by Melanie Rawn
Abb Shagara untied his hands and replaced the ropes with armbands of his own crafting—one gold, one silver, both set with gems and carved with runes. Then he lifted the scarf from Mirzah’s face, and once more Alessid was astonished by his reaction to this familiar girl. She had never been pretty before. She had never looked so happy before. Was it truly because she was marrying him? Women were a mystery, indeed.
Abb Shagara arranged the scarf across her shoulders, leaving her shining black hair uncovered, and fastened about her neck a gold hazzir on a short chain, also made by him. The he stood back, and gestured with both hands.
“Mirzah, here is your husband. Alessid, here is your wife. Acuyib be praised!” As the cheering swelled, he turned to Alessid and complained, “You could have put up a bit more fuss, you know. I was looking forward to some resistance. It’s much more fun that way.”
“Why should I resist what I have wanted this year and more?” Alessid asked, and took Mirzah’s hand. And wanting it more every moment, he thought, and hoped his eyes were telling her so.
That night, very late, after the feasting and dancing and singing had quieted somewhat, he again took his bride’s hand and led her to her new tent. Outside were wind chimes that rang sweetly in the cool wind: for happiness, for love, for many children. Inside were bright cushions, beautiful rugs, and an iron brazier for warmth in the winter night.
Mirzah removed her veil in a swirl of silk, and folded it carefully away in a small wooden chest. She stripped off the belt, rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and hairpins that were the collected finery of all her unwed friends, and sorted them by owner for return in the morning. It was considered a good omen to lend jewelry to a bride, in the belief that her happiness rubbed off.
At last she stood before him in the dim glow of the coals, slim as a flame in her loosened amber dress, the hazzir glinting in the hollow of her throat.
“Ayia, husband?”
He looked her up and down, much as she had done to him—but without any sense of teasing her. Abruptly uneasy, he asked, “Would you have taken me if I had been stolen by your father from another tribe?”
“Oh, yes.” A tiny smile quirked her full, soft lips. “But I would have asked to see you naked first.” She untied the ribbons at her neck. “I would ask now, but virgin men are notoriously shy.”
“And Shagara women are notoriously bold.” He froze. “Who says I am virgin?”
“I do. And so does Fadhil.”
He mentally cursed his father’s old friend. But in mid-invective he was struck by a horrible thought.“Are you—your father told me you had never—”
“He did not lie, Alessid. My father never lies.” Suddenly he saw that her fingers were trembling. “I could have, when I was fourteen. But then you came to us, and I decided that each of my children will not be only Shagara—though that is enough pride in itself—they will also be al-Ma’aliq, descended of powerful sheyqirs.”
So he would be her first, as she would be his. He had a momentary twinge of nerves. What if he couldn’t please her? In the next instant he relaxed, for if she was as inexperienced as he, she’d never know the difference.
Because of him, because she wanted her children to be al-Ma’aliq, she had refused to bear a child to prove she could do so, and perhaps provide a Haddiyat for the Shagara as well. He drew himself up proudly, knowing she valued him more than her own traditions.
But what if she were barren? What if she could not give him the sons and daughters he required? They could not divorce except by her declaration—and the onus would be on him, not her. That was how it was done with the Shagara; a woman who did not conceive within three years of marriage divorced her husband for infertility and married someone else. It held even for women of other tribes who wed Shagara men. What if—
There was only one way to find out.
At least she was as ambitious for their children as he was. They would make fine babies together, Shagara sons and daughters descended from sheyqirs. He had to believe that. He had to convince himself that she—
“Alessid,” said Mirzah, “I know that you are often away elsewhere, even when you are standing before me. I don’t mind it, not usually. But I do mind it very much when I am standing before you like this.”
He looked, and saw. Abruptly—urgently—he wanted to find out if he and she could make babies together.
But within a few scant minutes, he forgot about babies completely.
“Good! Excellent! Now sweep to the left—the left, Hassam!—and attack!”
Alessid watched his “cavalry” maneuver their horses across the plain. They were far in advance of the main caravan of Shagara, on their way to the winter encampment. For more than a year, since before his marriage, Alessid had been drilling more and more youths his own age and slightly older in the techniques of armed, mounted warfare. This was all a secret from their elders.
In this generation, one of the marks of full manhood had become the acquisition of one’s own horse. Alessid had come to the Shagara with his own mare, Zaqia, and fifty-six more horses besides; by the standards of the Shagara, he was insanely wealthy. Eventually he would be the one gifting young men with horses, and their loyalty would be to him.
Azzad al-Ma’aliq had always gelded the colts marked for sale. He warned buyers of fillies that as strong as they looked, they were too delicate to be bred to the native studs. “Try it, and you’ll end with a dead foal that has killed its mother.” Three times it had happened, and that had been enough to convince people that the al-Ma’aliq mares must not be bred. And so Azzad had kept total control of the supply.
Alessid had to admit that his father had been clever in this, at least. The Shagara and the Harirri were clever, too, following the same policy. The descendants of Khamsin and the Geysh Dushann stallions were kept separate from the huge draft horses, trained differently, and doled out to boys when they became men.
Now, as Alessid watched his troop sweep down on an imaginary foe, he stroked Zaqia’s sleek neck and smiled. They knew the basics. Soon he would teach them more complex tactics. And their horses, trained for riding, would be trained for war.
“Alessid! Alessid!”
He turned in his saddle, scowling at the sight of a lone rider galloping toward him. A quick whistle broke the lines of cavalry into chaos that would disguise their maneuvers as a game of yaqbout—he only hoped someone would be quick about putting into play the stitched sheep bladder that served as a ball. Fortunately, the man riding toward him was not the observant sort regarding anything but medicine.
“Your wife has birthed the child!” shouted Nassayr.
Alessid gripped his saddle. Fadhil, Meryem, Leyliah—all had said Mirzah’s time was another month distant. “She lives?”
“Of course—Chal Fadhil is with her. And the baby is fine—a strong son!”
“Acuyib be praised,” he whispered, then heeled Zaqia around and galloped the four miles back to the main caravan.
Fadhil was just emerging from Leyliah’s wagon. Alessid leaped down from Zaqia to embrace him. “Fadhil! I have a son!”
“Yes, and a second time yes.” The healer grinned wearily. “Nassayr raced away to tell you before he knew there was more to tell. Twin sons, Alessid. A very good omen. Come and see.”
Mirzah lay on piled rugs, her mother kneeling beside her. Leyliah smiled and held up two babies, one cradled in each arm.
“Beautiful,” Alessid said, looking at his wife.
“Now I know why I could get no sleep,” she replied with a sigh. “When one stopped kicking, the other started!”
“Have you named them yet?”
“Kemmal and Kammil,” she replied. “’Beautiful’ and ‘perfect,’ because that’s exactly what they are. I hope you approve,” she added—for courtesy, because the naming of a child was the mother’s prerogative. He had wanted something a little more powerful, but was well-pleased with her choices. At least Mirzah had not followed her mother’s suggestion; at least
she had not named a son for Azzad.
“They’re very fine names for very fine boys.” He knelt down to inspect his sons, taking one into his arms. “Which one is this?”
“Kammil,” said Leyliah. “You can tell by the white yarn around his wrist. We put yellow on Kemmal.”
Staring first at one and then the other, he appreciated Leyliah’s wisdom. The boys were as alike as two ears on a horse. All at once he began to laugh. The al-Ma’aliq dynasty had begun.
When he became a father for the first—and second—time, Alessid was ten moons older and two inches taller than when he married. He was eighteen when Mirzah bore Addad, and over the next eight years came Ra’abi, Jemilha, and Za’arifa.
When Kemmal and Kammil were fifteen years old, they were importantly married, one to a girl of the Harirri, the other to a girl of the Tallib. Two years later, Addad married Ka’arli, “Black Rose” of the Azwadh tribe and prize of her generation. With personal ties to the three most powerful tribes in the land, and the Shagara as his own kin, in the early spring of 649 Alessid received the sign from Acuyib for which he had been waiting for nineteen long, busy years.
—RAFFIQ MURAH, Deeds of Il-Nazzari, 701
12
Alessid had been expecting the summons to Abb Shagara’s tent. Creating the impression that he was not expecting it, however, took some doing. The normal course of his day was to rise at dawn, start the fire outside in the stone pit and set the water on to boil, then wake his wife. They shared a large mug of qawah together—outside, if the weather was fine, to watch the sunrise gild the desert and spark white off distant snow-covered mountains—then woke the children for the morning meal. After this, he went to greet his wife’s parents, and he and Razhid tended and trained horses until noon. Another meal at his wife’s tent, a brief rest, an hour spent listening to the children’s lessons, and he was back with the horses until dusk. It was a calm, rational, productive, well-ordered life, and very little ever happened to disturb it—or the self-discipline with which he conducted it.
But today would be different. Today he must be readily available while appearing to be vitally busy. He lingered inside the tent until Mirzah chased him out. Rather than leave the vicinity, he spent a great deal of time inspecting the sand-colored wool for imaginary worn spots. He hauled out his best saddle and polished the silver hazziri, then did the same with the bridle. He scrubbed iron grills and pot hangers, cleaned ash from the firepit, and was in the middle of rebuilding the entire circle of stones when at last Abb Shagara’s fourteen-year-old nephew came to him.
“Alessid,” said Jefar, “if you have time, Abb Shagara asks for your presence in his tent. If you have time,” he repeated diffidently.
Alessid was well aware that the new Abb Shagara had not phrased it that way. If anything, it had been a direct order—”Bring Alessid to me instantly.” How he regretted the death of Meryem’s wise and whimsical son. But the successor was the one he must deal with, and a haughtier man he could not imagine. Jefar, however, was a polite boy, deferential to his elders, and in awe of Alessid’s horses, so on his lips brusque command became respectful request.
Quite deliberately, Alessid took his time. He washed his hands and face, donned a fresh robe, and told his eldest daughter that he might or might not be back for the noon meal. Ra’abi, twelve years old and in charge of her sisters when her mother was otherwise busy, looked up at him through long black lashes.
“Will you come hear our lessons? Jemilha and I have learned a new song.”
“I wish very much to hear it, but I cannot promise to return in time. Why don’t you sing it for Grandfather Razhid?”
“Because we want to sing for you!”
Alessid cleared his throat. Ra’abi was the most imperious of his girls, fretful for the day when she would rule her own tent. “I will try,” he said. “Ayia, I cannot keep Abb Shagara waiting.”
“You’ve washed and dressed, and that takes time, so you can’t be in that much of a hurry—”
“Ra’abi, enough.”
He was the only one who could quell her. She bent her head submissively—though her small fists clenched at her sides. “Yes, Ab’ya.”
Alessid walked with Jefar through the encampment. Since last night, when Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh had arrived with a dozen each of their strongest young men, the usual calm efficiency of the Shagara had been disturbed. Not by much; nothing much ever agitated the composure of these people, a thing Alessid found comforting. Perhaps it was the timelessness of the desert wastes around them that produced such peace. Or perhaps the word was balance—between the eternal dry wilderness and the undying hidden spring, between the winds that in winter lashed storms of cold rain and in summer stinging sand. This balance was not the precarious one he would have imagined. There was a space in which the Shagara and other wandering tribes existed, a space as unchanging as the land. They knew its dimensions, its dangers, every plant that could heal or kill, all the signs and signals of scents on the wind and colors in the evening sky. They altered nothing about its qualities and rhythms, knowing how to live with it and within it. And, Alessid reflected, when one did not worry about having to change the land every year to grow crops, and when one knew precisely what must be done to survive and even to thrive, the orderly round of life took on a tranquility of purpose. It was not a gentle serenity—life here was harsh and demanding—but the Shagara did not contend with the land. They were part of it, and to battle against it would be like battling themselves.
But the presence of Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh had caused a stir. Alessid knew from the rumors brought to him by his wife that there was a battle coming, and as he entered Abb Shagara’s tent and bowed, he hid his eagerness for the day.
Abb Harirri was the father of Mirzah’s father Razhid; Abb Azwadh was the great-uncle of Alessid’s son Addad’s wife. Both men were in their vigorous sixties, lean and tough, their full beards only slightly grayed. They were men accustomed to command, not entreaty. Alessid greeted them as the kinsmen they were to him, and at Abb Shagara’s gesture sat on a pile of carpets. He was never remiss in his respects toward the man; besides, he knew he could afford to be generous. He was well aware why the Harirri and Azwadh Fathers were here.
Young Jefar poured qawah for them all, handed round a small silver plate of delicacies, and retired to a corner of the tent. Although Abb Shagara’s servitor was supposed to become invisible, with downcast eyes and deaf ears, Jefar was as alert as a stallion scenting new mares.
“Your wife is well, and all your children?” Abb Harirri asked politely.
“I thank you, yes,” Alessid replied. “We hope for a son next year, to name Razhid for his grandfather.” He turned to Abb Azwadh. “I hope that my son Addad causes happiness in the tent of the beauteous Black Rose.”
“Ka’arli is with child, which is a great happiness for us all,” Abb Azwadh said, but his smile was fleeting. He had more important matters on his mind.
Alessid, on the other hand, was completely delighted by the news. He showed it only with a slow nod, for it would be unseemly to gloat over this new link to the mighty Azwadh.
“And your horses?” Abb Azwadh went on. “All goes well with them?”
It was the next round in the usual courtesies—but Alessid knew this was not mere civility but the beginning of serious discussion. “Forty-two foals this year,” he reported, “and thirty-eight now in training.”
“And those fully educated but not yet claimed?”
“Twenty-six.” There were in fact twenty-seven, but one of them was already privately bespoken by Jefar’s father. From the corner of his eye he saw the boy’s head jerk up, a blaze of joyous speculation in his dark eyes. An instant later he had resumed his self-effacing stance. Alessid was not surprised by his insight; Jefar was a clever, likable youth, and it was a pity Ra’abi was as yet too young to be considering him as a husband.
“Ayia,” sighed Abb Harirri, “let us pace no more around the water hole, but slake our
thirst. Alessid, the Harirri and the Azwadh would like to purchase as many horses as you can spare. You know that the tribes have moved to certain lands each season since time began. The Harirri winter lands are within two days of Hazganni. Closer than we are comfortable with, but there it is. Yet Sheyqir Za’aid al-Ammarizzad contends that we are too near, and—”
“There have been raids, and deaths,” interrupted Abb Azwadh. “Our own winter camp is much farther from Hazganni, and yet our tents too have been burned and our people killed.” He paused, and his mouth vanished between his beard and mustache as he bit both lips hard together.
“There will be vengeance, Abb Azwadh.” Alessid spoke quietly.
“This is why we need your horses,” said Abb Harirri. “Riders on the swiftest of them can stand guard, and come to warn us of impending raids. When we move camp, they can range out to patrol the trails ahead, and—”
“—and keep those cursed Qoundi Ammar from attacking our wagons!” Abb Azwadh exclaimed. “This happened to the Tallib while traveling to their winter camp—seventeen killed, five wagons destroyed—”
“Your son and his wife are safe, Alessid,” Abb Harirri interposed smoothly. “In fact, I am told that Kammil led a group of young men on horseback to drive the raiders off.”
Alessid nodded his gratitude for the reassurance, but what he was thinking was that Kammil had done exactly what Alessid needed him to do, as if they’d planned it together. A clever boy. “The raiders wanted to stop the Tallib where they were, so that they would go no farther?”
“That is the opinion of Abb Tallib. Otherwise, everyone would have been killed. Being the stubborn man he is, he buried his dead and continued on. But there have been no more raids. Kammil organized twenty young men of the tribe as sentries—”
“—which is where we got the idea to do the same,” finished Abb Azwadh.
Better and better, thought Alessid, and sipped qawah.
Abb Shagara then spoke for the first time since Alessid had entered his tent. “I have told my fellow Fathers that as far as I am concerned, they may have these horses—and hazziri to go with them. We Shagara live far from any contact with the Qoundi Ammar. But just as we gave hazziri to the people along the coast to aid their fight against the northern barbarians long ago, so we must provide horses to the Harirri and Azwadh.”