by Melanie Rawn
Acuyib had indeed smiled upon him. He had wealth, influence, respect, work he enjoyed, a wife he adored, sons to guide to manhood, daughters to gladden his heart—all that a man could wish. And now at long last it was time to begin the work for which Acuyib had spared him so long ago.
“Reihan,” he murmured, staring down at a report recently arrived from his agent in Rimmal Madar. The beryl-and-brass lamp shone down on the page, dappling it in sea-green and golden light. “Sheyqir Reihan al-Ammarizzad. The Sheyqa’s favorite, most beloved son . . . .”
His agent sent voluminous letters full of events, rumors, descriptions, and speculations. Nizzira, after long, hard years of fighting the northern tribes made unruly by the demise of the al-Ma’aliq, had finally concluded a peace with them in 624. For the last few years she had been rebuilding an economy ravaged by war. Of this, Azzad had taken full advantage—while praying for Nizzira’s continued health. At sixty-seven, she was hale and hearty, though it was reported she was emotionally weary while at the same time restless, which to Azzad meant she was probably bored. Governance was complicated, often tedious, sometimes troublesome; Azzad knew that from ruling his own little realm. That was why he loved to escape the maqtabba, saddle Khamsin, and gallop up into the high hills or down to the fertile valleys. Occasionally he took along Fadhil or his sons for company, but more often he rode alone. The Sheyqa could not do this; there was no escape for her, despite—ayia, because of—all her power. Azzad almost felt sorry for her.
But faint stirrings of pity had not prevented him from laughing when his agent reported that after Sayyida’s birth, not a single additional offspring had been born to any of the Sheyqa’s children. Not the sons, not the daughters—not even the grandsons and granddaughters. It was whispered that the men of the al-Ammarizzad tribe spent their vigor on the battlefield rather than in bed, and the women in scheming instead of breeding. With the arrogance and contempt of a strong young man who had sired seven children and would likely sire more, Azzad laughed and sent his agent many fine gifts in exchange for this delectable information.
The Sheyqa’s only true solace was Reihan. By all accounts beautiful and brilliant, Reihan was more and more at his mother’s side these last years, not only as an advisor but as a comfort. He played twelve instruments, sang exquisitely, wrote his own songs and poetry, and yet had also led troops into battle on several occasions, acquitting himself well as a warrior. The perfect son—so perfect that Nizzira was actually thinking of altering law and tradition by naming him to succeed her. But the eldest of Nizzira’s daughters had married a man with hundreds of powerful relations—too powerful to insult. There were many children of this marriage, including several daughters ruthless enough to contend for the Moonrise Throne. Azzad’s lip curled as he reflected that not even Nizzira would play the assassinate-the-whole-family game more than once. He was willing to bet every foal Khamsin had ever sired that in seventeen years no one had accepted an invitation to the palace without first making peace with Acuyib and downing an antidote to poison—just in case. Against swords and axes there could be no defense, of course. Not without Shagara tokens. So many ways of killing . . . but neither poison nor blade featured in Azzad’s own plans.
“Sheyqir Reihan al-Ammarizzad,” he murmured again, and with a sigh set himself to reading the sheaf of poetry sent with the report. The young man really was quite good, Azzad thought, and once more was almost moved to compassion for Nizzira.
Almost.
So it happened that Sheyqir Reihan, favorite of Sheyqa Nizzira’s sons, received in the winter of 629 a magnificent stallion of a breed never before seen in Rimmal Madar. With the horse came a letter, unsigned, begging the young man to accept Nihazza as thanks for the pleasure his exquisite poetry brought to a faraway admirer.
“But who has sent him?” Reihan asked the boy who held the reins. The child had no answer; he had been paid by an unknown man to bring the horse to the palace and ask for Sheyqir Reihan, and that was all he knew.
As Reihan galloped his new possession around the Qoundi Ammar parade ground, his brothers and nephews and cousins whispered in envy. This was the very exemplar of a warhorse: as swift as their own white stallions but obviously much stronger. To breed this stud to mares formerly belonging to the al-Ma’aliq would produce horses of superb quality. And with enough of them, perhaps the Sheyqa would abandon the shameful compact of peace and ride to war once again and this time fully obliterate the rebellious northern tribes.
But why wait years for more horses to be born and grow? Why not find the man who had sent this one? Where there was one such, there were certainly others. Many, many others.
Though Reihan cared little for war despite his proficiency at it, he agreed that the mystery of this golden horse and its giver must be solved.
After much inquiry, he learned that Nihazza had been sent by ship from a faraway land with which much trade had flourished in the last ten years. And in the spring, despite his mother’s unhappiness at losing his company for the duration of such a journey, Reihan, two of his brothers, and seven of their cousins set out across the desert wastes toward a city they knew only as Hazganni, a place of “luck” and “riches.”
—FERRHAN MUALEEF, Deeds of Il-Kadiri, 654
9
One morning Azzad woke with a great many things on his mind—and no wife lying beside him to tell them to. To hear Jemilha’s counsel and conversation while they lazed in their bed was one of the joys of his life—a joy increasingly denied him these days, part of her campaign to make him rethink his plans for Reihan al-Ammarizzad. She knew Azzad very well indeed; she knew she didn’t have to be in his presence to be foremost in his thoughts. Indeed, her wisdom was such that her absence was on occasion a more definitive statement than any words she might have spoken.
But this morning he wanted her. Something seethed inside him, perhaps to do with a dream not remembered, perhaps pertaining to the subject he refused to discuss with her. He lay there, listening to the wind chimes hung from the eaves outside the bedroom windows, picking out the different notes sounded by steel and silver and gold, telling himself that he really ought to use up his restlessness in starting the day’s work early. Work would tire him, but not satisfy him—and he realized that what he truly needed was to talk with a woman. Lacking his wife, he must find another with the shrewdness only women possessed. He required counsel, and no discussion with a man would suffice.
There was only one place in Sihabbah other than his own house that would provide what he needed, and it would be necessary to ride there—not only because it was up a steep hillside trail but because riding would show respect for the lady he intended to visit. Accordingly, instead of heading for the barns, he turned for the pasture where Khamsin ambled about in honorable retirement from everything but the occasional canter with Azzad on his back—and siring foals, of course. Azzad whistled; Khamsin did nothing more than raise his head from the sweet grass and blink at him, supremely uninterested.
“Look at you, you lazy old barghoutz,” he chided. “You’re as fat as a eunuch. Get over here. We’re going to pay a call on a lady.”
Azzad’s destination was the little group of cottages where the men of Sihabbah took their ease when they wished to escape their homes—and their wives. The two women Azzad had known during his first years here had retired, giving over the business to their daughters, as happened in any family trade. Azzad had not been their customer since his marriage, but he visited sometimes all the same. Bindta Feyrah in particular was a woman whose acumen he respected.
He knocked politely on the door of the main building and was admitted with cries of welcome. Akkilah, youngest and prettiest of the girls, instantly set about making fresh qawah. Meyza, Yaminna and Lalla made Azzad luxuriously comfortable in a throne of silken pillows.
“Our little brother Dawwad came to see us last week,” said Yaminna.
“He is very happy working for you, al-Ma’aliq,” said Lalla. “It was good of you to give hi
m employment in your house.”
“We have Feyrah’s son to do chores and take care of the occasional drunk—”
“—but Dawwad isn’t big enough to be a deterrent—”
“—so we’re all very pleased he’s found such a good place with you,” finished Yaminna.
“It is entirely my pleasure,” Azzad told them. “He’s a fine worker.”
“You’re too good to us, al-Ma’aliq,” said Yaminna.
“He’s too good to everyone,” said Lalla.
“That’s why I can’t understand why those dreadful men keep coming to kill him,” said Akkilah, arriving with a pot of steaming qawah.
Yaminna frowned as she poured for Azzad. “That reminds me, alMa’aliq—there was another one through here last night—”
“—he was small, though, and younger than the other four we’ve seen,” added Lalla.
“—we searched his clothing while Lalla kept him busy, but there were no swords or axes,” said Akkilah.
“—and we were about to send one of the boys down to tell you, only you’ve come here to us instead!” finished Yaminna.
“Cease this chatter at once,” came a scolding voice from the doorway. “By Acuyib, anyone would think you descend from geese!”
Azzad turned and got to his feet with a smile as Feyrah entered the cottage. In days long past, he had divided his favors—and his wages—equally between her and her sister Addah, but Feyrah had been his secret favorite. Perhaps this was because her sharp wits and acidic tones reminded him of Challa Meryem. She ran her family business as acutely as Azzad ran his.
“Greetings and Acuyib’s Blessings, Feyrah,” he said with a short bow of respect.
“And to you, Azzad.”
She was one of the few people in Sihabbah who did not call him al-Ma’aliq. A single gesture of elegant fingers scattered her daughters and nieces, and soon she and Azzad were comfortably drinking qawah and nibbling dates stuffed with almonds. According to the traditions of her calling, Feyrah asked no questions and merely waited for Azzad to get around to what was on his mind. For his part, he too adhered to custom and entertained her with a story he knew she would enjoy. And soon indeed he had her giggling at Alessid’s latest exploit, a project involving ducks, a belled cat, and the fluttering terror of the waterfowl when a bell rang but no cat appeared.
“Ah, I would have liked the honor of that one’s initiation myself,” Feyrah said at the conclusion of the tale. “But a boy needs a girl, not an old woman.”
“I know you too well to think that I need scoff and compliment,” Azzad countered. “That sort of thing is for other men to stammer their way through. What I will say is only this: If you are what old age looks like, then Acuyib have mercy on every girl of nineteen from here to Rimmal Madar.”
“Very nicely said,” she approved, her eyes dancing. “And just the right age, too. Any older, and I would have been insulted. Any younger, and I would have been so busy being offended by your mockery that I would have missed that lovely piece of exaggeration at the end. But while we are on the subject, I have it in mind to propose Meyza—who really is nineteen!—for Alessid. Your opinion?”
He considered, and nodded approval. Thoughtful and playful by turns, Meyza was a lovely girl and an entirely appropriate choice. “Perfect. I tell you without flattery or exaggeration or any other pretty words, Feyrah, that I feel fortunate such fine girls are here to teach my boys what they must know to please a wife. My own father sought all over Dayira Azreyq to find just the right girl for me.”
“If she was your first, I will cut off all my hair and go north to the barbarian lands, and live in one of their dreadful walled arrareems.” She offered him more qawah. “Now, tell me why you have come to talk to me today.” When he drew in a long breath and let it out in a sigh, she added, “Of course I will have heard none of it, once you set foot outside my door.”
He nodded gratefully. “I never thought otherwise. Here, then Feyrah, is my problem.”
She listened, asked no questions, and refilled their cups at intervals. At last, when he had finished, she pursed her lips and began toying with the crimson fringe of a pillow.
“Azzad, I see now why you are a rich man.”
He blinked his surprise at this observation.
“Had you only yourself to consider, you would have done one of two things long ago: sink into utter obscurity or die of a jealous man’s anger when he caught you with his wife. In the first case, you would have discovered that charm and good looks are worth only so much in this life, and in the second, you would have learned that charm and good looks can also be the means of leaving this life. But because you are the last of your blood, except for this cousin you mention in your homeland, you used your charm and your good looks for goals other than your own gratification.” She smiled through her lashes. “I approve of this, Azzad. Everyone ought to have an ambition.
“But yours,” she went on, serious again, “is very much greater than yourself. You are the least avaricious man I have ever known—and yet you have worked these many years to accumulate riches. I have wondered about that, and now I understand. Your ambition has nothing to do with you, or your family here, or even those who died long ago. It has everything to do with your sense of what is right and what must be punished. Wickedness and waste offend you, someplace deep inside where you might never have looked had not everything else been stripped from you. I believe that in this place you saw something very simple: a disorder of things that must be put right.”
“You ascribe to me too much honor,” he replied slowly. “All I am after is vengeance.”
“That is not true. It is a part, but it is not all. There are people like you in the world, Azzad, very rarely—those whom Acuyib uses. You may believe yourself prompted by personal and even selfish considerations, but there is something more profound at work here. What the Sheyqa did to your family was a very ugly wrong. It is obvious that your task is to right that wrong. But it is for you to decide how ugly you wish the righting to be.”
“I want . . . I want her to suffer as my mother and sisters suffered. I want her to know what it is to be helpless. But I do not want her to die. I want very much for her to live—and that makes me worse than she, Feyrah. Much worse.” Azzad looked into her large, fine eyes and said, “And perhaps the worst thing of all is that although I know this, I do not care.”
“Then you will certainly succeed.” She regarded him for a long moment. “I have done nothing to ease either your heart or your mind, have I? But ease is not what you were seeking, I think. Nor approval.”
He had to shake his head. “Neither one, you are right. I think what I needed was to hear myself say it to someone . . .” He paused, at a loss to explain.
“Someone for whose life you are not responsible,” she interpreted, nodding. “Ayia, it has been accomplished, then. I won’t ask if it helped.”
“But it did. Very much. I’m not sure I agree about any greater purpose, but I do understand more clearly some of the possible consequences.”
“Do you?” She rose smoothly to her feet. “I wonder.” From a pocket of her robe she took a small brass bell that Fadhil had made for her long ago, and rang it four times. “You have said nothing, I have heard nothing,” she told him just before the girls ran lightly back into the cottage.
“We’ve been petting Khamsin—”
“—I hope it’s all right that we gave him carrots—”
“—he nibbles daintily as a lamb!”
Azzad laughed. “He knows to behave himself around ladies.” Pushing himself to his feet, he bowed to Feyrah. “My thanks, as always. Perhaps you will agree to advise me on a new type of qawah blend some farmers along the coast have concocted. I shall send a bag up to you, and await your judgment.”
Feyrah nodded acceptance of this means of paying her for her time. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“You’re not leaving so soon!” cried Lalla.
Yaminna made a face at her po
uting cousin. “Do you really think to tempt al-Ma’aliq?”
Azzad bowed. “I am tempted almost beyond reason every time I visit here.”
“A lie!” laughed Meyza. “Everyone knows your eyes are only for your wife!”
He smiled ruefully and shrugged. “Nonetheless, I must abandon the unique fascinations of your company. I have an appointment later today with Ferrhan Mualeef, who has literary ambitions and seems to think my life makes a good story.”
“Ayia, he was here some days ago,” Lalla said with a giggle. “What do they teach their young men in Hazganni?”
Azzad deduced she had not been impressed and gave thanks he had learned his lessons in Dayira Azreyq.
It all seemed a very long time ago. Another life. Another Azzad. As he rode back down to Sihabbah proper, he reflected on how much this land and its peoples had shaped and changed him, had made him their own. His life had been saved by the Shagara, who befriended him and made his enemies theirs. He had married a noblewoman of Sihabbah, who had made him so thoroughly hers that he had not even thought about another woman since his marriage. What had he done in return, for these people and this land? Ayia, the horses and the trees—they were the most obvious—but most important were the children. They belonged here, to a land and a people theirs by right of birth. Azzad had given five sons and two daughters to this place that had become his life. He considered the debt paid.
But the debt to the Shagara, for giving him back the life he had so nearly lost in the wastelands—that could never be repaid. For the wise Feyrah had been correct: It was the loss of everything else that had made him look deeper than he ever would have done, and if she had been mistaken about the nobility of what he’d found there . . . still, it made a pretty wrapping for a thing that would be very ugly indeed.