by Paula Guran
“Yes, sir,” Luden said.
“The duke told me to look for you. And that horse—if I’m not mistaken, that’s one of the duke’s horses, stolen a while back. And, no bridle? How did you—or I suppose the troop surrounded you?”
“No, my lord,” Esker said. “Lord Fall warned us of the ambush then led us out, fighting all the way.”
Lord Fall? He was no lord; he was barely a squire.
“Barely a squire,” Esker continued, echoing Luden’s thought, “but he took command when Madrelar and Pastak died, and led the charge that broke us out.”
“And it was treachery?”
“Yes.”
Ganarrion chewed his mustache for a long moment, staring at Luden then nodded. “Thank you, Esker.” He gave a short bow. “Lord Fall, with your permission, I will relieve you of command. You and your mount are both in need of a surgeon’s care, and I have need of those of your troop who are still fit to fight. Will you release them to me?”
Luden bowed in his turn; his vision darkened as he pushed himself erect again. “Certainly, Lord Ganarrion. As you wish.” Then the dark closed in.
He woke in a tent with lamps already lit. When he tried to move, he could scarcely shift one limb, and he hurt all over. The memory of Immer’s letter came first, and for one terrifying moment he thought he lay bound, already on his way to the dungeons of Cortes Immer. Then he heard voices he knew—Sofi Ganarrion, Count Vladi, Esker. The events of the day reappeared in memory, hazy as if seen through smoke.
“It’s unusual, certainly,” Count Vladi was saying. “But I remember a certain young squire dancing with death when I was a captain in Kostandan . . . ”
Ganarrion grunted. “I was young and foolish then.”
“And brave and more capable than anyone expected. This lad was not foolish, for what other choices did he have? We shall have much to tell Duke Fall when we return.”
Luden stood before the Duke of Fall, when he was again fit to ride and fight. Behind him were the men of Ganarrion’s company; Sofi Ganarrion stood on his sword-side and his own father on his heart-side.
“Victory is sweet,” the old man said, “but honor is bread and meat to the soul. Those who have both, even once in their lives, are fortunate beyond all riches. You won your spurs, Luden; I cannot give them to you. Let us say I found something of mine that I am too old to use, that might be of service to you.”
He opened the box on the table between them and turned it around to show Luden. The spurs within were old, the straps burnished with wear. Luden’s breath caught. The duke’s own spurs? He didn’t deserve—
“Men died, my lord,” is what came out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Life was enough reward.”
Duke Fall nodded. “You are right, nephew. And it is as much for your understanding as for your courage that these spurs are now yours. We will speak more later; for now, let your sponsors perform their duties.”
His father and Sofi Ganarrion stepped forward, each taking a spur, then knelt beside him, fastening them to his boots.
Saladin Ahmed’s (1975– ) debut novel Throne of the Crescent Moon (2012) features Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, “the last real ghul hunter in the great city of Dhamsawaat.” In the following short story, “Where Virtue Lives”—a prequel to the novel—the doctor meets Raseed bas Raseed who will become his apprentice. Ahmed’s modern sword and sorcery in, many respects, resembles traditional S&S: heroes with hearts of gold, magic, monsters, evil to be stopped, plenty of atmosphere and action—but there are also departures. Makhslood is a fat old man who says he prefers sipping cardamom tea and eating pastries rather going on adventures, but still finds them anyway. The diminutive Raseed is a young dervish with a strong sword arm, but his desire to serve God is stronger. Unlike the stereotyped orientalism of the pulps, Ahmed’s refreshingly non-Eurocentric fantasy world—the Crescent Moon Kingdoms—draws on Middle Eastern legends and evokes comparison to the mythical Arabia of The One Thousand and One Nights. There’s room for further novels and the second in the series is set for publication September 2017.
Where Virtue Lives
Saladin Ahmed
“I’m telling you, Doctor, its eyes—its teeth! The hissing! Name of God, I’ve never been so scared!”
Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, the best ghul hunter in the great city of Dhamsawaat, was weary. Two and a half bars of thousand-sheet pastry sat on his plate, their honey and pistachio glazed layers glistening in the sunlight that streamed into Yehyeh’s teahouse. Adoulla let out a belch. Only two hours awake. Only partway through my pastry and cardamom tea, and already a panicked man stands chattering to me about a monster! God help me.
He brushed green and gold pastry bits from his fingers onto his spotless kaftan. Magically, the crumbs and honey-spots slid from his garment to the floor, leaving no stain. The kaftan was as white as the moon. Its folds seemed to go on forever, much like the man sitting before him.
“That hissing! I’m telling you, I didn’t mean to leave her. But by God, I was so scared!” Hafi, the younger cousin of Adoulla’s dear friend Yehyeh, had said “I’m telling you” twelve times already. Repetition helped folk talk away their fear, so Adoulla had let the man go on for a while. He had heard the story thrice now, listening for the inconsistencies fear introduces to memories—even honest men’s memories.
Adoulla knew some of what he faced. A water ghul had abducted Hafi’s wife, dragging her toward a red riverboat with eyes painted on its prow. Adoulla didn’t need to hear any more from Hafi. What he needed was more tea. But there was no time.
“She’s gone!” Hafi wailed. “That horrible thing took her! And like a coward, I ran! Will you help me, Doctor?”
For most of his life men had asked Adoulla this question. In his youth he’d been the best brawler on Dead Donkey Lane, and the other boys had looked up to him. Now men saw his attire and asked for his help with monsters. Adoulla knew too well that his head-hair had flown and his gut had grown. But his ghul hunter’s raiment was unchanged after decades of grim work—still famously enchanted so that it could never be dirtied, and quietly blessed so that neither sword nor knife could pierce it.
Still, he didn’t allow himself to feel too secure. In his forty years ghul hunting he’d faced a hundred deaths other than sword-death. Which deaths he would face today remained to be seen.
“Enough,” Adoulla said, cutting off yet more words from Hafi. “I’ve some ideas where to start. I don’t know if your wife still lives, young man. I can’t promise to return her to you. But I’ll try my best to do so, and to stop whomever’s responsible, God damn them.”
“Thank you, Doctor! Um . . . I mean . . . I hereby thank and praise you, and beg God’s blessings for you, O great and virtuous ghul hunter!”
Does he think I’m some pompous physician, to be flattered by ceremony? A ghul hunter shared a title but little else with the haughty doctors of the body. No leech-wielding charlatan of a physician could stop the fanged horrors that Adoulla battled.
Adoulla swallowed a sarcastic comment and stood up. He embraced Hafi, kissing him on both cheeks. “Yes, well. I will do all I can, child of God.” He dismissed the younger man with a reassuring pat on the back.
O God, Adoulla thought, why have You made this life so tiring? And why so full of interrupted meals? In six quick bites he ate the remaining pastries. Then, sweets in his belly and a familiar reluctance rising within him, he left Yehyeh’s teahouse in search of a river boat with painted eyes, a ghul, and a bride whom Adoulla hoped to God was still alive.
Raseed bas Raseed frowned in distaste as he made his way down the crowded Dhamsawaat street his guide called the Lane of Monkeys. Six days ago Raseed had walked along a quiet road near the Lodge of God. Six days ago he’d killed three highwaymen. Now he was in Dhamsawaat, King of Cities, and there were dirty, wicked folk all about him. City people who spoke with too much speed and too little respect. Raseed brushed dust from his dervish-blue silks. As he followed his lanky guide through
the press of people, he dwelt—though it was impermissibly proud to do so—on his encounter with the highwaymen.
“A ‘Dervish Dressed In Blue,’ eh? Just like in the song! I hear you sons of whores hide jewels in those pretty dresses.”
“Haw haw! ‘Dervish Dressed In Blue!’ That’s funny! Sing for us, little dervish!”
“What do you think that forked sword’ll do against three men’s spears, pup? Can your skinny arms even lift it?”
When the robbers had mentioned that blasphemous song, they had approached the line that separates life from death. When they had moved from rough talk to brandishing spears, they’d crossed that line. Three bodies now lay rotting by the road. Raseed tried not to smile with pride at the thought.
They’d underestimated him. He was six-and-ten, though he knew he hardly looked it. Clean-shaven, barely five feet, and thin-limbed as well. But his silk tunic and trousers—the habit of the Order—warned most ruffians that Raseed was no easy target. As did the curved sword at his hip, forked to “cleave the right from the wrong in men,” as the Traditions of the Order put it. The blade and silks inspired respect in the cautious, but fools saw the scrawny boy and not the dervish.
That did not matter, though. Soon, God willing, Raseed would find the great and virtuous ghul hunter Adoulla Makhslood. If it pleased God, the Doctor would take Raseed as an apprentice. If Raseed was worthy.
But I am impatient. Proud. Are these virtues? The Traditions of the Order say, “A dervish without virtue is less than a beggar.”
The sudden realization that he’d lost sight of his guide pulled him out of his reflections. For a moment Raseed panicked, but the lanky man stepped back into view, gesturing for him to follow. Raseed thanked God that he’d found a reverent and helpful guide, for Dhamsawaat’s streets seemed endless. Raseed had been the youngest student ever to earn the blue silks. He feared neither robbers nor ghuls. But he would not know what to do if lost amidst this horde of lewd, impious people.
Life had been less confusing at the Lodge of God. But then High Shaykh Aalli had sent him to train with the Doctor.
“When you meet Adoulla Makhslood, little sparrow, you will see that there are truths greater than all you’ve learned in this Lodge. You will learn that virtue lives in strange places.”
Before him, his guide came to a halt. “Here we are, master dervish. Just over that bridge.”
At last. Raseed thanked the man and turned toward the small footbridge. The man tugged at Raseed’s sleeve.
“Apologies, master dervish, but the watchmen will not let you cross without paying the crossing tax.”
“Crossing tax?”
The man nodded. “And the bastards will charge you too much once they see your silks—they respect neither piety nor the Order. If you wish, though, I will haggle for you. A half-dirham should suffice. Were I a richer man I’d cover your tax myself—it’s a sad world where a holy man must pay his way over bridges.”
Raseed thanked the man for his kindness and handed him one of his few coins.
“Very good, master dervish. Now please stay out of sight while I bargain. I will return for you shortly. God be with you.”
Raseed waited.
And waited.
Adoulla needed information. Ghuls had no souls of their own—they did only as their masters bade. Which meant that a vile man had used a water ghul in his bride-stealing scheme. And if there was one place Adoulla could go to learn of vile men’s schemes, it was Miri’s. There was no place in the world that pleased him more, nor any that hurt him so.
Though God alone knows when I’ll get there. Adoulla walked the packed Mainway, wishing the crowd would move faster, knowing it wouldn’t. Overturned cobblers’ carts, dead pack animals, traffic-stopping processions of state—Dhamsawaat’s hundred headaches hurried for no man. Not even when a ghul stalked the King of Cities.
By the time he reached Miri’s tidy storefront it was past midday. Standing in the open doorway, Adoulla smelled sweet incense from iron burners and camelthorn from the hearth. For a long moment he stood there at the threshold, wondering why in the world he’d been away from this lovely place so long.
A corded forearm blocked his way, and another man’s shadow fell over him. A muscular man even taller than Adoulla stood scowling before him, a long scar splitting his face into gruesome halves. He placed a broad palm on Adoulla’s chest and grabbed a fistful of white kaftan.
“Ho-ho! Who’s this forgetter-of-friends, slinking back in here so shamelessly?”
Adoulla smiled. “Just another foolish child of God who doesn’t know to stay put, Axeface.”
The two men embraced and kissed on both cheeks. Then Axeface bellowed toward an adjoining room, “The Doctor is here, Mistress. You want me to beat him up?”
Adoulla could not see Miri, but he heard her husky voice. “Not today, though I am tempted. Let the old fart through.”
For one moment more, though, Axeface held him back. “She misses you, Doctor. I bet she’d still marry you. When’re you gonna wake up, huh?” With a good-natured shove, he sent Adoulla stumbling into the greeting-room.
One of the regular girls, wearing a dress made of sheer cloth and copper coins, smiled at Adoulla. The coins jingled as she shimmied past, and he tried to keep from turning his head. Just my luck, he thought not for the first time, that the woman I love runs the whorehouse with the city’s prettiest girls.
Then she was there. Miri Almoussa, Seller of Silks and Sweets, known to a select few as Miri of the Hundred Ears. Her thick curves jiggled as she moved, and her hands were hennaed. Adoulla had to remind himself that he was there to save a girl’s life. “When one is married to the ghuls, one has three wives already,” went the old ghul hunter’s adage. O God, how I wish I could take a fourth!
Silently, Miri led him to a divan. She glared at him and brushed her hand over his beard, ridding it of crumbs he hadn’t known were there. “You’re a wonderful man,” she said by way of greeting, “but you can be truly disgusting sometimes.”
A man’s slurred shouts boomed from the next room. Irritation flashed across Miri’s face, but she spoke lightly. “Naj is usually so quiet. Wormwood wine makes him loud. At least he’s not singing. Last week it was ten rounds of ‘The Druggist, the Draper, and the Man Who Made Paper’ before he passed out. Name of God, how I hate that song!” She slid Adoulla a tray with coffee, little salt fish, and rice bread. Adoulla popped a fish into his mouth, the tiny bones crunching as he chewed. Despite the urgency of his visit he was hungry. And Miri was not a woman to be rushed, no matter what the threat.
She continued. “Unlike some people, though, Naj can be counted on to be here every week, helping to keep me and mine from poverty. It’s been a while, Doullie. What do you want?” She set her powder-painted features into an indifferent mask.
“I’m wondering, pretty one, if you’ve heard anything about a stolen bride in the Quarter of Stalls.”
Miri smiled a disgusted smile. “Predictable! Of course you already have your gigantic nose in this nonsense! Well. For the usual fee plus . . . five percent, I might remember something my Ears have heard.”
“A price hike, huh?” Adoulla sighed. “You know I’ll pay what you ask, my sweet.”
“Indeed you will. We may be more than friends here and there, ‘my sweet,’ but we’re not man and wife. Your choice, remember? Our monies are separate. And this, Doullie, is about money. Now, according to my Ears . . . ”
A name would’ve made Adoulla’s task easier, but Miri’s information was almost as good. A red riverboat with eyes painted on the prow had been spotted only two hours ago at an abandoned dock near the Low Bridge of Boats. And Hafi’s wife may not have been the first woman taken by the ghul. Two of Miri’s Ears said the ghul served a man, one said a woman, but none had gotten a close look.
Still, Adoulla had a location now. Enough to act on. And so, calling himself mad for the thousandth time in his life, Adoulla prepared to leave a wonderful woman’s company
to chase after monsters.
Raseed approached the well-kept storefront and allowed himself to hope. This was not Adoulla Makhslood’s home, but after Raseed’s “guide” had absconded, an old woman had led Raseed to this storefront, insisting that she had just seen the Doctor enter.
Raseed paused at the threshold. He had journeyed far, and if it pleased God he’d have a new teacher. If it pleased God. He took a measured breath and stepped through the doorway.
Inside, the large greeting-room was dim. Scant sunlight made its way through high windows. Tall couches lined the wall opposite the door, and a few well-dressed men sat on them, each speaking to a woman. And at the center of the room, on a juniper-wood divan, sat a middle-aged woman and an old man in a spotless kaftan. They stared as a massive man with a scar ushered Raseed in. Raseed looked at the man in white. Doctor Adoulla Makhslood?
It had to be him. He was the right age, though Raseed had expected the Doctor to be leaner. And clean-shaven. This old man had the bumpy knuckles of a fist-fighter. Can this rough-looking one really be him?
Raseed bowed his head. “Begging your pardon, but are you Doctor Adoulla Makhslood? The great and virtuous ghul hunter?”
The man snorted a laugh. “ ‘Great and virtuous’? No, boy, you’re looking for someone else. I’m Doctor Adoulla Makhslood, the best belcher in Dhamsawaat. If I see this other fellow, though, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
Raseed was confused. Perhaps he’s testing me somehow. He spoke carefully. “I apologize for disturbing you, Doctor. I am Raseed bas Raseed and I have come, at High Shaykh Aalli’s bidding, to offer you my sword in apprenticeship.” He bowed and waited for the Doctor’s response.
Old Shaykh Aalli? The only true dervish Adoulla had ever known? Adoulla had assumed that ancient Aalli had gone to meet God years ago. Was it really possible this Raseed had been sent by the High Shaykh? And might the boy be of some help? The Doctor sized up the five-foot dervish. He was yellow-toned with tilted eyes and a clean-shaven face. He looked like one who had killed but did not yet value life.
