by Melanie Rawn
Bazir sighed and drummed his fingers on a pillow. The pearl glistened with subtle iridescence by lamplight. “We will speak more of the Shagara another time. For now—you know that as owner of the sire, the foals will be half yours.”
This time astonishment completely robbed him of speech.
“In the normal course of things, once they are born, each partner has the right to reject any or all and be compensated.”
Azzad’s mouth was so dry he thought his tongue would stick permanently to his teeth.
“These half-breeds will be of no use to me at the wagon or the plow. One might say that they are worthless, in which case you could buy my share in them for nearly nothing. However, the foals my mares usually produce are worth a great deal indeed, and it would not be unreasonable of me to demand a price from you to match what I lost when your Khamsin leaped that fence.”
Acuyib help him—he would be working off the debt for the rest of his life!
“So it seems the only thing to do is saddle them, as you have said, and I will keep my half-interest until it is clear whether or not these horses are of any value.” All at once he laughed. “It suits me, Azzad, that you will make right this very interesting wrong. And it amuses me greatly that while everyone was looking sidelong at your handsome face and guarding their wives and daughters, it was your horse that was the true stud, siring offspring on females not his own!”
Azzad rose in the little world of Sihabbah. Rather than the straw-lined cubbyhole that had been his dwelling all winter, he now occupied his own private room above the stable, with a window overlooking the fields, a mattress stuffed with horsehair, a table only a little rickety, a three-legged stool, and a covered earthenware chamber pot. It wasn’t opulence—Azzad knew the feel and smell and taste and look of that well enough—but at this point in his life luxury’s definition was leaving the pot outside his door each morning for somebody else to empty.
He was also admitted to Bazir al-Gallidh’s maqtabba for dinner one evening of every eight or nine. As spring became summer, their dinners together occurred every sixth night, then every fifth. They discussed the mares, of course—how they galloped about the meadows, when usually by this time in pregnancy they would be plodding. They talked about training the foals to the saddle and bridle, with Bazir recoiling in comical horror at the notion that he be the first to learn how to ride. They exchanged ideas as well, speaking over games of chadarang about the differences in language, devotion, and tradition between this land and Rimmal Madar. They told each other their family histories—Azzad decided that in honor he could have no secrets from this kind, wise, generous man.
They shared a bond in that each was nearly kinless. Azzad had a cousin left in little Sayyida—nearly a year old now—Ammineh’s daughter; Bazir had his brother and his niece, and that was all. Tragic as the fate of the alMa’aliq had been, the al-Gallidh had been afflicted as well. Bazir’s father, an only child of an only child, died young in a climbing accident high in the mountains; his mother perished of a fever shortly thereafter; he lost his beloved wife in childbed, and his twin sons as well. Zellim’s first wife, Jemilha’s mother, was killed by her jealous sister, who poisoned her food; his second wife succumbed to lung-sickness.
“So,” Bazir said with a tiny shrug, “as you may surmise, we guard little Jemilha zealously.”
It was impolite for a stranger to enquire about a man’s female relations, but Azzad knew he was now considered a friend. “How old is she?”
“Fifteen. Zellim trembles at the thought of her marrying and leaving him.”
“I don’t understand why he doesn’t marry again. You might do the same, for that matter.” This truly was impolite; he grimaced at his own words and said, “Forgive my presumption.”
“I knew perfect happiness,” Bazir said softly. “She was the heart of my heart, the light of my eyes.” After a moment’s pause, he continued, “Zellim had more courage than I. He risked his heart twice. But he cannot do so again.”
“Not even for more children?”
“My friend, I excuse your words because you are young and have never loved.”
The one topic they never discussed was the Shagara. When Azzad attempted to tell Bazir of the time he’d spent with them, the nobleman shook his head and said, “Another day, my friend, after you have considered what is wise to say.”
“But I have no secrets from you. I have told you what happened to my family, and why, and my intentions for the future, and—”
“You have lived with the Shagara. I have only read of them. But those things I do know tell me that they have secrets that are not yours to disclose, even to me.”
Azzad thought about it and could not but agree.
After telling Azzad to design everything their horses would require, Bazir set about preparations of his own. Woodsmen felled trees up the mountain to build a new stable. Weavers set to work on beautiful saddle blankets. Tanners prepared suitable hides for bridles and saddles. Abb Ferrhan experimented at his forge with bits, stirrups, and a new, smaller horseshoe. Azzad was amazed by all this; not until the foals grew would he be able to tell just how to size the tack. But gradually he became aware that Bazir’s wisdom had led him to involve Sihabbah’s people in this curious accidental project. If the five foals were a success, all could take pride in them. And all would eventually profit, for if minds were changed and men began to ride horses instead of donkeys—Azzad hardly dared consider the measuring of his potential wealth.
He acquired a few new things himself. An embroidered cushion appeared one evening on his three-legged stool. Carved shutters of fragrant pine were placed at his window. A new mattress, stuffed with goose feathers, lay under a brightly patterned quilt. When he ventured to thank Bazir for the gifts, the nobleman professed to know nothing of them.
At last, on a morning early in autumn, one of the mares began her labors. She was early, and it happened so quickly and so easily that the first anyone knew of it was the sight of a leggy pewter-gray filly romping about the meadow in the warm afternoon sun. Delivery was just as swift for the other mares, although being forewarned by the first labor, the four were comfortably sheltered in the stable.
“Almost without effort,” sighed Bazir happily, resting his arms atop the stall door as he gazed at a coal-black colt with a white blaze down his face. “I’ve never seen it happen so fast.”
“They’re small,” sniffed Mazzud, eyeing the foal. “Easy it was, al-Gallidh, and quick, but every one of them a runtling.”
“They’ll be bigger than Khamsin, once they’re grown,” Azzad countered. “Will you name them, al-Gallidh?”
The three fillies were called Farrasha, Shammarra, and Shouzama, for the markings of white on their gray hides: a butterfly, a candle, and a tulip. The sturdy black colt was named Ibbir, for he was the color of ink. The second colt—mud-gray, scrawny and tentative—Bazir called Haddid, which meant iron and which he hoped would inspire the little horse to strength.
The day after the last was born, the stables received visitors. Everyone in Sihabbah turned out, it seemed, to view the five half-breed foals. Comments ranged from “Beautiful” and “So sweet” to “They’ll live two moons” and “Those skinny legs will snap”—but Azzad took no offense at the criticism until one young girl, who looked about twelve, peered into Ibbir’s stall and announced, “That’s not a horse, that’s a mistake!”
Bazir began to laugh silently. Zellim, inspecting brindle-gray Shouzama, glanced over with a grin. “You must forgive her the insult,” he said. “A black horse is a rarity in our land. It is said that in times long past, whenever a black foal was born, it was instantly killed.”
“But why?” Azzad was horrified.
“Acuyib in His Wisdom created for the benefit of mankind the brown sheep, the gray goat, the red deer, and the white-spotted cow. Seeing this, Chaydann Il-Mamnoua’a laughed into his beard and created the horse, a vile-tempered and contrary animal, to plague mankind. It is only by the Grace o
f Acuyib that the horse was tamed. Even now, it serves us reluctantly, and we must always watch for signs of its creator’s influence. And a black horse—”
“Azwadhi izzahn, azwadh qalb,” the girl announced, tossing a long braid over one skinny shoulder. Black horse, black heart.
No wonder everyone looked askance at Khamsin, Azzad thought. “But you see,” he said to Zellim, for in this land one did not address a girl without permission from her male relatives, “Ibbir will be just like his sire—sweetnatured and biddable.” As if understanding this choice mendacity, and resenting the slander, Khamsin snorted from his nearby stall.
“Huh!” Allowing for the different lengths of their noses, the noise from the girl was a fair match for Khamsin’s. “Just wait until you try to hitch him to a wagon or a plow!”
Azzad forgot his manners and glowered. “Not one of these foals—not a single one!—will ever—”
“We shall ride them,” Bazir interrupted smoothly. “I told you that, qarassia. Azzad will show us how.”
“What use is a horse that can’t pull something?” Then she laughed, a surprisingly lovely sound, like sunlight sparkling on a mountain stream. “No matter, Chal Bazir! It will be so funny watching him try to train them!”
Azzad gulped. This little pest must be none other than Jemilha al-Gallidh, who would inherit every stick, stitch, and stone of her family’s vast holdings. Sheltered in her father’s house in Hazganni, educated at her own insistence, she came to Sihabbah rarely. Azzad had in fact never seen her before today; considering his lowly status, this was not surprising. But he would have to get into her good graces, for in a way, she too was his partner in this venture.
Her scorn did not bode well for the future.
By spring, Azzad could see that he had been correct about the advantages of cross-breeding. Many others eyed the five half-breeds with doubt, disgust, or—as in Jemilha’s case—amused scorn. How could such small, spindle-legged, scrawny horses ever be of any use? But these foals when fully grown would indeed combine the strength of the native breed with Khamsin’s grace and speed. As for temperament—at least, unlike their mothers, they didn’t try to kick or bite everyone who came within range.
When the foals were a year old, and four more al-Gallidh mares had delivered Khamsin’s get (all fillies), Azzad asked for permission to visit the Shagara.
“I owe them my life, al-Gallidh,” he explained to Bazir. “In the two years since I left Rimmal Madar, I have prospered, thanks to—”
“—to Khamsin’s efforts!” The older man laughed. “No, I do not devalue your hard work, but were it not for your horse, you would yet be cleaning stalls.”
“I know,” Azzad admitted. “Having nothing to recommend me, I would probably have starved by now.”
“So now you wish to repay your Shagara friends. This is an excellent thing, Azzad. I approve. What will you gift them with?”
“Two of our first horses,” he said forthrightly. “I will cede total ownership of two others to you. The fifth will be ours together.”
“This is agreeable to me—for you shall also be transporting some small gifts from me to the Shagara. How long will you be gone from Sihabbah? One month? Two?”
“Two, I think, possibly a little longer.”
Bazir nodded. “I shall miss you, my friend. Now, tell me, what would the ladies of the Shagara appreciate most from an old man admiring of their beauty?”
And so, nearly two years after Azzad had left Dayira Azreyq, he left Sihabbah of the clouds and descended from the mountains to the wasteland. He rode Khamsin and led two donkeys loaded with gifts. The filly Farrasha lived up to her name by flitting all over the landscape as lightly as if she had wings; Azzad was forever whistling her back from her explorations, and finally had to put her on a lead rein. Her half-brother Haddid, still small but stronger than Azzad had dared to hope, needed no tether and followed placidly in Khamsin’s wake. The colt, tranquil of temperament and soft of gait, would be given to Abb Shagara. Azzad wasn’t sure who would be able to ride Farrasha, but he was betting on Leyliah.
Confident, eager to see his friends, he rode blithely into the wilderness bearing gifts.
He got lost, of course.
Farrasha, escaping her tether, galloped away into the wilderness and would not return at his whistle. He could not chase her—the donkeys were slow, and heavily laden. He cursed fluently all day long, agreeing at last with Jemilha al-Gallidh that horses were surely the work of Chaydann.
All day he followed puffs of dust raised by Farrasha’s hooves, the air black with his mood as he imagined the filly lying helpless, her leg broken, about to be devoured by a rimmal nimir. At length even Khamsin, after so much soft living, was tired. Azzad decided to search one more day, and if he did not find Farrasha, he would continue on to the Shagara without her. The next day brought no sign of her. Worse, he had no idea in which direction the Shagara tents lay.
At dawn the next morning as he saddled Khamsin, a familiar voice asked, “Whatever are you doing way out here?” Azzad laughed—once his heart started beating again after the shock—and embraced Fadhil, asked after all the Shagara, and finally told him what had happened.
Fadhil merely shrugged. “So her name is Farrasha? Fitting. She flew into our camp yesterday and fluttered about until dusk before we caught her. We knew her for Khamsin’s, so I came looking for you.”
The Shagara had identified the filly as Khamsin’s get easily: three of their own mares had birthed foals that looked exactly like her.
—FERRHAN MUALEEF, Deeds of Il-Kadiri, 654
6
Farrasha having given early warning of Azzad’s arrival, by the time Fadhil led him into the camp, preparations were underway for a feast. Azzad went around to each tent with bags of pine nuts and exotic spices as well as candied fruit for the children—making sure everyone knew that Bazir al-Gallidh was the source of the gifts. His own presents were given in private. For Chal Kabir there was a new scale to weigh medicines and a bag of mountain lavender for sweetening potions; for Meryem and Leyliah, tooled leather purses; for Fadhil, a set of fine surgical knives; for Abb Shagara, the two horses with all their equipment and a pair of tall leather boots. And finally, also for the ladies, long white silk scarves embroidered at either end with silver snowflakes.
“Bazir al-Gallidh,” Azzad said, smiling as Meryem and Leyliah exclaimed over the beauty of the work, “has read a little and heard a little more about the Shagara.”
“Truly an elegant man,” Meryem replied, running the filmy silk through her hands. “But bold, to send presents to women he has never met.”
“I am sure,” grinned Abb Shagara, “that Azzad spoke so much of you, and in such detail, that the al-Gallidh feels he knows you both!”
“All I ever said was that you were smart and beautiful,” Azzad promised them. “Of the rest, he knows nothing.”
“I never doubted that you would keep our secrets,” Leyliah answered graciously. Swirling the scarf around her shoulders, she admired the snowflakes again while saying, “And I know just when I’ll wear this!”
“Leyliah,” said Fadhil in a cheerful tone, “is getting married next year.”
Before Azzad could find words to express his congratulations, Abb Shagara added, “Her husband is Razhid Harirri, a man of subtle eyes, silken beard, and many fine goats. It’s my opinion that she’s marrying him for the goats.” Leyliah laughed and threw a pillow at him; he tossed it back, grinning. “But they’re very fine goats!”
“You should know,” she retorted. “You bleat like one!”
Turning to Azzad, Abb Shagara asked merrily, “So, have you met any girls?”
“My son,” Meryem said mildly, “you pry into thing that do not concern you.”
“He’s Shagara now, Mother—I can ask him anything I want. Isn’t that right, Azzad?”
Still in shock that Leyliah was marrying someone other than Fadhil, Azzad blinked and nodded mindlessly. Summoning his manners, he address
ed Leyliah. “Razhid Harirri is a fortunate man—I hope he knows it?”
“Ayia,” laughed Abb Shagara, “we made certain of that before we accepted him! Now, Azzad, you cannot mean to say you’ve left not even one girl sighing for you in this Sihabbah you now live in?”
His thoughts flew at once to the women in a cottage up the mountain, who saw to the needs of Sihabbah’s unmarried men—and not a few of the married ones. It was a family business like any other, common in every community of any size from Dayira Azhreq to the Great Western Sea. Despite the differences between these lands and his home—which he was startled to find he had stopped thinking of as home—some things didn’t change. Still, he had been surprised to find Bindta Feyrah and Bindta Sabbah interesting company as well as skilled practitioners of their art, neither attribute an expected one in so remote a place as Sihabbah. But had he truly visited them only a few times?
Forcing a smile, he said, “I rise at dawn, eat, work until noon, eat, rest for a time, work some more, eat, and fall into bed. When is there time for women?”
This brought a stern lecture on the damage he was doing to his health. He bore it with good humor, hanging his head in pretended shame—which, after all, was not such a pretense. His mother would have sent instantly for the family tabbib; his grandfather, for his own favorite mistress.
“Enough!” Leyliah finally said, scowling at Abb Shagara. “Leave him alone, cousin. I want to hear about Sihabbah and this charming al-Gallidh, who sends such lovely presents. And so appropriate to my husband’s name!”
“He of the silken beard,” teased Abb Shagara, and Fadhil added slyly, “And many fine goats”—and both yelled as this time she threw pillows at both of them.
That night before the feast, Azzad washed up in Fadhil’s tent. His young friend was now Chal Fadhil, a fully trained healer, entitled to his own tent and the triple-braided ring of authority. Azzad congratulated him sincerely on his new status, wondering—but not quite daring to ask—why this high rank had not earned him marriage with Leyliah.