The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  Slowly, unconsciously, her tongue moved across her lips as though she could still taste a lingering sweetness.

  “Master!” cried Pukah in a transport of joy. “You’ve returned!” He flung himself on the cave floor.

  “Humpf,” growled Kaug, glowering at the groveling djinn. “He doesn’t pull the wool over my eyes!”

  “Indeed, such a thing would take a great many sheep, Master,” said Pukah, cautiously rising to his feet and padding after the ‘efreet, who was stomping about the cave angrily.

  “He fears Khardan!”

  “Does he, Master?”

  “Not because your former master is mighty or powerful, but because Quar can’t rule him and, seemingly, he can’t kill him.”

  “So my master—former master—is not dead?”

  “Is that a great surprise to you, little Pukah? No, I thought not. Nor to your winged friend, either, eh?”

  “Unless Sond has sprouted feathers, I have no idea to whom my Master is referring.” Pukah prostrated himself, upon the floor, extending his arms out in front of him. “I assure my Master of my absolute loyalty. I would do anything for my Master, even go in search of the Calif, if my Master commands it.”

  “Would you, Pukah?” Kaug, turning, eyed the djinn intently.

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, My Master.”

  “I believe that for once you are telling the truth, little Pukah.” The ‘efreet grinned. “Yes, I think I will take you up on your offer, slave of the basket. You understand who it is you serve now, don’t you, Pukah? By the laws of the djinn, I am your master, you are my servant. If I ordered you to bring Khardan sliced neatly into four equal parts, you would do so, would you not, slave?”

  “Of course, My Master,” said Pukah glibly.

  “Ah, already I can see your mind turning, planning to find some way out of this. Let it turn all it wants, little Pukah. It is like a donkey tied to the waterwheel. Round and round he goes, never getting anywhere. I have your basket. I am your master. Do not forget that or the penalty if you disobey me.”

  “Yes, My Master,” said Pukah in a subdued voice.

  “And now, to prove your loyalty, little Pukah, I am going to send you on an errand before you go and search for the missing Khardan. I command you to take the chirak of Sond to a certain location. You will leave it there and you will return to me for my orders concerning the Calif.”

  “Where is this ‘certain location,’ My Master?”

  “Not backing out already, little Pukah, are you?”

  “Certainly not, My Master! It is just that I need to know where I am going in order to get there, you dundering squidhead.” This last being muttered under Pukah’s breath.

  “Despite his harsh treatment of me, I am going to grant Sond his heart’s wish. I am going to reunite him with his beloved Nedjma. You wanted to know where the Lost Immortals were, little Pukah?”

  “I assure my Master that I have not the slightest interest—”

  “Take the lamp of Sond and fly with it to the city of Serinda and you will discover what has become of the Vanished Ones.”

  “Serinda?” Pukah’s eyes opened wide; he raised his head from the floor. “That city no longer exists, My Master. It vanished beneath the desert sands hundreds of years ago, so long past that I cannot even remember it.”

  Kaug shrugged. “Then I am asking you to deliver Sond’s chi- rak to a dead city, little Pukah. Do you question my commands already?” The ‘efreet’s brow creased in a frown.

  “No, Master!” Pukah flattened himself completely. “The wings of which you speak are on my feet. I will return to my dwelling—”

  “No need to rush, little Pukah. I want you to take some time to look around this interesting city. For—if you fail me, djinn— your basket will find itself sitting in Serinda’s marketplace.”

  “Yes, My Master. Now I’ll just be getting back to my dwelling—”

  “Not so fast. You must wear this.” A black, threesided rock attached to a leather thong appeared in the ‘efreet’s hand. “Sit up.” Pukah did as he was ordered and Kaug cast the thong around the djinn’s neck. The rock—which came to a point at the top like a small pyramid—thumped against Pukah’s bare chest. Pukah regarded it dubiously.

  “It is kind of you to give me this gift, Master. What is this interesting looking stone, if I might ask?”

  “Black tourmaline.”

  “Ah, black tourmaline,” said Pukah wisely. “Whatever this is,” he muttered.

  “What did you say?”

  “I will keep it always, Master, to remind me of you. It’s ugly enough.”

  “You must learn to speak up, little Pukah.”

  “I was saying that if you don’t need me, I will return to my dwelling and put this marvelous object somewhere safe—”

  “No, no! You will wear it at all times, little Pukah. Such is my wish. Now, be gone!”

  “Yes, Master,” Rising to his feet, Pukah headed for his basket.

  “What are you doing?” Kaug growled.

  Pukah stopped, glancing over his shoulder. “I am returning to my dwelling, O Mighty Master,”

  “Why? I told you to take Sond’s lamp and leave.”

  “And so I will, Master,” said Pukah firmly, “after I have made myself presentable. These”—he indicated his pantalons—”are stained with blood and slime. You would not want me appearing before your friends in such a state, Master. Think how it would reflect upon you!”

  “I have no friends where you are going, little Pukah,” Kaug said with a grim smile. “And believe me, in Serinda, no one will remark on a few spots of blood.”

  “Sounds like a cheerful place,” Pukah reflected gloomily. “Then I am not going to my dwelling. I am just going over to pick up Sond’s lamp, Master,” the djinn said loudly, sidling nearer and nearer his basket. “The floor of this cave is extremely wet. I hope I don’t slip and fall— Ooops!”

  The djinn sprawled headlong on the floor, knocking over the basket. As it hit the ground, the lid flew off and Pukah made a desperate attempt to slip inside, but Kaug was there ahead of him. Grabbing the lid, the ‘efreet slammed it on top of the basket and held it there firmly with his huge hand.

  “I hope you have not hurt yourself, little Pukah?” the ‘efreet said solicitously.

  “No, thank you, Master.” Pukah gulped. “It is amazing how fast one of your bulk can move, isn’t it, Master?”

  “Isn’t it, little Pukah? Now, you will be going!”

  “Yes, Master.” Sighing, Pukah leaned down and picked up Sond’s lamp. Slowly and reluctantly, the young djinn began to dwindle away into the air until all that remained of him was his eyes, staring disconsolately at the basket. “Master!” cried his disembodied voice. “If you would only grant me—”

  “Be gone!” roared Kaug.

  The eyes rolled upward and disappeared.

  Instantly the ‘efreet snatched off the lid of the basket and thrust his huge hand inside.

  The Book of the Zhakrin 1

  Chapter 1

  The procession wound its way slowly across the plains toward the city of Idrith. It was a magnificent sight, and—as word of its approach spread through the souks—many Idrithians clambered up the narrow stairs and lined the city walls to see, exclaim, and speculate.

  At the head of the procession marched two mamalukes. Gigantic men, both seven feet tall, the slaves wore red and orange feathered headdresses that added an additional three feet to their height. Short black leather skirts banded by gold encircled their narrow waists. Gold flashed from the collars they wore round their necks, jewels glittered on the headdresses. Their chests and legs were bare, their skin oiled so that it glistened in the noonday sun. In their hands, each mamaluke carried a banner with a strange device, the like of which had never before been seen in Idrith. On a background red as blood, there glistened a black snake with eyes of orange flame.

  Now snake banners were common enough—every city had at least one min
or or major potentate who thought himself wily enough to deserve such a symbol. But this particular insignia had something unusual—and sinister—about it.

  The snake’s body was severed in three places and still, from the portrayal of the forked tongue flicking from the silken mouth, it seemed that the snake lived.

  Behind the mamalukes marched six muscular slaves clad in black leather skirts bound with gold but without the additional finery of the standardbearers. These slaves bore between them a palanquin whose white curtains remained tightly closed, permitting no one to catch a glimpse of the person who rode inside. A troop of goums mounted on matching black horses closely followed the palanquin. The soldiers’ uniforms were a somber black, with black short coats and matching black, flowing pants that were tucked into kneehigh red leather boots. Each man wore upon his head a conical red hat adorned with a black tassel. Long, curvedbladed swords bounced against their left legs as they rode.

  But it was that which came behind these goums in the solemn processional that caught the attention of the crowd on the walls of Idrith. Numerous slaves bore between them three litters, each covered by white fabric. Several goums rode at the side of the litters. The heads of these soldiers were bowed, their black uniforms were torn, they wore no hats.

  Following the litters was another squadron of goums, escorting three baggageladen camels decked out in splendid finery—orangeandred feathered headdresses, long tassels of black fringe that bounced about their spindly legs.

  From the slow movement and sorrowful mien of those marching across the plains, it was soon obvious to the people of Idrith that this was a funeral cortege they were observing from the walls. Word spread and more people pushed their way through the crowds to see. Nothing attracts attention like a funeral, if only to reassure the onlooker that he himself is still alive.

  About a mile from the city gates, the entire procession came to a halt. The standardbearers dipped their banners—a sign that the party approached in peace. The slaves settled the palanquin on the ground. The goums dismounted, the camels sank to their knees, the rattancovered litters were lowered with great ceremony and respect to the ground.

  Looking and feeling extremely important, aware of hundreds of envious eyes upon him, the Captain of the Sultan’s Guard led a squadron of his men out to meet and inspect the strangers before permitting them to enter the city. Barking a sharp command for his men to keep in line and maintain discipline, the Captain cast a glance toward the Sultan’s palace that stood on a hill above Idirth. The Sultan could not be seen, but the Captain knew he was watching. Bright patches of color crowding the balconies gave indication that the Sultan’s wives and concubines were flocking to see the procession.

  His spine might have been changed to iron, so stiff and straight was the back of the Captain as he walked his horse slowly and with great dignity past the standardbearers, advancing upon the palanquin. A man had emerged from its white curtains and was waiting with every mark of respect to meet the Captain. Beside the man stood the leader of the goums, also on foot and also respectful. A slave held his horse some distance behind him.

  Dismounting himself, the Captain handed the reins of his horse to one of his men and walked forward to meet the head of the strange procession.

  The man of the palanquin was clothed almost completely in black. Black leather boots, black flowing trousers, a longsleeved, black flowing shirt, a black turban adorning his head. A red sash and a red jewel in the center of the turban did nothing to relieve the funereal aspect of the man’s costume. Rather, perhaps because of the peculiar shade of red that was the color of fresh blood, they enhanced it.

  The skin of the man’s face and hands was white as alabaster, probably why he took such precautions to keep himself out of the burning sun; Idrith being located just to the north of the Pagrah desert. By contrast, his brows were jet black, feathering out from a point above a slender, hawkish nose. The lips were thin and bloodless. Trimmed moustaches shadowed the upper lip, extending down the lines of the unsmiling mouth to join a narrow black beard that outlined a firm, jutting jawline.

  The man in black bowed. Placing a whiteskinned, slender hand over his heart, he performed the salaam with grace. The Captain returned the bow, far more clumsily—he was a big, awkward man. Raising his head, he met the gaze of the man in black and flinched involuntarily, as if the penetrating glance of the two dark, cold eyes had been living steel.

  Instantly on his guard, the Captain cleared his throat and launched into the formalities. “I see by the lowering of your standards that you come in peace, Effendi. Welcome to the city of Idrith. The Sultan begs to know your names and your business that we may do you honor and lose no time in accommodating you.”

  The expression on the face of the man in black remained grave as he replied with equal solemnity and politeness. “My name is Auda ibn Jad. Formerly a trader in slaves, I am now traveling eastward to my homeland of Simdari. I wish only to stop over in your city for a day and a night to replenish my supplies and give my men some rest. Our journey has been a long and a sad one, and we have still many hundreds of miles to go before its end. I am certain that you must have surmised, Captain,” the man in black said with a sigh, “that we are a funeral cortege.”

  Uncertain how to respond, the Captain cleared his throat noncommittally and glanced with lowering brows at the number of armed men he was being asked to let into his city. Auda ibn Jad appeared to understand, for he added, with a sad smile, “My goums would be most willing to surrender their swords to you, Captain, and I will answer for their good conduct.” Taking hold of the Captain’s arm with his slender hand, Auda led the soldier to one side and spoke in a low voice. “You will, however, be patient with my men, sidi. They have the gold of Kich in their purses, gold that melancholy circumstances prevented them from spending. They are excellent fighters and disciplined men. But they have suffered a great shock and seek to drown their sorrows in wine or find solace in the other pleasures for which this city is wellknown. I myself have some business to do”—ibn Jad’s eyes flicked a glance at several ironbound wooden chests strapped to the camels—”with the jewel merchants of Idrith.”

  Feeling the cold sensation spread from the man’s eyes to the fingers that rested on his arm, the Captain of the Sultan’s Guard drew back from that icy touch. Every instinct that had made him a good soldier for forty years warned him to forbid this man with eyes like knives to enter his city. Yet he could see the heavy purses hanging from each goum’s sash. The merchants of Idrith standing upon the city walls could not detect the money pouches from that distance, but they could see the heavy chests on the camels’ backs, the gold that glittered around the necks of this man’s slaves.

  On his way out of the city gates, the Captain had seen the followers of Kharmani, God of Wealth, reaching for their tallysticks, and he knew very well that the proprietors of the eating houses, the tea shops, and the arwats were rubbing their hands in anticipation. A howl of outrage would split the Sultan’s eardrums if this woolly sheep all ready for the shearing were driven from the city gates—all because the Captain did not like the look in the sheep’s eyes.

  The Captain still had one more bone to toss in the game, however. “All those desirous of entering the city of Idrith must surrender to me not only their weapons but all their magic items and djinn as well, Effendi. These will be given as sacrifice to Quar,” said the Captain, hoping that this edict—one that had come from the God and one that therefore not even the Sultan could lift—would discourage these visitors. His hope was a vain one, however.

  Auda ibn Jad nodded gravely. “Yes, Captain, such a commandment was imposed on us in Kich. It was there that we left all our magical paraphernalia and our djinn. We were honored to do this in the name of so great a God as Quar and—as you see—he has in turn favored us with his blessing in our journeying.”

  “You will not be offended if I search you, Effendi?” asked the Captain.

  “We have nothing to hide, sidi,” said i
bn Jad humbly, with another graceful bow.

  Of course they don’t, the Captain thought dowerly. They knew about this and were prepared. Nevertheless, he had to go through the motions. Turning, he ordered his men to commence the search, as Auda ibn Jad ordered the leader of the goums to unload the camels.

  “What is in there?” The Captain pointed to the litters.

  “The bodies, sidi,” replied ibn Jad in low, reverent tones. “I did mention that this was a funeral cortege, didn’t I?”

  The Captain started. Yes, the man had said that they were a funeral procession, but the Captain had assumed it was an honorary one, perhaps escorting the icon of some deceased Imam back to his birthplace. It never occurred to the soldier that this Auda ibn Jad was carting corpses around with him. The Captain glanced at the litters and frowned outwardly, though inwardly sighing with relief.

  “Bodies! I am sorry, Effendi, but I cannot allow those inside the city walls. The risk of disease—”

  “—is nonexistent, I assure you. Come, Captain, look for yourself.”

  The Captain had no choice but to follow the man in black to where the litters rested on the sandy soil of the plains. Not a squeamish man—the Captain had seen his share of corpses in his lifetime—he nevertheless approached the litters with extreme reluctance. A body hacked and mangled on the field of battle was one thing. A body that has been traveling in the heat of early summer was quite another. Coming near the first litter, the Captain hardened himself for what was to come. It was odd, though, that there were no flies buzzing about. Sniffing, the Captain detected no whiff of corruption, and he glanced at the man in black in puzzlement.

  Reading the Captain’s thoughts, Auda ibn lad smiled deprecatingly, as if denying credit for everything. He neared the litter, and his smile vanished, replaced by the most sorrowful solemnity. With a gesture, he invited the Captain to look.