Weird Tales - Summer 1990

by Vol. 51 No. 4

  After a pause I heard his head turn suddenly. His voice was blurred, va­guely surprised. "— What? . .For all the Gods' sake, Talal, are you crazy? Go to sleep. . ."

  Either he was faking, or he had spo­ken before more asleep than awake, uttering nonsense or perhaps giving unconsidered words to some secret con­cern that gnawed at his heart like the disease of the crab. In which case his well-being must all have been sham, put on for my benefit.

  "Mujahid?"

  No answer.

  I lay back down and wrapped the quilt tightly around me, apprehension a cold stone in my belly.

  It was still there when I woke up at daybreak, nagged at by already-forgot­ten but disturbing dreams.

  Mujahid breathed deeply, regularly, almost snoring. I crawled out of the quilt and pulled the thaub the women had left for me over my head. It was worn but clean, and its hem brushed the ground. I got a thin length of cord from my saddlebag and belted the gar­ment up to ankle-length before opening the door and stepping out into the morning.

  The air was cool, the sky a soft clean blue. The sun must have cleared the edge of the desert but wasn't high enough to shine over the rim of the val­ley, so everything lay in uniform soft shadow, washed clean and dustless. No sign of the sheet of water that had hid­den the trail last night except the healthy color of the earth between the valley wall and the dense mass of the palm trees.

  A patch of ground planted in what looked like onions stretched away to a clutch of peasant huts and a bedouin tent of brown goat hair, and in this space I saw Nur bint Hind conferring with a tall thin man who had the hem of his thaub picked up and tucked into his belt to shorten the garment to knee length, working peasant style. Some­where, distantly, a man's voice rose in a half-shouted conversation. Closer by, chickens clucked and squawked.

  I went in among the palm trees to relieve myself, returning by way of our penned animals. Someone had already fed them. Nur's hospitality was thor­ough. The camels were barracked and looked immovable; the mare was stand­ing, drinking in the morning air, her nostrils making a soft snuffling sound when she saw me.

  The chickens were quieter now. As I walked back toward the house, Ma-bruka came from behind it carrying a basket of eggs. No mantle or shawl this morning, just a plum-colored dress with embroidery at the neck and a decorated gazelle-skin belt, no jewelry except a necklace of agate beads and a couple of silver finger rings. Enough to remind me that she was no peasant or servant girl, as out of reach as the crescent moon itself.

  But not nearly so cool. She saw me and smiled. My heart lurched.

  "Morning of goodness, Talal."

  At that moment the sun's edge looked over the rim of the valley, already los­ing its gentleness, the last of dawn's gold warming her cheek and turning her hair into a gleaming fall of black water. I felt hollow as chaff and about as much use. I bit down hard on empty jaws before returning the formal re­sponse to her greeting.

  "Morning of light," I said stiffly.

  Her smile vanished. The wide dark eyes blinked once, twice, became sud­denly opaque.

  ". . . I'll . . . send in Latifa with breakfast if you're ready."

  "I'll make sure my master's awake."

  Mabruka turned away and I stuck my head into Latifa's room. Mujahid was propped up on one elbow, his free hand poking cautiously at yesterday's scalp wound.

  "Breakfast's coming."

  "I heard."

  "How's the head?"

  "Hurts a bit. Nothing to worry about."

  "Good," I said, and turned back outside.

  Mabruka had disappeared. Two horses with riders, cantering from the direc­tion of the city, swung off the trail and approached.

  One of them, a small gray, slowed and stopped in front of Nur's house. The rider carried a lance; he was a young man with a cast in one eye, wearing the unadorned clothing of a servant or a groom. The other horse, a rangy roan, shifted without pause into a thudding gallop when its rider drove his heels into its ribs. This pair charged past Nur's house to the mud-walled pen, where the rider hauled savagely on his halter rope and pulled the horse into a barbarous pirouette to face back toward us, prancing and curvetting while the man took a long look at our animals. Then he came galloping back. The other rider moved the gray out of the way so the roan could be stopped in a storm of stamping hooves and empty bravado.

  The rider was no herdsman. His clothes were too good and too clean; despite his lean hard look something in his face said settled comfort. A narrow-bladed dagger in a decorated leather sheath was attached to the belt around his waist and he looked somewhere be­tween Mujahid's age and mine. His nose curved like a scythe. He had full lips that dipped in the middle and tilted up at the ends, like the wings of a bird, like a smile gone wrong. Small dis­dainful bright eyes regarded me with unpleasant speculation. Then their fo­cus changed and I realized that Ma­bruka had come outside again.

  "Peace be unto you, Mabruka." The man on the roan smiled, his fastidious, delicately curved nostrils curling up as though he found himself downwind from something dead.

  "Ahlan, Zuhayr." She stood a half-step outside the door, now folded her arms loosely across her middle. She was polite, withdrawn, disinterested. "Will you eat with us?"

  "I have already eaten. Have you re­considered my offer?"

  "Nothing to reconsider."

  "I'd give you sons to make history."

  "You mean I'd give you sons. And daughters for you to sell to the highest bidder."

  His smile deepened. "I'm chagrined, of course, but all that can wait. I have a message from the shaykh to all the kindred."

  "Which shaykh?"

  "Ours. Shaykh Harith. He wants it known that yesterday a traveler came as a suppliant who placed himself un­der the protection of Salah bin Mansur of the Bani Ghassan. Out of regard for Shaykh Salah, we are to regard this man as being under our protection too. He is Kadhim bin Ja'far of an eastern tribe, the Bani Faris, and he's in flight from a band of cut-throats because of a dispute over the ownership of a strip of land at the Hasa oasis."

  Nur had come in from the field and was joining us. Mabruka's face had stiffened at the names of Kadhim and the Bani Faris but nothing more. She waited as though expecting him to go on, nodded politely when he didn't. The reptilian eyes of the young man she had called Zuhayr flickered briefly in my direction, and Mujahid came out of the room behind me.

  He was wearing his headgear, the drape of the kaffiyya hiding his scalp wound. I guessed he'd taken the band­age off. He wore the borrowed thaub with his leather belt, the dagger in its worn sheath attached in the horizontal position at the right side of his belly. He looked untroubled, relaxed, his broad face trying not to smile.

  Then Zuhayr noticed that Nur was among us. He directed a deep smile at her. His nostrils performed their un­intended commentary.

  "Morning of goodness, Nur."

  Her smile was everything politeness demanded and not a hair more.

  "Morning of light, Ibn Zahra."

  Zuhayr laughed.

  "You never miss a chance to remind me that we Hilalis trace descent through the mother, do you, Bint Hind? But things are changing, I promise you. I see you have guests. Suitors of Ma-bruka's, no doubt."

  "If they are they haven't announced it," Nur said. "They arrived last night, at the height of the storm, asking pro­tection. Which I gave. One had been injured."

  "I trust he has recovered."

  "I have," Mujahid said. "The Great Goddess is kind."

  " 'Goddess,'" Zuhayr murmured. "And yet I hear that beyond these deserts the chief Gods are thought to be male."

  Mujahid laughed.

  Nur said, "That would be blasphemy if it weren't so funny. As I presume you learned when you examined the brands on their animals, our guests are Bani Faris. This Kadhim did familiarize you with the Bani Faris brand, didn't he? But there are only two of them, no party of cut-throats. If any harm comes to them, my kinsmen will hunt Kadhim down and I'll see the council goes after Shaykh H
arith. They're not too happy with him anyway because he's grown complacent and slack."

  "Who says so?"

  "I do. Last month again, some herds­men from the Bayt Ali clan of Bani Ghassan tried to dispute one of my herdsmen's right to water his animals at Ghazala well. This has been happen­ing for over a year and Harith has done nothing. He should get the behavior stopped or get the Bani Ghassan council to declare the old policy of cooperation and protection rescinded."

  "And suppose they did that?"

  "Then we'd move. But they won't. Alone they're not strong enough and they know it."

  Zuhayr thought a moment, then smiled faintly.

  "The Bayt Ali are hooligans," he ac­knowledged. "They wouldn't bother you if you or Mabruka had a powerful hus­band."

  Nur's face softened, her eyes warmed, and her lips parted suddenly in the dis­arming smile I had seen take years off her last night.

  "Why Zuhayr, I believe you've been behind these harassments all along!"

  Zuhayr jerked visibly, as though poked with a sharp stick, his hard young face slack with astonishment and chagrin. But he recovered quickly enough.

  "If I'd thought of it, I might have." He had no gift for levity; even this light humorous concession made him uncom­fortable; he backed away from it sharply, turning to Mujahid. "I am Zuhayr bin Zahra, aide to Shaykh Harith bin Mit'ab ofAhlal-Hilal."

  "I'm Mujahid bin Hasan an-Numayri of Bani Faris," Mujahid said mildly. 'This is my servant, Talal."

  Zuhayr gave him a long look. He couldn't ask Mujahid his business in the valley; the implied suspicion would be a discourtesy to Nur. Mujahid, half smiling, the picture of bland innocence, wasn't about to tell him anything.

  Zuhayr sighed, and switched his at­tention to me.

  'Talal . . ." he said thoughtfully, as though the name bothered him. The small eyes were bright as polished brown agates but less friendly. His brows contracted faintly. "Not Talal the bowman, who brings down wild doves in flight?"

  So Kadhim had mentioned me.

  I shrugged.

  "Sometimes."

  He looked surprised. Perhaps he ex­pected someone older. Then his expres­sion shifted subtly.

  "Don't Goddess-worshipers hold the dove sacred?"

  I shrugged again. "The Bani Faris don't."

  He looked slyly at the two women.

  "I told you things were changing." His nostrils described their faint in­sulting curl. Abruptly he turned the roan's head toward the trail. "More peo­ple to see. Peace unto you."

  The two horsemen thudded away, turned down the valley, and picked up speed.

  Latifa began carrying our breakfast from one room into the other. Hunched and scowling over a bowl of curdled milk, she paused to stare after Zuhayr.

  "Cockroach!" she spat. "Traitor! And he wants to marry the baby, my dar­ling, and make a foreigner of her."

  "Isn't he one of you?" I asked.

  "He is," she admitted, "but he's picked up the notion that women should have no power at all, even over their own selves or property. He thinks we'd be better off like Bani Ghassan. So he wants to marry Mabruka under Ghas-sani law."

  "At least he can't get his hands on the property she'll inherit," Mujahid said.

  "He's working on it, you can be sure!" Latifa broke into a cackling laugh. "He's ambitious, young Zuhayr. I think he dreams of combining the Ghassani and Hilali peoples and becoming prince over everyone and making us all wor­ship his piddling male Gods."

  "Oh, he's just a nuisance," Mabruka said.

  The laughter vanished from Latifa's old face.

  " 'Just a nuisance!' — who's making himself indispensable to Shaykh Har-ith and who knows who else! What do you know? You're only a child. . .." The flare of anger died in her eyes. Her snappish voice became a mumble. "Oh. The breakfast…."

  "I'll help you," Mabruka said, and Mujahid and I were soon seated on either side of the breakfast they had laid out on the rug in Latifa's room. The old woman wished us health and ordered Mabruka in to her own breakfast next door, would she bother the men at their meal, did she want her mother to eat alone?

  When they had gone Mujahid grinned broadly. No sign of the vacillation and despondency of last night. He seemed confident, and very much at ease.

  He tore a round of fresh warm bread in two and gave me half.

  "So Hilali women are strong in the council too, are they? That's probably one reason why they're not happy with Shaykh Harith: he's not happy with them."

  "No shaykh can go against his coun­cil," I said. "Not for long, anyway."

  "But when the council includes women . . . ? Women think with their bellies. And what do these women give us for breakfast? Why, curdled milk and honey, of course — a combination long trusted to sustain virility. The dates and bread are only to make the intent less ob­vious. I wonder whose idea it was?"

  "Latifa's. She wants to make sure you have something left for her when the other two are through with you. Too bad we have work to do."

  He started to laugh but it died in his mouth. After a moment he sighed, a disconsolate sound, and stuffed a piece of bread between his teeth. He chewed without interest, his face abstracted. Vaguely his hand went up inside his headcloth, fingers poking at the edges of yesterday's wound.

  We ate in silence.

  He muttered finally, "What that snake-eyed bandit Zuhayr said makes it harder."

  He meant Kadhim's protection by the two shaykhs. Killing Kadhim within their reach would not only shame them and invite swift retribution, but would also blacken Nur's face because Ka­dhim was considered under the protec­tion of all Ahl al-Hilal and we were her guests and under her protection too. We might escape the valley, but who knew how far the shaykhs' men — and doubt­less Nur's kinsmen too — would follow?

  "You'll find a way," I said. "With your luck you're bound to."

  "That's the trouble with luck. People expect great things from you."

  "I'm confident," I assured him.

  "Good."

  He delivered the word with some­thing of the old glint. His head tossed as though he were about to let go a peal of laughter. He didn't but his lips stretched and the grin flashed, the one that scattered doubts and lifted the souls of the faint-hearted. The trouble was I remembered my doubts of last night: he could still be faking it. I was beginning to suspect that behind the laughing eyes and the self-assurance lay a stranger no one had ever been aware of. Mujahid was my brother, but after all the years I simply didn't know him.

  We finished breakfast and went back outside. Old Latifa was shaking out a skimpy quilt. She saw us and called Nur, who came out of the other door with Mabruka close behind her. Still withdrawn and distant, Mabruka stayed by the entrance, leaned one shoulder against the wall, folded her arms. . . .

  "So the man Kadhim has powerful protectors," Nur said crisply. "Powerful hereabouts, anyway. You'll be making new plans. Until you know what they are, you'll be my guests."

  Mujahid thanked her. "How do I get to see the Ghassani shaykh?"

  "You go to the palace in the city and ask for an audience," Nur said. An idea struck her. "Except today might be dif­ferent. I think he's holding a public court of justice. You might present yourself and make your case against Kadhim there. For what good it'll do."

  Mujahid nodded. "That's this morn­ing?"

  "We could go to the city and find out," Mabruka said unexpectedly. "We know enough people, we might learn something useful."

  Nur gave her a sharp look but said nothing. Mabruka stood unmoving and indifferent, her arms still folded.

  "There's no danger, mother. No one wants to risk violating anyone's pro­tection."

  "Our guests don't. Can you be so sure of Kadhim?"

  "Does Kadhim want more enemies than he has already?"

  Nur tilted her head thoughtfully.

  "I suppose not."

  "It's settled, then."

  Mujahid asked, "Are you to be our guide, Mabruka?"

  "Would you rather go al
one?"

  He gave her the slow smile, assured, gently mocking, shook his head and said, "No, no!" in a voice like honey. He was beginning the campaign he had announced last night. He had to be feel­ing more like himself after all. Well, that was what I'd wanted, wasn't it?

  I threw Nur a quick glance. She looked back with ironic eyes.

  I ducked into Latifa's room and got my bow and strung it and hung the quiver of arrows across my back.

  There was little talk as we walked to the city. Mabruka was so aloof she seemed hardly aware of us. Why had she suggested coming along? Maybe she just wished me elsewhere; which a good part of me did too.

  The farmland and the great date grove beyond it ended; the trail curved left and we found ourselves crossing barren trampled ground toward the city wall. The narrow southern gate stood open between low towers with sloping walls and no guardsmen on top.

  Once through the gate the trail be­came a dusty street advancing crook­edly into the city between monotonous mud-plastered walls inset with occa­sional doors and windows and some­times interrupted by narrow alleys. A knot of kids played in the dust. A few people of no great wealth went about their business, some carrying bundles or baskets. Donkey and camel drop­pings caked the street. The air baked and smelled of smoke and cooking and refuse, as though no clean desert wind ever penetrated the defensive walls.

  We came to a small temple to the Goddess on the corner of a narrow street leading west, and the street we were on took a jog and opened into a market square. Neither rich nor par­ticularly busy, it was small enough to be crowded by half a dozen barracked camels being unloaded by bedouin car-avaneers under the critical eyes of local merchants. Two streets entered the square on the north. Mabruka led us past the camels and a few shops and stalls and the entrance to a covered ba­zaar toward the street on the right, which proved to be short and to lead into a second and bigger square.

  Also busier, but not much. At the far side the city's northern gate stood open, showing tethered horses outside, an ex­panse of cultivation, and a broad trail leading up the valley to where it sloped sharply up to the level of the surround­ing desert. Through the gate came a woman driving a couple of scrawny donkeys loaded down with something in sacks toward another entrance to the covered bazaar. Two fine riding camels knelt in the center of the square.