And now there was this.
“All I can say,” the Doctor half-whispered, “is what you said to me days ago: with weeks of work your home will be restored. You will—”
Dawoud held up a long-fingered hand and silenced the Doctor. For a long time they all just stood there staring.
Hours later the five of them sat in Mohsabi’s teahouse, sipping nectar and cardamom tea, and nibbling unhappily at pastries. The teahouse owner, a well-groomed little man with a goatee, had, for a few extra coins, shooed away his other customers and left the companions alone to discuss in private the aftermath of their battle in the Palace.
“So is he still the Falcon Prince,” Dawoud was saying, “or is he now ‘The Defender of Virtue, Khalif Pharaad Az Hammaz?’ Well, whatever he decides to call himself, the madman has his tasks cut out for him. I’d still bet a dinar to a dirham that there will be war in these streets before it’s all over. And as great as Dhamsawaat is, it is only one city. The governors of Abassen’s other cities, the Soo Tripasharate, the High Sultaan of Rughal-ba—how will these men respond? The Crescent Moon Kingdoms have always been stitched together with delicate threads. After last night…” the old magus shook his head, looking even older than he had before the battle. “What of the guardsmen, by the way? Orshado’s spell must have seized the souls of a half-thousand men,” Dawoud said to the Doctor. “Will the guardsmen survive now that this ghul of ghuls is dead?”
The Doctor shrugged. “According to the old books, it depends on the man. Some will die. Some will live but will not be what they once were—indeed, some will go mad. A few—the strongest, the closest to God, will survive whole, with only a few days’ illness and a few hours’ blank in their memories. But we have more important things to talk about. As we were walking over here, you and Litaz were whispering quite furiously about something. And twice now when I’ve brought up rebuilding your shop you’ve shut me up. Are you planning what I think you’re planning?”
The magus stretched and looked at his wife, who smiled sadly, then nodded.
“You know us too well, brother-of-mine,” Dawoud said at last. “It’s time we left Dhamsawaat. Litaz has been saying for years that she’d like to see the Republic again, and now I feel much the same. We’ve always intended to make another visit. Other things just kept getting in the way. And…this last battle, Adoulla. It cost me. Weeks, months of life. Soon I’ll be too old to make such a journey.”
Litaz laid her small hand on her husband’s shoulder. “This business with the Humble Students, the unrest in the city—maybe they are all signs from God. Perhaps it is time for us to return home.”
“I…You…You’ll be missed, my friends,” the Doctor said, his eyes shining with unshed tears. “In the Name of God, you will truly be missed.”
Litaz’s own eyes were moist now. “You could come with us, of course, Adoulla. But I suspect you have business of your own to see to, now that our part in this foul madness is over. Perhaps you will soon announce a blessed event for us to attend before we leave?”
Zamia knew not what the alkhemist meant by this, but the Doctor looked suddenly embarrassed.
Litaz went on, looking less sad now. “In any case, on the walk over here, I must confess that we tried to steal away your assistant, asking if he’d like to join us. The young man needs to see more of the world,” she said, smiling at Raseed, who lowered his eyes. “He politely declined, of course.”
Litaz turned to Zamia. “What of you, Zamia Banu Laith Badawi? You could travel with us if you wished. The open road is not the desert, but you might find it less stifling than this city. Dawoud and I are a band of only two, but we would still be honored to have you as our Protector.”
Zamia didn’t know what to think, let alone what to say. Finding a new band to roam with—and roaming so far—was a strange notion, with nothing of the ways of the Badawi to it.
And then there was Raseed bas Raseed. She wished that she and he could leave this frightening city together. With him, she thought, someday she might forget that she was Protector of the Band, might find a place where such things did not matter. A place where enemies never threatened. Surely there was such a place somewhere on God’s great earth? She was ashamed that this sounded so appealing to her.
But she knew that these were only wishes. She could not allow herself to ever forget that she was Protector of the Band. Or that the world was full of the enemies of mankind. The Ministering Angels had not granted her the power of the lion so that she could shirk her duties. And she loved the dervish—yes, she told herself, you love him!—because of his own devotion to duty.
“I…I will have to think on this, Auntie,” was all she could say.
She looked at Raseed. Despite his gruesome-looking injuries he sat crosslegged on the puzzlecloth-carpeted floor, his forked sword lying across his lean thighs. She nearly jumped when he stood with a pained wince and approached her.
“Zamia…” he said and trailed off, looking as if someone had stabbed him. She flattered herself that his expression was not merely due to his injuries. He continued. “I would…I would speak to you in private, if you do not mind.” He gestured toward an unused side room away from the old people.
Keep your mind on your duty, she told herself. She gripped her left hand with her right, her fingernails digging into her flesh, and followed him.
Raseed bas Raseed struggled to keep his mind on his duty. He led Zamia into a private part of Mohsabi’s teahouse, a small room out of earshot of the Doctor and his friends. The place was empty of other customers, due not only to the owner’s facilitation but also to the fact that word of events in the palace—distorted, fanciful word—was already trickling onto the street. People were scurrying about, buying food and fighting-staves then locking themselves in their homes, making vague preparation for the unknown.
Raseed turned to Zamia. He looked at the tribeswoman for as long as he dared, then darted his eyes to the ground, only to bring them back up to meet Zamia’s bright gaze again. His body ached, and his soul had never been more unfocused. Still, he had to speak.
“You fought fiercely yesterday, Zamia Banu Laith Badawi,” he said, feeling foolish as the words flowed out.
“As did you, Raseed bas Raseed.”
“Zamia…I…I wish you to know that, of all the women on God’s great earth, you are the only one I would ever wish to wed.” He felt his cheeks burn with shame, and he could not believe he had forced the words out.
Zamia’s green eyes—the most beautiful eyes Raseed had ever seen—grew wide. But she said nothing.
“But…” he continued, wishing he were dead, “but the Order forbids Shaykhs to marry. If I asked for your hand I would be turning my back on any chance of advancement in God’s eyes. I would forever remain a dervish in rank and would never be able to teach at the Lodge of God. Until I met you, I was certain that to ascend from dervish to Shaykh—to become a fitter weapon of God—was the kindest fate I could possibly pray for.”
Zamia’s eyes were wet, but she shed no tears. She swallowed hard and it took every bit of training Raseed had to refrain from reaching out to her. “And now?” she asked at last.
“Now…now I do not know. Perhaps I will return to the Lodge of God. I plan to leave this wicked city. That much I do know. After that.…” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
“Raseed?”
“Yes?”
“What happened there? In the throne room?”
Raseed tried to speak, but the words would not come. For a moment, his weak body almost betrayed him by crying.
Finally he heard himself say, “A vision from a cruel man’s magic. I will not speak of it, Zamia. But it…it has made me think about…about many things. Almighty God forgive me, but after these past few days I no longer know just what my place in His plan is. But I think that I must take some time to find out. Alone.”
She ran a hand across her eyes and nodded once. “Then that is what you must do,” she said. Then she sm
iled sadly at him, kissed him once on his cheek, and turned away.
His cheek burned like the Lake of Flame. If his Shaykhs had seen that kiss, they would have been scandalized. But Raseed could find no fault with Zamia Banu Laith Badawi. All he could do was force back the tears he felt filling his own eyes, and follow her back to join the others.
Adoulla sipped his tea and looked at his oldest friends in the world. His heart nearly broke, looking at Dawoud. Adoulla was used to seeing his friend look bleary-eyed and haggard after a fight, but this was different. A day later and Dawoud’s shoulders were still stooped. He had lines around his eyes and a hitch in his walk that hadn’t been there yesterday morning.
They’re really leaving, Adoulla thought, and he felt an almost physical ache. Everything had changed now, and not all of it for the better. He looked about Mohsabi’s formally decorated teahouse. The place was fine enough—fancier than Yehyeh’s had been, to be sure—and Mohsabi himself was a generous host, but the tea was a bit bland and…
Oh, Yehyeh. My friend, you deserved a quieter end than what God granted you. But may your soul find shelter in His embrace.
Adoulla silently mouthed lines from the last passage of Ismi Shihab’s Leaves of Palm:
So this is old age! I’ve seen half my friends die.
I say prayers at their passing, too tired to cry.
Raseed and Zamia, both looking somewhat stricken, emerged from a side room and walked back toward the table, finished with whatever private talk they’d had. Adoulla looked at the two young warriors and sighed. They frightened him and made him wonder about the future, these zealous children who longed to kill. Who considered killing a calling and a path to honor. Would that we lived in a world that needed no swords or silver claws, he thought. But that was not the world he lived in. Without meaning to, he moaned in pain, thinking of the world as it was.
He knew that Dawoud was right about the chaos that was likely to come. But regardless of what was coming, regardless of what building Adoulla lived in, or where he took his tea, Dhamsawaat was his home. At the end of the day, nothing could change that. And, for whatever it was worth, Adoulla did not think that Pharaad Az Hammaz could possibly make a worse Khalif than the last. He even dared to hope that the man—the blood-drinking usurper—might just make a better one.
As he moaned, his companions—not just his old friends, but the two youths as well—looked over at him. In each pair of eyes—tilted, bright green, rheumy, and reasonable—he saw concern for him. More—he saw love. It was disguised by degrees of gruffness and grim honor, but it was love nonetheless. Each met his gaze with a silent offer to lend him their strength. Four fine people who wished to save him pain.
Perhaps this world is not in such bad hands, after all.
He and his friends had faced their most powerful threat yet, and defeated it. And everything and nothing had changed. The sky had not split open to reveal the Ministering Angels singing that all ghul-makers were dead. There was no shower of flowers from a forever-safe populace. Tomorrow, or the next day, or a month from now, some fishmonger or housewife would come to Adoulla with more terrified tales. God had not rewarded Adoulla with retirement in a peaceful palace full of food and friends. The half-mad Falcon Prince, armed with the tainted powers of the Cobra Throne, ruled Dhamsawaat tenuously. And the people Adoulla cared about most were either leaving that city or dead.
But not Miri.
Not Miri, who mattered more than anything. He had made a sacred oath to her. More than once in his life Adoulla had found himself regretting a sworn oath, but he had never broken one.
His obligation to God had never felt so sweet.
And so, despite all of the horrors Adoulla had seen, despite all of the horrors that were yet to come, he felt a small smile steal across his lips. There were ways to help men other than ghul hunting, he told himself. Men had managed to survive without him once. They would do so again. He had paid his “fare for the festival of this world.”
Now it was his turn to dance.
That evening, Adoulla again found himself standing on the doorstep of Miri Almoussa’s tidy storefront. The brass-bound door was closed, a rare sight. No doubt some of her Hundred Ears had brought her tales of the battle in the Palace. If that was the case, pragmatic Miri was likely preparing herself as best she could for the chaos that was to come.
He pounded on the door, and when it opened it was not Axeface but Miri herself who stood there. Adoulla’s breath caught in his throat, and he found he couldn’t speak.
Miri said nothing, but she looked at him, her eyes bright with an unasked question.
Adoulla swallowed hard, clutched at his kaftan, and nodded once. As Miri took a step toward him, he allowed himself a small smile.
Then Doctor Adoulla Makhslood got down on his knees, touched his forehead to the ground, and wept before the woman he would wed.
Throne of the Crescent Moon Page 28