The blood drained from Mathew’s face, leaving it livid, but he faced the Amir bravely and with a quiet dignity. “I did what I thought right. She was going to murder—”
“I know all about Meryem,” Qannadi interrupted.
“But it was not you who sent her, was it, O King?” said Khardan in sudden understanding.
“No, not I. Not that I wouldn’t have slept easier nights knowing she had succeeded,” the Amir admitted with a smile, which this time warmed the eyes embedded in their web of wrinkles. “You are a danger, nomad. What is worse, you are an innocent danger. You have no conception of the threat you pose. You are not ambitious. You cannot see beyond your dunes. You are honorable, trustworthy, trusting. How does one deal with a man like you in a world like this? A world gone mad.”
The smile faded from the weary eyes. “I tried to insure that you left it. Oh, not through Meryem. I sent her there the first time, sent her to spy on you. And when she reported that your tribes were allying against me, I did you honor, though you did not know it. I sent you death in the form of Gasim, my best Captain. I sent you death in battle, facetoface, bladetoblade. Not death by night, with poison, in the guise of love.”
“The Imam,” said Khardan.
“Yes.” Qannadi drew a deep breath. “The Imam.” He paused. In the silence they could hear the murmur of the falling water. The nightingale had hushed his song. Beyond the walls, in the distance, could be heard the cheering of the crowd growing nearer. The procession was wending its way to the Temple. “So you come here to ask for the lives of your people,” the Amir continued, and his voice chill. “I refuse your demand for battle. It is senseless. A waste of lives I can ill afford to spare. Let the conquered cities I control get whiff of this, and they would go for my throat.
“And now what do you do, Calif? What do you do with a woman whose eyes are the eyes of the hawk? What do you do with a man of an alien land where, they say, men possess the magical powers of women? What do you do with a Paladin of the Night, who has a blood curse to fulfill?”
Khardan, startled at these words striking so close to home, could not, at first, reply but only stare at Qannadi, trying to fathom the man’s intent. He couldn’t. Or if he did, it was only dimly, as a man sees through a storm of swirling sand.
“I will go to prison and die with my people, O King,” the Calif said calmly.
“Of course you will,” said Qannadi.
One corner of the mouth sank deep into the weathered cheeks. Raising his voice to the call that could sound over the pounding of hooves, the rattle and press of battle, the Amir shouted for his guards.
“What about Achmed?” Khardan asked hurriedly, hearing the stamp of booted feet on the garden path. Zohra stood proudly, head high, eyes flashing. Mathew watched Qannadi in silence. Auda ibn Jad thrust his dagger into some secret, hidden place and stood with his arms folded across his chest, a smile as dangerous and dark as Qannadi’s on his lips. Khardan kept a wary eye on him, expecting him to fight—uncomfortable when he didn’t.
“My brother should know the truth about the girl,” the Calif pursued.
“He knows the truth. It festers in his heart, nomad,” said Qannadi. “Would you yank out the arrow and let the barbs rip out his life? Or would you let it work its way out slowly, in its own time?”
“You love him, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Qannadi answered simply.
“So do I.” The guards had come and taken hold of Khardan and his companions roughly, not sparing Zohra or Mathew but clasping them with firm hands and bending their arms behind their backs. “Keep him away tomorrow, O King,” the Calif pleaded urgently, struggling to face the Amir as the guards tried to drag him off. “Don’t let him see his people butchered!”
“Take them to the Zindan,” said Qannadi.
“Promise me!”
Qannadi made a gesture. A jab to Khardan’s kidney, and the Calif ceased to fight, doubling over with a groan of pain. The guards hustled them, unresisting, out of the garden.
Standing on the path, watching the strange group being led away, Qannadi spoke softly, “Your God be with you, nomad.”
Chapter 5
Four prisoners started out for the Zindan, but only two arrived.
Zohra never heard what happened, in the confusion of the streets through which they were led, and neither, apparently, did the lieutenant responsible for delivering the nomads to the Zindan. The look upon his face when he turned around and saw that the number of his charges had been reduced by half was laughable.
Indeed, Zohra did laugh, which did not endear her to her captor. “You will not be laughing in the morning, kafir!” the lieutenant snapped. “Where are the men—the nomad and his friend?” he demanded of his soldiers, who were staring, dumbfounded, at each other.
“Perhaps they were stopped by the crowd,” suggested the prison commandant complacently, folding his hands over his fat belly and regarding Zohra with appreciative eyes.
“Bah!” the lieutenant said, angered and more than half frightened. It would be his responsibility to report this loss to the Amir. “We weren’t stopped by the crowd. Send some of your men out to search.”
Shrugging, the commandant ordered several of his prison guards to retrace the lieutenant’s steps from the Zindan back to the palace to see if the Amir’s soldiers needed aid in bringing in their prisoners. The lieutenant took exception to the commandant’s insinuation but—being in no position to vent his spleen— kept silent and aloof and stared intently out the window of the brick guardhouse into the crowded prison grounds.
“What do we do with these two beauties?” asked the commandant, his fingers twiddling.
“Put them with the others,” said the lieutenant offhandedly. “They are not to be mistreated.”
“Mmmmm.” The commandant ran his tongue over greasy lips. “They won’t be, I can assure you. I know exactly how to . . . uh . . . handle them.” Rising ponderously to his feet, he glanced out the window. “Ah, here come my men, with news from the looks of it. “
Mathew took advantage of the opportunity to creep nearer Zohra.
“What has happened? Where is Khardan? What have they done to him?”
“He is with the Paladin, of course,” she whispered back. “There is nothing more we can do for them, Mathew, nor they for us. Our roads have separated. We are on our own.”
The two prison guards arrived at the commandant’s office, redfaced and breathless. “We found two of the Amir’s men, sir, in a back alley. Dead. Their throats have been cut.”
“Impossible! I heard nothing!” said the stunned lieutenant. “Did anyone see anything?”
The two guards shook their heads.
“I will go take a look for myself before I report to the Amir.”
“You do that,” said the commandant expansively. “And I’ll make a special cell ready for you on your return,” he muttered gleefully, watching the lieutenant walk stiffly out into the streets.
The prison chief—remembering regretfully the easy life under the Sultan—had little use for the Amir and none at all for his soldiers, a snooty lot who looked down their noses at him and were constantly interfering with what the commandant felt to be his prerogatives in the treatment of the scum assigned to his care.
“Treat you well! That I will, my flowers!” Gazing hungrily at Zohra, he rubbed his hands together. “I would have enjoyed the company of a few others of your kind if that pompous old ass in the palace hadn’t kept his soldiers snooping about. But tonight everyone will be attending the Imam’s ceremony. Your men have deserted you.” He sidled up to Zohra with a leering grin, reaching out a flabby hand. “The cowards! But you will not miss them. Tonight I will show you kafir what it is to enjoy the company of a real man, one who knows how to—”
Zohra drove her foot hard into the crook of the man’s knee. His leg collapsed under him, and he was forced to catch hold of a chair to keep from falling. Pain paled the heavy cheeks; his chin quivered in fury. “K
afir bitch!” Grabbing her veiled hair, he yanked her head back and started to kiss her. Zohra’s nails flashed for his face. Mathew shoved his arm between the man’s body and Zohra, endeavoring to break the embrace and drag Zohra away.
“Commandant,” came a voice from the door.
“Ugh?” The prison chief, flinging Mathew from him, turned around, one hand still holding Zohra painfully by the hair.
“You are to report to the Amir,” said the guard, endeavoring to look anywhere else but at his sweating chief. “Immediately. Word has already reached him about the murdered soldiers, it seems.”
“Hunh!” The commandant hurled Zohra to the floor. Straightening his uniform, he mopped his face and, cursing beneath his breath, waddled out toward the palace walls.
“Take them to the compound,” he ordered, waving his hand.
The guard stood over Zohra and Mathew, waiting for them to rise, not offering assistance but watching them with an unpleasant grin. The prison guards—dregs of humanity, many of whom had once been prisoners themselves—had been chosen by the commandant for their coarse and brutal natures. To be fair to the commandant, few others except men like these could be found who could stomach the work. A man sentenced to prison in this harsh land often had good cause to envy those sentenced to death. It was only through the intervention of the Imam, who never ceased to try to convert the kafir, that the nomads taken prisoner at the Tel had received good treatment. The guards had been forced to keep the women under their care for a month, forbidden to touch them. But that would end this night. The Amir’s soldiers and the Imam’s soldierpriests would be needed to help control the crowd. No one would pay any attention to the prisoners. Rapine, murder—who would know in the morning, when all were to be slaughtered anyway in the name of Quar? Who would care?
Zohra saw the hatred and lust burn in the man’s animal eyes and understood clearly the doom that hung over the prisoners once darkness descended. It would be a night of horrors. Mathew’s hand, as he helped her to her feet, was chill and clammy, and she knew that he understood as well. The two exchanged glances, exchanged fear.
Khardan was gone, prisoner of Auda or willing helper. He had not foreseen this danger; it had not occurred to him. Did the women in the prison realize their peril? Could they be made to fight it? Knowing her people, Zohra had no doubt that they would fight. She wondered uneasily if she could convince them to fight using this strange magic, taught by a madman.
They must, she said to herself firmly. They would. With Akhran’s help. Or without it.
Khardan saw, from the corner of his eye, the guard marching behind Auda ibn Jad suddenly drop out of sight. The Calif felt a violent wrenching from behind. The hands of the guard holding his arms clenched spasmodically, then fell away from him. He was free. Turning, astonished, he saw the bodies of the, two guards lying in the street, a red slit across each neck.
“This way!” hissed a voice.
“Zohra—” began Khardan, starting after the guards who, having heard nothing, were leading Zohra and Mathew away.
“No!” Auda blocked his path. “Would you ruin all?”
It was the most difficult decision the Calif had ever been forced to make, and he was forced to make it within seconds. Do you deny me the right to die for my people because I am a woman? Zohra’s words echoed in his head.
Auda was right. Khardan might well ruin the only chance they had. He had to let her go—at least for the moment.
The Paladin and the Calif dived into a dark alley. Two shadowy shapes, blacker than night, flowed before them. A door opened suddenly. Hands yanked Khardan inside a building that was cool, lit only by the sunlight that streamed in when the door stood open. The Calif could see nothing when the door was slammed shut.
“Do you need anything else, Effendi?” whispered a voice that was vaguely familiar to Khardan.
“Yes, Kiber. Two robes of the soldierpriests’.”
“Only two, Effendi?” The man sounded disappointed.
“Are we not to help you in your task?”
“No, my life is forfeit for this cause. Your lives are not, and our people must not be wasted.” There came a rustling sound, as of a hand clasping a shoulder. “You have been a faithful squire, Kiber. You have served both myself and the God well. My last request of my Lord is that you be knighted in the service of Zhakrin and take my place. Say to him, when you return, that this is my will.”
“Thank you, Effendi.” Kiber’s voice was reverent. “The robes will be beneath the blackened stones of what used to be our mosque in this city. You will find food and drink on the floor near the center of this room. It has been my privilege to serve you these many years, Auda ibn Jad. You have taught me much. I pray that I will be a credit to you. Zhakrin’s blessing!”
The door opened, the light stabbed brilliantly into the room, then the door shut and all was darkness and silence but for the breathing of the two men left behind.
“Zohra and Mathew.” Khardan turned. “I must go—”
A hand of iron closed over his forearm. “They do what they must, brother, and so will we. I call upon you now, Khardan, Calif of your people, to fulfill the vow you made to me—of your own free will—in the dungeons of Castle Zhakrin.”
“And if I do not,” said Khardan, “will you strike me down?”
“No,” said Auda softly. “Not I. How does your God deal with oath breakers?”
Reluctant, undecided, Khardan waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. He could see ibn Jad now, a vague, gray shape moving in the gloom.
“I should be with my wife, wives,” he amended ironically, remembering that Mathew belonged to him. “I should be with my people. They are in danger.”
“So they are. So are we. Zohra and Mathew understand how to fight it. Knowing no magic, can you help them? No, you might do them great harm. They are one hope for your people, and you are the other. And your way is with me.”
“You don’t give a damn about my people,” said Khardan, angry, frustrated. He knew Auda was right, but he didn’t like it, fought against it. “You’d slit their throats tomorrow if that God of yours ordered it.”
Reaching down, he grabbed a loaf of flat, unleavened bread and bit off a great hunk, washing it down with warm, staletasting water from a goatskin bag.
“You are right, brother,” said ibn Jad, the white teeth flashing for an instant in a grin. “But I know what drives you. That is the bond between us. We are both willing to sacrifice our lives for our people. And you see now, do you not, brother, that the only hope for the life of your tribe is the death of this priest?”
Khardan said nothing, but chewed bread.
“Surely you noticed,” pursued Auda, “that the Amir himself sent you off with his blessing.”
The Calif ‘s eyes narrowed in a disbelieving scowl. Auda burst out with a laugh, then stifled it instantly, his glance darting toward the closed door. “You fool!” he lowered his voice. “Qannadi could have—should have—ordered his guards to slay us on the spot! The Amir is a traveled man. He knows the people of Zhakrin, he knows my goal. And he sends me off to prison under light guard! Nomads!” Auda shook his head. “You have the sword arms of warriors, the courage of lions, and the guileless souls of children.
“Here is this Amir, a soldier, a military man who would like very much to see the Emperor’s rule spread as far as possible but would appreciate having some subjects left alive to benefit by it. Men will suffer beneath heavy taxes. They will grit their teeth and bear the lash. But touch a man’s religion, and you touch his soul, his life in the hereafter, and that is something most men will willingly fight to protect. I suspect from certain words Qannadi let drop that the southern cities are rife with rebellion. He speaks of his army numbering in the thousands, but I have not seen near that many in Kich. He is spread thin to protect his holdings. The Amir was right,” the Paladin added more thoughtfully. “You do not yet know how dangerous you are, nomad. When you do, I think the world will tremble.”
He fell silent, eating and drinking. Khardan was quiet, too, thinking. His thoughts got him nowhere except to despair, however, and he changed the subject. “Where did those men of yours come from?” he asked irritably. “How did Kiber know we were in Kich?”
“The Black Sorceress sent them in case I needed aid. She has sent our people to all other cities where I might have gone in search of Feisal.”
“And how did you contact Kiber?” Khardan pursued insistently. “I was with you the entire time! I saw no one. You spoke to no one—”
“I summoned him through my prayers, nomad. Our God sent my squire to me when I called. Never mind, you cannot understand.” Auda finished the bread and stretched out comfortably on the floor, hands behind his head. “You should get some sleep, brother. The night will be long.”
Khardan lay down upon the hardpacked dirt floor of the squalid hut. The heat was stifling. No hotter than the desert, perhaps, but he felt closed in, trapped, unable to breathe. Restlessly he turned and twisted and tried in vain to make himself relax.
Zohra. He feared for her, but he trusted her. That was why he had let her go. He knew her courage, none better. She had stood up to him more than once and won. He acknowledged her intelligence, though—he smiled wryly—she would never be wise. Always impetuous, with her sharp tongue and flashfire temper, she acted and spoke before she thought. He only hoped that this fault did not lead her over the edge of the precipice she walked. But Mathew was with her. Mathew has wisdom enough for both of them, for all three of us, if it comes to that, Khardan admitted to himself. Mathew would guide her and, Akhran willing, they would be safe.
Safe. . . and then what?
Sighing bleakly, Khardan closed his eyes.
A long night.
It could be a very long night. One to last an eternity.
Chapter 6
There not being nearly enough cells to accommodate them, the women and children of the nomads had been herded into the central compound of the Zindan. When first captured several months ago, they had been given houses in the city and the freedom to make their livings as best they could in the souks of Kich. In return the Imam had hoped that a glimpse of city life—education for their children, food, shelter, safety—would cause them to renounce their wandering ways and convert to Quar. He hoped that their husbands would leave the desert and come join their families, and a few did. But when month after month passed and most did not, when it was reported to Feisal that the nomad women—though seemingly pliable and obedient—nevertheless kept their children out of the madrasah and never passed the Temple of Quar without crossing over to the opposite side of the street, the Imam began to lose patience.
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