The Paladin of the Night

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  She paused, glancing at the Imam from the corner of her eye, perhaps hoping to see the priest fly into a rage at this news. Having been aware of it, Feisal showed no emotion whatsoever, and Meryem was forced to continue without having any idea how the priest might be reacting. “I carried Khardan from the battle on Gasim’s horse. I intended to bring him to Kich and place him in your care, Imam, so that the Amir would not have him killed. Between the two of us, I knew we could convert Khardan’s soul to Quar!”

  “I doubt you were interested in his soul so much as his body,” the Imam said dryly. “What happened to spoil your little plan?”

  Meryem’s face flushed in anger, but she carefully controlled herself and went on smoothly with her story, as though there had been no interruption. “I was waiting for Kaug, the ‘efreet, to extend his hand and take us up into the clouds when I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that madman coming up behind me and—”

  “Madman?” Feisal questioned curiously. “What madman?”

  “Just a madman, Imam!” Meryem said impatiently. “A youth Khardan rescued from the slave traders here in Kich. Khardan thought the boy was a woman, but he wasn’t; he was a man without hair on his face or chest who had dressed up in woman’s clothing. The other nomads wanted to execute him, but Khardan wouldn’t let them, saying that the youth was mad because he claimed to have come from over the sea and to be a sorcerer. Then the witch woman—Khardan’s wife—said that the youth should be taken into Khardan’s harem, and that is why Khardan couldn’t marry me!”

  Feisal didn’t hear half of this involved and somewhat incoherent explanation. The words “over the sea” and “sorcerer” had completely overwhelmed his mind. It was only with a violent effort that he managed to wrench his thoughts back to what Meryem was saying.

  “—the madman pulled me from the horse and struck me savagely over the head. When I woke up,” she concluded pitifully, “I was as they found me—halfnaked, left for dead.”

  “Khardan?”

  “Gone, apparently, Imam. I don’t know. I didn’t wake up until I was in the palace. But when I questioned the soldiers, they had seen no sign of him.”

  “And his body was never discovered,” the Imam mused.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Meryem muttered, drawing her veil over her face once more, keeping her eyes lowered.

  “And why do you think this. . . this madman would strip off your clothes?”

  “Isn’t that obvious, if you will forgive me, Imam? To have his way with me, of course.”

  “In the midst of a raging battle? He must have been mad indeed!”

  Meryem kept her gaze on the floor. “I—I suppose, Imam, that he was interrupted in his foul deed—”

  “Mmmm.” Feisal leaned forward. “Would it surprise you to hear that Khardan was seen fleeing the field of battle, dressed in women’s clothes?”

  Meryem looked up, blue eyes open wide. “Of—of course!” she stammered.

  “Don’t lie!”

  “All right!” she cried wildly, stamping her small foot. “I didn’t know, but I suspected. It would have been the only way to escape the soldiers! There were a lot of old hags left behind in the camp. If the soldiers saw Khardan dressed as a woman, they would probably just let him go.”

  “And Khardan is still alive’“ Feisal said softly. “You know it and you are hoping he will come back!”

  “Yes!”

  “How do you know?”

  “The enchantment will continue working to keep him from harm as long as he wears the necklace. . . .”

  “But someone may have removed it, taken it off. Perhaps the madman.” Feisal sank back into the chair, his brows knotted. “If he is truly a sorcerer—”

  “That is nonsense!” Meryem said spiritedly. “Only women have the magic. All know that!”

  “Still. . .” Feisal seemed lost in thought. Then, shrugging, he returned to the matter at hand. “You do not speculate that he may be alive, Meryem! You know he is alive! You know where he is, and that is why you have been afraid. Because you think that he will turn up any moment and challenge the Amir, who will then begin to suspect there is a snake hiding in his fig basket—”

  “No! I swear—”

  “Tell me, Meryem. Or”—Feisal caught hold of her hand— “would you prefer to tell the Lord High Executioner as he flays the skin from these delicate bones. . .”

  Meryem snatched her hand away. The veil, stained with sweat and tears, clung damply to her face. “I—I looked into the scrying bowl,” she murmured. “If. . . if he was dead, I would see his. . . his body.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  “No!” Her voice was faint.

  “You saw him alive!”

  “No, not that either. . .”

  “I grow tired of these evasions!” The Imam’s voice cracked, and Meryem shuddered, the words flicking over her like a whip.

  “I am not lying now, Imam!” she cried, casting herself on the floor and looking up at him pleadingly. “He is alive, but he is covered by a cloud of darkness that hides him from my sight. It is . . . magic, I suppose. But like no magic I have ever seen before! I do not know its meaning!”

  There was silence in the Temple chamber, a silence so deep and thick and reverent that Meryem stifled her sobs, holding her breath so as not to disturb it or the Imam, whose almond eyes stared unseeing into the shadows.

  Finally, the Imam stirred. “You are right. You are in danger in the palace.”

  Lifting her head, Meryem gazed at him with incredulous, unbelieving hope dawning in her eyes.

  “What’s more, you are being wasted. I am going to suggest to the Amir that you be sent to live in the city with the nomads. Khardan’s mother, I believe, is one who was captured and brought to Kich.”

  “But what will I tell them?” Meryem sat back on her knees. “They think I am the Sultan’s daughter! They would expect the Amir to execute me!”

  “An expert on lying such as yourself should have no trouble coming up with a story that will melt their hearts,” Feisal remarked. “The Amir was going to have you thrown from the Tower of Death but then he succumbed to your charms. He begged you to marry him, but you—loyal to your nomadic prince—refused. Qannadi hurled you in the dungeon and fed you only on bread and water. He beat you. Still you remained true. Finally, knowing he could never have you, he cast you into the streets. . .”

  Meryem’s lips came together, the blue eyes glistened. “Lash marks and bruises,” she said. “The guards must throw me out at midday, when there is a crowd—”

  “Anything you want,” the Imam interrupted, suddenly impatient for the girl to be gone and leave him to his thoughts. Clapping his hands, he caused the servant to appear. “Return to the seraglio. Make your preparations. I will speak to the Amir this evening and convince him of the necessity of replanting our spy among the nomads.” He waved his hand. “Get up. Your thanks are not necessary. You are serving Quar, as you said. And Meryem—”

  This to the girl as she was rising to her feet.

  “Yes, Imam?”

  “Anything you discover concerning Khardan—anything at all—you will inform me.”

  “Yes, Imam,” she said glibly.

  Too glibly. Feisal leaned forward in the saksaul chair. “Know this, my child. If I hear his name on the tongue of another before I hear it on yours, I will have that tongue torn from your mouth. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Imam.” All glibness disappeared.

  “Very well. You may go. Quar’s blessing attend you.”

  When the girl and the servant were gone, Feisal sank back into the chair. His elbow resting on the hard, carved surface of the chair arm, the Imam allowed his head to sink into his hand as though the weight of his contemplations was too much for his neck to bear. The nomads. . . Khardan . . . the Amir . . . Achmed… His thoughts tumbled about in his mind like rocks in a jeweler’s polishing wheel. One only he found rough, uncut, disturbing.

  The madman. . .

 
Chapter 4

  The prison guards sat hunched in the meager shade afforded by the squat, square gatehouse, their backs pressed against the cool wall that had not yet been baked by the sun. It was nearly noon and the shade was dwindling rapidly. Soon the heat of afternoon would drive them inside the gatehouse itself. They avoided that as long as possible. Entering the claybrick dwelling was tantamount to entering an oven. But though the heat inside was intense, it had at least the advantage of providing shelter from the sweltering sun. As the last vestige of shade was vanishing, the guards, grumbling, rose to their feet. One of the younger nudged an older man, his superior, and pointed.

  “Soldiers.”

  Squinting into the sunlight, the commandant peered out toward the souks, always thankful for some change in the monotony of his watch. Several of the Amir’s soldiers, splendid in their colorful uniforms, were urging their horses through the crowds in the bazaar. The people scattered before them, mothers grabbing up small children, the merchants quickly removing their most valuable items from display and shoving their daughters behind the curtained partitions. If the crowd was too thickly packed together, and the horses could not get through, the soldiers cleared a path, lashing out efficiently with their riding sticks, ignoring the cursing and the angry shouts that died away to a hushed awe when the crowd caught sight of the man riding behind the soldiers.

  “The Amir,” the commandant muttered.

  “I think he’s coming here,” said the young guard.

  “Pah!” The older guard spat on the ground, but his gaze was fixed warily on the retinue that was making its way through the bazaars. “I think you’re right,” he said slowly, after a moment’s pause. Whirling around, he began bellowing orders that brought other sleepy guards to their feet, hastily stumbling across the compound at the commandant’s call.

  “What’s the matter with Hamd?” he bellowed, noting that one of the guards was not responding. “Drunk again? Drag him inside the gatehouse! Quickly! And look to your uniforms! What’s that? Blood? Yours, too? Tell him it’s from the thief. What’s that? The man died two days ago? Worse luck! Keep out of sight, then! The rest of you—try to look alert, if I that’s possible, you sons of pigs. Now go on! Back to your places!”

  Muttering imprecations on the heads of everyone from the Amir to the comatose Hamd, whose limp, flabby body was being dragged unceremoniously across the ground to the gatehouse, the commandant began pushing and shoving his blearyeyed men toward their assigned positions, some of the slower being assisted on their way by sound thwacks from the commandant’s thick cudgel.

  The clattering of horses’ hooves drew nearer. Gulping for breath, sweating profusely, the commandant cast one final glance around his prison. At least, he thought thankfully, the prisoners had been put back in their cells following the midday exercise period. In the darkness of the Zindan, swollen cheeks, split lips, and blackened eyes were not readily apparent. Neither were blood stains on tunics, for that matter. Just to be safe, however, the commandant’s dull mind was fumbling with excuses for going against the Amir’s express orders that the prisoners—particularly the nomads—were not to be physically abused. The commandant was just fabricating a fullscale riot that had forced him to resort to the use of force when the younger guard interrupted his lumbering thoughts.

  “Why is the Amir coming here? Is this customary?”

  “No, by Sul!”

  The two were standing at some semblance of attention in front of the gatehouse and the commandant—keeping eyes forward with a grin of welcome plastered across his face—was forced to talk out of the side of his mouth.

  “The old Sultan never came within a thousand paces of the place, if he could help it. And when he was forced to ride past, he did so in a covered sedan chair with the curtains pulled tightly shut, holding an orange stuck all over with cloves to his nose to ward away the smell.”

  “Then why do you suppose the Amir’s coming?”

  “How in Quar’s name should I know?” the commandant grunted, surreptitiously mopping his face with his sleeve. “Something to do with those damn nomads no doubt. It’s bad enough we have the priest skulking about, sticking his nose into everything. Quar forgive me.” The commandant glanced warily up at the heavens. “I’ll be glad when the lot of them are out of here.”

  “When will that be?”

  “When they convert, of course.”

  “They’ll die first.”

  “All the same to me.” The commandant shrugged. “Either way, it shouldn’t take very long. Shhh!”

  The men fell silent, the commandant shifting uneasily, longing to turn his head and look behind him to see that everything was in order but not daring to allow his nervousness to show. Behind him, he could hear Hamd’s drunken voice suddenly raise in a bawdy song. The commandant’s blood began throbbing in his temples, but then came a sound as of someone thumping an overripe melon, a muffled groan, and the singing ceased.

  The soldiers on horseback trotted up to the gate. At their leader’s command, they spread out in a straight line, sitting stiffly at attention in their saddles, their magical horses standing as still as if they had turned back to the wood out of which they were created. The Captain raised his sword with a flourish. Qannadi, who had been riding a short distance behind his troops, cantered forward. Returning his Captain’s salute, he dismounted. Eyes flicking here and there over the prison and its yards, he slowly approached the sweating commandant. The Captain followed.

  In the old days, if the Sultan had taken it into his head to visit the prison—which was about as likely as if he had taken it into his head to fly to the moon—such a visit could never have been accomplished without hundreds of guards surrounding his sacred person; slaves carrying his chair and rolling out velvet carpets so that he might not soil his silken shoes upon the unworthy ground; several other litters bearing his favorite wives, who would be peeping out between the curtains and holding their veils over their mouths; more slaves carrying huge feathered fans to keep away the flies that found the prison a veritable feasting ground.

  The Sultan would have stayed four minutes, five at the most, before the hot sun and the stench and the general unpleasantness of the place drove him back into the perfumed silken shelter of his palanquin. Watching the Amir walk with long, purposeful strides over the hardbaked ground, appearing cool and calm, his nose not even wrinkling, the commandant heartily missed the old days.

  “O Mighty King!” The commandant dropped to his belly on the blisteringly hot ground, looking—in this undignified attitude—very much like a toad and adding nothing to the already deplorable state of his uniform. “Such an honor—”

  “Get up!” Qannadi said with disgust. “I’ve no time for I that. I’m here to see one of your prisoners.”

  The commandant scrambled to his feet but left his heart lying on the pavement. Which prisoner? Hopefully not one who had been chastised too severely.

  “Filthy wretches, O King. Unworthy of such attention! I beg of you—”

  “Open the gate.”

  The commandant had no choice except to obey. His hands shook so that he could not fit the key into the latch, however, and Qannadi made a sign. The Amir’s Captain stepped forward, took the keys from the shaken guard, and opened the gate that rotated on its hinges with a shrill squeak. Thrusting his way past the stammering commandant, the Amir entered the prison compound.

  “Where is the cell of Achmed, the nomad?”

  “On. . . on the lower level, third to your left. But do not offend your spirit by entering the House of the Damned, Your Majesty!” Panting, the commandant waddled about six steps behind the swiftly walking general. “My eyes are accustomed to the sight of these dregs of humanity. Allow me to bring the kafir into your Exalted Presence, O King.”

  Qannadi hesitated. He had intended to enter the prison and talk to Achmed in his cell. But now that he stood before the ugly, windowless building, now that he could smell the smell of human refuse and despair, now that he could
hear faintly the moans of hopelessness and pain coming from inside, the general’s courage—whose flame had never once died on the field of battle— wavered and dimmed. He was accustomed to death and misery in war, he would never grow accustomed to death and misery where men were caged like beasts.

  “The gatehouse is quite comfortable this time of day, O Magnificent One,” the commandant suggested, seeing the Amir hesitate.

  “Very well,” Qannadi said abruptly, turning his steps and attempting to ignore the audible whoosh of relief that escaped the commandant.

  “Go ahead!” the commandant shouted at the young guard, who was standing rooted to the spot, staring at the Amir in awe. “Make the gatehouse ready for His Majesty!”

  By dint of several frantic hand motions behind the Amir’s back and a series of threatening grimaces, the commandant managed to convey the message to the dumbfounded young guard that he was to make certain the drunken Hamd was out of sight. Catching on, the young man bolted away, and Qannadi entered the sultry shadows of the bare brick room just in time to hear a scuffling sound and see the soles of the boots of the unfortunate Hamd disappear into a back room. A door slammed shut.

  Picking up an overturned chair, the Captain of the Amir’s guard placed it at a crude table for Qannadi who, however, seemed to prefer pacing about the small dwelling. The commandant appeared, gasping for breath, in the doorway.

  “Well?” said Qannadi, glaring at the man. “Go get the prisoner!”

  “Yes, O King!” The commandant had completely forgotten this small matter. He vanished precipitously from the doorway. Glancing out a small window, Qannadi saw the man running across the compound, headcloth flapping in the wind of his exertions. Glancing at the Captain, the Amir raised his eyebrows. The Captain silently shook his head.