Tales From High Hallack, Volume 1

by Andre Norton

  “As the sun weighs upon us with its heat, so it is true. Also his find here must have been a fine one, for he turned and went toward his home, looking no more this day. I strove to see what he held, but he rolled it so quickly into his collecting bag that I got no sight of it, and when I asked him a question he spat at me as if we were strange cats made foes over a choice morsel of baked camel.”

  Jalnar twisted the lock of hair fiercely between her hands upon Mirza’s return, as she said, “Go you to Raschman of the guard and say to him that one of my maids stole out at night and buried something among the rubbish where it was later found by this Muledowa and taken away—that it must be a plot between the two of them, and” — she hesitated a moment and then added — “say that it was Dalikah who did this—for all know that I have had her beaten for breaking my bottle of scent and she has good reason to have ill thoughts against me. Tell the guardsman that you have heard of this rag picker who lives in the refuse of the town, and to send there to obtain the bag. Only warn him not to open it or look upon its contents, for it is doubtless true that it has been magicked by the djinn.”

  “And Muledowa and those who live under his roof, who may have already seen what lies within that bag, my lady? What do we with them?”

  “I do not think,” Jalnar replied with a small cruel smile, “that he will have shared such a secret with many—they would be on him as a hawk upon a desert snake if he had. But if he does have other of his own blood—let that one or all others be brought also.” Mirza struck her head three times against the floor at the princess’s feet. “Hearing is doing, lady.”

  So she left Jalnar to be swathed in the green gown of her choice and slipped away through the gates, for all the guards knew her well and she often ran errands for this or that of the ladies of the inner rooms.

  She went to the outer palace, where she huddled by the door of the guards’ room, trying to catch the eye of the man who was making swooping motions in the air and talking loudly.

  “—fair as the moon in full glory, she moves like swallows a-wing, her skin like the softest satin such as those in the forbidden palace lie upon for sleeping. Ah, I have seen beauties a-many in my day—”

  Two of the listeners laughed and the man’s hand went to his sword hilt, his face frowning in warning.

  “Brother by the sword,” one of the listeners spoke. “Is it not true that many times you have seen maids of surpassing beauty, only later to find some irredeemable flaw in them? Let us go then to the ruin by the outer wall and test whether your story be right or whether some djinni has ensorcelled your eyes—”

  But the young man had already seen Mirza, and now he came to her with some relief in his expression. “Why do you seek us out, Mother?” he asked with some respect and a tone of courtesy.

  “My lady has been grievously despoiled of a treasure.” She told her story quickly. “One of the slave girls took ill her punishment for a fault and stole a robe of great price. She hid this in the mound of refuse beyond the palace, and there it was picked up by one Muledowa, a picker of rags, and carried home. My lady would have back her belongings and with them the rag picker and all else under his roof who might have seen this thing—for she fears it all be a piece of sport by those ifrits who dislike all mankind. Of this she wishes to be sure before she tells her father of it—lest he, too, be drawn into some devilish sorcery.”

  He touched his turban-wreathed helm with both hands and said, “Having heard, it is as done.”

  *

  Zoradeh was kneeling in the ruined courtyard of her home, washing her father’s feet and listening with growing fear to his mumbling speech, for he was talking, if not to her, then to some djinni who had accompanied him.

  “Orbasan will pay me much for this treasure.” He stretched out an arm so he could finger the bag which held the robe. “Then I shall buy a donkey and, with the aid of that creature, be able to carry twice as much from the refuse heaps. For I am an old man and now it hurts my back to stretch and strain, to kneel and stand erect again all for some bit I may take. There is much greater profit to be made with things I cannot carry. Eh, girl,” for the first time he looked directly at her with a cruel snarl twisting his lips, “how then has the work gone? Let me look upon your handiwork. If you have erred then you shall taste of my stick until each breath shall cost you sore—”

  Zoradeh brought the bag quickly and spread it out before him, taking care that she not touch the wondrous thing with her own hands, damp and dusty as they were. For a long moment her father stared down at the fine silk and the moonlike pearls. His hand went out as if to touch and then he drew it back quickly with a deep-drawn breath.

  “Aye, worth a wazir’s ransom at least, that must be. We shall get but a third, a fifth, nearly an eighth portion of its price in gain. Yet I know no one else—” His hand went to his beard as he ran his nails through the crisp, age-sullied gray of it. “No,” he added as one who had just made a decision of great import, “not yet shall I go to Orbasan with this. We shall put it away in secret and think more of the matter—”

  But even as he spoke, they heard the clatter of horse hooves on the uneven pavement without, and Zoradeh clasped the robe tightly; while her father lost all his sly, cunning look in a rush of fear—for no one rode horses within the city save the guard of the caliph or that protector of the city himself. Her father got swiftly to his feet and hissed at her:

  “Get you inside with that and put it upon you; they will think it is some foreign trash discarded by a trader. Best stay in open sight and not try to conceal it lest it show that we believe ourselves at fault!”

  She hurried into the single of the lower rooms, which was walled and ceilinged and so might be considered a home. There she tore hurriedly out of her own rags, wondering the while if her father had lost his wits—or was pulled into some djinni’s plot and did as his master bade him. The robe slid easily across her body and she had just given the last fastening to a breast buckle when her father’s voice, raised high, reached her ears.

  “Come, my daughter, and show this brave rider what manner of luck I did have this morning—”

  She pulled the throat scarf up about her chin, though that would in no way hide better her devil face, and made herself walk out into the wrecked courtyard of the building.

  There her father stood in company with three of the guard—one of those being the young officer who had so teased her earlier in the day. All three stood silent, facing her as if she were some evil ifrit ready to suck the flesh from their bones.

  “Lady—where got you this robe of great beauty?” The captain found his tongue first and she, believing only the truth might save them from whatever vengeance might strike now, dared to say in return:

  “Lord, my father brought it, and it was torn and of no value to any. See—do you see here the stitches I, myself, set to make it whole again?”

  Hurriedly she gathered up a portion of the skirt and held it out—though so perfect had been her repairs that none might see the work and swear an oath that it was indeed secondhand goods, thrown away because it was damaged.

  “That is my lady’s robe,” grated a sour voice from the door as Mirza pushed through the opening to join them. She was panting and red-faced from her effort to join them.

  “These are thieves whom that misbegotten she-ass of my lady’s following got to come to her aid.”

  Muledowa had fallen to his knees, and now he gathered up a palmful of sand to throw over his dirty headcloth.

  “Lord of Many, Commander of Archers, I have made no pact with any—woman or ifrit or djinni. It is my way of life to sift out that which others have thrown away—things which can be resold in the Second Market which our great lord, the caliph himself, has decreed be established for those of lean purses. This I found torn asunder and thrust into the pile of refuse before the Gate of the Nine-Headed Naga at the palace.”

  Mirza came forward a step or two, thrusting her face close to Muledowa, and spat forth her wor
ds as might a cat who finds another within its hunting place. “Find it you did, provider of filth and evil. But first you had notice of the place from Dalikah, who has already tasted of my lady’s justice.” She turned to the guardsmen. “Take you this fool of a thief and also his ugly daughter to the left wing of the palace where lies the screen through which my peerless lady views the world. Since this crime was committed against her, she would have the judging of it.”

  Thus with a rope around his throat, fastened to the saddle of a guardsman, Muledowa was pulled at a pace hard for his old bones to make. Mirza took off the topmost of her swathing of grimy and too-well-worn shawls, which she tugged around Zoradeh, forcing the girl’s arms against her body as tightly as if they were bound, and keeping the veil well over her head.

  So they set off across the city, while behind them gathered a crowd of idlers and lesser merchants and craftsmen who were all agog to see and hear what must be the story behind such a sight.

  They came into the courtyard that Mirza had described, but to Mirza’s discomfort she found there the caliph himself and the wizard Kamar who had come to see the fair white pigeons which were one of the joys of the caliph’s heart.

  Seeing the caliph and thinking that perhaps one fate might be better than another, for the Lord of Many Towers was reputed to discern truth from lies when spoken before him, the rag picker jerked on the rope about his neck and fell upon his knees, giving forth that wail with which the honest meet with misfortune. The caliph made a gesture with his hand so that the guards left Muledowa alone.

  “Wretched man,” he said, “what misfortune or ill wish by an ifrit brought you to this place, and in such a sorry state?”

  “Only the lawful enterprise of my business, Great One.” Muledowa upon his knees reached forward to touch the pavement before the caliph three times with his dust covered lips. “I have no evil within me which wishes danger to you or any under this roof. It was this way—” and with one word tumbling over the other in his eagerness he told his story.

  “Now that be a marvelous tale,” the caliph commented when he was done. “Child”—he beckoned to Zoradeh—” stand forth and let us see this treasure which your father found.”

  Trembling, and with shaking hands, Zoradeh dropped the shawl from her shoulders and stood in the bright sunlight of the courtyard, her head hanging and her hands knotted together before her.

  “Where is this tear over which so much has been made?” asked the caliph.

  Timidly she passed her hand over that part which she had so laboriously stitched and rewoven. Then Kamar, who had stood silent all the while, looking first to those gathered in the courtyard and then at the pierced marble screen as if he knew who sheltered behind that, spoke:

  “You have a deft needle, girl,” he commented. “She who is to wear this will thank you. My lord,” he turned to the Caliph then and said: “My lord, as you know this robe was gifted to me by the Fira Flowers. Let her who lightens this city now put it on and I shall pronounce on both robe and the enhanced beauty of she who rightly wears it such a spell as will never more part them.”

  The Caliph considered for a moment and then answered: “Let it be as you will, Kamar. It seems that by odd chance alone it has been returned to us. You” — he pointed to Mirza — “do you take this maiden behind the screen and let her change garments again—this time with that flower of my house—Jalnar.”

  The tall lady wearing the shimmering green was not the only one waiting behind the screen. There was also a gaggle of maids reaching into the shadows behind her, and it seemed to Zoradeh that every time one of those moved, if only for so little, there followed a breeze of the finest scent set wandering. She gasped, but Mirza had already dragged the face-veil from her, and now she waited to see the disgust of the princess and the loathing of her maidens rise. Yet, and she marveled at this, they had gathered around her at a distance and none of them showed the old loathing her djinn-like face had always roused in all she met.

  Two of the maids hurried to disrobe the princess while Mirza’s dry and leathery hands were busied about her own body. The shimmering robe of moonlike pearls was handled by the old hag, while in turn she took a dull gray slave robe and threw it to Zoradeh, leaving her to fasten it about her as best she could.

  But the princess!

  Zoradeh gasped and heard a cry of fright from one of the maids, while another knelt before the princess holding up a mirror of burnished silver so that she might look at herself. The robe covered her skin as tightly as it had Zoradeh, but she had not yet raised the face-veil. And— “Djinn-face—now she bears such—the teeth which are tusks— the skin of old leather,” whispered Zoradeh under her breath, glancing quickly about to make sure none had heard her. For if Jalnar was in truth not a djinna, her features were twisted in the same ugliness Zoradeh’s had shown all her life long.

  The princess screamed and, putting her hands to her face, rubbed hard as if to tear loose a close-fitting mask. At the sound of her cry two armed eunuchs burst in upon them, but seeing the princess they both shivered and drew back, like wise men not daring to question those who have other powers.

  But that cry not only brought the eunuchs. For the first time there were visitors to the inner harem which custom and law denied them. The caliph, his curved sword in his hands, was well in the fore of that invasion, but close indeed to his very heels came the guardsmen, one of them still dragging Muledowa on his restraining rope with him. And they halted, too, even as the eunuch guards had done.

  For the princess stood a little apart from them all, shaking her misshapen head from side to side and moaning piteously.

  “My daughter!” The caliph looked to Kamar, who was the only one who had not drawn a weapon. “Wizard—what has happened to my daughter, who was as the full moon in all its glory and now wears the face of a djinna—even of an ifrit. There is weighty magic here, and to my eyes, it is evil.” Without warning he swung his sword at the wizard, but before the blade touched Kamar, it seemed to melt, as if it had passed through some fire, and the blade dripped down to form a hook.

  “My Lord.” Kamar wore no armament which could be seen, yet he appeared totally unaware of the swords now pointed at him.

  Zoradeh thought that surely they would attack him, yet he had no fear at all. “My Lord, this robe was my gift and it has powers of its own. It draws the inner soul into the light.”

  He came a little more forward then and looked to the princess, instead of the men who stood ready to deliver his death.

  “What,” Kamar asked then as if speaking to all of them, “what does a man wish the most in a bride? Fairness of face sometimes fades quickly, and also it makes its owner proud, vain, and thoughtless of those who serve her. You—” He made a pounce forward and caught at the mirror which the maid had left on the floor. Turning, he held that before Zoradeh and she cried out a plea to save herself from looking at what hung here.

  Only she did not see a djinna’s twisted face above the gray garment they had given her. Instead—she drew a deep breath of wonder and glanced shyly at the wizard for some answer to this.

  “You are also a maid marriageable by age, but none came to seek you out. Is that not so?”

  “I was—I had the face of a djinna,” she said in a voice hardly above a whisper. “My father is too poor to find me a dowry—thus even a hump-backed beggar did not desire me under his roof. But” — she rubbed her hands down the smooth flesh of her face — “what has happened to me, lord?”

  “You have met with truth and it has set you free. Lord of Many Towers,” he spoke to the caliph now, “I came hither to have me a wife. I have found the one that fate, which is the great weapon of the All-Compassionate, intended should rule my inner household—”

  He held out his hand to Zoradeh, and she, greatly daring, for the first time in her life, allowed her fingers to lie on the rein-callused palm of a man.

  “But, my daughter—” The caliph looked at Jalnar.

  “In time,�
� answered Kamar, “the Compassionate may bring to her will and desire, but they must be by her earning, and not because she dwelt before her own mirror in admiration for what she sees therein.”

  Jalnar let out a wail as deep with feeling as that of a newly-made widow, and then, her hands covering her face, she rushed from the room of the screen, her maids following in disorder.

  Kamar went now to Muledowa who sat staring as if he did not believe what he had seen. Kamar took a heavy purse from his sash and dropped it before the bound man.

  “Let this one go free, Lord of many mercies,” he said to the caliph. “For he shall live under my protection from this day forth and what troubles him also troubles me. Now, my lady, we shall go—”

  She flung her neck scarf over her head and shoulders, veiling a face which even now she could not believe was hers, and followed Kamar from the room.

  It is said among the tellers of tales that they lived long past the lifetimes of others, and that the Divider of Souls and the Archer of the Dark did not come to them in any of the years that those living have tale of. But of Jalnar—ah, there lies another tale.

  All Cats Are Gray

  Fantastic Universe Science Fiction, August–September (1953)

  Steena of the Spaceways—that sounds just like a corny title for one of the Stellar-Vedo spreads. I ought to know, I’ve tried my hand at writing enough of them. Only this Steena was no glamour babe. She was as colorless as a lunar plant—even the hair netted down to her skull had a sort of grayish cast, and I never saw her but once draped in anything but a shapeless and baggy gray space-all.

  Steena was strictly background stuff and that is where she mostly spent her free hours—in the smelly smoky background corners of any stellar-port dive frequented by free spacers. If you really looked for her you could spot her—just sitting there listening to the talk—listening and remembering. She didn’t open her own mouth often. But when she did spacers had learned to listen. And the lucky few who heard her rare spoken words—these will never forget Steena.