The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  If Pukah had talked to Sond or Fedj, he would have been on his guard. He would, in fact, have been quaking in his silken slippers, for it was far more likely that—in an encounter with the evil ‘efreet—it would be Pukah who would end up in the bag and not a verbal one. But Pukah had not discussed his plan with either Sond or Fedj. Still determined to outdo both the other djinn and win Akhran’s admiration for himself, Pukah had devised a second scheme to salvage his first. Like many others, djinn and human alike, Pukah mistook a hulking body as an indication of a hulking mind, visualizing himself as being capable of flitting about the older ‘efreet’s dull intelligence like a teasing bird fluttering about the head of the bear.

  Alighting on the seafloor at the entrance to the cave, Pukah stared inside. He could barely see the great bulk of the ‘efreet lurking about within, a dark, stoop-shouldered shape against the light that was cast by some kind of enthralled sea urchins, who floated or stood in mournful servitude about the ‘efreet’s dwelling.

  “Salaam aleikum, O Mighty Kaug,” called out Pukah respectfully. “May I enter your soggy home?”

  The black shape paused in whatever it was doing, turning to glare out the entrance.

  “Who calls?” it asked harshly.

  “It is I, Pukah,” said the young djinn humbly, immensely pleased with his own playacting. “I have come to see Your Magnificence on a matter of extreme importance.”

  “Very well, you may enter,” Kaug said ungraciously, turning his back upon his guest, who was, after all, a lowranking djinn of little importance.

  Nettled at this rudeness, Pukah was doubly pleased to be able to prick the bubble of the ‘efreet’s contentment. Glancing in disgust at the moss-covered boulders that were apparently meant for chairs, Pukah made his way to the rear of the water-filled cave. He noticed, in passing, that Kaug had acquired some particularly lovely objects from the world of humans. A golden egg, encrusted with jewels, standing in the center of a giant conch-shell table, attracted the djinn’s particular attention. He’d never seen anything so remarkable.

  Firmly Pukah brought his mind back to the business at hand, making a mental note to come back in half a century or so, when the ‘efreet wasn’t home, and relieve him of these beautiful, delicate objects that were obviously not suited to the brute’s taste.

  “Wishing you joy, Great One.” Pukah bowed, making a fluttering gesture with his hand from his turban to his face.

  “What do you want?” Kaug demanded, turning at last from what he was doing to face the young djinn.

  Pukah, sniffing, saw that the ‘efreet had been bent over a pot, cooking up something indescribably nasty-smelling. Fearing he would be invited to stay for dinner, Pukah decided to launch into his business without preliminary small talk.

  “I have come, O Magnificent One, to bring a warning to your master, the Revered and Holy Quar.”

  “Ah, yes?” said the ‘efreet, staring at Pukah with slit-eyes, their shrewdness concealed by the narrowing of the lids. “And why this concern for my Master, little Pukah?”

  Little Pukah! The young djinn’ s anger flared; it was all he could do to remind himself that he was the wiser, the smarter of the two, and that he could, therefore, afford to be magnanimous and overlook this insult.

  But this glob of seaweed will pay for that remark before I’m finished with him!

  “I come because I do not like to see any of the Gods humbled and cast down from their high places in the eyes of the humans, Great One. It gives the petty mortals delusions of grandeur and makes life difficult for all of us, don’t you agree?”

  Did you understand that, Chowder Head, or must I use words of one syllable?

  “Oh, I agree. Most assuredly,” said Kaug, lowering his bulk into a chair made from a huge sponge. Thousands of tiny fish darted out from it when he sat down. He gazed up at Pukah comfortably, not inviting the djinn to be seated. “I take it that you foresee some sort of humiliation coming to my Master?”

  “I do,” remarked Pukah.

  “Quar will be indebted to you for this timely warning then,” said Kaug gravely. “Will you be so kind as to describe the nature of this impending disaster, that I may carry the description to my Master and we may prepare ourselves to thwart it?”

  “I will tell you, but there is no way you can thwart it. I do this only to spare your Master the shameful end that he will undoubtedly meet should he attempt to fight his fate instead of accepting it.”

  There, I guess I told him!

  “If what you say is true, then my Master and I will exalt your name, O Wise Pukah. Will you be seated? Some refreshment? “

  I’d sooner dine in the Realm of the Dead!

  “No, thank you, O Great One, although it smells truly divine. My time is short. I must return to my mortal master, the Calif, who cannot do without me as you must know.”

  “Mmmmm,” murmured Kaug. “Then continue your most interesting conversation.”

  “Let us be honest with each other, O Great One. It is no secret that your Holy Master, Quar, is intent upon taking over control of the heavens, and that my Holy Master, Akhran, is equally intent that he—Quar—shall not succeed in this venture. May we agree on that?”

  “We can agree on anything you like, my charming friend,” Kaug said expansively. “Are you certain you won’t sit down? Partake of some boiled octopus?”

  Boiled octopus! The salt has definitely eaten away at this fellow’s brain.

  Politely declining the ‘efreet’s invitation, the young djinn continued, “As you and your Master have no doubt heard, the tribes of Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar and Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar have been joined together, united through the marriage of the Calif, Khardan, and the flower of her tribe, Zohra.”

  Pukah spread his hands, sighing in rapture. “Theirs is truly a marriage made in heaven! Now our blessings have been further increased—may Sul not be envious of our good fortune—by the uniting of yet a third tribe of the desert!”

  Pukah’s chest swelled with importance, particularly as he noted the ‘efreet’s grave expression grow considerably graver.

  “A third tribe?” Kaug inquired. “And who would that be?”

  “The mighty and powerful Sheykh Zeid al Saban!”

  Although Pukah never knew it, he did actually manage to astonish Kaug. When one believes someone is meekly eating out of your hand, it is a shock to feel teeth sinking into your fingers. Sond had betrayed him! Kaug’s eyes widened in what Pukah took to be fear but what was actually outrage. Then they narrowed, studying the young djinn shrewdly.

  “Why are you telling us this?”

  “Alas.” Pukah heaved a sigh. “I have a soft spot in my heart for city people. The three tribes plan to come together and sweep into Kich, where they will depose the Imam and put him to the sword; take over the palace; and relieve the Amir of the troublesome burden of his many wives and concubines. Perhaps, if they feel so inclined, they will loot and burn the city. Perhaps not. It is whatever suits my master’s fancy at the time. I cannot stomach the thought of such violence and bloodshed. And as I stated before, it would be a humiliating defeat for Quar.”

  “Indeed, it would,” said Kaug slowly. “You are right, Pukah. There is a great tragedy in the making here.” So there was, but not exactly the one Pukah had in mind. “What do you suggest that we do? What will it take to propitiate this hot-blooded Calif of yours so that he will leave us in peace?”

  Smiling charmingly, Pukah appeared to consider the matter. “Khardan is, even now, upon his way to the city of Kich, ostensibly to sell horses to the Amir, but—in reality—to see how he is treated. If he is treated well, he will leave the city untouched, perhaps demanding only several hundred camels, a few sacks of gold and jewels, and a hundred bolts of silk as tribute. If he is in any way insulted or offended, he will level the place!” Pukah grew quite fierce when expressing this last, making a slashing motion with his hand as of a sword sweeping down upon a bare neck.

  Kaug kept his face impassiv
e, though he burned within with such flame that it was a wonder the water surrounding him didn’t begin to boil. He regarded Pukah with thoughtful attentiveness. “If we treat your master as he—no doubt—deserves,” the ‘efreet said smoothly, “what will he do in return?”

  “The Calif will distribute the wealth among the three tribes, then disband them, each going back to the land of his fathers. Quar may keep his city intact and pursue the war to the south in Bas, in whose people we take no interest.”

  “Magnanimous,” said Kaug, nodding.

  “That is the Calif,” said Pukah. “Magnanimous to a fault!” The young djinn could tell by Kaug’s face that the ‘efreet was impressed, even awestruck. His plan was succeeding. Kaug would take news of this to Quar, who would back down and cease to threaten Akhran, who would allow the tribes of Jaafar and Majiid to go back to fighting each other, which would convince Zeid that they weren’t going to fight him, which would send Zeid back to his home in the south—all of which would modestly be presented by Pukah as having been his doing and would gain for him the palace in the clouds and the djinniyeh in the bath.

  Kaug, anxious to rid himself of his visitor so that he could speed this message to Quar, insisted that Pukah stay to dine, pressing his invitation by reaching into the pot and hauling out dinner by the tentacles.

  Pukah, at this point, heard his master calling for him and retired from the ‘efreet’s premises with ungracious haste.

  He had not been gone a second, however, before Kaug rose up out of the water. Able at last to release his rage, the ‘efreet surged over the inland sea with the force of a hurricane, the waves foaming and leaping about him, the winds tearing at his flying hair.

  In one hand he held lightning, which he hurled at the ground in anger. In the other he held a jeweled egg.

  The Book of Quar

  Chapter 1

  The sound of a gong, ringing three times, shivered through the incense-scented darkness. A man, asleep on a cotton pallet that was placed on the cold marble floor in a small alcove, wakened hastily at the sound. At first he stared at the small brass gong that sat upon the altar in disbelief, as if wondering whether he had truly heard its summons or if it had been part of his dream. The gong rang again, however, dispelling his doubts. Dressed only in a white cloth that he wore wrapped about his thin thighs, the man rose from the pallet and hastened across the polished marble floor.

  Reaching the altar, which was made of pure gold fashioned in the shape of a ram’s head, the man lit a thick beeswax candle, then prostrated himself flat before the altar, his arms outstretched above his head, his belly on the floor, his nose pressed against the marble. He had anointed himself with perfumed oil before retiring, and his brown skin glistened in the dim candlelight. His hair had never been cut—so to honor his God—and it covered his naked back like a black, shining blanket.

  The slender body of the Imam quivered as it lay upon the floor, not from the cold or from fear but in eagerness. “It is I, Feisal, your unworthy servant. Speak to me, Quar, O Majesty of Heaven!”

  “You have answered the summons swiftly.”

  Feisal raised his head, staring into the candle’s flame. “Do I not—sleeping and waking—live within your Temple, Master, that I may be present to carry out your slightest wish?”

  “So I have heard.” Quar’s voice came from the floor, the ceiling, the walls. It whispered around Feisal; he could feel its vibrations caress his body and he closed his eyes, almost overcome by the holy ecstasy. “I am pleased by this and by the good work you are doing in the city of Kich. Never before has a priest of mine been so zealous in bringing the unbeliever to salvation. I have my eye upon you, Feisal. If you continue to serve me in the future as well as you have served me up to the present, I think the great church of mine that shall one day encompass the world could have no better leader than yourself.”

  Feisal clienched his fists, a shudder of pleasure convulsed his body. “I am honored beyond telling, O King of All,” the Imam whispered huskily. “I live only to serve you, to glorify your name. To bring that name to the lips of the kafir of this world is my greatest, my only desire.”

  “A worthy task, yet not an easy one,” said the God. “Even now there comes to your city an unbeliever of the most heinous sort. A devout follower of the Ragged God, Akhran, he and his band of thieves ride to Kich, their intention: to spy upon the city. They plan to attack it and lead the people to the worship of their evil God.”

  “Akhran!” the Imam cried in a voice of horror such as might have shrieked out the name of a demon rising from the depths of Sul. Stunned by the shock, the Imam sat up, staring around the darkness that was alive with the presence of the God. The sweat that covered his oiled skin trickled down his bare breast. His ribs—all too visible from a lifetime of fasting—constricted, the stomach muscles tightened. “No! This cannot be!”

  “Do not look upon this as a catastrophe. It is a blessing, proof that we are destined to win the holy war we fight, that we have learned of their perfidious scheme in time. Consult with the Amir, that you may devise together the best plan to deal with the unbelievers. And so that he knows you act by the command of Quar, you will find a gift from me upon the altar. Take it to the Amir’s head wife, Yamina the Sorceress. She will know what use to make of it. My blessings upon you, faithful servant.”

  Hurling himself flat, Feisal pressed his body into the marble, hugging the floor as though he were physically clinging to his God. Slowly the rapture within him died and he knew Quar was with him no longer. Drawing a deep, shivering breath, the Imam rose unsteadily to his feet, his gaze going immediately to the altar. A sob choked him. Reverently he reached out his shaking hand, the damp fingers closing around the gift of the God—a small, ebony horse.

  Chapter 2

  “What is the business of the Akar in the city of Kich?” demanded the gate watchman.

  “The Akar bring horses to sell to the Amir,” replied Khardan somewhat irritably, “as we have done yearly since before the mud of Kich’s first dwellings was dry. Surely you know this, Gate Master. We have always been granted entrance to the city without question before. Why this change?”

  “You will find many changes in Kich now, kafir,” the Gate Master replied, giving Khardan and his men a smug, scornful glance. “For example, before you enter, I must ask that you turn over all magical charms and amulets to me. I will guard them well, you may be certain, and they will be returned to you when you leave. Any djinn you possess you will take with you to the temple, where they will be given up as a show of respect to the Imam of Quar.”

  “Amulets! Charms!” Khardan’s horse, sensing his master’s anger, shifted restlessly beneath him. “What do you take us for— women? Men of the Akar do not travel under the protection of such things!” Checking his horse, bringing it once more under his control, Khardan leaned over the saddle, speaking to the Gate Master eye-to-eye. “As for djinn, if I had one with me—which I do not—I would throw it into the Waters of the Kafir before I would give it to the Imam of Quar.”

  The Gate Master flushed in anger. His hand strayed to the stout cudgel he carried at his side, but he checked the impulse. He had his orders concerning these unbelievers, and he was bound to carry them out no matter how much he might dislike it. Swallowing his rage, he bowed coldly to Khardan and with a wave of his hand, indicated that the nomads could enter.

  Leaving the herd of horses outside the walls under the care of several of his men, Khardan and the rest of his spahis entered the gate of the city of Kich.

  An ancient city that had stood for two thousand years at least, Kich had changed little during that time. Centrally located, built in a pass between the Ganzi mountains to the south and the Ganga mountains to the north, Kich was one of the major trading cities of Tara-kan.

  Although under the suzerain of the Emperor, Kich was—or had been during most of its history—an independent city-state. Ruled by the family of the Sultan for generations, Kich paid annual rich tribute t
o the Emperor, expecting in return to be left alone to pursue its favorite pastime—the amassing of wealth. Its people were primarily followers of the Goddess Mimrim—a gentle Goddess, a lover of beauty and money. For centuries the people of Kich led an easeful life. Then matters began to change. Their goddess had never been demanding in the matter of daily prayers and so forth—such solemn things tended to disrupt both business and pleasure. The people began to turn from Mimrim, putting more faith in money than in their goddess. Mimrim’s power dwindled and she soon fell victim to Quar.

  The people of Kich knew nothing of the war in heaven. They knew only that one day the Emperor’s troops, carrying the ram’s-head flag—symbol of Quar—swept down on them from the north. The gates fell, the Sultan’s bodyguards—drunk as usual—were slaughtered. Kich was now under the Emperor’s direct control, the spearhead of an army pointed directly at the throat of the rich cities of Bas to the south.

  The city was turned into a military stronghold. Kich was ideally suited for this, being surrounded by a wall seven and a half miles long. Dotted with towers, punctured by loopholes for archers, the wall had eleven gates that were now closed day and night. A curfew was imposed upon its citizens. Movement of any type around the city after eleven at night was forbidden by strict edict, enforced by severe penalty. Cudgel-carrying night watchmen patrolled the streets, banging on the gates of every courtyard they passed, ostensibly in order to frighten away thieves. In reality they were making certain that no fires of rebellion smoldered behind closed doors.

  There were, in addition to these watchmen who walked the street, those who walked the roofs of the bazaars. Covered to protect them from the sun, the boothlike shops were provided with skylights every hundred feet or so. The watchmen patrolled these roofs, beating a drum and peering down through the skylights to see if there was any suspicious movement below.