Lit by huge charcoal braziers that stood on tripods in each corner of the square room, the Imam’s audience chamber was otherwise empty, with the exception of a single, marvelous wooden chair.

  Sent from Khandar, the chair was probably worth more than the entire Temple, complete with furnishings, for it was carved of saksaul. Found only in the saltimpregnated sand of the eastern Pagrah desert, the saksaul tree had been long venerated for its unusual properties. The black wood was extremely hard, yet— when carved—it splintered and broke like glass. Thus the craftsman needed to exert extraordinary care, and even small carvings could take many months of work. The wood was heavy and sank in water. When burned, the saksaul gave off spicy, fragrant fumes that induced a kind of intoxication. The ash left behind was often carefully preserved and used by physicians for various medicines. Most curious of all, the tree grew beneath the sand, its snakelike trunk—stretching over thirty feet or more—lying buried ten to twelve inches below the surface.

  Seated in the saksaul chair, the ornate carving of which had reputedly taken several craftsmen many years of painstaking labor, Feisal began collecting in his mind all the reports he’d received and everything he had himself observed about Meryem. One by one he considered them, fingering each as a beggar fingers gold coins.

  Qannadi’s soldiers had discovered the Amir’s concubine and spy lying unconscious in the nomads’ camp. Most of her clothes and all her possessions had been stripped from her body, including all of her powerful magical paraphernalia. When the Amir questioned her, Meryem told him that one of his soldiers had mistaken her for a filthy kafir and had tried to rape her. She was able to point out the man and watched in offended innocence while he was flogged nearly to death in punishment.

  The Amir had not believed her and neither had Feisal. Qannadi’s soldiers had been ordered under penalty of castration not to molest any woman. They had been given orders to watch for Meryem, to rescue her from the nomads if it appeared she was in danger. The idea that one of his men would risk his life harming the Amir’s concubine was ludicrous. But the Amir had no proof, other than that the soldier volubly protested his innocence, and so he had no choice but to have the wretch punished. Qannadi did not carry out his threat to castrate the man, but a flogging on occasion was useful in maintaining discipline, and if the soldier didn’t deserve punishment for this infraction, he undoubtedly deserved it for something else.

  The matter was closed, and Meryem was sent back to the se- raglio where, according to Yamina, the girl waited in dread for the Amir to fulfill his promise and make her one of his wives. Feisal knew that two months ago this had been the dearest dream of Meryem’s heart. Not that Qannadi was any great prize in the bedroom. He was nearly fifty, his warrior’s body grotesquely scarred, his hands rough and callused, his breath often sour with wine. It was not, therefore, for the pleasure of his company that the women vied with each other to be his chosen favorite, but for the pleasure of the rich rewards of such a distinction.

  The stat
us of wife in the Amir’s harem meant that a woman joined the ranks of the powerful sorceresses who worked the palace magic. Any children born of this union were legitimate sons and daughters of the Amir and, as such, were often granted high places in court, to say nothing of the fact that anyone could be chosen as Qannadi’s heir. A concubine might be loaned out or even given as a gift to a friend or associate. Not so a wife, who was kept in wellguarded seclusion.

  Such isolation did not mean that the wives were not a force in the world. Yamina, Qannadi’s head wife, was known to every grandee, noble, priest, and lowly citizen to be the true ruler of the city of Kich. The Imam had, more than once, seen Meryem watching and listening when he and Yamina were involved in political discussions. There was no doubt that it was her ambition to gain as much power as she was able.

  But Qannadi never sent for her.

  “I think the time she spent living in the desert has driven her insane,” Yamina had confided during one of the many private and confidential talks with the Imam she always managed to arrange in his chambers in the Temple. “Before she left, she did everything possible to catch Qannadi’s eye—dancing naked in the baths, flaunting her beauty, appearing unveiled. . .”

  Yamina always went into details describing such things to the Imam; her hand—by accident—touching the priest’s thin leg or gliding gently along his arm. Sitting alone in his marvelous chair, Feisal remembered Yamina’s words and remembered her touch as well. He frowned to himself in displeasure.

  “Since her return,” Yamina had continued somewhat coldly, the priest having sidled farther away from her on the sofa on which they both sat, “Meryem bathes in the morning when she knows the Amir is away reviewing his troops. She hides whenever the eunuch appears to select Qannadi’s choice for the night. If the Amir asks for dancers, she pleads that she is unwell.”

  “What is the reason for this strange behavior?” Feisal asked. He recalled that he had not been particularly interested, other than keeping himself aware of all that concerned the Amir. “Surely she knows the risk she is taking? She is already in disfavor. Qannadi is convinced she lied about what happened to her in the nomads’ camp.”

  “I think she is in love,” Yamina said in a throaty, husky whisper, leaning nearer Feisal.

  “With the nomad?” Feisal appeared amused. “A wild man who smells of horse.”

  “A wild man? Yes!” Yamina breathed, running her fingers along the Imam’s arm. Her veil had slipped from her face, her hand artfully displaced the filmy fabric covering her neck and breasts, allowing the priest to see a beauty still considered remarkable after forty years. “A wild man with eyes of flame, a body hard and muscular, a man accustomed to taking what he desires. A woman in love with such a man will risk everything!”

  “But this Khardan is dead,” Feisal said coolly, rising to his feet and walking around to the back of the sofa.

  Biting her lip in frustration, Yamina stood up. “Like other men I could mention!” she hissed. Covering herself with her veil, she left his chambers in an angry rustle of silk.

  Feisal had not paid much heed to Yamina’s words. She frequently used gossip such as this in her attempts to arouse him to a passion that his religious soul viewed as onerous and disgusting, his common sense viewed as highly dangerous. Now, however, he began to wonder. . .

  “The concubine, Meryem,” said the servant, startling Feisal out of his reverie.

  The Imam looked up and saw a lithe, slender figure clothed in a pale blue paranja standing, hesitating, inside the chamber’s doorway. The light from the flaming brazier glistened on golden hair, just barely visible beneath the folds of her veil. Bright blue eyes watched the Imam with what the priest noted was an almost feverish luster.

  Dismissing the servant, Feisal beckoned.

  “Come nearer, child,” he said, assuming a paternal tone, though he himself was only a few years older than the woman.

  Meryem crept forward and threw herself on the floor before him, her arms extended. Gazing down at her, the Imam saw that the girl was terrified. She trembled from head to toe, the fabric of her gown shivered as in a breeze, her earrings and bracelets jingled in nervous agitation. Feisal smiled to himself in inward satisfaction, all the golden coins of his thoughts falling together in one bag. Bending down, he took hold of her hand and raised her to her knees, drawing her close.

  “Meryem, my child,” he began softly, his almond eyes catching hers and holding them fast, “I have received reports saying that you are unwell. Now that I see you, I know they are true! I am deeply concerned, both as your spiritual adviser and, more importantly, as your friend.”

  He could not see her face, hidden behind her veil. But he saw the fear in the eyes waver, the feathery brows come together in confusion. This wasn’t what she had expected. The Imam grew more and more certain of himself.

  “What have you heard, Imam?” she asked, casting out her line, fishing for information.

  Feisal was quick to take the bait. “That you imagine someone is trying to poison you, that you refuse to eat or drink unless a slave tastes your portion first. That you sleep with a dagger beneath your pillow. I realize that your experiences in the desert among the nomads must have been quite frightening, but you are safe from them now. There is no way they can harm you—”

  “It isn’t the nomads!” The words burst from Meryem’s lips before she could stop them. Realizing too late that the fish had just landed the fisherman, she turned deathly white and covered her veiled mouth with her hand.

  “It isn’t the nomads you fear,” Feisal said with increasing gentleness that brought tears to the blue eyes. “Then it must be someone in the palace.”

  “No, it is nothing! Only my foolishness! Please, let me go, Imam!” Meryem begged, trying to free her hand from the priest’s grasp.

  “Qannadi?” Feisal suggested. “Because you lied to him?”

  Meryem made a choked sound. Almost strangling, she sank down onto the floor, cowering in terror. “He will have me killed!” she wailed.

  “No, no, my child,” the Imam said. Slipping out of the chair, the priest knelt beside the girl and gathered her into his arms, rocking her and talking to her soothingly. Yamina, had she been there, would have writhed in jealousy completely misplaced. The only desire Feisal felt was the intense desire to drain this girl of the vital information she had hidden in her heart.

  “On the contrary,” the Imam said to Meryem when her sobs grew calmer, “the Amir has completely forgotten the incident. Of course he knew you lied. More than one of his men had reported seeing Gasim fighting Khardan hand to hand. Qannadi thought it very strange, then, to hear that his best Captain died of a knife wound in the back!” Meryem groaned, shaking her head. “Hush, child. Qannadi guessed only that you were trying to save your lover. With the war in the south, he has more things on his mind than concern over a concubine’s infidelity.”

  The blue eyes looked up at him over the edge of the veil. Shimmering with tears, they were wide and innocent and Feisal wasn’t fooled by them in the least.

  “Is. . . is that truly what he believes, Imam?” Meryem asked, blinking her long lashes.

  “Yes, my dear,” said Feisal, smiling. Reaching up, he smoothed back a lock of blond hair that had slipped from beneath the headcovering. “He doesn’t know you were plotting to overthrow him.”

  Meryem gasped. Her body went rigid in the Imam’s arms. She stared at him wildly, and suddenly Feisal had another golden coin to add to his growing accumulation of wealth. “No,” he said softly. “That’s not quite true. Not were plotting to overthrow him. You are plotting to overthrow him!”

  The tears in the blue eyes vanished, burned away by shrewd, desperate calculation. “I will do anything!” Meryem said in a tight, hard voice. “Anything you ask of me. I will be your slave!” She tore the veil from her face. “Take me now!” she said fiercely, pressing her body against Feisal’s. “I am yours—”

  “I want nothing from you, girl,” the priest s
aid coldly, pushing her away from him, sending her sprawling onto the marble floor. “Nothing, that is, except the truth. Tell me everything you know. Everything!” he added, speaking the word slowly and with emphasis. “And remember. I know much already. If I catch you in another lie, I will turn you over to Qannadi. Then you can tell your story to the Lord High Executioner under much less pleasant circumstances!”

  “I will tell you the truth, Imam!” Meryem said, rising to her feet and regarding Feisal with cool dignity. “I will tell you that the Amir is a traitor to Quar! Because of his sacrilege, the God himself has ordained his downfall. I am but His humble instrument,” she added, lowering her eyes modestly.

  Feisal found it difficult to maintain his countenance during this sudden, newfound religious fervor on Meryem’s part. Placing his fingers over his twitching lips, he motioned with the other hand for her to speak.

  “It is true that I love Khardan, Imam!” Meryem began passionately. “And because I love him I wanted more than anything else to bring him to the knowledge of the One, the True God. I knew that the Amir planned to attack the camp, of course, and I feared for Khardan’s life. From some words of Yamina’s, I came to realize that Qannadi is afraid of Khardan and with reason,” the girl added loftily, “for he is strong and brave and a fierce warrior. I guessed that the Amir might try to have Khardan assassinated.

  “Before the battle, therefore, I gave Khardan a charm to wear around his neck, Imam. He thought it an ordinary amulet of good luck, such as are made by the backward women of his tribe.”

  “But it wasn’t, was it?” said Feisal grimly.

  “No, Imam,” Meryem answered with some pride. “I am a skilled sorceress, almost as powerful as Yamina herself. When I spoke the word, the charm cast an enchantment over the nomad, sending him into a deep sleep. It also acted as a shield, preventing any weapon from harming him. It was well I did so,” she said, her voice hardening, “for it was as I suspected. Going against your express command that the nomads were not to be harmed, Qannadi attempted to have Khardan murdered. I caught Gasim in the act.”