The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  When the Imam received word from his God that the kafir who dwelt in the Pagrah desert were making warlike, threatening gestures, the priest took the matter straight to the Amir.

  The Imam expected Qannadi’s reaction to this threat to be the same as his. Feisal’s eyes shone with the scorching flame of holy zeal as the two walked together in the pleasure garden.

  “We shall sweep down on them with our armies and show them the might of Quar. They will fall to their knees in worship as did the people of Kich!”

  “Who? The Desert Dwellers?” Grinning, the Amir scratched his graying black beard with a small forked twig he had broken off an ornamental lemon tree. “A few bloody and broken bodies won’t cause them to convert. They may not appear to be devout followers of their Ragtag God, but I’ll wager you could throw each and every Akar off the highest cliff in the world and not a one would even spit in Quar’s direction.”

  The Imam, shocked by such crude talk, reminded himself that the Amir, after all, was a soldier.

  “Forgive my blunt tongue, but I think you underestimate the power of Hazrat Quar, O King,” Feisal rebuked. “What’s more, you overestimate the power this Wandering God exerts on his people. After all, what has he done for them? They live in the most appallingly desolate place in the known world. They are forced to roam the land in search of water and food, their lives are a constant struggle for survival. They are wild, uneducated, uncivilized, barely classifying as human beings at all. If we brought them into the city—”

  “—They would rise up in the night and slit your throat,” said the Amir. Plucking an orange off a tree and biting through the flesh with his strong teeth, he spit the peel out onto the walkway, to the disgust of several palace eunuchs.

  “You border on sacrilege!” The Imam spoke in a low voice, breathing heavily.

  Qannadi, glancing at the black eyes burning in the priest’s gaunt face, suddenly deemed it wise to end the discussion. Stating that he would consider the matter from a military standpoint and let the Imam know of his decision, he abruptly turned on his heel and left the garden.

  Feisal, fuming, returned to his Temple.

  The next day Qannadi called the Imam to the divan—the audience chamber—and proposed a plan for dealing with the upstart Calif of the Akar. Feisal listened to the plan and expressed his concerns. He did not like it. The Amir had not expected he would. But Qannadi had sound reasons—militarily if not spiritual—for pursuing a more cautious course of action than the one the Imam proposed.

  Feisal continued to press his arguments daily, hoping to persuade Qannadi to change his mind—all without result. Still the priest persisted, even to the last moment. Upon receiving word that Khardan was on his way to the palace, the Imam hurriedly left the Temple, and entering the Kasbah by a secret, subterranean passage built beneath the street, he hastened to Qannadi, hoping to make one final appeal.

  “I understand that the nomad Khardan is on his way here, O King,” Feisal said, approaching the rosewood throne where Qannadi sat dictating to a scribe a letter to the Emperor.

  “We will conclude after luncheon.” The Amir dismissed the scribe, who bowed and left the divan. “Yes, he is on his way. The guards have orders to let him pass, after a certain amount of harassment. My plans are in readiness. I presume”—Qannadi regarded the Imam with a cool glance from beneath white-streaked black brows—”that you still do not approve?”

  Abul Qasim Qannadi was in his early fifties, tall and stalwart, with a face tanned by sun, burned by wind, lashed by rain. The Amir kept himself in prime physical condition, riding his warhorse daily and taking strenuous exercise with his officers and men. He detested a “soft” life, and his disgust at the excesses and luxuries indulged in by the late Sultan had been so great that—if he’d had his way—the palace would soon have been altered to resemble a barracks.

  Fortunately the Amir’s wives—led by Yamina—intervened. The silken tapestries remained in place, the ornately carved rosewood throne had not been hacked to kindling, the delicate vases were not crushed like eggshells. After much arguing, pouting, and sulking, Yamina, who—as head wife—could see to it that her husband’s nights were extremely cold and lonesome, even persuaded the Amir to replace his comfortable military uniform with the silken, embroidered caftans of a ruler. He wore them only around the palace, however, never appearing in them before his troops if he could help it.

  Bluff, sharp-tongued, quick to mete out discipline, Qannadi was the terror of the servants and the palace eunuchs, who had previously led an idyllic existence under the pleasure-loving Sultan and who now fled to Yamina for comfort and protection.

  A djinn might have flown the world round and not found another human who contrasted more sharply with Qannadi than the Imam. In his middle twenties, yet already a power in the church, Feisal was a small-boned man whom the powerful Qannadi might have tucked under one arm and carried around like a child. But there was that about the Imam which made people, including the crusty old general, leery of crossing him. No one truly felt comfortable around Feisal. Qannadi often wondered, in fact, if the rumors were true that the Emperor had given the priest control of the church in Kich simply to be rid of him.

  It was the presence of the God in the Imam that made other mortals tremble before him. Feisal was a handsome man. His liquid, almond-shaped eyes were set in a fine-boned face. The lips of the mouth were sensuous. His long-fingered hands, with their gentle touch, seemed made for the pleasures to be found behind silken, perfumed curtains. Yamina was not the only one of the palace’s wives and concubines to discover their interest in their religion renewed when the Imam took over as head of the church. But the women sighed for him in vain. The only passion that burned in the almond eyes was a holy one; the lips pressed their kisses never on warm flesh but only upon the cold and sacred altar of Quar. The Imam was devoted body and soul to his God, and it was this, Qannadi recognized, that made the priest dangerous.

  Though the Amir knew his plan for dealing with the nomads was militarily sound and he had no intention of renouncing it, he could still not help but glance at the priest out of the corner of his eye. Seeing the thin face become too smooth, that look of martyred tolerance in the almond eyes, Qannadi’s own expression hardened stubbornly.

  “Well?” he prompted, irritated at the Imam’s silence. “You disapprove?”

  “It is not I who disapprove, O King,” the Imam said softly, “but our God. I repeat my suggestion that you should act now to stop the unbelievers before they become too powerful.”

  “Bah!” Qannadi snorted. “Far be it from me to offend Quar, Imam, but he seeks only more followers. I have a war to fight—”

  “So does Quar, O King,” interrupted the Imam with unusual spirit.

  “Yes, I know all about this war in heaven,” Qannadi replied wryly. “And when Quar has to worry about His lines of supply being severed, His right flank being menaced by these hotheaded nomads, then I’ll listen to His ideas on military strategy. As for the notion of calling up my troops from the south, marching them back five hundred miles, and sending them out in the desert chasing after an enemy that will have scattered to the four winds once they get there, it’s ludicrous!”

  The Amir’s graying brows bristled. Closing over the beaked nose, they gave him the formidable glare of a fierce old bird of prey.

  “Pull back and we give the southern cities time to strengthen. No, I will not be drawn into fighting a war on two fronts. I do not believe it necessary, for one thing. The idea that these tribes have united! Hah!”

  “But our source—”

  “A djinn!” Qannadi scoffed. “The immortals work always for their own ends and be damned to either man or God!”

  Seeing, from the swift flare of the almond eyes and the sudden pallor of the Imam’s smooth skin that he had ridden near a deadly quagmire, the Amir retreated back to firmer ground, neatly turning his enemy’s own weapon against him.

  “Look here, Feisal—Quar himself professes a
s much. The wisest thing the God ever did was to order you to remove the djinn from the world. This is a military matter, Imam. Allow me to handle it my own way. Or”—he added smoothly—”will you be the one to tell the Emperor that his war to gain control of the rich cities of Bas has been halted to chase after nomads who will send their tribute to him in the form of horse manure?”

  The Imam said nothing. There was nothing he could say. Feisal knew little of military matters, but even he could see that turning the spear point away from the necks of the south would give them a chance to draw breath and perhaps even allow them time to find the courage they seemed to have, for the moment, mislaid. Though devoted to his God, Feisal was not a fanatical fool. The Emperor was known as Quar’s Chosen for good reason, possessing a power that even a priest dare not cross or thwart.

  After a moment’s thought Feisal bowed. “You have persuaded me, O King. What is it that I may do to assist you in your plan?”

  The Amir wisely refrained from smiling. “Go to Yamina. Make certain all is in readiness. Then return to me here. I assume you want a chance to try to talk the kafir into transferring his faith to Quar?”

  “Assuredly.”

  The Amir shrugged. “I tell you again, you waste your breath. Steel is the only language these nomads speak.”

  Feisal bowed again. “Perhaps, O King, because that is the only language they have ever heard spoken.”

  Chapter 4

  Khardan and Achmed crossed the courtyard of the Kasbah, heading for the palace. To their right, standing just inside the great entryway, were the soldiers’ barracks. There appeared to be an unusual amount of activity among the soldiers, activity that Khardan put down to preparations for the war in Bas. The uniformed men—dressed in their stiff-collared, waist-length red coats adorned on the back with the gold ram’s head—stared at the nomads, dressed in their long, flowing black robes. There was enmity in the stares, but there was respect as well. The reputation of the nomads as a superb fighting force was well-known and well-deserved. Legend had it that an outpost in Bas had once surrendered without a blow on just hearing the rumor that the tribes of Pagrah were going to sweep down upon them.

  Blissfully unaware of Pukah’s wild tale, completely ignorant of the fact that they were—according to the djinn—here as spies, Khardan and Achmed noticed the soldiers’ dark gazes but simply accepted them as a natural compliment to their fighting prowess.

  “Shut your mouth; you’ll swallow a fly.” The Calif nudged his younger brother in the ribs as they approached the palace. “It’s only a building, after all, built by men. Who are we to be impressed with such human creations? We have seen the wonders of Akhran.”

  Having lived with the sandy wonders of Akhran all of his seventeen years, and never having seen anything so splendid and beautiful as the palace with its golden domes and shimmering lacework and graceful minarets glittering in the sun, Achmed felt rather resentfully that he had a right to be impressed. Nevertheless, his respect and love for his elder brother was such that he immediately closed his gaping mouth and hardened his features, attempting to appear bored. Besides, he had his dignity to uphold among these soldiers, and he wished devoutly that he had a sword hanging at his side as Khardan wore his.

  Entering the palace, under the scrutiny of more guards, Khardan was surprised to find the vast waiting room, which had—in the days of the Sultan—been packed with supplicants and grandees and ministers, now virtually empty. Their boots made a hollow sound, echoing beneath the ceiling whose wood beams were made of juniper and rosewood and whose intricate designs supposedly took a team of artisans thirty years to carve. Struck dumb by the beauty of the marvelous ceiling, the gorgeous tapestries lining the walls, the fantastic-patterned tiled floor beneath his feet, Achmed came to a complete standstill, staring about him in wonder.

  “I like this less and less!” Khardan muttered, catching hold of his dazed brother and thrusting him forward. A silk-caftaned servant, gliding toward him, inquired his name and his business. Acting on Khardan’s reply that he was expected, the servant led the nomads to an antechamber outside the divan. Khardan immediately removed sword and dagger, handing both weapons to a captain of the guard. Achmed turned over his dagger; then spread his robes to show that he wore no sword. The brothers started toward the door that led to the audience room when the captain stopped them.

  “Wait. You may not proceed yet.”

  “Why not?” Khardan looked at the man in astonishment. “I have given you my weapons.”

  “You have not been searched.” The captain made a gesture.

  Turning, Khardan saw a eunuch step toward him.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Khardan demanded angrily. “I am Calif of my people! You have my word of honor that my brother and I carry no weapons!”

  “It is not the Amir’s intention to insult the Calif of the Desert,” the captain said with a sneer, “but it is now the law of Quar, as given to us through his most holy Imam, that the persons of all kafir are to be searched before being admitted into the presence of the Amir.”

  This is it, Achmed thought, tensing. Khardan won’t stand for much more. And at first it seemed that this was Khardan’s thought as well. His face pale with fury, the Calif fixed the eunuch with a stare so ferocious that the huge, flabby man hesitated, looking to the captain for counsel. The captain snapped his fingers. At this signal two guards, who had been standing on either side of the entrance to the divan, their sabers at their sides, drew the flashing blades and held them crossed before the door.

  Khardan’s inner mental battle was visible to Achmed. The Calif longed to walk from the place and kick the dust from his boots in the faces of everyone present, but his people needed the money and the goods it would buy to survive another year. It was they who would pay for any prideful act, no matter how satisfying. Quivering with anger, Khardan submitted to the search that was offensive and humiliating in the extreme, the eunuch’s fat fingers, thrust inside the Calif ‘s robe, poking and prodding, left no part of Khardan’s body untouched.

  Achmed, nearly dying of shame, was searched as well. Finding no hidden weapons, the eunuch nodded to the captain.

  “Now may we enter?” Khardan demanded, his voice taut.

  “When you are wanted, kafir, not before,” replied the captain coolly, sitting at a desk and calmly preparing to eat his lunch—an act of extreme rudeness to the nomads, who never ate in anyone’s presence without offering food first to the guest.

  “And when will that be?” Khardan growled.

  The guard shrugged. “Today, if you are lucky. Next week, if you are not.”

  Seeing Khardan’s face flush darkly, Achmed cringed, waiting for the storm. But the Calif mastered his rage. Turning his back on the captain, folding his arms across his chest, Khardan strode over to examine other weapons that had been confiscated from those entering the Amir’s presence. The ominous fact that the weapons were here, whereas their owners were not, might have spoken much to Khardan, had he been attentive. But in reality he wasn’t even seeing the weapons. Fists clenched beneath his robes, he stared blindly into a blood-red tide of rage that was washing over him.

  “Never again,” he muttered, his lips moving in a silent vow. “As Akhran is my witness, never again!”

  A servant entered from the divan. “The Amir will see the kafir Khardan, who calls himself Calif.”

  “Ah, you are lucky, it seems,” the captain said, munching on a crusty hunk of bread.

  The guards at the door stepped back, their blades held once more at their sides.

  “I am the Calif. I have been Calif longer than this upstart has been Amir.” Khardan glowered at the silk-clad, mincing servant, who raised his feathery eyebrows and looked down his long nose in disapproval of this speech.

  “Go straight ahead,” the servant said coldly, standing as far back as possible to permit the nomads to walk past.

  His long robes sweeping around him, Khardan entered the divan. Achmed, following, note
d that the servant’s nose wrinkled at the strong smell of horse that clung to them both. Head held high, Achmed deliberately brushed up against the elegant servant. Glancing back behind him to enjoy the man’s reaction of disgust, Achmed saw something else.

  The captain, lunch forgotten, had risen from the table and was loosening his sword in his belt. Gesturing, he gave an order in a low voice. The doors they had entered, doors that led to the outside of the Kasbah, swung shut on silent hinges. Two more guards, swords drawn, slipped quietly into the room and took up positions before the barred doors.

  Achmed reached out for his brother. Their way out of the palace had been sealed off.

  Chapter 5

  “Not now, Achmed!” Khardan snapped nervously, brushing away his younger brother’s hand that was urgently tugging at the sleeve of his robe. “Do as I told you. Bow when I bow and keep your mouth shut.”

  Crossing the colorful mosaic-tiled floor of the divan, Khardan glanced about the audience chamber, noting a great many changes since the Sultan’s time. In bygone days the divan would have been filled with people standing about, discussing their dogs or their falcons or the latest court gossip, waiting for the Sultan’s eye to fall upon them that they might curry his favor. Poorer supplicants, herded into a corner, would have waited humbly to present cases as important as a murdered relative or as trivial as a dispute over the rights to a stall in the bazaar. Numerous servants, scurrying here and there on bare feet, kept all in order.

  The divan today, by contrast, was empty. “On entering the front, always look to the back.” Thus goes the old saying. Acting with the instincts of a seasoned warrior, Khardan quickly studied the chamber that he had not visited in over a year. Closed on three sides, the high-ceilinged, rectangular-shaped room was open on a fourth—a columned balcony looked out over the beautiful pleasure garden below. Khardan glanced longingly in that direction without even realizing that he did so. He could see the tops of ornamental trees at a level with the balcony. A breeze scented with the perfume of exotic flowers drifted through the divan, sunlight streamed in between the columns. Huge wooden partitions, standing near the walls, could be pulled across the floor to seal shut the divan when the weather was inclement or if the palace was under attack.