Weird Tales - Summer 1990

by Vol. 51 No. 4

  "I think I know a place we can go. . . .

  Mabruka, looking sweaty and di­sheveled and pleased with herself, sat up and pulled her dress down over her shins. I was euphoric to my fingertips, invulnerable as a stooping falcon, as strong as a young lion of the Omani foothills.

  For a moment she looked almost shy, as though protecting some remote cor­ner of her privacy.

  "Salman approves. When we got you the water he told me not to let you get away."

  The place she had taken me to wasn't much, hardly more secluded than the sun-blinded alley had been: just a ru­ined stable with two mud walls left standing. Part of the matting roof, frayed and bedraggled, sagged to the ground forming an accidental lean-to that threatened to collapse at every touch. The sun found its way through cracks and loose places in the weave of the matting and threw little jewels of light onto flesh and floor and clothing. Dust jumped at every movement.

  Even being reminded of Salman couldn't diminish my well-being.

  "He disguises his approval well," I told her.

  "Don't mind Salman. He's always testing people, especially when he's cu­rious about them. I thought he might have some ideas about your . . . mis­sion here, but you never asked; you were too eager to get away. But he likes me, you see, and I'd always promised him I'd seek his approval when I found someone . . . and then today I thought that if you knew who your real ances­tors were, you might not feel you had to get some others by adoption. . . ."

  She paused. Her expression showed the first flicker of hesitation. Even be­fore she went on I felt my life begin to take a great dizzying swing. When she spoke I tried not to gasp.

  "Then you might be inclined to stay here with me. Would you? Want to, I mean?"

  "Of course I would. . . ."

  "Only for as long as you want. It wouldn't have to be for a full five years. And of course you have the other thing to do first, and you can't do it here, you have to wait till Kadhim's beyond the two shaykhs' protection, so it'll take time. . . ."

  "Even after it's done," I said, "it would be ungrateful of me not to go back to Mujahid's family, whether they adopt me or not. But as soon as I can I'll be back."

  I slid a hand up past her ankles. Mu­jahid's rose petal comparison was barely adequate. She gave me a small con­spiratorial smile and pulled her dress up. We wouldn't always have to do this in the cramped corner of a ruined stable at the edge of a city street. An extraor­dinary shared future stretched ahead. For as long as it pleased her I would be Mabruka's, the father of her children. It didn't bother me at all that they would be Hilalis rather than. . . what? Numayris of Bani Faris? Well, possibly, by adoption. It didn't really matter who I was; it never had, though I imagined there was comfort in knowing where you fit into a sequence of people that stretched back time out of mind and off into the future — a particular people, with a center in a particular spot, with a tribal name and ways that went with it. Well, my children would be the sons and daughters of Mabruka the daugh­ter of Nur the daughter of Hind of Ahl al-Hilal, and they would know my name and I'd make sure they'd remem­ber me. And they would say, Once he was a servant till Mabruka saw him and said, 'There is a man with a face like a good blade, waiting' . . . What it was waiting for remained to be seen, I'd have to make sure it was worthy. What­ever it was might take some doing but I could do it. I was brimming over with confidence and self-renewing male strength and I was making love to the most desirable young woman in all the tribes and there wasn't anything I couldn't do.

  Eventually, reluctantly, I remem­bered all the things I was supposed to be doing. So Mabruka and I crawled out of our refuge and dusted ourselves off. She checked the hang of the agate neck­lace and the position of the gazelle-skin belt, I slung my bow and quiver across my back, and she took my hand and led me off to learn the geography Mujahid had demanded.

  It wasn't hard. The narrow road past the little temple to the Goddess led to the city's western gate. It too was nar­row, unguarded, held shut by massive bars whose angles were filled with dust and cobwebs. This gate had had an east­ern counterpart, Mabruka said; but it had been walled up long ago. The only other gates were those I had already seen.

  On the north, only an alley separated the city's defensive walls from the wall surrounding the palace. There were two ways into the palace grounds: one, the entrance Mujahid had used to join the crowd seeking the shaykh's justice; the other, directly across the compound and through the palace stables. This one gave onto a street that wandered crook­edly south to become the northwestern exit from the first market square we had come to this morning.

  We wound up back at the square next to the palace. It was quieter. The sun beat down; the air baked, trapped be­tween walls. The two riding camels were gone and in their place a string of pack donkeys waited for someone to come and lead them away somewhere. The gate to the palace grounds still stood open; near it, squatting in the dust with his back against the wall, was the scar-faced guard.

  A fly buzzed near his eye. He brushed it away, looked up and saw us ap­proaching hand in hand. After a long fixed stare at Mabruka, whose plum-colored dress was rumpled and sweat-stained and looked as though she'd worn it to work a harvest, he gave me a conspiratorial leer.

  "Your friend's still waiting," he said with satisfaction, nodding toward the gate.

  "Can we go in?"

  "You can't take that bow in with you."

  Was he just being obstructive, or had someone identified me as dangerous?

  I shrugged. "I'll wait here, then."

  Mabruka stepped past the guard and looked through the entrance.

  The crowd had shrunk to a thin scat­tering. Over their heads I saw a big man — tall, black-bearded, of impres­sive girth — sitting in the middle of the patch of shade provided by the awning. The men with the lances, looking sleepy, stood nearby on either side of him. Six other prosperous-looking men sat in a rough crescent behind him. A man in peasant garb was before the shaykh with his back to us, presenting a case with many gestures toward someone in the crowd whom the black-bearded shaykh eventually invited forward to be heard.

  "That's Shaykh Salah of Bani Ghas-san, who's also prince of the city," Ma-bruka murmured. "Behind him, second from the left, older and thin with a gray beard, that's Shaykh Harith of Ahl al-Hilal. The others are all members of the Ghassani tribal council, in case Salah needs help or more information in mak­ing a judgment."

  "Who decides disputes involving your people?"

  "Our Shaykh Harith, of course."

  "And when they involve Hilali against Ghassani?"

  "Shaykh Salah of Bani Ghassan."

  "That's risky for him, isn't it, giving judgment against one of his own in a dispute with an outsider? Doesn't every judgment in a dispute between a Hilali and a Ghassani become a political judg­ment instead of a just one, on its mer­its?"

  "He wants a name for fairness and wisdom. We've learned we can trust him."

  "But he doesn't want to go against the Bayt Ali in your mother's case — and even your friend Zuhayr calls them hooligans."

  She dug her fingers painfully into my waist just under my ribs.

  "Don't call that cockroach a friend of mine! . . . What case? She hasn't brought a case. She doesn't want a pub­lic controversy."

  "And that sounds like a political de­cision! She doesn't want to risk tilting some balance somewhere. So she ap­peals to your Shaykh Harith, but he can't get Shaykh Salah to restrain the hooligans. This morning your mother implied it's because Shaykh Harith hasn't the skill or the will, but. . .sup­pose it isn't that at all. Suppose . . ."

  I hesitated. My mind was racing but suddenly came up lame.

  "Yes?" Mabruka prompted.

  ". . .I don't know. Some reason why Shaykh Salah is afraid of the Bayt Ali . . ."

  Mabruka was silent. What was left of the crowd looked bored and uncom­fortable. The shaykh interrupted the voluble petitioner in a voice too quiet to be heard. Mabruka sighed, "If only we'd thought to ask Salman .
. ."

  "Ask him what?"

  "What you asked me. Why Salah may fear the Bayt Ali."

  "What would he know?"

  "More than most people, silly. He's a famous healer, he gets about and knows everyone." A sudden decision. "I'm going to talk to him again."

  "Where will I find you?"

  "Either at Salman's, or I'll find you here, or we'll meet at my house."

  She kissed me briskly and walked with determined stride toward the en­trance to the covered bazaar.

  The guard watched her go with va­cant eyes, then turned to me and sighed and shook his head pityingly. It was supposed to convince me he knew some­thing I didn't, to plant seeds of doubt. Nothing could. I responded with my best imitation of Mujahid's demoraliz­ing self-assurance, grinning cheerfully, and for the space of a heartbeat the guard's face went slack. Then his eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles tightened. I almost heard his teeth grinding. I was having a morning of little triumphs as well as big ones. It was obscurely sad that an imitation of a smile should win one for me, but if Mujahid could fake being Mujahid, why shouldn't I?

  I turned away to watch the shaykh at his diwan.

  He disposed of the case before him and two others followed. He continued to speak too quietly to be followed from this distance. When he gave his judg­ments no one capered with glee or broke into lamentations. Time passed. The sun was high in a sky of molten silver. Walls and ground threw back the heat. And then it was Mujahid's turn.

  The silent shadow of the circling kite hawk slid down the mud-brown walls of the palace and skittered over the as­sembled people as Mujahid took his place before the shaykh. Behind me now, the bird gave a short angry trill. I shaded my eyes and looked up. Two birds circled low over the market square. The newcomer was a small white scav­enger eagle and the two were unhappy to see each other . . .

  From the shaykh, a permissive ges­ture. In a clear bold voice Mujahid gave his name and tribe. The shaykh became still as a great stone, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his headcloth.

  Between the shadow and his beard his lips pursed thoughtfully.

  "You're a long way from your tribal range, Ibn Hasan," he said at last. "Do you petition for judgment against one of my people?"

  Perhaps Mujahid's name and the an­ticipation of trouble made the shaykh speak more loudly.

  "No, lord, not one of yours," Mujahid answered. "And judgment has already been given — against a man called Kadhim bin Ja'far of Bani Faris, who now enjoys your protection but is known to his family and tribe as the man who murdered my father."

  Shaykh Salah shifted position on his cushions, scratched the edge of one nos­tril with a little fingernail. When he didn't say anything Mujahid went on without heat:

  "I'm told that this Kadhim represents himself as being in flight from a band of cut-throats. In fact he's in flight from me and my servant. We've been follow­ing him since the afternoon my father died and witnesses saw my arrow of recision shot into a clear sky and return bloodstained."

  The shaykh was startled. Perhaps not very, but enough to show.

  He said, "Witnesses?"

  "My kin, and Kadhim's, and mem­bers of the tribal council."

  Salah was unmoving and thoughtful for long moments; then he looked off to one side and beckoned. A young man hurried over. He bent to receive whis­pered instructions, then straightened and hurried to the palace door and dis­appeared inside.

  The shaykh turned back to Mujahid.

  "So, Ibn Hasan: the arrow didn't re­lease you from your blood obligation. I wish I'd been there. But why bring this matter to me?"

  "Only to assure you, lord, that I am no cut-throat."

  The shaykh smiled faintly.

  "And perhaps to get me to rescind my protection?" He shook his draped head. "Even if I knew that what you tell me is true I couldn't do that."

  "Nor would I ask it," Mujahid said, and the palace door opened.

  The messenger came back out with someone who wore a clean white thaub, a light, brown, sleeved cloak, and a headcloth adjusted to shade his face. But I thought the dagger belt around his middle looked familiar, and when he moved toward Salah and the light fell differently I had a glimpse of the knife face and dense beard of Kadhim bin Ja'far.

  He was half way to the shaded area under the awning before he recognized Mujahid. He stopped. Mujahid slowly raised his arms and held them straight out from his shoulders.

  "You see I'm weaponless, Kadhim."

  Kadhim said harshly, "Does Shaykh Salah prepare this kind of surprise for all his guests, or am I the favored ex­ception?"

  "You recognize this man?" the shaykh asked.

  "He's the one I told you about, a hired cut-throat."

  "You're a liar, Kadhim," Mujahid said. "My father told you to stop both­ering his young wife and you killed him. My arrow of recision insisted on blood for blood."

  Kadhim laughed shortly.

  "With members of your own family as witnesses," the shaykh told him, though I wasn't sure he believed it.

  "A trick," Kadhim sneered. "Does he expect us to think the spirit world is within reach of any dung-eater with a bow?"

  "It is," Mujahid said.

  "Then prove it or shut your stupid lying mouth."

  "Would you trust me with a bow, Kadhim — and you so close?"

  Kadhim hawked and spat into the dust between them.

  "I wouldn't be afraid of you if you had a bow and a sword and I had nothing but my teeth —" He stopped abruptly. "Where's Talal?"

  The shaykh asked, "Talal? Who's he?"

  "My servant," Mujahid said.

  "His skill with a bow's unnatural." Kadhim began scanning the crowd in­tently. "I told you about him yester­day."

  "Of course — the servant who shoots doves on the wing." I wasn't sure Salah believed that either.

  Kadhim had found me. He pointed an accusing finger.

  "That's him!"

  A hand gripped my arm. I felt the tip of a blade touch my neck. The voice that spoke from behind my ear was thin and husky but still had power to carry.

  "Shall I disarm him?"

  A question to Mujahid satisfied the shaykh that the guard had the right man. He nodded. "Take his bow." He offered Mujahid a reassuring gesture. "— Temporarily. Servants have been known to get. . . too zealous."

  I didn't resist as the guard took the bow.

  He murmured derisively, "On the wing?"

  "Not always," I admitted.

  "Then what good are you?"

  I had missed an exchange between Shaykh Salah and the two antagonists, and the shaykh was calling for some­thing. Someone brought him a bow and a single arrow. Drawing his dagger he cut a nick in the arrow a finger-width from the fletching, resheathed the dag­ger, had both bow and marked arrow given to Mujahid.

  Mujahid had accepted Kadhim's challenge. Of course. The spirit world itself would condemn Kadhim and Shaykh Salah would witness it.

  The sparse crowd had been silent and intent since the confrontation began. A brief protest rose as the two men with lances began urging everyone to move back, which they did, clearing a broad strip of dusty ground running all across the palace yard. The crowd settled quickly into a new silence.

  Nothing could possibly go wrong; but Mujahid, stepping slowly into the cleared area, nocked the arrow stiff-fingered, as though he'd never held one before. He tilted his head back, looked into the sky. His face with the sun full on it was tormented and rigid as wind-scoured rock. Then he raised the bow and drew the arrow back to his temple and let fly almost vertically into emptiness.

  Anyone else would have got out of the way in case a vagrant puff of wind re­turned the arrow on a dangerous path. Mujahid shaded his eyes and followed its flight without moving.

  It plunged to earth between him and the shaykh.

  For the time it takes to count the fin­gers on both hands no one moved or spoke. The shaykh's voice rang with the iron of authority.

  "No one touches it."


  He shifted his bulk, got his feet under him and stood up, crossed out of his patch of shade to the arrow and plucked it from the ground.

  A murmur went up. Even I could see the glistening red wet smear along most of the arrow's length.

  Salah looked at the nick he'd cut into the shaft; then, holding it by its feath­ered end, raised it to his nose. His nos­trils flared briefly. He nodded, then held the arrow up for the crowd to see.

  "It's the one I gave Ibn Hasan," he told them. "His hands are clean, the bow is clean, but the arrow has blood on it. If anyone tells you that the arrow of recision is just a trick to reduce bloodshed . . . remember what you saw to­day."

  Perhaps he was surprised to find himself saying that. He turned and stared thoughtfully at Mujahid, then signalled an underling to take away the bow and the blood-smeared arrow. At last he faced Kadhim.

  Kadhim's face was lost in shadow. He made a disparaging gesture.

  "Perhaps someone did kill this man's father." His voice was stiff and cau­tious. "But it certainly wasn't I."

  "Then why did you lie to me?" the shaykh demanded. "You also chal­lenged Ibn Hasan — and you lost. You have my hospitality for three days, starting now. After that I'll give you an escort anywhere you choose within rea­son. That's where my protection ends."

  Kadhim muttered something and turned and stalked to the palace door and disappeared inside. The shaykh said something to Mujahid which I couldn't hear either, then turned to the people clustered beyond the cleared area and beckoned them forward. They rose and surged to the front.

  Mujahid came striding around the edge of the crowd. I had expected to see him elated at getting Kadhim's sanc­tuary limited but his face was an­guished.

  I went through the double door to meet him. He gripped my arm pain­fully, almost dragging me back outside the palace compound.

  "Get your bow."

  "The guard has it." I shook my arm free. "Mother of the Gods, Mujahid, what's the —"