The Will of the Wanderer

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Kicking aside cushions, Zohra snatched up a charcoal brazier from the tent floor. It appeared to be a very old brazier that had seen a great deal of usage, if one could judge by the scratches and dents on its surface. Tapping it three times with her fingernail, Zohra called out, “Wake up, you drunken sot.”

  A voice from within was heard to groan. “Madam,” it said groggily, “have you any idea what time it is?”

  “Had it been left to you, Fat One, I would never have disturbed your rest again! Appear. I command you.”

  After a night of shocks, it seemed that there was one more waiting for Mathew.

  He had not thought any more about the young man who claimed to have been a djinn. Not seeing him around camp, he assumed him to be as mad as, supposedly, he was himself. He’d heard casual talk among the tribesmen concerning djinn doing this and djinn doing that, but he assumed it was much the same as in his country where people spoke of the “faerie”—beings who were supposed to enter houses at night and switch babies or mend shoes or other farfetched legends. Now he could only watch in speechless amazement as another cloud of smoke rose from a charcoal brazier.

  This smoke was obviously not threatening, however—coalescing into the form of a rotund man of middle years, with a red, bulbous nose and a bald, round head. Dressed in silken nightclothes, the man had obviously been rousted from a warm and comfortable bed.

  “What is it, madam,” he began in martyred tones, then he suddenly caught a glimpse of Zohra’s pale face, still bearing traces of the horror that she had undergone. “Madam?” he repeated fearfully. “What—what is wrong?”

  “Wrong? I was nearly murdered in my bed this night while you slept the sleep of the grape! That is what is wrong!” Zohra waved her hand, expressive of her contempt. “And you would have had to answer to Akhran for my death! I dread to think,” she said in a hushed voice, “of your fate at the hands of the God!”

  “Princess!” the djinn wailed, falling to the floor with a thud that shook the very ground beneath their feet. “Are you serious?” He glanced from Zohra’s face to Mathew’s. “Yes, you are serious! Ah, I am the most wretched of immortals! Be merciful, madam. Do not tell Holy Akhran! I swear I will make it up to you! I will clean your tent, every day. And never complain once when you rip up the cushions. See”—grabbing a cushion, Usti tore it apart in a frenzy—”I will even spare you the trouble by ripping them up myself! Only do not tell the Most Holy and Extremely Shorttempered Akhran!”

  “I will not tell him,” Zohra said slowly, as if considering the matter, “if you will do one thing. We know who it is who tried to murder me. It will be your duty to watch her day and night. And I need not tell you what will happen should you fail—”

  “Fail? Me? Like a saluki—a hunting hound—I will be on her—Did you say her?” Usti’s eyes bulged from their layers of fat.

  “The girl, Meryem.”

  “Meryem? Madam is mistaken. A more sweet and charming little—”

  Zohra’s eyes flashed.

  “—little whore I have never seen,” Usti mumbled, crawling backward on his knees, his head bowed. “I shall do as you command, of course, Princess. Henceforth you shall sleep the sleep of ten thousand babes. Worry not. Your life is in my hands!” So saying, the djinn disappeared, melting into the air with unaccustomed alacrity.

  Sinking back down onto the cushions, her strength gone, Zohra murmured, “My life. . . in his hands. Akhran help us all.”

  Mathew, still staring in disbelief at the place where the djinn had been groveling, could only agree.

  Chapter 18

  “Caring for a madman. That’s all you are considered fit for, Pukah, my friend,” muttered Pukah disconsolately. Hitting through the air, making his daily trip south, the djinn enlivened his journey by feeling terribly sorry for himself. Pukah’d actually had very little to do with Mathew, although he had convinced himself that he did nothing night and day but watch the young wizard. Generally Pukah lounged around outside Mathew’s tent, his brain bubbling with fermenting schemes. When he did happen to peek in, it was more in hope of seeing the beautiful immortal again than keeping a watchful eye on the young man. Pukah noticed Mathew pottering about with sheep’s skin and a foul-smelling ink but thought nothing of it. After all, he was mad, wasn’t he?

  Thus Mathew worked on his magic completely without Pukah’s knowledge. The young wizard was able to fashion—as best he could—charms and amulets, as well as scrolls, and he began to instruct Zohra in their use. She, in turn, taught him what she knew of the healing arts of magic. Mathew had little knowledge in that field. In his land the sick and injured were tended by magi specialized in medicine. Pukah knew that Zohra was alone with Mathew for long periods during the day, but he took no particular notice of that either. His master’s wife spent her time with a man who thought he was a woman. What of it? She’d done stranger things. Pukah had his own problems, and one of those problems was suddenly about to bloat like the carcass of a dead elephant.

  Arriving at his usual observation post, Pukah had just settled himself comfortably upon a passing cloud when, looking down, he received a most uncomfortable shock.

  “Now, may Sul take Zeid!” said the djinn. “May he take the wretch and deliver him into hell and afflict him with ten thousand demons that will do nothing but puncture his fat belly day and night with ten thousand poison spears! Ah, me, friend Pukah, you are in serious trouble now!”

  “Well, well. If it isn’t little Pukah,” exclaimed a booming voice. “Salaam aleikum. Pukah. Have you got any more of your master’s secrets you are willing to give away today?”

  “Aleikum salaam, Raja,” Pukah said cautiously.

  “What think of you my master’s army?” Raja asked. He gazed down from the cloud upon a veritable horde of meharistes, his glistening black-skinned chest swelling with pride. “We are all assembled, and as you see, preparing this day to ride north.”

  “I think it is a very nice army, as armies go,” Pukah said, attempting to stifle a yawn.

  “Nice!” Raja bristled. “You will see what a ‘nice’ army it is when it kicks your master in the ass!”

  “Licks my master where?”

  “Kicks, you donkey-headed fool,” Raja snarled.

  “You had much better say ‘licks’ because that is what will be happening,” Pukah said gravely. “I tell you this only because I like you, Raja, and I am fond of your master, Sheykh Zeid, a very great man, and one whom I would not want to see humiliated before his tribesmen.”

  “Tell me what?” Raja regarded Pukah suspiciously.

  “That you had much better turn around and go back to your business of watching camels hump one another or whatever it is that they do, because if you ride to attack Sheykh Majiid al Fakhar and Skeykh Jaafar al Widjar and Amir Abul Qasim Qannadi, then you will surely—”

  “Amir?” Raja interrupted in astonishment.

  “What did you say?”

  “What did you say?”

  “I thought you mentioned the Amir.”

  “Only because you mentioned the Amir!”

  “Did I?” Pukah inquired uneasily. “If I did, please overlook it. Now, to continue—”

  “Yes, you will continue, little Pukah,” said Raja threateningly. “Continue talking about the Amir, or by Sul, I will take hold of your tongue, split in two, pull it out of your mouth, wrap it around your head, and tie it in a knot behind your neck.”

  “You are very boastful now, but my master and his new friend will soon cut you down to size,” Pukah remarked scornfully, though he thought it best to put a mile or so of sky between him and the angry Raja.

  “What new friend?” Raja thundered, the clouds around him darkening with his rage, lightning crackling around his ankles.

  “As I said, I have a truly soft spot in my heart for your master—”

  “And another in your head!” Raja growled.

  “—and so I think you had better warn Zeid that my master, Khardan, upon hearing of your
master’s plan to attack him, traveled to the city of Kich, where he was entertained with all honor by the Amir, who was so enamored of my master that he did everything in his power to get him to stay longer. The Imam himself came to join his pleas with those of his Arnir. Qannadi sent for his head wife, Yamina, who performed splendid feats of magic all for my master’s pleasure. My master refused their invitations, however, saying regretfully that he must fly back to the desert because an old enemy was gathering forces to make war upon him.

  “Qannadi was furious. ‘Name the wretch!’ the Amir cried, drawing his sword, ‘that I may personally cut him into four equal parts and feed him to my cat.’

  “This, you understand, my master was loathe to do—you know how proud a man he is—saying that it was his fight and his alone. But Qannadi proved insistent, and so my master most reluctantly, you understand—said that his enemy’s name was Sheykh Zeid al Saban. The Amir swore upon the steel of his blade that from that day forward Khardan’s foes were his foes, and the two parted with much affection, the Amir giving Khardan one of his daughters in marriage and inviting Khardan and my master’s men to enjoy the spoils of the city before they left.

  “This my master did, with much delight. The Amir’s daughter resides in Sheykh Majiid’s tent, and we wait only for the Amir and his forces—who are on their way—to celebrate the joyous occasion of their wedding.”

  Pukah ended, having run out of breath, watching Raja warily to see the djinn’s reaction. As the astute Pukah had guessed, Sheykh Zeid had received an account of Khardan’s visit to Kich from his spies, but the details had been imperfect. Pukah had mingled just enough truth with his lies to make this wild story sound plausible.

  The djinn knew it sounded plausible because Raja suddenly disappeared with a thunderclap, the clouds swirling around him in a black vortex. Pukah heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Now, Pukah, you are certainly very clever,” said Pukah, lounging back upon the cloud.

  “Thank you, my friend,” Pukah replied. “I think I must agree with you. For surely, upon hearing this news that the great army of the Amir is allied against him, Zeid will take fright. He will disband his men and return to his homeland. You have spared your master the annoyance of being attacked by these sons of she-camels. By the time Zeid (may his beard grow up his nose) learns the truth—that the Amir has no interest at all in your master—it will be well into summer and too late for the Sheykh to launch an attack. Now that you have—once again—saved your master, you have time to help poor Sond out of his difficulty, for which he will—no doubt—be eternally grateful.”

  “A beautiful plan,” Pukah informed his better half. “It won’t be long, I foresee, before he and Fedj are working for me—”

  “Ah, Pukah,” the alter ego interrupted, tears in his eyes, “if you keep on as you are going, the Holy Akhran will fall on his knees and being to worship you!”

  “What? This is impossible!” Zeid roared, reining in his camel with a suddenness that nearly sent the beast foundering in the sand.

  “So I thought, sidi.” said Raja, breathing heavily from exertion. “Knowing what a liar this Pukah is, I flew to Kich to see for myself.”

  “And?”

  “And I discovered that the Amir has recalled some of his troops from the south. As we speak, they are gathering in the city; the soldiers talk of a rumored journey eastward, into the desert.”

  “But he has not moved out yet?”

  “No, sidi. Perhaps the marriage is still being negotiated. . .”

  “Bah! I cannot believe this is possible! An alliance between city and desert? Hazrat Akhran would never permit it. Yet,” muttered the Sheykh into his beard, “it is certainly true that Khardan left the city in a shambles and was not chastised for his daring; the Amir allowed him to ride away free as the wind. And he was seen bearing upon his horse a woman of the palace, reputedly as lovely as the bending willow. . . .”

  “What is your command, sidi?” Raja asked. “Do we return to our homeland?”

  The Sheykh, looking back behind him, saw his vast army of meharistes, saw the sun flash upon sword and dagger, upon lance and arrow tip. He saw, behind them, another army, this one made up of women and their children, following their men to set up camp for them and to tend to their wounds after the battle. Here were gathered together all the tribes who vowed him allegiance. It had taken many long hours of negotiating and compromising and the salving of old wounds to bring them together. Now all were eager for war. And was he going to tell them to turn back? Tell them Sheykh Zeid ran from the field, his tail between his legs, because another, I larger dog had entered the fray?

  “Never!” Zeid cried with such fierceness that his voice carried up and down the ranks, causing the men to join in the yell with wild enthusiasm, although they had no idea what they were cheering.

  Grabbing his banner from his staff-bearer, Zeid waved it in I the air. “Ride, my men! Ride! We will descend upon our foe like the wind!”

  Banners waving, the meharistes galloped north, toward the Tel.

  “I tell you, Sond, Hazrat Akhran was most emphatic in insisting that we undertake this journey.” Pukah spoke to his fellow djinn in a soft undertone. The two were waiting in attendance upon their masters, who were—once again—meeting in Majiid’s tent to argue about the best way to approach Sheykh Zeid. “Of course,” Pukah added deprecatingly, “I realize that this proposed rescue attempt is going to be perilous in the extreme, and if you would prefer not to go . . .”

  “I will go”—Sond swore an oath—”were it into the abyss of Sul itself! You know that, Pukah, so don’t be a fool.”

  “Then ask your master’s permission,” Pukah urged. “Or would you rather wait here, serving coffee while your heart bleeds with grief, not knowing what terrible torment Nedjma may be enduring? Our masters can spare us for the short space of time it will take us to locate the Lost Immortals, rescue them, and return covered in glory. The Tel is as dull as the Realm of the Dead. What could possibly happen while we are gone?”

  “You are right,” Sond said after a moment’s thought.

  “You have received your master’s permission?”

  “Khardan was most proud to send me upon work of the God,” boasted Pukah.

  Now, Pukah had not actually spoken to the God at all, but he felt safe in assuming that Hazrat Akhran would want them to do this, and so he took the liberty of sparing the God worry by issuing Akhran’s orders for him and relaying those orders to Khardan.

  “Undoubtedly my master has spoken to yours about the matter already,” Pukah continued. “Majiid will be expecting you to go.”

  Sond saw himself freeing Nedjma from her cruel bondage. She would fall into his arms, fainting, weeping, blessing him as her savior and vowing to be his forever. . . And Akhran—the God would surely reward him handsomely, perhaps a palace of his own where he and Nedjma could dwell. . . “I will ask my master this evening,” the djinn said decisively.

  The two were serving berkouks—pellets of sweet rice—to the Sheykhs and the Calif when their fellow djinn, Fedj, swirled down through the tent flap opening with the fury of a windstorm.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Majiid demanded. Rice flew about the tent, his robes billowed in the wind, sand and dust rose from the tent floor in a stinging cloud.

  “I beg pardon, sidi.”

  Gasping for breath, the djinn whirled around until his form began taking shape out of the cyclone. Falling on his knees before Jaafar, who was regarding him with his perennially worried expression, Fedj burst out, “I have seen a huge army coming toward us. It is located three days’ ride south from our camp!”

  “Zeid?” flashed Khardan, rising to his feet.

  “Yes, sidi,” Fedj replied, talking to Jaafar as if it were his master who had asked the question. “He has many hundred meharis with him, and their families follow behind.”

  “Ykkks!” Pukah dropped a tray of candied locusts.

  “Ah, you see, Father?” the Ca
lif said in excitement. “Our arguments were all in vain. We need make Zeid no offer! He comes to join us in friendship.”

  “Mmmm,” growled Majiid. “This is also how the meharistes ride to battle.”

  “It makes little difference,” Khardan said, shrugging. “Zeid knows our credo: ‘The sword always drawn and the same word for friend or foe.’ Nonetheless, I think they will prove friendly. Pukah, here, assures me of it.”

  He glanced at Pukah with a smile. The djinn’s return grin was that of a fox who has just drunk poisoned water, but Khardan was too preoccupied to notice. “Now we can discuss with them our plan to band together and raid Kich! There can be no more arguments among our people when they see the camel riders coming to us in the name of peace! Truly Hazrat Akhran has sent Zeid at precisely the right time!”

  Pukah uttered an alarming groan. “Too many sweets,” he said miserably, laying his hands on his belly. “If I may be I excused, master—”

  “Go! go.” Khardan waved his hand, impatient with the continued interruptions. Resuming his seat, he leaned forward, the Sheykhs drawing close to him. “Now, here is my suggestion. Three days from hence, we will ride out to meet Zeid and—”

  The Sheykhs and the Calif bent their heads together and were soon absorbed in deep discussion. Sond took advantage of the opportunity to leave the tent and follow Pukah. The djinn, looking truly ill, was slumped against a tent pole.

  “Well, what are you doing out here?” Pukah snapped, seeing Sond’s downcast expression. “If we are to leave this night, you had much better be back in there, asking permission of your master.”

  “You still intend to go?” Sond stared at him in astonishment.

  “Now more than ever!” Pukah averred solemnly.

  “I don’t know.” Sond appeared dubious. “If our masters are going to raid Kich with Zeid, then we will be needed. . .”

  “Oh, we will be back before that event takes place, you may be certain,” said Pukah. “Probably about a thousand years before,” he muttered.

  “What did you say? Are you feeling all right?”