Yet this day, riding out of the hills, wending their way through the tortuous paths carved into the red rock that thrust up into the blue sky of late summer, Khardan felt again the nip of fiery pincers, the unease of some nameless, nagging irritation. Zohra seemed aloof, distant. She rode by herself, instead of near Mathew, and coldly rebuffed the young man’s attempts to draw her into conversation. She would look at no one who rode near—neither Mathew, Khardan, nor the everpresent, everwatchful Paladin. Zohra kept her eyes lowered, the man’s haik she wore during the ride drawn closely over her face.
“A fine woman,” said Auda, guiding his horse up beside the Calif, his gaze following Khardan’s. “She will bear some man many fine sons.”
No blade that had ever struck Khardan inflicted pain as did these words. Reining in his horse with such fury that he nearly overset the beast, he stared angrily, questioningly at the Black Paladin. Khardan searched the cruel eyes. Let him see the tiniest spark and—oath or no oath, God or no God—this man would perish.
“Many fine sons,” Auda repeated. The eyes were cold, impassive, except for a flicker that was not the gleam of triumph, but of admiration for the victor. “—For the man she loves.”
Shrugging, his thin lips parting in a selfdeprecating smile, Auda bowed to the Calif, wheeled his horse, and rode farther back to join the main body of men.
Left alone, Khardan drew a deep, shivering breath. The iron had been plucked from his heart, but the wound it had made was fresh and bled freely, flooding his body with a haunting, aching warmth. He looked over at Zohra, proud and fierce, riding by herself—riding beside him, not behind him.
“Fine sons,” he said to himself bitterly. “And many fine daughters, too. But not to be. Not to us. It is too late. For us, the Rose will never bloom. “
After a week’s hard journeying, the nomads came within sight of Kich. It was late afternoon. Khardan had sent scouts forward to find a safe resting place; they had returned to report the discovery of a large vineyard planted on a hillside, near enough to the city that they could see its walls and the soldiers manning them, yet far enough to remain hidden from view of those walls. At the foot of the hill, a smooth wide road ran through the plain, leading to the city walls.
Khardan appraised the thick, twisting stems of the grapevines that grew around him. The harvest had apparently been gathered, for there were few of the small, wrinkled grapes left hanging among the leaves that were slowly turning yellow, the plant going dormant following the plucking of its fruit. A treelined stream ran down alongside the grapevines. The ground underfoot was damp, the owner having flooded his vineyards after the grapes were gathered. Until harvest the fruit does better without water—the grapes growing sweeter and more sugary when allowed to dry in the sun.
“This will be a good place to camp,” announced Khardan, agreeing with his scouts and forestalling the arguments of the Sheykhs that he could see bubbling on their lips by adding swiftly, “The fruit has been harvested. The owner will be tending to his wine, not his plants. We are hidden from sight of the road and the city walls by the vines.”
To this the Sheykhs could make no reply, although there was, of course, some grumbling. Unlike many vineyard owners, this man must be a man of enterprise and forethought, for he had caused his vines to grow up stakes. Rather than straggling over the ground, the leaves were twined around a length of string that had been tied from stake to stake above the ground at about shoulder level. The foliage easily hid both man and beast from sight.
Khardan was directing the watering of the horses when Sond materialized at the Calif ‘s stirrup.
“Would you have us go to the gate and see how many men guard it and how carefully they scrutinize those who enter, sidi?”
“I know how many men guard it and how carefully they guard it,” Khardan answered, jumping down from his horse. “You and the other djinn stay out of the city until it is time. If the immortals of Quar should discover you, the God would be alerted to our presence. “
“Yes, sidi.” Sond bowed and vanished.
Khardan unsaddled his horse and led the animal to drink in the stream. The other men did the same, making certain to keep the animals in the lengthening shadows, settling the beasts for the night. The camels were persuaded to kneel down near the banks of the rushing water. The men crouched on the ground below the grapevines, eating their one daily meal, talking in low voices.
Zohra began to mix flour with water, forming balls of dough that, if they had dared light a fire, could have been baked and made slightly more palatable. As it was, the nomads ate the dough raw, a few lucky ones supplementing their meager dinner with handfuls of overlooked, wrinkled grapes, stripped from the vines that sheltered them. The most that could be said for the repast was that it assuaged their hunger. Somewhere, from out of the air around them, they could hear the djinn Usti groan dismally.
Finishing his food without tasting it or even being consciously aware that he ate, Khardan rose to his feet and walked up to the top of the rise to stare at the city. The sun was setting beyond the walls of Kich, and Khardan gazed into the red sky with such intensity that the minarets and bulbous domes, tall towers and battlements seemed etched into his brain.
At length Auda rose and went to the stream to wash the sticky dough from his fingers. Removing the haik, he plunged his head into the water, letting it run down his neck and chest.
“The stream is cold. It must come from the mountains. You should try it,” he said, rubbing his shining black hair with the sleeve of his flowing robes.
Khardan did not reply.
“I do not think it will quench the fire of your thoughts,” Auda remarked wryly, “but it may cool your fever.”
Glancing at him, Khardan smiled ruefully. “Perhaps later, before I sleep.”
“I have been thinking long about what you said—your God forbids the taking of life in cold blood. Is that true?” Auda leaned against a tree trunk, his gaze following Khardan’s to the soldiers of the city walls.
“Yes,” Khardan answered. “Life taken in the hot blood of battle or the hot blood of anger—that the God understands and condones. But murder—life taken by stealth, by night, a knife in the back, poison in a cup. . .” Khardan shook his head.
“A strange man, your God,” remarked Auda.
Since there could not be much comment made. Regarding this statement, Khardan smiled and kept quiet.
Auda stretched, flexing muscles stiff from the long ride. “You are worried about entering the gates, aren’t you?”
“You have gone through those gates. You know what the guards are like. And that was in days of peace! Now they are at war!”
“Yes, I have entered Kich, as you well know. You made my last visit a very unpleasant one!” Auda grinned briefly, then sobered. “It was due to their strict vigilance that I was forced to entrust the enchanted fish to Blossom. And yes, you are right. They are at war; their lookout will have increased tenfold.”
“And you still go along with our original plan?” Khardan cast a scowling glance at the large bundle lying on the ground—a bundle containing women’s heavy robes and thick veils.
“Chances are they will not search females,” Auda answered carelessly.
“Chances!” Khardan snorted.
Auda laid a hand on the Calif ‘s arm. “Zhakrin has brought me this far. He will get me through the gate. Will your God not do as much for his Prophet?”
Was the voice mocking, or did it speak truly, from faith? Khardan stared at Auda intently but could not decide. The man’s eyes, the only window to his soul, were—as usual—closed and shuttered. What was it about this man that drew Khardan near as it repelled him? Several times the Calif thought he had found the answer, only to have it flit away from him the next instant. Just as it did now.
Khardan bathed in the stream, then spread his blanket beneath the trees near where Zohra and Mathew sat talking in whispers, perhaps going over their own plans, for Mathew was repeating strange word
s to Zohra, who murmured them over and over to herself before she slept.
Night came and with it a gentle rain that pattered on the leaves of the grapevines. One by one the nomads sank into sleep, secure in the knowledge that their immortals guarded their rest, and leaving their ultimate fate in the hands of Akhran.
Chapter 2
As Sul would have it, it was neither Hazrat Akhran nor Zhakrin, God of Evil, who opened the gate of the city of Kich to the nomads.
It was Quar.
“Master, wake up!”
Khardan sat bolt upright, his hand closing over the hilt of his sword.
“No, sidi, there is no danger. Look.” Sond pointed. Khardan, blinking the sleep from his eyes, peered through the haze of early morning to where the djinn indicated. “When did this begin?” he asked, staring.
“Before it was light, sidi. We have been watching for over an hour and it grows.”
Khardan turned to wake Auda, only to find the Paladin reclining on his arms, watching in relaxed ease. Last night, the road had been empty of all travelers. This morning it was jammed with people, camels, donkeys, horses, carts, and wagons, all coming together, jostling for position, breaking down in the center of the road, and snarling up traffic. But despite the confusion, it was clear that they were all headed in one direction—toward Kich.
Springing to his feet, Khardan shook Zohra’s shoulder roughly and, grabbing Mathew’s blanket, pulled it out from beneath him, dumping the young man rudely to the ground. “Hurry! Wake up! Gather your things! No, we won’t need those. Only Mathew will dress as a woman. Ibn Jad and I won’t need a disguise, thank Akhran.”
“I do not think we need rush,” remarked Auda coolly, his gaze on the road and the winding snake of humanity that crept along it. “This is unending, it seems.”
“One of our Gods has seen fit to answer our prayers,” remarked Khardan, tossing the saddle over his horse’s back. “I will not offend whoever it is by seeming lax in my response.”
Auda raised a thoughtful eyebrow and, without more words, prepared to saddle his own animal. By this time the camp was roused.
“What is it?” Majiid hurried over, his grizzled hair standing straight up on all sides of the small, tightfitting cap he wore beneath his headcloth. Cinching his saddle, Khardan grunted and nodded his head at the road below, but by that time Majiid had seen and was scowling.
“I don’t like this. . . this crowd coming to the city.”
“Do not question the blessing of the God, father. It gets us into the gate. Surely with this mob the guards will not look too closely at four.”
“Then they will not look too closely at four hundred. I’m going with you!” stated Majiid.
“And I!” cried Jaafar, hurrying up. “You’ll do nothing without me!”
“Make my camel ready!” Zeid, dashing over, turned and started to dash away.
“No!” Khardan called as loudly as he dared before the entire hillside erupted into confusion. “How will it look to Qannadi if a crowd of armed spahis surges into his city? The Amir remembers what happened the last time we went to Kich. He would never agree to listen to me! We follow the plan, father! The only ones who enter the city are Auda, my wife, Mathew, Sond, and I. You and the men remain here and wait for the djinn to report back.”
Sheykh Jaafar argued that the mob on the road was an ill omen and that no one should enter the city. Sheykh Majiid, suddenly siding with his son, repeated once again that Jaafar was a coward. Zeid glowered at Khardan suspiciously and insisted that the Calif take Raja with him, as well as Sond, and Jaafar shouted that if Raja went, Fedj should not be left behind.
“Very well!” Khardan lifted his hands to the heavens. “I will take all the djinn!”
“I will not be offended, master, if you leave me behind,” began Usti humbly, but a glimpse at the Calif ‘s dark and exasperated expression caused the flabby immortal to gulp and disappear into the ethers with his companions.
When all were ready, Khardan cast a stern glance at the Sheykhs. “Remember, you are to wait here for word. This you swear to me by Hazrat Akhran?”
“I swear,” muttered the Sheykhs unwillingly.
Knowing that each of the old men was perfectly capable of deciding that this vow applied to all with the exception of himself, Khardan calculated he had no more than a few days’ peace before he could look forward confidently to a chaos equivalent to that of Sul’s legions breaking loose out here in the vineyard. Not at all reassured by seeing Majiid brandishing his sword in a salute that nearly decapitated Jaafar, Khardan led his horse from the grove, followed by Auda, Zohra, Mathew, and—he assumed—three invisible djinn. The thought of this procession attempting to sneak into Kich unobserved preyed on his mind. It was probably just as well, therefore, that the Calif did not know an angel of Promenthas was tagging along, as well.
Hurriedly, Khardan led the group through the vineyards, bringing them to a halt some distance from the road in the shelter of the trees along the stream.
“Either Auda or I will do the talking. Remember, it is not seemly for our women to speak to strangers.”
This was said to Mathew, who was once again disguised as a female in a green caftan and a green and gold spangled veil he had taken from Meryem’s tent. But Khardan could not help his glance straying to Zohra. Mathew accepted the instruction gravely and somberly. Zohra glared at Khardan in sudden fury.
“I am not a child!” she snarled, giving a rope wrapped around a bundle on the back of the horse a vicious jerk that sent the startled animal dancing sideways into the stream with a splash.
Checking an exasperated retort, the Calif turned from Zohra and, leading his horse out of the vineyards, headed for the road. He ignored the low chuckle he heard come from the Paladin, walking beside him.
Very well, he berated himself, he deserved her anger. He shouldn’t have said it. Zobra knew their danger. She would do nothing to expose them. But why couldn’t she understand? He was worried, nervous, afraid for her, afraid for the boy, afraid for his people. Yes, if truth be told, afraid for himself. A battle in the open air, grappling with Death facetoface—that he understood and could meet without blenching. But a battle of duplicity and intrigue, a battle fought trapped inside city walls—this unnerved him.
It occurred to him that perhaps it was not quite fair to demand of Zohra that she honor her husband for his strength and pretend not to see his weakness, while at the same time expecting her to make allowances for the very weakness he refused to admit having. But so be it, he decided, sliding and slipping down the terraced slope. Akhran had never said that anyone’s life was fair.
Leading their horses by the reins, the four stepped hesitantly, cautiously, into the road, joining the throng of people heading for Kich. They were immediately absorbed into the crowd without question or notice. Everyone appeared to be in a state of anticipatory excitement; and Khardan was wondering which of those pressing around would be safe to question when Auda, touching him gently, gestured in the direction of a rascally looking, sunburnt man clad in a wellworn burnouse and a small, greasy, sweatstained cap that fit tightly over his skull.
The man held, at the end of a lead, a small monkey, who wore a cap similar to its master’s and a coat made in imitation of one of the Amir’s soldiers that was almost, but not quite, as filthy. The monkey scampered among the crowd, to the delight of the children and Mathew. The young man stared at it wideeyed, having never seen an animal such as this before. Holding out its tiny hand, the monkey would run up to a person, begging for food or money or anything anyone seemed inclined to hand it. When the monkey had taken the grape or the copper piece, it would perform a headoverheels flip at the end of its leash, then run back to its master.
Removing from his money pouch one of the last, precious coins of his tribe, Khardan considered a moment. He had no idea how long they might be forced to stay in Kich until the Amir returned. They would need food and a place to sleep. But he had to have information. Slowly Khardan he
ld up the coin between thumb and forefinger. Catching the glint of money, the monkey ran up and hopped about in the dust at Khardan’s feet, chittering wildly and beating its tiny hands together to indicate that the nomad was to toss the coin.
“No, no, little one,” said Khardan, shaking his head and talking to the monkey, though his eyes were really on its master. “You must come and get it.”
The monkey’s master spoke a word, and to the Calif ‘s astonishment the monkey leapt onto his robes and crawled up the nomad as deftly as if Khardan had been a species of date palm. Scampering along the Calif ‘s arm, the monkey neatly plucked the coin from Khardan’s fingers, then flipped over backwards to land on its feet in the street. Those in the crowd who had witnessed the feat applauded and laughed at the expense of the nomad.
Khardan’s face flushed red, and he was of half a mind to make the monkey’s master do a few flips himself when he heard an odd sound behind him. Turning, he glowered at Mathew.
“I’m sorry, Khardan,” murmured the young man from behind his veil stifling his giggle, his eyes dancing in merriment. “I couldn’t help myself.”
“Be quiet, you’ll call attention to us!” Khardan said sternly, reminding Mathew of what the Calif himself had nearly forgotten. Khardan’s gaze darted to Zohra. She lowered her eyes, but not before he had seen laughter sparkling in their depths.
Khardan felt a smile tug at his lips despite himself. I must have looked ridiculous, I’II admit that. And to hear the young man laugh—after all this time. Especially facing such danger. It is a good omen, and I accept it.
“Salaam aleikum, my friend,” called out Khardan to the monkey’s master, who had taken the coin from the animal and, after inspecting it closely, carefully tucked it into a ragged cloth bag he carried slung over his shoulder.
The monkey’s master bowed and came over to walk beside the two nomads and their wives, his sharpeyed gaze going to the place in the Calif ‘s flowing robes from where he had seen the money emerge. “Aleikum salaam, Effendi,” he said humbly.
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