The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Asrial’s voice died. The djinn slept soundly, his head on her breast, his breathing regular and even. Rolling his body over gently, she sat up beside him. She had no fear of waking him. She knew he would sleep soundly for a long, long time.

  A very long time. Sighing, Asrial gazed at the slumbering Pukah until she could not see him for the tears in her eyes. The slim, youthful body, the foxish face that thought itself so clever. Her hands stole around his chest and drew him close. She buried her face in his chest and felt his heart beat.

  “No immortal can have a heart!” she wept. “No immortal can love! No immortal can die! Forgive me, Pukah. This is the only way! The only way!”

  Taking hold of the amulet in her shaking hands, Asrial slowly removed it from around the djinn’s neck.

  Chapter 3

  A djinn awoke in a dimly lit, cavernous chamber. Sitting up and looking around him, he could barely make out tall marble columns reflecting the orange light of glowing flame off their polished surface. The handsome djinn had no idea where he was and no recollection of how he got here. He had no recollection of anything, in fact, and felt his head to see if there was a lump on it.

  “Where am I?” he asked rhetorically, more to hear the sound of his voice in the shadowy darkness than because he expected an answer.

  An answer was returned, however.

  “You are in the Temple of Death in the city of Serinda.”

  Startled, the djinn glanced quickly around and saw the figure of a woman clad in white standing over him. She was beautiful, her marblesmooth face reflecting the flame in the same manner as the towering columns. Despite her beauty, the djinn shivered when she approached. It may have been some trick of the indistinct light, but the djinn could have sworn there was something strange about the woman’s eyes.

  “How did I get here?” the djinn asked, still feeling his head for swellings or bruises.

  “You don’t remember.”

  “No, I don’t remember. . . much of anything.”

  “I see. Well, your name is Sond. Does that sound familiar?” Yes, the djinn thought, that seemed right. He nodded gingerly, expecting his head to hurt. It didn’t.

  “You are an assassin—a skilled one. Your price is high. Few can afford you. But one did. A king. He paid you quite handsomely to kill a young man.”

  “A king shouldn’t have to hire an assassin,” said Sond, rising slowly to his feet and staring at the woman suspiciously. What was there about her eyes?

  “He does when the killing must be kept secret from everyone in court, even the queen. He does when the person to be assassinated is his own son!”

  “His son?”

  “The king discovered the boy plotting to overthrow him. The king dares not confront his son openly, or the boy’s mother would side with him, and she has her own army, powerful enough to split the kingdom. The king hired you to assassinate the young man; then he will spread the news that it was done by a neighboring kingdom, an enemy.

  “You tracked your quarry to this city, Serinda. He stays in an arwat not far from here. But beware, Sond, for the young man is aware of you. Last night, you were attacked by his men who beat you and left you for dead. Some citizens found you and brought you to the Temple of Death, but you recovered, with my help.”

  “Thank you,” said Sond warily. He moved nearer the woman, trying to see her more dearly, but she stepped back into a shadow.

  “Your thanks are not required. Does any of this bring back memories?”

  “Yes, it does,” Sond admitted, though it seemed to him more like a story he’d once heard a meddah relate than something that had happened to him. “How do you know—”

  “You spoke of it in your delirium. Do not worry, it is not unusual for memories to flee a person’s mind, especially when they have taken such a brutal beating.”

  Now that she spoke of it, Sond did feel pain in his body. He could almost see the faces of his attackers, the sticks they carried raining blows down upon his body while the young man whom they served stood looking on, smiling.

  Anger stirred in his heart. “I must complete my mission, for the honor of my profession,” he said, feeling for the dagger in the sash at his waist, his hand dosing reassuringly over the hilt. “Where did you say he was staying?”

  “In the arwat the next street over to the north. It has no name, but you can tell it by the lovely girls who dance on the balconies in the moonlight. When you enter, ask the proprietor to show you the room of a young man who calls himself Pukah.”

  “His guards?”

  “He believes you to be dead, imagines himself safe. You will find him alone, unprotected.” In her hand the woman held an amulet, swinging it by its chain.

  Sond paid scant attention to the jewel. Eager to get on with his work, his memories growing clearer and more vivid by the moment, he looked about for an exit.

  “There.” The woman pointed, and Sond saw moonlight and heard faint sounds of a city at night.

  He hurried forward, then stopped, turning. “I am in your debt,” he said. “What is your name?”

  “One you know in your heart. One you will hear again and again,” said the woman, and her lips spread over her teeth in a grin.

  Sond had no trouble finding the arwat. A huge crowd was gathered outside to watch the girls dancing on the balcony. This Serinda was a lusty, brawling city, apparently. If Sond was at all worried about how the murder of a Prince might be viewed here, his fears were quickly eased. Life was cheap in Serinda, to judge by what he glimpsed in dark alleyways as he made his way through the streets. With only a glance at the dancing girls, one of whom seemed vaguely familiar, Sond entered the inn.

  He found the proprietor—a short, fat man, who glanced at him and nodded in recognition, though Sond couldn’t recall ever having seen him before.

  “I am looking for a man called Pukah,” said Sond in a low undertone. The woman had said the Prince’s guards would not be about, but it never hurt to be cautious.

  The rabat-bashi burst into wheezing, gasping laughter, and Sond glared at him angrily. “Shut up! What is so funny?”

  “A small joke just occurred to me,” said the proprietor, wiping his streaming eyes. “Never mind. You wouldn’t understand. A pity, too. Don’t glower so and keep your knife where it is, or you’ll regret it, friend.” Steel flashed in the proprietor’s hand. He could move fast, it seemed, for one so round. “Your man is upstairs, second door to the left. You’ll need a key.” Knife in one hand, he fumbled at a ring at his waist with the other. “Sure you don’t want to wait until sunrise?”

  “Why should I?” Sond asked impatiently, snatching the key from the man’s hand.

  “No reason.” The rabat-bashi shrugged. “You know your business, I guess. He was with a woman—a beauty, too. But she left some time ago. I’ll wager you’ll find him sleeping like a babe after his. . . um . . . exertions.”

  Scowling, Sond didn’t wait to hear anymore but ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time. Pausing outside the door, he laid his ear to the keyhole, but it was futile to attempt to hear anything above the wailing of the music and the howls of the crowd outside. Ah, well, the noise would muffle any sound—such as a scream.

  Quickly, Sond inserted the key, heard the lock click, and silently pushed open the door. The curtains were closed; he could see only a dark shape lying on white sheets. Padding softly across the floor, the djinn opened the curtains a crack, allowing moonlight to spill through and shine upon the figure in the bed. He wouldn’t want to kill the wrong man by mistake.

  But this was his man, he was sure of it. Young, with a thin, pointedchinned face and an expression on his countenance indicating that—even in sleep—he thought very well of himself. Though Sond couldn’t say he recognized the face, that smug, selfsatisfied look evoked a response—a highly unpleasant one.

  Drawing his dagger, Sond crept over to the bed where Pukah lay, apparently in deep slumber. To his consternation, however, the young man’s eyes sudden
ly opened wide.

  The dagger’s blade gleamed in the moonlight. There was no mistaking the murderous intent on Sond’s face. He gripped the dagger in his sweating palm and prepared to fight.

  But the young man lay in bed, staring at him with an odd expression—one of sorrow.

  “Pukah?” questioned Sond grimly.

  “Yes,” replied the young man, and there was a tremor in the voice as of one who holds very tightly to courage.

  “You know why I am here.”

  “Yes.” The voice was faint.

  “Then you know that I bear you no malice. I am but the hand at the end of another’s arm. Your vengeful spirit will not seek me, but the man who paid me?”

  Pukah nodded. It was obvious he could not reply. Rolling over on his stomach, he hid his face in the pillow, gripped it with both hands. His body was covered with sweat, he quivered, his lips trembled.

  Sond stood over him, looking down at him, contemptuous of his victim’s fear. Lifting the dagger, the djinn drove it to the hilt between Pukah’s shoulder blades.

  Chapter 4

  The entire population of the city of Serinda gathered to celebrate Pukah’s funeral. The arwat’s proprietor (a new one; the former had been dispatched during the night in a quarrel over the price of a room) discovered the djinn’s body in the morning when she made a tour of the rooms, throwing out any guests too drunk to stagger forth on their own.

  Death came to view the body as it was being carried forth, accompanied by a mockery of solemn state and ceremony. The dancing girls preceded it. Dressed in sheer, filmy black silk, they wept copiously and disappeared rapidly; there being those in the crowd who offered to comfort them in their affliction. The arwat’s musicians played funeral music to a festive beat that started an impromptu street dance as the bearers carried the djinn’s corpse on their shoulders to the Temple of Death. Several fights broke out along the route—those who had placed bets on the time of death were arguing among themselves vehemently, since no one was quite certain when he’d died.

  Death walked behind the body, smiling upon her subjects, who instantly cleared a path for her, scrambling to get out of the way of her coming. The hollow eyes scanned the mob, searching for one who should have been in attendance but was not. Death did not look for the assassin. She had taken Sond last night. Several immortals, convinced that they were the “Prince’s” bodyguards, cornered the djinn in an alley and effectively avenged the death of their imagined monarch. Sond lay once again in the Temple where he would be restored to life as a slaver, perhaps, or a thief, or a Prince himself.

  “Where is the angel?” Death questioned those who gathered to watch. “The woman who was with the djinn yesterday?”

  Since few to whom she spoke remembered yesterday or knew anything about the dead man other than that it was rumored he had sought to destroy their city, no one could answer Death’s question. Asrial had come to Death last night, bearing the amulet, and had given it into her hand without a word. Death promised that the angel should leave at sunset the following day, when the bargain was concluded. Asrial had seemed ill at ease, inattentive, and had vanished precipitously without responding to Death’s offer.

  “Truly she loves that liar,” said Death to herself, and it occurred to her as she walked among the crowd that Asrial might have attempted to prevent the djinn’s assassination and could very well have fallen victim to Sond’s knife herself. Death shrugged, deciding it didn’t really matter.

  Pukah was laid upon a bier of cow dung. The singing, dancing immortals strewed garbage over him. Soaking the bier in wine, they made preparations to burn it with the setting of the sun.

  Death watched the proceedings until, bored, she left to follow the Amir’s troops into battle against another city in Bas. This city was proving obstinate—refusing to give up without a fight, refusing to acknowledge Quar their God. Death was certain to reap a fine harvest from this bloody field. The Imam had ordered every kafir—man, woman, and child—put to the sword.

  She had all day until she must return to Serinda and see her bargain with Pukah completed.

  Death had time to kill.

  Chapter 5

  “Dark as Quar’s heart,” muttered Pukah to himself, opening his eyes and staring around him confusedly. “And the air is thick! Has there been a sandstorm?” Dust flew into his mouth, and the djinn sneezed. Sitting up to see where he was, he received a smart rap on the head.

  “Ooof!” Dizzily, Pukah lay back down and, moving more cautiously, slowly extended his hands and felt around him. Above his head, apparently, was a slab of wood. And he was lying on wood—dirty, dustcovered wood by the feel and the smell.

  Just when the djinn had decided that he was lying in a wooden box—for Sul only knew what reason—Pukah groped about farther and felt his hand brush into soft material on either side of him. “A wooden box with curtains,” he commented. “This gets stranger and stranger.” One hand slid completely underneath the material. Figuring that where his hand could go, he could follow, the djinn scooted across the floor, raising a huge cloud of dust, and nearly sneezing himself unconscious.

  “By Sul!” said Pukah in astonishment, “I’ve been lying under a bed!”

  Sunlight streaming through a dirty window revealed to the djinn the place where he’d apparently spent the night. It was the same bed on top of which he’d been lying in a state of bliss with. . .

  “Asrial!” Pukah cried, looking around him frantically.

  He was alone and his head felt as though it were stuffed with Majiid’s stockings. Pukah had the vague memory of singing in his ears, then nothing. Slowly he sank down on the bed. Batting himself on the forehead several times, hoping to displace the stockings and allow room for his wits, the djinn tried to figure out what had happened. He remembered Asrial returning to the arwat after his bargain with Death. . .

  Bargain with Death!

  Pukah’s hand went to his chest. The amulet was gone! “Death’s taken it!” Gulping, he leaped up from the bed and staggered across the room to peer out the window. The sun was low, the shadows in the street were long.

  “It’s morning!” Pukah groaned. “Time for the entire city to try to kill me. And I feel as if camels have been chewing on my brain!”

  “Asrial?” he called out miserably.

  No answer.

  She probably couldn’t bear to watch, Pukah thought gloomily. I don’t blame her. I’m not going to watch either.

  “I wonder,” the djinn said wistfully after a moment, “if I was good last night.” He heaved a sigh. “My first time. . . probably my last. . . And I don’t remember any of it!”

  Flinging himself upon the bed, he pulled the pillow over his aching head and moaned a bit for the hardness of the world. Then he paused, looking up. “It must have been wild,” his alter ego said upon reflection, “if you ended up under the bed!”

  “I’ve got to find her!” Pukah said decisively, scrambling to his feet. “Women are such funny creatures. My master the Calif told me that one must reassure them in the morning that one still loves them. And I do love her!” Pukah said softly, clasping the pillow to his chest. “I love her with all my heart and soul. I would gladly die for her—”

  The djinn stopped short. “You undoubtedly will die for her,” his other self told him solemnly, “if you go out that door. Listen, I have an idea. Perhaps if you stayed hidden inside this room all day, no one would find you. You could always slip back underneath the bed.”

  “What would the Calif say—his djinn hiding beneath a bed!” Pukah snorted at himself in derision. “Besides, my angel is probably roaming the city now, thinking in her virgin heart that I have had my way with her and now will abandon her. Or, worse still”—the thought made him catch his breath—”she might be in danger! She has no amulet, after all! I must go find her!”

  Checking to make certain his knife was tucked into his sash, the djinn hurled open the door and ran down the stairs, feeling as though he could take on the entire c
ity of Serinda. He paused outside the beaded curtains.

  “Ho! Come out, you droppings of goats, you immortal refuse of swine! Come! It is I—the gallant Pukah—and I challenge one and all to do battle with me this day!”

  There was no response. Grimly Pukah charged through the curtains into the main room.

  “Come, you horses’ hindquarters!”

  The room was empty.

  Frustrated, Pukah fought his way through the swinging beads and leapt out the door, into the street.

  “It is I, the challenger of Death, the formidable Pukah. . .”

  The djinn’s voice died. The street was empty. Not only that, but it seemed to be growing darker instead of lighter.

  What with all the confusion, the shouting and yelling and flinging himself about, Pukah felt his head begin to throb. He gazed about in the gathering gloom, wondering fearfully if his vision was beginning to go. A fountain stood nearby. Bending his head at the marble feet of a marble maiden, he allowed her to pour cooling water from her marble pitcher upon his fevered brow. He felt somewhat better, though his vision did not clear up, and he was just sitting down on the fountain’s rim when he heard a great shout rise up some distance away from him.

  “So that’s where everybody is!” he said triumphantly. “Some sort of celebration. Probably”—he realized glumly—”working themselves into a blood frenzy.”

  He jumped to his feet, the sudden movement making his head spin. Dizzily he fell back into the fountain, clinging to the marble maiden’s cold body for support. “Maybe they’re tormenting Asrial! Maybe Death took her from me in the night!”

  Fury burning in his imaginary veins, Pukah shoved the maiden away from him, knocking her off her pedestal and sending the statue crashing to the pavement. He ran through the empty streets of Serinda, using the shouts as his guide, hearing them grow louder and more tumultuous as the darkness deepened around him. No longer trying to figure out what was going on, knowing only that Asrial might be suffering, and determined to save her no matter what cost to himself, Pukah rounded a corner and ran headlong into the Temple plaza.