The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Tugging Asrial after him, Pukah stepped between the two djinn lounging in the doorway.

  “Say, friend, bring your own?” commented one, tapping Pukah on the shoulder.

  “I know that voice!” Pukah said, studying the other djinn intently. “Baji? Yes, it is!” Pukah clapped the djinn on his muscular forearm. “Baji! I might have known I’d find you here! Didn’t you recognize Sond, who just walked past you?”

  “Friend, I don’t even recognize you,” said the djinn, eyeing Pukah calmly.

  “Of course, you do! It’s me, Pukah!” said Pukah. Then, frowning, “You aren’t trying to get out of paying me those five silver tumans you owe me, are you, Baji?”

  “I said you’re mistaken,” returned the djinn, a sharp edge to his voice. “Now go on in and have your fun before things turn ugly—”

  “Like your face?” said Pukah, fists clenching.

  The shrill, anguished bleep of a quaita being cut off in midnote and the clattering of a tambour hitting the floor mingled with a female scream and angry, masculine voices raised in argument.

  “Pukah!” Asrial gasped. Peering into the shadows of the entryway, she tugged on the djinn’s hand. “Sond’s in trouble!”

  “He’s not the only one!” said Pukah threateningly, glaring at his fellow djinn.

  “Pukah!” Asrial pleaded. The voices inside were growing louder.

  “Don’t leave!” Pukah growled. “This will only take a moment.”

  “Oh, I’ll be right here,” said the djinn, leaning back against the archway, arms folded across his chest.

  “Pukah!” Asrial pulled him along.

  Crystal beads clicked together, brushing against Pukah’s skin as he passed through them into the cool shadows of the arwat. A wave of perfume broke over him, drenching him in sweetness. Blinking his eyes, he tried to accustom himself to a darkness lighted only by the warm glow of thick, jojoba candles. There were no windows. Silken tapestries covered the walls. His foot sank into soft carpeting. Luxurious cushions invited him to recline and stretch out. Flasks of wine offered to make him forget his troubles. Dishes heaped high with grapes and dates and oranges and nuts promised to ease his stomach’s hunger, while the most enticing, beautiful djinniyeh he’d ever seen in his life promised to ease any other hungers he might have.

  An oily, rotund little djinn slithered his way through the myriad cushions that covered every inch of the floor and, glancing askance at the angel, offered Pukah a private room to themselves.

  “A charming little room, Effendi, and only ten silver tumans for the night! You won’t find a better price in all of Serinda!” Catching hold of Pukah’s arm, the chubby djinn started to draw him across the room to a beadcurtained alcove.

  Pukah jerked his arm free. “What’s going on here?” He glanced toward the center of the room, where the shouting was the loudest.

  “Nothing, Effendi, nothing!” assured the rotund djinn, making another attempt to capture Pukah’s arm, urging him onward. “A small altercation over one of my girls. Do not trouble yourself. The mamalukes will soon restore peace. You and your lady friend will not be disturbed, I assure you—”

  “Pukah! Do something!” Asrial breathed.

  Pukah quickly assessed the situation. A flute player sat gagging and coughing on the carpeted floor; it appeared he’d had his quaita shoved down his throat. The tambour player lay sprawled amid the cushions, unconscious; one of the drummers was attempting to bring him around. Several patrons were gathered together in a circle, shouting and gesticulating angrily. Pukah couldn’t see between their broad backs, but he could hear Sond’s voice, bellowing from their midst.

  “Nedjma! You’re coming with me!”

  A shrill scream and the sound of a slap was his answer, followed by laughter from the patrons. Irritably shoving away the grasping hands of the rotund rabat-bashi, Pukah ordered, “Stay here!” to Asrial and shoved his way through the circle.

  As he had expected, Sond stood in the center. The djinn’s handsome face was twisted with anger, dark with jealousy. He had hold of the wrist of a struggling djinniyeh with the apparent intent of dragging her out of the building.

  Pukah caught his breath, forgetting Asrial, forgetting Sond, forgetting why they were here, forgetting his own name for the moment. The djinniyeh was the most gorgeous creature he’d ever laid eyes on, and there were parts of her on which he longed to lay more than his eyes. From her midriff up, only the sheerest of silken veils covered her body, sliding over her firm, high breasts, slipping from around her white shoulders. Honey gold hair had come loose in her struggle and tumbled about a face of exquisite charm that, even in her indignation, seemed made to be kissed. Numerous long, opaque veils hanging from a jeweled belt at her waist formed a skirt that modestly covered her legs. Noticing several of these veils wound around the heads of the onlookers, Pukah guessed that the djinniyeh’s shapely legs, already partially visible, wouldn’t be covered long.

  “Nedjma!” said Sond threateningly.

  “I don’t know any Nedjma!” the djinniyeh cried.

  “Let go of her! On with the dance! Pay your way like everyone else!”

  Pukah glanced behind him and saw the rabat-bashi make a peremptory gesture. Three huge mamalukes began to edge their way forward.

  “Uh, Sond!” Shoving the unsteadyfooted patrons out of his way, Pukah tripped over a cushion and tumbled onto the cleared area of the dance floor. “I think you’ve made a mistake!” he said urgently. “Apologize to the lady and let’s go!”

  “A mistake? You bet he’s made a mistake.” A huge djinn that Pukah didn’t recognize and thought must be one of Quar’s immortals thrust his body between Sond and the djinniyeh.

  “The girl doesn’t know you and doesn’t want to,” the djinn continued, his voice grating. “Now leave!” Pukah saw the djinn’s hand go to the sash he wore round his waist.

  Sond, his gaze fixed on the djinniyeh, saw nothing. “Nedjma,” he said in a pleading, agonized voice, “it’s me, Sond! You told me you loved—”

  “I said leave her alone!” The large djinn lunged at him.

  “Sond!” Pukah leaped forward, trying to deflect the knife. Too late. A quick hand movement, the flash of steel, and Sond was staring down at the hilt of a dagger protruding from his stomach. The huge, djinn who had stabbed him stepped back, a look of satisfaction on his face. Slowly, disbelievingly, Sond clutched at the wound. His face twisted in pain and astonishment. Red blood welled up between his fingers.

  “Nedjma!” Staggering, he extended the crimsonstained hand to the djinniyeh.

  Crying out in horror, she covered her eyes with her jeweled hands.

  “Nedjma!” Blood spurted from Sond’s mouth. He crashed to the floor at her feet and lay there, still and unmoving.

  Pukah sighed. “All right, Sond,” he said after a moment. “That was very dramatic. Now get up, admit you were wrong, and let’s get out of here.”

  The djinn did not move.

  The patrons were gathering around the djinniyeh, offering comfort and taking advantage of the opportunity to snatch away more of the veils. The huge djinn put his arm around the weeping Nedjma and drew her away to one of the shadowy alcoves. The other patrons, wailing in protest, demanded that the dance continue. Other djinniyeh soon appeared to ease their disappointment.

  Clucking to himself about blood ruining his best carpets, the rabat-bashi was pointing at Pukah and demanding payment for damages. The tall mamalukes, faces grim, turned their attention to the young djinn.

  “Uh, Sond!” Pukah knelt down beside him. Placing his hand on the djinn’s shoulder, he shook him. “You can quit making a fool of yourself any time now! If that was Nedjma, she’s obviously enjoying herself and doesn’t want to be bothered. . . Sond.” Pukah shook the unresponsive body harder. “Sond!”

  There was a flutter of white wing and white robes, and Asrial was beside him. “Pukah, I’m frightened! Those men are staring at me! What’s Sond doing? Make him get up and let’s
leave—Pukah!” She caught sight of his face. “Pukah, what’s wrong?”

  “Sond’s dead,” said Pukah in a whisper.

  Asrial stared at him. “That’s impossible,” she said crisply. “Is this more of your antics, because—” The angel’s voice faltered. “Promenthas have mercy! You’re serious!”

  “He’s dead!” Pukah cried. Almost angrily, he grabbed Sond’s shoulder and rolled the body of the djinn over on its back. An arm flopped limply against the floor. The eyes stared at nothing. Pulling the dagger from the wound, the djinn examined it. The blade was smeared with blood. “I don’t understand!” He glared around the room. “I want answers!”

  “Pukah!” Asrial cried, trying to comfort him, but the ma- malukes shoved the angel aside. Grasping the young djinn by the shoulders, they dragged him to his feet.

  Pukah lashed out furiously. “I don’t understand! How can he be dead?”

  “Perhaps I can explain,” came a voice from the beaded curtained entryway. “Let him go.”

  At the sound, the mamalukes instantly dropped their hold on the djinn and stepped back from him. The proprietor ceased his lamentations, the patrons swallowed words and wine, several nearly choking themselves, and even this sound they did their best to stifle. No one spoke. No one stirred. The light of the candles flickered and dimmed. The fragrant air was tinged with a sweet, cloying smell.

  A cold whisper of air on the back of his neck made Pukah’s skin shiver. Reluctantly, unwillingly, but completely unable to help himself, the djinn turned to face the doorway. Standing in the entrance was a woman of surpassing beauty. Her face might have been carved of marble by some master craftsman of the Gods, so pure and perfect was every feature. Her skin was pale, almost translucent. Hair, thin and fine as a child’s, fell to her feet, enveloping her slender, whiterobed body like a smooth satin cape of purest white.

  Pukah heard Asrial, somewhere near him, moan. He couldn’t help her, he couldn’t even see her. His gaze was fixed upon the woman’s face; he felt himself slowly strangling.

  The woman had no eyes. Where there should have been two orbs of life and light in that classic face were two hollows of empty blackness.

  “Let me explain, Pukah,” said the woman, entering the room amid a silence so deep and profound that everyone else in the room seemed to have suffocated in it. “In the city of Serinda, through the power of Quar, it is at last possible to give every immortal what he or she truly desires.”

  The woman looked expectantly at Pukah, obviously waiting for him to question her. “And that is?” he was supposed to say. But he couldn’t talk. He had no breath.

  Yet his words echoed, unspoken, through the room. “Mortality,” the woman replied.

  Pukah shut his eyes to blot out the sight of the empty eye sockets.

  “And you are—” he blurted out.

  “Death. The ruler of Serinda.”

  Chapter 3

  In the arwat, the immortals resumed their pleasuretaking, giving the body of Sond nothing more than a cool, casual glance or—at most—a look of bitterness for having bled all over the carpet (this from the rabat-bashi).

  “Get him out of here!” the proprietor muttered to two ma- malukes, who bent down and—lifting the dead djinn by his flaccid arms—appeared prepared to drag him unceremoniously out the door.

  “The back door,” specified the rabat-bashi.

  “No one’s taking Sond anywhere,” declared Pukah, drawing a dagger from the sash around his slim waist. “Not until I have some answers.”

  Dropping Sond’s arms, which fell with a lifeless thud on the floor of the arwat, the two immortal mamalukes drew their daggers, eager grins on their faces.

  “Pukah, no!” cried Asrial, hurling herself at the young djinn.

  Gently he pushed her away, his eyes on the knifewielding slaves who were circling, one to either side of him, steel flashing in their hands.

  “You there!” cried the proprietor distractedly, gesturing to another mamaluke, “roll up that other carpet! It’s the best one in the house. I can’t afford to have it ruined as well. Quickly! Quickly! Excuse me, sir”—this to Pukah—”if you could just lift your foot for a moment? Thank you. It’s the blood, you see, it doesn’t wash—”

  “Blood!” Asrial put her hands to her head in an effort to concentrate. “This is impossible. Our bodies are ethereal. They cannot bleed, they cannot die!” Lowering her hands, she looked at Death. “I don’t believe this,” the angel stated flatly. “Sond is not dead! Not even you can make the immortal mortal. Pukah, stop that nonsense.”

  Somewhat startled, Pukah glanced at her, then at Sond lying on the floor. Slowly he lowered his dagger. “That’s true,” he said. “Sond can’t be dead.”

  “You are both young,” said Death, turning the empty eye sockets toward them, “and you have not lived long among humans—especially you,” she said to Asrial. “You are right, of course. Sond is not dead—at least not as mortals would term it. But he might as well be. When the sun dawns tomorrow, this djinn will regain his life—but nothing else.”

  “What do you mean?” Pukah glared at the cold and lovely woman suspiciously. “What else is there?”

  “His identity. His memory. He will have no knowledge of who he is, whom he serves. He will be—as it were—newborn and will take on whatever identity occurs to him at the moment. He will forget everything. . .”

  “Even the fact that he is immortal,” said Asrial slowly.

  Death smiled. “Yes, child, that is true. He will have the mortal hunger to live life to the fullest. As are mortals, he will be driven—blessed and cursed with the knowledge that it must all come to an end.”

  “This is why the immortals are lost to the world,” realized Pukah, staring at Sond. “They no longer remember it. And that is why Nedjma did not know my poor friend.”

  “She is no longer Nedjma, nor has she been for a long time now. Only a few nights ago she died at the hands of a jealous lover. Days before that, she was accidentally killed in a street brawl. No one in this city”—the hollow eyes turned to Asrial—”remains alive from dusk to dawn.”

  A hoarse cry interrupted them. The djinn who had stabbed Sond staggered out of the inner room, clutching his throat with one hand, a halfemptied goblet of wine in the other. Falling to the floor, he writhed in agony for a few seconds, then his body went rigid. The cup fell from his hand, rolling across the carpet, leaving a trail of spilled wine. Nedjma swept out from the room. Standing above the body, she deliberately brushed a fine, white powder from her delicate fingers. “Let this be a lesson to all who think they own me!” Tossing her honeycolored hair, she vanished behind another beaded curtain.

  “Wine. . . it stains are almost as bad as blood,” whined the proprietor, wringing his hands.

  Death watched appreciatively, her lips slightly parted as though she were sipping the dead djinn’s life.

  “So,” said Pukah to himself. “I am beginning to understand. . .” His hand went to the tourmaline amulet Kaug had given him. As he touched it, he thought he saw Death flinch. The hollow eyes met his, a fine line marring the marble smoothness of the white brow.

  Tucking his dagger into his sash, Pukah crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “There is one who will leave this city at dusk or dawn or whenever I choose. Me.” He held up the amulet that he wore around his neck. “My master cannot do without me, you see, and so has insured my return.”

  “What is this?” Death peered closely at the tourmaline, the coldness of her eyeless gaze causing Pukah’s flesh to shiver and crawl. “This goes against our agreement! I am to have all who come here! Who is this master of yours?”

  “One Kaug, an ‘efreet, in the service of Quar,” answered Pukah glibly.

  “Kaug!” Death’s brow furrowed. The shadow of her anger descended upon the arwat, causing the rabat-bashi to hush his complainings, and the guests to hastily withdraw to whatever dark, obscure corners they could find.

  Pukah saw Asrial staring a
t him pleadingly, begging him to take her from this place. The thought that she might die and forget her protégé must be terrifying to her. What she didn’t realize—and Pukah had—was that he could leave, but she couldn’t. Death would never allow it. I am to have all who come here. The only way for them to escape, the only way for all the immortals trapped here to escape was Pukah’s way. Pukah had a plan.

  Not only will Hazrat Akhran reward me, Pukah thought blissfully. All the Gods in the Jewel of Sul will be forever indebted to me! I will be an immortal among immortals! Nothing in this world or in the heavens will be too good for me! One palace— hah! I will have twenty palaces—one given by each God. I will spend the heat of the summer in a vast stone fortress on the Great Steppes. I will winter in a grass hut of thirty or forty rooms on one of those little tropical islands in Lamish Aranth, sleeping on the feathery wings of a grateful, loving angel . . .

  Seeing Death’s pallid hand reaching for the amulet, Pukah hastily clamped his fingers over it and took a step backward.

  “Rest assured my master reverences you most highly, my lady,” Pukah sajd humbly. “ ‘Death is second to Quar in my esteem.’ Those were the ‘efreet’s very words.”

  “ ‘Second to Quar!’ “ Death’s eyeless sockets grew dark as endless night.

  “Quar is becoming the One, the True God,” Pukah said apologetically. “You must concede that. The number of humans worshiping Him grows daily.”

  “That may be true,” Death said sharply, “but in the end their bodies are mine! That is the promise of Sul.”

  “Ah, but didn’t you hear—” Pukah stopped, biting his tongue, lowering his eyes, and glancing at Death from beneath the lids— “but then I guess you didn’t. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I really should be getting back. Kaug is dining on boiled ray tonight, and if I’m not there to remove the sting, my master will—”

  “Hear what?” questioned Death grimly.

  “Nothing, I assure you, my lady.” Grabbing hold of Asrial’s hand, Pukah began to sidle past Death toward the door. “It is not my place to reveal the secrets of the Most Holy Quar—”