“By Sul!” said Zohra in amazement. “I believe you are in love with him!”
“No, no!” Mathew protested warmly. “I . . . admire him, that is all. And I am grateful. . .”
“Is this the custom in your land across the sea?” Zohra asked curiously, reclining among the cushions. “Do men love men there? Such a thing is prohibited by our God. Is it not by yours?”
“I—I . . .” Poor Mathew had no idea what to say, where to begin. “You believe me then?” He grasped at this straw, hoping to save himself from drowning. “You believe that I do truly come from a land across the sea?”
“What does that matter!” Zohra brushed away the insignificant with a wave of her hand. “Answer my question.”
“As. . . as a matter of fact,” Mathew faltered, “such love as you . . . you mention is not prohibited by our God. Love. . . between any two people. . . is considered sacred and holy, so long as it is true love and caring and not. . . not simply lust or self-gratification of the body.”
“How old are you?”
“I have seen eighteen summers in my land, madam,” Mathew replied.
A sudden longing for that land, for those summers spent among the spreading oaks, came to the young wizard. His eyes filling with tears, he hurriedly bent his head so that she would not see. Perhaps she did and sought to turn his thoughts from his homesickness. If that was her intent, she succeeded a d m i r a b l y with her next question.
“And do you lie with men or with women?”
Mathew’s eyes flared open; the blood rushed to his face until he felt it was a wonder it didn’t drip from his gaping mouth.
“I—I have. . . never. . . lain. . . I mean. . .had that kind of . . . relationship with. . . anyone, m-madam!” he stammered.
“Ah, good,” she said gravely, thoughtfully drawing the end of her veil between her jeweled fingers. “Our God, Akhran, forgives much, but I do not think he would be understanding in such a matter. And now,” she continued, an amused smile playing about her lips, “you claim to be a sorcerer? How is this possible? The Gods give this gift only to women? Or”—a sudden thought occurred to her—”perhaps you have this because you have never—”
“I assure you, madam,” said Mathew, regaining his dignity, “that the men of my land have long practiced this art and that what. . . we spoke of . . . has nothing to do with it.”
“But”—Zohra appeared bewildered—”how is this possible? Do you not know of the Too-Learned Wizards and the curse put upon them by Sul? Men are forbidden to practice magic!”
“I do not know of what you speak, madam,” said Mathew cautiously. “If, by the story of the Too-Learned Wizards, you mean the story of the Reproach of the Magi—”
“Tell me this tale,” said Zohra, settling down more comfortably among the cushions.
Mathew glanced hesitantly toward the outside. “I would be honored to do as you request, madam, but are you certain it is safe? Won’t—”
“My husband come seeking me? I think not,” Zohra said with a mocking smile that held—for Mathew’s eyes—a trace of bitterness. “Besides, I am safe here with you, am I not? Are you not mad? Go on. Tell your tale.”
Mathew tried to collect his thoughts—a difficult task. He remembered hearing this story his first day upon entering the Wizards’ School as a young child, awed by the black-robed archmagi, the rows of wooden desks, the towering stone buildings. He had never, in his wildest imaginings, pictured himself relating it while sitting in a tent in the middle of the desert, the fiery eyes of a wild and lovely woman fixed upon him.
“It is our belief that our God has gifts and graces that he bestows upon his faithful,” said Mathew, looking questioningly at Zohra, who nodded gravely to show she understood. “But Sul— as center of all—alone possesses the magic. He shares this gift with those of learned and serious manner who come to him in humility, pledging to serve him by spending their lives in study and hard work; not only in the pursuit of magic, but in pursuit of knowledge of all things in this world.
“Long ago a group of magi studied so diligently that they became the most learned and the wisest men and women in the world. They knew not only magic, but languages, philosophy, science, and many other arts. Because they had all learned each other’s languages and customs, they were able to come together and further increase their knowledge. Instead of looking each to his own God, they began to look increasingly to Sul, the Center. They saw, when they looked into the center, the strife and turmoil in the world, and they knew that it was caused by the rankling and arguing and bickering of the Gods, who could not see the truth but only one part of the truth. Gradually the magi became of one mind, and this mind told them to use their magic to try to reach some resolution among the Gods.
“Unfortunately, feeling threatened, the Gods come to Sul and demanded that magic be withdrawn from the world. This Sul could not do, magic having become too pervasive within the world. Sul himself became enraged at the magi for abusing his gift, and he chastised them severely, accusing them of attempting to aspire to become Gods.
“But the magi reproached him, saying that their concern was only for the suffering of their fellow humans and crying out that the Gods had forgotten this in their selfish arguing. Sul was chagrined and so begged their pardon. But Sul said, something must be done to appease the Gods or they would insist that magic be removed from the world. Therefore the magi agreed on a compromise.
“Magic must be based in material objects—charms and amulets and potions—so that those who practice it are constrained by their own human limitations as well as by the physical properties of the objects in which the magic resides. Thus the Gods would not perceive magic as being a threat to their power, and the magi could still go abroad and work for the benefit of humanity. And that,” concluded Mathew in relief, “is my tale.”
“Sul did not cut out their tongues?” asked Zohra in disappointment.
“Cut out their— No, certainly not!” Mathew said, shocked. “After all, Sul is a God, not a—” He had been about to say “barbarian,” but it suddenly occurred to him that, from what he had witnessed, the Gods of these people were barbarians! Stuttering, he fell silent.
Fortunately, lost in her own thoughts, Zohra had not noticed.
“And so you are a sorcerer? You practice the art of Sul? What magic can you do? Show me.”
“Madam,” said Mathew, somewhat confused, “I can do a great many things, but I need my charms and amulets, which were lost when our ship—our dhow—sank in the sea. If I have the proper tools, I can fashion others and then I will be pleased to show you my skills.”
“But surely you can do the usual things: healing the sick and injured, calming animals, that sort of magic.”
“Madam,” said Mathew hesitantly, thinking that perhaps she was testing him, “I could do that when I was a child of eight. My skills are much further advanced, believe me.”
Zohra’s eyes widened slightly. She ceased toying with her veil, her fingers stopping, frozen in mid-motion. “Explain.”
“Well. . .” Mathew hesitated, wondering what she expected of him. “I can see into the future, for one thing. I can fight evil spirits sent by Sul to test us, as well as those inflicted upon us by the Dark Gods. I can help restless souls of the dead find repose. I can defend those threatened by danger I from weapons physical or magical. I can summon certain minor servants of Sul and keep them under my control, although that is very dangerous, and—as an apprentice—I’m not really supposed to do so except in the presence of an archmagus. I am young,” he added apologetically, “and still learning.”
Sitting up straight from her formerly lounging position on the cushions, Zohra was staring at him in awe, a glittering in her eyes as of the sun on quartz. “Can you truly do this!” she breathed. The glint in her eyes became suddenly dangerous. “Or perhaps you are mad, after all . . .”
Mathew was suddenly very, very tired. “In this matter,” he said wearily, “I am not. You can test me. If
you will give me some days to work and provide me with the material I require. . . .”
“I will,” said Zohra fiercely, rising to her feet with a feline twist, her bracelets jangling. She smiled at him. “If you speak truly, you may become the most valued and favored of anyone’s wives, Mat-hew!”
Mathew flushed but was too exhausted to reply. When Zohra saw his white, drawn face, her expression softened, but only for an instant and then only when the young man was looking wistfully at his bed and not at her.
Preparing to leave, she paused at the tent entrance. “What God do you worship?”
“He is called Promenthas,” Mathew replied, looking back up at her, astonished that she should ask, more astonished that she should care.
“May the peace of . . . Promenthas . . . be with you this night, Mat-hew,” Zohra said with unwonted gentleness.
Touched, the young man could not speak but averted his gaze, sudden tears flooding his eyes. Smiling to herself, Zohra bent down, extinguished the light of the oil lamp, and then glided from the tent, her soft slippers making no noise over the sandswept ground.
And it seemed that the peace of Promenthas was with him, even in this terrifying and alien land, for the young wizard slept soundlessly and dreamlessly for the first night since his ordeal began.
Chapter 14
The next few days passed in gloom for the tribes camped around the Tel. After their initial pleasure in heaving tweaked the Amir’s nose subsided, the people began to take stock of their situation and discovered it to be grim.
Once again the tribes found themselves united—if only in their misery. The loot the men had managed to steal would last a while, but not a year. Neither the Akar nor the Hrana were farmers. Both depended on grain and other staples purchased from the city to survive. And if the Amir’s wife could conjure up a magical horse, there was little doubt she could produce a magical sheep as well. The prospects of Jaafar and his people selling their animals and their wool in the markets in the fall seemed dim. Not only did their prospects for survival appear to be bordering on desperate, they were trapped out in the middle of the desert, forced to remain camped around an oasis whose water level was dropping, whose grass was gradually being consumed by the horses, while every passing day brought nearer summer and the threat of the violent winds of the sirocco.
There was some hope that the Rose of the Prophet might yet bloom and free them. It hadn’t died out completely—an astonishing phenomenon, considering that the shriveled cacti appeared prepared to blacken, wither, dry up, and blow away if someone breathed on them crooked. But as for blooming, it seemed likely that flowers would sprout from Jaafar’s bald head first—as Majiid observed bitterly to his son.
The tribal leaders, Khardan, Majiid, and Jaafar, spent long hours in discussion and occasionally heated debate over what to do. At length, all agreed that the Sheykhs’ djinn were to be summoned and ordered to go in search of Akhran, appraise him of the situation, and receive the God’s permission to leave the Tel until the storm season was over.
Fedj went alone; Sond pleaded some nameless indisposition. After several days Fedj returned downcast, stating that the Wandering God was living up to his name and had disappeared.
The men were cast into gloom. The sun grew hotter and hotter, the grass became more difficult to find, the level of the water in the pool sank a little each day, and the tempers of those in camp became more volatile.
“I say we leave!” Majiid said following Fedj’s return. “We move to our summer camp. You move back to the foothills with your sheep. . . and our horses!” he added bitterly, beneath his breath.
Jaafar, groaning as usual, did not hear the sarcastic comment. Khardan heard, but preoccupied with some deep thought, he did nothing more than cast his father a warning glance.
“And risk the wrath of Akhran?” Jaafar cried. He shook his head.
“Bah! Akhran may not take it into his head to think about us for another hundred years. What is time to a God? By then we’ll all be dead and it won’t matter. Or,” Majiid continued grimly, “we can stay here three months and we’ll all be dead and again it won’t matter.”
“No, no!” Jaafar flung up his hands in protestation. “I remember the storm, even if you have forgotten—”
“Wait,” Khardan interrupted, seeing his father beginning to swell with the prospects of an argument, “I have an idea. Suppose we do as the Amir thinks we’re going to do? Suppose we attack Kich?”
Jaafar groaned again. “How does this solve our problems? It only adds to them!”
Majiid, brows bristling, glared at his son. “Go join the madman in the tent of your wife. . . .”
“No, listen to me, Father, Sheykh Jaafar. Perhaps this is what the God has meant for us to do all along. Perhaps this is why he brought us together. I am not opposed to leaving the Tel, but before we part, let us do this one thing!”
“Two tribes, raiding Kich! You did it once, by luck. Such luck won’t happen again.”
“It doesn’t have to be two tribes! It can be three! We bring Zeid in on this with us! Together we’ll have enough men to raid the city and this time we’ll do it right. We can acquire wealth enough to last us a lifetime, besides teaching the Amir and his Imam to think twice before insulting Hazrat Akhran.”
As Khardan spoke, his gaze went to Meryem, who was just entering Majiid’s tent. Undoubtedly by chance, she always happened to be the one available to bring food and drink to the men.
Seeing the girl, noting her sidelong glances directed at his son, Majiid—who had been about to reject the scheme of raiding Kich—suddenly changed his mind. He had decided that Meryem would make an ideal wife for Khardan. His grandchildren would be descended from the Sultan! They would have royal blood in their veins as well as—what was more important—the blood of the Akar.
Besides, Majiid felt his old blood stir at the thought of raiding the city. Not even his grandfather—a legendary batir—had done anything so daring.
“I like it!” he said when Meryem had gone. One did not discuss matters of politics before women.
“I, too, find it interesting,” said Jaafar unexpectedly. “Of course, we would need more horses—”
“It all depends on Zeid,” interposed Khardan hastily, seeing his father swell up again. “Perhaps we can persuade him to give us his swift meharis. Will our cousin join us, do you think?”
“No one loves a good raid more than Zeid!”
“Pukah, what is the matter? Where are you going? You have not been dismissed,” Khardan said, catching sight of the djinn slinking out of the tent.
“Uh, it occurred to me, master, that you might like your pipe . . .”
“I will tell you if I do. Now sit down and keep quiet. You should be interested in this. After all, it was you who brought about our alliance.”
“I wish that you would forget such a trifling matter, master,” said Pukah earnestly. “After all, are you certain that you can trust Sheykh Zeid? I have heard it said that his mind is like the dunes— always shifting its position as the wind blows.”
“Trust him?” said Majiid brusquely. “No, you can’t trust him. We can’t trust each other, why should this be different? We’ll send him a message”
The Sheykhs and the Calif fell to arguing over what they should say and what they should offer and Pukah finally managed to slink, unnoticed, from the tent.
Each day, rising before dawn, the djinn had been traveling to Zeid’s camp, where he spent the morning hours watching with increasing gloom the Sheykh’s building up of his forces. Not content with drawing on his own men, Zeid had summoned all of the southern tribes. More and more men and their camels were pouring into camp all the time. It was obvious that Zeid’s attack on the Tel was going to occur in a matter of weeks, if not days.
Pukah wondered fleetingly if a proposed raid on Kich might not interest Zeid enough to make him forget about attacking his cousins. He immediately rejected this notion, however, knowing that Zeid was certain to th
ink this was just another of Khardan’s tricks.
Pukah, sighing, continued working on his plan to be away from camp when the attack occurred, thereby avoiding the wrath of his master when Khardan discovered the truth.
Other people beside the djinn were watching Zeid with considerable interest. Spies of the Amir reported that the Sheykh was calling up those under his suzerain or those who owed him favors or money or both and that he was apparently preparing for a major battle. The rumor spread rapidly that the nomads’ target was Kich.
The cities in Bas, seeing the huge blade of the Emperor’s scimitar hanging over their necks, began sending Zeid gifts. The Sheykh was inundated with concubines, donkeys, and more coffee, tobacco, and spices than he could use in a decade. Zeid wasn’t stupid. He knew that the southern cities, aware of the buildup of his forces, were hoping he was coming to their rescue, not to dance on their graves.
Zeid heard the rumor about attacking Kich and laughed at it, wondering how anyone could believe it. The Sheykh knew the Amir by reputation. Qannadi was a cunning, crafty general; one to be respected and feared.
“My feud is not with the Amir or with the God of the Amir,” Zeid repeatedly told ambassadors from the cities of Bas. “It is with my ancient enemies, and as long as Qannadi leaves me alone, I, Sheykh Zeid al Saban, will leave Qannadi alone.”
Qannadi heard Zeid’s words but didn’t believe them. He saw the flood of gifts pouring into the desert, he saw the cities of Bas—who had once trembled and hung their heads at the sound of his name—begin to take heart and lift their heads and talk back to him. The Amir was angry. He had counted on the cities to the south falling into his hands like rotten fruit, their governments corrupted from within by his own double-dealing agents. The rumor of strength coming from the desert was making this increasingly more difficult, and it was all the fault of these nomads. The Amir was beginning to think that the Imam had been right to insist that they be harshly dealt with.
But Qannadi was a cautious man. He needed more information. Zeid was undoubtedly planning a move northward, that much Qannadi had from his spies. But the imbeciles also added that they believed he was going to attack Majiid and Jaafar, not ally with them. This made no sense to the military-minded general. It never occurred to him that a blood feud dating back centuries would take priority over the threat that he posed to them here and now. No, Qannadi needed to know what was transpiring among the tribes camped around the Tel.
The Will of the Wanderer Page 34