“He’s not here.”
“Yes, he is,” returned Auda coolly.
Squinting, peering into the deep shadows, Khardan could barely make out, by the reflected light of the flaring flames that lit the sky, a huddled figure squatting next to the wall.
“The followers of Benario will not be worshiping Quar this night, but their own God, to whom these celebrations are meat and drink,” said Auda with a grim smile.
True enough. More than one person in that crowd would discover his purse missing, her jewelry stolen. More than one man would return home and find his coffers empty.
Creeping down the streets, keeping a wary eye out for the Amir’s soldiers, Khardan caught hold of Auda’s arm and pointed.
“Look, not everyone in the palace is attending the celebration.”
Far up in a tower shone a single light. There sat—although the two below could not see him—Qannadi. Alone in his room, surrounded by his maps and his dispatches, he was reading each one attentively, concentrating on each, making notes in a firm, steady hand. Yet as he listened to the silence that was breathless, hushed, and tense, the Amir felt himself poised on a dagger’s edge. He had set forces in motion over which he had no control, and whether for good or for ill, Sul alone knew.
Auda shrugged. The light was far away and posed no threat. Moving softly, he and Khardan walked over to where the blind beggar sat, his back against the wall of the Kasbah. But though their bare feet had not made a sound that either of them could hear, they had not moved softly enough. The milky eyes flared open, the head turned toward them.
“Soldierpriests,” he said, holding out his basket. “In the name of Quar, take pity.”
“You smell our clothes, not the men inside,” returned Auda softly, dropping several coins in the basket and motioning Khardan to do the same. The Calif handed over his purse, containing every last piece of money of his tribe.
The beggar wrinkled his nose. “You are right. You reek of incense. But I know that voice. What do you want, you who speaks the password of Benario yet is not one of the Brotherhood?”
Auda appeared discomfited by this, and the blind beggar grinned, his toothless mouth a dark, gaping hole in the flamelit night. Reaching out a groping hand, he took hold of Khardan’s arm, clutching him with a grip surprising in one who appeared so feeble and infirm. “Tell me what you will do, man who smells of horse”—the other hand grabbed hold of Auda—”and man who smells of death.”
“Death is my mission, old man,” said Auda harshly. “And the less you know the better.”
“Death is your mission,” repeated the beggar, “yet you do not come to kill the Amir, for that you could have done this day. I heard you talking—my ears are very good, you may have noticed. What Benario takes away, he sometimes repays in double measure. I am thinking you might want to know how to find the tunnel that leads beneath the street to the Temple.”
“Such information might be of interest,” said Auda offhandedly. “If not this night, then another.”
The beggar cackled and let loose his grasp of each of them. So hard had he held them, however, that Khardan continued to feel, for long minutes after, the warm pressure of the gnarled fingers on his flesh.
“We have no more money,” said the Calif, thinking that this was what the old man was after.
The beggar made a gesture as if to consign money to the nether realms of Sul. “I do not want your coin. But you have something you can give me in exchange for my help.”
“What is that?” Khardan asked reluctantly, having the uncanny impression that the unseeing eyes could see through him.
“The name of the woman who stopped to help a poor beggar when her man would have passed him by this day.”
Khardan blinked, starting in surprise. “Her name?” he looked dubiously at Auda, who shrugged and indicated impatiently that they needed to make haste.
“Zohra,” said Khardan, speaking it slowly and reluctantly, feeling that there was something very special about it and not liking—somehow—to share it.
“Zohra,” the blind beggar whispered. “The flower. It suits her. I have it in my heart now”—the empty eyes narrowed—”and it will protect me. When you go through the wall, take four steps forward, and you will come to a flagstone path. Follow this path for a count of forty steps, and you will come to another wall with a wooden door set within. On this door is placed the mark of the golden ram’s head. There is no lock, though I’ll wager Qannadi has often wished there were,” chuckled the old man. “The Imam and his priests have free run of the palace these days. Follow the tunnel, and it will bring you to another door that does have a lock. But you, man of death, should have no trouble opening it. The door will bring you out into the altar room itself.”
So saying, the beggar slid his hand behind his back. They heard a click and the wall gaped open. Auda darted inside, and Khardan was about to follow when he touched the beggar’s bony shoulder. “The blessing of Akhran be on you, father.”
“I have the woman’s name,” the beggar said sharply. “That will be all I need this night.”
Puzzled, not understanding, but thinking the beggar was probably touched with madness, Khardan left him and—for the second time that day—sneaked into the forbidden pleasure garden of the Amir’s palace.
They had no trouble following the beggar’s directions. It was well he gave them in counted steps, for the darkness beneath the trees was thick and impenetrable. They moved as blind men themselves, Khardan forced to grasp Auda’s forearm so that they did not become separated. Slipping ahead cautiously, they fended off lowhanging branches, but for the most part found the pathway free of debris and easy to follow. Auda counted the steps under his breath, and they hurried over the flagstone, gliding beneath the perfumed trees, past the dancing fountains. Forty steps brought them to a part of the garden that was less overgrown than the rest. Coming out from under the tree branches, they could see by the red glow in the sky and discovered the door they sought.
The golden ram’s head on the wood gleamed eerily. Khardan had the uncomfortable impression that the eyes were watching him with enmity, and he pushed forward to open the door and enter the tunnel but Auda stopped him.
“One moment,” said the Paladin.
“What is it? You were the one impatient to get here,” Khardan snapped nervously.
“Wait,” was all ibn Jad said.
To Khardan’s astonishment, the Black Paladin sank down on his knees before the golden ram’s head, whose eyes seemed to flare brighter than ever. Removing something from within his robes, Auda held it forth in his right hand. Khardan saw that it was a black medallion, the image of a severed snake worked upon it in glittering silver.
“From this moment,” said Auda ibn lad clearly, “my life is in your hands, Zhakrin. I walk forth to fulfill the blood curse cast by the dying Catalus on this man called Feisal, who has sought to take away not only the lives and freedom of our people, but our immortal souls as well.”
Auda reached into his robes and took out an object Khardan recognized easily—the severedsnake dagger. The Paladin held it up in his left hand, level with the medallion. “The hand that holds this dagger is no longer my hand, but yours, Zhakrin. Guide it with unerring swiftness to the heart of our enemy.”
Auda’s face, turned toward the light, was pale and cold as marble, frozen with an unearthly calm, the cruel eyes dark and more empty than the sightless orbs of the blind man. A chill wind rose and blew through the garden. A wave of evil smote Khardan so that he could barely stand, leaving him weak and shaking and powerless, or he would have turned and fled this place that he knew was accursed.
What am I doing here? the nomad Prince thought in horror. Was it you who sent me, Akhran, or have I been deceived? Have I been yoked to this evil man by trickery, and will it end with my falling into the dark Pit of Sul and losing my soul forever? What difference is there between Auda and this Feisal? What difference between Quar and Zhakrin? Surely Zhakrin would st
rive to become the One, True God if he could! What is transpiring in the heavens that has led me to this path on earth?
I would take this wicked priest’s life in battle, but I want no part of wrenching it from him in the dark. Yet he will not face me in battle, and how can I save my people other than by striking him down? Help me, Akhran! Help me!
And then Auda spoke, and there was a softness and wry humor in his voice. “One final prayer, Zhakrin. Absolve this man, Khardan, of his vow, as I absolve him of it. When I am dead, he will have no need to avenge my death. If my blood touches him, it will be only in blessing, not a curse. I ask this, Zhakrin, as one who goes forth with the expectation of being with you soon.”
Auda bowed his head, raising both dagger and medallion higher to the night.
Khardan leaned back against the wall, shivering, yet feeling somehow that he’d received his answer, if only to understand that he was free to act of his own will. Whatever constraint—if there had truly been one—had been lifted.
Auda, prostrating himself to the ground, rose to his feet. Kissing the dagger, he slipped it into the folds of his stolen priest’s tunic. Kissing the medallion, he hung it around his neck.
“It will be seen,” said Khardan.
“I want it to be seen,” answered the Paladin.
“When they set eyes upon it, they’ll know you for what you are and strike you down.”
“Very probably. I will live long enough to obtain my objective—my God will see to that—and then it does not I matter.”
Auda opened the door, but Khardan barred his way.
“I would see and hear this man speak,” said the Calif gruffly. “I want to give him one final chance to rescind his order regarding my people. Promise me that before you attack?”
“I am not the only one they will strike down,” returned Auda with a fleeting ghost of a smile across the bearded lips.
“Swear, by your God!”
Auda shrugged. “Very well, but only because you could prove a useful diversion. I swear.”
Breathing somewhat easier, Khardan moved his arm and entered the tunnel, walking beside Auda.
The door shut without sound behind them.
Chapter 8
“Well, that’s that,” said Sond, staring gloomily at the tunnel door through which his master had just vanished. “We may not enter the holy place of another God.”
“We could stay here and guard their way back,” suggested Fedj.
“Bah! Who is there to guard against?” retorted Sond sourly. “Everyone is gathering for the ceremony, Only the Amir’s bodyguards are about, and there’s not many of them. From what I could gather, Qannadi has sent them to reinforce those responsible for controlling the crowd.”
“We could go to the Amir’s kitchens and see what they have prepared for dinner,” suggested Usti, rubbing his fat hands.
“Didn’t I hear your mistress calling you?” Sond scowled. “You have played that trick on me one time too many, Sond,” said Usti with lofty dignity. “It is well past dinnertime, lacking only an hour or so of being midnight. There is nothing more we can do here, and I do not think any harm would come of visiting the kit—”
“Usti!”
It was—most definitely—a feminine voice.
“Name of Akhran!” Usti went pale as the belly of dead fish.
“Hush!” ordered Sond, listening carefully. “That is no mortal tongue—”
“Usti! Sond! Fedj! Where are you?” The names were called urgently, yet reluctantly, as if the speaker vied within herself.
“I know! It is that angel of Pukah’s!” Sond looked amazed and not entirely pleased. “What can she be doing—”
“You forget the madman,” interrupted Fedj. “She is his guardian, after all.”
“You are right. It had slipped my mind.” The djinn frowned. “She should not be calling like that. It will alert every one of Quar’s immortals in the city.”
“I will go to her,” offered Raja, and disappeared only to return presently with the whiterobed, silverhaired angel, looking small and delicate and fragile beside the powerful djinn.
“Thank Promenthas I have found you!” Asrial cried, clasping her hands. “I mean”—she flushed in confusion—”thank Akhran—”
“How may we serve you, lady!” asked Sond impatiently. “First,” interposed Fedj, with a rebuking glance at his fellow, “we want to offer our sympathy for your sorrow. “
“My sorrow?” Asrial seemed uneasy, uncertain how to respond.
“Pardon us, but we could not help but notice that our companion, Pukah, had earned—although I’m not certain how—a very special and honored place in your heart.”
“It is . . . foolish of me to feel that way, I fear,” said Asrial shyly. “It is not right that we immortals should care for each other. . .”
“Not right!” Touched by her sadness, Sond took her by the hand and squeezed it comfortingly. “How can it not be right, when it was your love for him that brought out the best qualities in Pukah and gave him the strength to sacrifice himself?”
“Do you truly believe that?” Asrial gazed up searchingly into the djinn’s eyes.
“I do, lady, with all my heart,” said Sond.
“And I, too,” rumbled Raja.
“And I. And I,” murmured Fedj and Usti, the latter wiping away a tear that was creeping down his fat face.
“But you were calling us,” said Sond. “How is it we may serve you?”
Asrial’s fears, seemingly forgotten a brief moment, returned, causing the color to leave the ethereal cheeks. “Mathew, and your mistress, Zohra! They are in the most terrible danger, or soon will be! You must come and help them.”
“But we may not. We have not been summoned,” said Sond, appearing worried, yet not certain what to do.
“That is because they don’t know they’re going to be in danger!” Asrial wrung her hands. “But Matthew is talking of overpowering guards, and he carries a dagger one of the women managed to sneak into the prison with her. He knows nothing about fighting, and the guards are strong and brutal! You must come with me! You must!”
“We are certainly useless here,” prodded Fedj.
“That is true.” Sond gnawed his nether lip. “Yet we have not been summoned.”
“Yes, we have,” said Usti unexpectedly. He pointed a jeweled, chubby finger at Asrial. “She summoned us!”
“An angel summoning a djinn?” Sond appeared doubtful.
“Let them argue about it at the next tribunal,” said Raja. “I, for one, am going with the lady.” He bowed, hand over his heart, to Asrial.
“Are all resolved?” Sond looked at Fedj, who nodded.
“My mistress is so stubborn, she would never summon me,” Usti commented. “I will go.”
“Not stubborn. Intelligent—knowing well if she summoned what she’d get,” returned Sond. “Lady Asrial, we are yours to command. And may Akhran have mercy on us if he ever finds out we worked for an angel!” breathed the djinn, casting a worried glance toward heaven.
Inside the cell block of the Zindan, the prison guard, his face twisted in sadistic pleasure, brought his lash down on the bare back of his victim. The boy writhed in the arms that held him, but he did not cry out, though the effort it cost him drove his teeth deep into his tongue.
“Hit him a couple more times and loosen his voice,” said one of the guards, holding the boy by the arms.
“Yes, his screams won’t be noticed this night,” said the other.
The guard did as he was requested, striking at the back that was already marked with scars from previous ‘punishment’ sessions. The boy flinched and gasped but swallowed his scream and managed to cast a triumphant glance at his captors, though blood ran from his mouth and he knew he would pay for that look with the next blow.
The next blow did not fall, however. The guard stared in astonishment as the whip was plucked from his grasp by a gigantic, disembodied hand and carried up to the ceiling.
The three prison guards stood near the cell block’s outer door where they could keep watch and see if any of the Amir’s soldiers might be snooping about. This area was their usual location for ‘punishment,’ as could be witnessed by the numerous splotches of dried blood upon the stone floor. Surrounded by three walls, it was not a large area and it grew smaller still when it was filled with the massive bodies of four huge djinn (Usti taking up as much room sideways as the others did lengthwise).
“Ah, you seem to have dropped this,” said Raja, the huge whip dangling between his thumb and forefinger.. “Allow me to return it to you, sidi!” He deftly wrapped the whip around the guard’s neck.
The guard fought and struggled, but he was no match for the djinn and was soon trussed up like a chicken, as Usti commented, licking his lips.
“Order them to let the boy go,” said Raja.
The guard glared balefully at the djinn. “I take no orders from you, kafir spawn. And I’m not afraid of you, either. When Quar gets hold of you, he’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”
“As intelligent as he is handsome,” said Sond gravely.
“Let us see if he will reconsider.”
Raja, nodding, gave the lash a twist and a tug that sent the man spinning wildly across the floor, smashing headfirst into the far wall. His limp body sagged to the floor. The other two guards suddenly released their hold on the boy, who staggered and fell at their feet.
The boy was up almost at once, moving more hurriedly when he saw Sond coming toward him. The djinn stared at the boy closely. “A Hrana?” he asked.
“Yes, O Djinn,” said the boy warily, staring at Sond and recognizing him as an immortal belonging to his enemy. Seeing Sond in company with Fedj—the immortal of his own tribe—the boy did not know quite what to make of it.
“You are brave, Hrana,” said Sond approvingly. “What is your name?”
“Zaal.” The boy’s wan face glowed at the djinn’s praise.
“We have need of you, if you can walk.”
“There is nothing wrong with me,” said the boy, though he grimaced with every move he made.
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