The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  “Mathew,” said a groggy voice at his side, “you must learn. . . to defend yourself. I cannot always. . . be rescuing you. . .”

  The voice faded. Mathew turned, but Usti was there to catch his mistress as she slumped over sideways, the bloodrimmed ivory lid of one of the tall jars slipping from her fingers. Lifting Zohra in his flabby arms, his face reddening with the exertion, Usti turned to Mathew.

  “What now, Madman?”

  “You’re asking me?” Shaking in reaction to his horrifying experience, the young wizard stared at the djinn. “Take us out of here!”

  Usti drew himself up with dignity.

  “I can take myself out of here. Poof, I’m gone! But humans are entirely another matter. You do not easily ‘poof.’ Only my vast courage and undying loyalty to my mistress keeps me here—”

  “And the fact that they’ve taken the ring and you have nowhere to hide!” Mathew muttered viciously beneath his breath, noting that all the jewels had been removed from Zohra’s fingers. Frustrated, frightened, he ceased to listen to the djinn’s selfaggrandizements. The Black Sorceress was dead—at least Mathew hoped to Promenthas she was dead—but their danger had not lessened. If anything, it was now greater. He could picture to himself the fury of these people when they discovered their witchqueen murdered.

  Where was Khardan? Was he still alive? Sounds of fighting coming from the opposite end of the Vestry, near the door, seemed to indicate that he was. How to reach him? How to win their way out of this dread Castle against so many opponents?

  “I can take you out of here, Dark Master!” came a whining hiss at his elbow. “Speak the name of Astafas—”

  “Be gone!” said Mathew shortly. “Return emptyhanded to your Demon Prince—”

  “Not emptyhanded!” flashed the imp. With a gurgling cry, he snatched the golden fish up in his shriveled fingers, then vanished with a bang.

  Mathew stared at the black fish, resting near the hand of the sorceress. The fish’s spasmodic twitchings were growing more feeble, its heaving gills showed bloodred against its black scales. Mathew scooped up the fish in his hands. Cupping his fingers, cradling the slimy amphibian in his palms, the young wizard turned slowly around to face the followers of Zhakrin.

  “Listen to me—” His voice cracked. Angrily, he cleared his throat and began again. “Listen to me! I have defeated your Black Sorceress, and now I hold in my hands your God!”

  His call thundered through the Vestry, echoing off the ceiling, rising above the clash and clamor of the combatants.

  All faces, one by one, turned toward his, all sound died in the vast chamber.

  Mathew could not see Khardan, there were too many people standing between them. But Mathew knew from the sound of battle where the Calif must be. The young wizard began to hedge slowly in that direction.

  “Follow me!” he shot out of the side of his mouth. Regarding Mathew with a look of amazed respect, the djinn hurriedly fell into step behind him, bearing the unconscious Zohra in his arms.

  Coming up upon a line of Black Paladins that had formed in front of him, Mathew felt his heart pounding so that it came near to suffocating him.

  Mathew tilted his hands slightly so that they could all see the black fish.

  “Let me pass,” he said, drawing a shivering breath, “or I swear I will destroy your God!”

  Chapter 8

  On the eastern shores of the Kurdin Sea was a small fishing village. It was located far enough from the Isle of Galos that the people dwelling there could see only the perpetual cloud that hung above the volcano.

  Swirling over the village like the tide that ruled their lives, night had reached its flood stage and was beginning to ebb when a boat took to the water. A man was setting out fishing.

  Not such a strange occupation for a resident of this tiny village, whose houses appeared at first glance to be nothing more than pieces of debris washed up on the shore during the last storm. Or at least it wouldn’t have been strange to see the boat setting sail with all the others of the village, the fishermen casting out their baited hooks by the first rays of the sun. This fisherman was out in a boat by himself, in the dead of night, the oars muffled with old rags, the oarlocks greased with tallow so that no sound betrayed him.

  No long length of rope was coiled at his feet, no hooks were baited with juicy squid. The solitary fisherman’s only fishing equipment was a net and lantern of his own clever devising, for he could be clever if he chose—this fisherman—especially when it came to the crafty, the sly, and the deceitful.

  Made of brass, the lantern was completely closed on all four sides and open only at the bottom, a narrow crossbar stretching from side to side. On the center of this crossbar rested the stub of a candle, and the light that this lantern shed streamed out from the bottom; no glimmer of flame could be seen shining from the sides. An odd sort of lantern, one might think, and certainly not practical for walking at night.

  But highly practical for unlawfully catching fish.

  Crouched at the boat’s stern, the man, whose name wa Meelusk, held the lantern up over the water, watching in high glee as the fish—attracted to the light—came swimming all goggleeyed and gaspingmouthed to get a better look. Meelusk waited until he had a fair number, then gathered in his net with his wiry arms.

  Dumping his catch in a basket made of twisted wire, Meelusk took time to cackle silently at the slumbering village of dolts who had no more brains than the fish they caught. They worked throughout the day, from dawn to dusk, those codheads, and oftimes came back with little to show for their labors. Meelusk worked only a few hours each night and never came in emptyhanded.

  Oh, he made a fine pretence of taking his boat out every day, but never fished with the rest, claiming to have a secret spot all his own. So he did. Every night he sailed to a secluded alcove and lowered his wire basket, full of fish, into the water. Every day he returned to this alcovewell hidden from the eyes of his neighborsand slumbered peacefully through the heat of the afternoon. Waking with the setting of the sun, Meelusk hauled in his catch and sailed back to the village, to greet his neighbors with gibes and taunts.

  “What, no luck this day, Nilock? And you with a family of ten to support! Try selling children in the market, instead of fish!”

  “The God of the Sea favors the righteous, Cradic! Quit ogling your neighbor’s wife, and perhaps your luck will change!”

  With a cackling laugh, always cut short by a wheeze, for Meelusk complained of a weakness in his lungs (a weakness his neighbors devoutly hoped would carry him swiftly to his just reward), the skinny, bent, little man would caper away to his wretched hut, which stood far apart from the rest of the village. Meelusk lived by himself; not even a dog would have anything to do with him. Eating his miserly dinner, Meelusk stopped occasionally to wrap his arms around his scrawny body, hug himself, and think with delight how his neighbors must envy him.

  Envy was not the word.

  All knew about the poaching. All knew about the cunning lantern. All knew about his “secret fishing spot.” And there was more. Meelusk did not steal only fish. They told stories of how the greedy old man dropped pebbles in the cups of blind beggars and filched the coins; how he grabbed the wares sold by poor cripples and ran off, taunting them to catch him. He was not a follower of Benario. Such thieves risked their lives to steal the rubies from a Sultan’s hand while the man slept. This little man stole shirts drying on the line, snitched bread from the ovens of poor widows, snatched bones from the mouths of toothless dogs. Followers of Benario spit upon Meelusk. He was a craven coward who believed in no God whatsoever.

  This night, shortly after midnight, Meelusk flashed his lantern light into the water and cursed. There was something amiss with the fish, it seemed. Few came near the light. Those that had been taken in his net were wretched little creatures, hardly worth the effort, too small to eat. Other fishermen would have thrown them back, making suitable apologies and asking them politely to return when they were big
ger. Meelusk left the little things in the bottom of the boat, taking a mean, nasty satisfaction in hearing them flopping helplessly about. It was the only satisfaction he was liable to get this night, the old man thought sourly; tossing out his dripping net without much hope of bringing in anything.

  He shone the lantern in the water, peering down, and gave a wheeze of delight. Something shiny and bright glittered right below him! Eagerly he took a pull at the net and grunted in amazement. The net would barely budge! A spasm of excitement shook Meelusk’s bony frame. Truly this was big! Perhaps a dolphin— those kind an gentle daughters of Hurn that the fools on shore always treated with such respect, petting them when they rubbed up against the boats or actually leaping overboard and frolicking in the sea with them! Meelusk grinned a gaptoothed grin and, throwing all his weight into the task, heaved again on the net. He could imagine what they’d say when he dragged this big fish to market; they’d berate him, of course, for killing an animal known to be good luck to mariners. But he knew that in reality they would be eaten alive with envy.

  By SuI, it was heavy!

  Veins bulging on his bony arms, his feet braced against the gunnel, Meelusk pulled and grunted and panted and sweated and hauled and pulled. Slowly the net rose dripping from the water. His arms trembling from the strain, fearing at the last moment his muscles would give out and he would drop it back into the dark depths, Meelusk threw everything he had and then some into dragging the net over the side of the boat.

  He made it, heaving it over the hull with such tremendous effort that he heaved himself along with it and sprawled flat on top of his catch. Pausing to catch his wheezing breath, Meelusk was so done in by his exertions that he resembled the unfortunate fish he’d landed, able only to gape and gasp. Finally, however, the stars quit bursting in his head; he was able to stand and stagger to a seat. Lifting the cunning lantern, he eagerly looked to see what he had caught.

  Undoing the net with trembling fingers, Meelusk lifted up his first object and spit out a filthy, nasty little word. “A basket,” he muttered. “Nothing but a watersoaked old basket—belonged to a snake charmer by the looks of it. Still, I can probably get a few coppers for it.

  “Ah, ha! What’s this? A lamp!” Dropping the basket, Meelusk grabbed the lamp and stared at it with greedy, rapacious eyes. “A fine brass chirak! This will fetch a fair price in the market—not once but several times over!” Meelusk was adept at selling something to an unsuspecting merchant, then snitching it and reselling it again.

  Tipping the lamp upside down, Meelusk shook it to drain out the water. More than water came out of the lamp, however. A cloud of smoke issued from the spout, assuming the form of an incredibly large and muscular human male. Arms clasped before his bare chest, the gigantic man regarded the little, driedup Meelusk with humble respect.

  “What are you doing in my lamp? Be gone! Get out!” screeched the old man in high dudgeon, clutching the lamp to his bosom. “I found it! It’s mine!”

  “Salaam aleikum, Effendi,” said the man, bowing. “I am Sond, the djinn of this lamp and you have saved me! Your wish is my command, O master.”

  Meelusk cast the djinn a disparaging gaze—noting the silken pantalons, golden arm rings, earrings, jeweled turban. “What do I want with a pretty boy like you?” the little man snorted in disgust. “Get you gone!” he was about to add, when suddenly the basket at his feet stirred, the lid flew off, and another cloud of smoke materialized into the form of a man—somewhat thinner and not as handsome as the first.

  “And who might you be?” growled Meelusk warily, keeping a firm grip on the lamp.

  “I am Pukah, djinn of this basket, Effendi, and you have saved me! Your wish is my command, O mast—” Pukah stopped speaking abruptly, his gaze becoming abstracted, his foxish ears pricking.

  “I know, I know,” mimicked Meelusk irritably, “I’m your master. Well you can just hop back into the sea, Fancy Pants, because—”

  “Sond,” interrupted Pukah, “our master talks too much. Hear how his breath rattles in his lungs? It would be far more healthful for him to speak less.”

  “My thought exactly, friend Pukah,” said Sond, and before Meelusk knew what was happening, the firm, strong hand of the djinn clamped the little man’s mouth tightly shut.

  Pukah was listening intently, his head cocked toward the plume of smoke that was a dark splotch against the moonlit horizon. Enraged, Meelusk whined and whimpered until the young, foxish djinn gazed at him severely.

  “Friend Sond, I fear our master will do himself an injury if he persists in making those annoying sounds. For his own benefit, I suggest you render him unconscious!”

  Seeing the djinn clench an enormous fist, Meelusk immediately ceased his pitiful screeching. Nodding in satisfaction, Sond turned to Pukah. “What do you hear?”

  “Khardan, my master—former master”—Pukah amended, with an obsequious bow to the mumed Meelusk—”is in dire peril. Over there, from whence issues that cloud of steam.” The djinn’s face paled, his eyes widened. “And Asrial! Asrial is there, too! They are fighting for their lives!”

  Sond removed his hand from Meelusk’s mouth. “What place is that, Effendi?”

  “The Isle of Galos!” Meelusk whined. “A dreadful island, so I’ve heard, populated by demons who eat human flesh and evil witches who drink the blood of babes and terrible men with great, shining swords who lop off heads—”

  “It seems to me, Effendi,” said Pukah solemnly, “that you have had, your entire life, a burning desire to visit this wondrous isle.”

  Somewhat slowwitted when it came to things other than cheating and stealing and lying, Meelusk smugly shook his head. “No, you are wrong, Pukeup, or whatever your name is. I am content with my home.” He gave the djinn a cunning glance. “And I command you to take me there, this instant!”

  Another thought occurred to him. “After we’ve caught all the fish in the sea first, of course.”

  “Fish! Alas, all you think of is work, I fear, Effendi. You are such a conscientious man.” Sond gave Meelusk a charming smile. “You must take some time off to pursue pleasure! As your djinn, Effendi, it is our duty to fulfill the wish of your heart. Rejoice, Ef- fendi! This night, we sail for the Isle of Galos!”

  Meelusk’s gaptoothed mouth dropped open. He nearly swallowed his tongue and was, for a moment, so occupied in attempting to cough it back up that he could only splutter and slobber.

  “I fear the master is going into a fit,” said Pukah sadly. “We must keep him from choking on his spit,” added Sond solicitously. Snatching up a slimy rag used to slop the deck, the djinn stuffed it neatly into Meelusk’s gabbling mouth.

  “Throw these little fellows overboard!” Pukah ordered, and began to hoist the boat’s tattered and torn sail.

  Gathering up the fish, accepting graciously their cries of thanks, Sond tossed them back into the ocean and sent the net and cunning lantern down after them.

  “We need some wind, my friend”—Pukah stated, looking critically at the sail that hung limp in the still night air—”or we will arrive at the battle two days after its conclusion.”

  “Anything to oblige, friend Pukah. You take the tiller.”

  Flying out over the calm water, Sond began to swell in size until he was twenty feet tall—a sight that caused Meelusk’s eyes to bulge from his head. The djinn sucked in a deep breath that seemed to displace the clouds in the sky and let it out in a tremendous blast of wind that billowed the sail and sent the fishing boat skipping and dancing over the water.

  “Well done, friend Sond!” cried Pukah. “Look! The Isle of Galos! You can see it!”

  The Isle of Galos loomed large on the horizon. Ripping the gag from his mouth, Meelusk began to beat his breast and wail. “You’re going to get me killed! They will eat my flesh! Chop off my head!”

  “Effendi,” said Pukah with a sigh, “I sympathize with your vast excitement and your eagerness to fight nesnas and ghuls—”

  “Nesnas! Ghuls
!” Meelusk shrieked.

  “—and I am aware that you are thankful to us—your djinn—for providing you with the opportunity to draw your sword against Black Knights, who are devoted to torturing those they capture—”

  “Torture!” Meelusk screeched.

  “—but if you go on flinging yourself about in this manner, Master, you will upset the boat.” One hand on the tiller, Pukah reached out his other and picked up Meelusk by the scruff of his neck. “For your own good, Master, in order that you be rested and ready to do battle when we go ashore—”

  “Battle!” wailed poor Meelusk.

  “—I am going to offer you the loan of my dwelling,” continued Pukah with a magnanimous bow.

  Meelusk’s mouth thought what was left of Meelusk’s brain was going to order it to say something and worked away at forming the words, but no sound came out.

  Pukah nodded solemnly. “Sond, our master is speechless with gratitude. I fear, Master, that you will find the basket cramped, and there is a redolent odor of Kaug, for which I apologize, but we were just now released from imprisonment, and I have not yet had time to clean.” So saying, Pukah stuffed Meelusk—headfirst, feet flailing—into the basket, firmly slamming shut the lid upon the man’s protests and screams.

  A peaceful silence descended over the dark water. Sitting back calmly at the tiller, Pukah steered a direct course for Galos. Sond flew along behind the boat, adding a puff every now and then to keep it skimming over the waves.

  “By the way,” said Pukah, comfortably extending his legs and giving the basket, from which muffled howls were starting to emerge, a remonstrating nudge with his foot, “did you discover the reason why that Goddess—what was her name—slipped into Kaug’s dwelling and rescued us from that great hulking oaf?”

  “The Goddess Evren.”