Death raised a pale, quivering finger and pointed at Asrial. “You may have an Amulet of Life, djinn, but this feathered beauty here does not! Tell what I need to know, or she will be struck down before your eyes this instant!”
Death gestured, and the two mamalukes, their daggers still in hand, looked with eager, burning eyes at the angel. Asrial caught her breath, pressing her hands over her mouth and shrinking next to Pukah. The djinn put his arm around her reassuringly. The foxish face was pale, however, and he was forced to swallow several times before he could speak.
“Do not be hasty, my lady! I will tell you everything, for it is obvious to me now that you have been the victim of a trick played upon you by the God. I assume that it was Quar who schemed to trap the immortals by laying this spell upon the city of Serinda?”
Death did not reply, but Pukah saw the truth in the face whose marble facade was beginning to crack. Hurriedly he continued, “Quar gave you the delightful task of casting this spell over the city, knowing—as He did—that your greatest pleasure in life comes from watching others leave it?”
Again, though Death did not answer, Pukah knew he was right and spoke with increasing confidence, not to mention a hint of smugness. “Thus, Lady, Quar rid the world of the immortals—all the immortals, if you take my meaning. Your grave and lovely self included.”
“Pukah! What are you saying?” Asrial glanced up at him in alarm, but the djinn hugged her into silence.
“For you see, O Sepulchral Beauty, Quar has promised all who follow him eternal life!”
Death sucked in a deep breath. Her hair rose around her in a wrathful cloud, a cold blast of fury hit those in the arwat, causing the strongest slave to tremble in fear. Asrial hid her face in her hands. Only Pukah remained confident, sure of himself and his glib tongue.
“I have proof,” he said, forestalling what he was certain would be Death’s next demand. “Only a few months ago, Quar ordered the Amir of Kich to attack bands of nomads living in the Pagrah desert. Were you present at the battle, Lady?”
“No, I was—”
“Busy here below,” Pukah said, nodding knowingly. “And your presence was sorely missed, Lady, I can tell you, particularly by the jackals and hyenas who count upon your bounty. For hardly anyone died in that battle. The Imam of Quar ordered them taken alive! Why? So that his God could grant them eternal life and thereby be assured of eternal followers! Before that was the battle in Kich—”
“I was present then!” Death said.
“Yes, but whom did you take? A fat Sultan, a few of his wives, assorted wazirs. Piffle!” Pukah said with a disdainful sniff. “When there was an entire city filled with people who could have been raped, murdered, burned, stoned—the survivors left to fend off disease, starvation—”
“You are right!” said Death, her teeth clenching in a skulllike grimace.
“Far be it from me to betray Hazrat Quar, for whom I have a high respect,” added Pukah humbly, “but I have long been one of your most ardent admirers, my lady. Ever since you took my former master—a follower of Benario—in the most original fashion—his body parts cut off one at a time by the enraged owner of the establishment my poor master took it into his head to rob without first checking to make certain that no one was at home. That is why I have revealed to you Quar’s plot to remove you forever from the world of the living and keep you here below, playing games.”
“I will show you how games are played!” Seething, Death approached Pukah, the hollow of her empty eyes seeming to grow larger, encompassing the djinn.
“Show me?” Pukah laughed lightly. “Thank you, but I really don’t have time for such frivolities. My master cannot do without—” It suddenly occurred to the djinn that Death was drawing uncomfortably near. Letting go of Asrial, he tried to back up and tumbled over a hubblebubble pipe. “What have I to do with this? Nothing!” He scrambled to his feet. “If I were you, now, Lady, I would leave this city immediately and fly to the world above. No doubt the Amir is riding to battle this very instant! Spears through chests, sword slicing through flesh. Arms ripped from their sockets, entrails and brains on the ground! Tempting picture, isn’t it?”
“Yes indeed! So Quar has sent you here to frighten me—” Death stalked him.
“Ffrighten you?” Pukah stammered, knocking over a table and small chair. “No, Lady,” he said with complete honesty, “I assure you, that frightening you is the furthest thing from my—his mind!”
“What does He want? His immortals returned? Eternal life! We’ll see what Sul has to say about this!”
“Yes, yes!” gabbled Pukah, backed up against a wall, his hand clutching the amulet. “Go talk to Sul! Wonderful person, Sul. Have you ever met Him?”
“I intend to speak with Him,” said Death, “but first I will send Quar his messenger back in the form of a skeleton to remind him of whom he is trying to cheat!”
“You can’t touch me!” said Pukah quickly, raising the amulet in front of Death’s baleful, empty eyes.
“No,” said Death softly, “but I can her!”
Death vanished and reappeared. The pale, cold hands were suddenly clasped around Asrial’s shoulders, the angel caught fast in Death’s grip.
The djinn stared into the angel’s blue, despairing eyes and wondered what had gone wrong. It had been such a simple, beautiful plan! Get Death out of the city. Set her on Quar. . . “I’ll make a bargain with you,” offered Pukah desperately.
“A bargain?” Death stared at him suspiciously. “I have had enough of your Master and His bargains!”
“No,” said Pukah solemnly, “this would be. . . just between you and me. In exchange for her”—he looked at Asrial, his soul in his eyes, his voice softening—”I will give you my amulet—”
“No, Pukah, no!” Asrial cried.
“—and I will remain in the city of Serinda,” the djinn continued. “You boast that no one lives from dawn to dusk in this city. I challenge that claim. I say that I am cleverer than you. No matter what form you choose to take, I can avoid falling your victim.”
“Ha!” snorted Death.
“No one shall goad me into any quarrel,” averred Pukah.
“No woman will slip poison into my drink!”
“And if I win, what do I get out of this bargain, beyond the pleasure of seeing you stretched lifeless at my feet?”
“I will give you not only myself, but my master as well.”
“Kaug?” Death sneered. “Another immortal? As you can see, I am well supplied with those already.”
“No.” Pukah drew a deep breath. “You see, Kaug is not my master so much as he is my jailer. Sond and I were captured by the ‘efreet and forced to do his bidding. My true master is Khardan, Calif of the Akar—”
“Pukah, what are you saying?” cried Asrial, appalled. “Khardan!” Death appeared interested. “Akhran holds that particular mortal in high favor. He keeps close watch upon him. I cannot get near. You are saying that if I win—”
“—the eyes of Akhran will be looking elsewhere.”
“You know that now your mortal, Khardan, stands in dire peril?” Death inquired coolly.
“No,” said Pukah, looking somewhat uncomfortable, “I didn’t. It’s been some time, you see, since I was captured, and I—”
“Not only him, but those with him,” said Death, her eyes on Asrial.
Clasping her hands, the angel gazed at the pale woman beseechingly. “Mathew?” she whispered.
“We will speak of this later, you and I,” said Death soothingly, running her cold hand over Asrial’s silver hair. “Very well,” she added, “I accept your bargain, Pukah. Hand me the amulet.”
“But you haven’t heard the rest of the deal,” protested the young djinn in offended dignity. “The part about what you give me if I win.”
Death glanced around the arwat. “If he wins!” she repeated. Everyone burst into shouts of laughter, the proprietor guffawing until he lost his breath and had to be pounded on his bac
k by one of the slaves. “Very well,” said Death, wiping tears of mirth that sprang horribly from the empty sockets. “If you win, Pukah, I will give you what?” Your freedom, I suppose. That’s what all you djinn want.
“Not only my freedom,” said Pukah cunningly. “I want the freedom of every immortal in the city of Serinda!”
The laughter in the arwat suddenly ceased.
“What did he say?” puffed the rabat-bashi, who—between trying to breathe and getting thumped on the back—hadn’t been able to hear clearly.
“He says he wants us freed!” growled an immortal of Zhakrin’s, eyeing Pukah grimly.
“Freed!” said a cherubim, staggering out of a beadcurtained room, a goblet in her hand. “Free to go back to a life of drudgery!”
“A life of slavery,” slurred one of Quar’s ‘efreets from where it lay comfortably beneath a table.
“Death take him!” cried Uevin’s God of War.
“Death! Death!” chanted everyone in the arwat, rising to their feet, fingering their weapons.
“Free? Did I say free?” Sweat trickled down from beneath Pukah’s turban. “Look, we can discuss this—”
“Enough!” Death raised her hands. “I agree to his terms. Pukah, if you are alive by sunset tomorrow”—hoots and howls of derision greeted this. Clenching her raised fists, Death commanded silence—”then I swear by Sul that the spell over the city of Serinda will be broken. If, however, the failing light of the sun casts its rays over your body as it lies upon its bier, Pukah, then your master, Khardan, is mine. And his end will be truly terrible”—Death looked at Asrial—”for he will be slain by one whom he trusts, one who owes him his life.”
Asrial stared at Death in horror. “Not—” She couldn’t finish.
“I fear so, child. But—as I said—we will discuss that later. Hear me!” Death lifted her voice, and it seemed that the entire city of Serinda fell silent. “I owe allegiance to no God or Goddess. I have no favorites. Whatever else may be said of me, I am impartial. I take the very young. I take the very old. The good cannot escape me, neither can the sinner. The rich with all their money cannot keep me from their doors. The magi with all their magic cannot find a spell to defeat me. And so I will have no favorites here. Pukah will have this night to prepare his defense. The people of Serinda will have this night to prepare their attack.
“Pukah, this night you may keep your amulet and freely walk the city. Whatever weapon you find will be yours. Tomorrow, at the Temple in the city plaza, at the dawning of the new day, you will deliver to me the amulet and the contest will begin. Is this agreed?”
“Agreed,” said Pukah through lips that, despite his best efforts, trembled. He couldn’t meet Asrial’s despairing eyes.
Death nodded, and the people resumed their frenetic activities, everyone making eager preparations for tomorrow’s deadly contest.
“And now, child, you want to see what is happening in the world of humans?” asked Death.
“Yes, oh yes!” cried Asrial.
“Then come with me.” Death’s hair lifted as though stirred by a hot wind. Floating around her, it enfolded the angel like a shroud.
“Pukah?” Asrial said, hesitating.
“Go ahead,” said the djinn, trying to smile. “I’ll be fine, for a while at least.”
“You will see him again, child,” Death said, putting her arm around Asrial and drawing her away. “You will see him again. . . .”
The two vanished. Pukah slumped down into a nearby chair, ignoring the snarls, the hostile stares. Gulping slightly at the sight of daggers, knives, swords, and other cutlery that was making a sudden appearance, he turned his head to look out the window. He was not cheered by the sight of an imp pushing a grindstone down the street; the demon was besieged by a mob of immortals brandishing weapons to be sharpened.
Seeing his reflection in the window, Pukah found it more comforting to look at his own foxish face. “I’m smarter than Death,” he said, seeking reassurance.
The unusually gloomy reflection made no answer.
The Book of Quar 2
Chapter 1
Far from the Kurdin Sea, where the ship of ghuls sailed amid its own storm; far from where Mathew struggled against inner darkness; far from Serinda, where a djinn battled against Death; another young man fought a battle of his own, though on much different ground.
Quar’s jihad had begun. In the first light of dawn, the city of Meda, in northern Bas, fell to the troops of the Amir without putting up more resistance than was necessary for the citizens to be able to meet each other’s eyes and say, “We fought but were defeated. What could we do? Our God abandoned us.”
And it did seem as if this were true. In vain the priests of Uevin called for the God of War to appear in his chariot and lead the battle against the armies of the Emperor. In vain the priestesses of the Earth Goddess called for the ground to open and swallow the Amir’s soldiers. There came no answer. The oracles had been silent many months. Uevin’s immortals had disappeared, leaving their human supplicants to cry their pleas to deaf ears.
Uevin’s ears were not deaf, though he often wished they were. The cries of his people rent his heart, but there was nothing he could do. Bereft of his immortals, losing the faith of his people, the God grew weaker by the day. Ever before him was the vision of Zhakrin and Evren, their shriveled and starved bodies writhing upon the heavenly plane, then blowing away like dust in the wind. Uevin knew now, too late, that the Wandering God, Akhran, had been right. Quar was intent on becoming the One, the Only. Uevin hid inside his many columned dwelling, expecting every moment to hear Quar’s voice summon him forth to his own doom. The God, quaking and trembling, knew there was nothing he could do to stop Quar.
The army of Meda—outnumbered, beset by dissension within their ranks, aware that their Governor was hastily packing his valuables and fleeing through the back wall of the city as they prepared to defend its front—fought halfheartedly and, when called upon to surrender, did so with such promptness that the Amir remarked to Achmed drily that they must have ridden forth to battle with white flags in their saddlebags.
Achmed never had a chance to fight—a fact that made him burn with disappointment. Not that he would have seen battle this day anyway. The young man rode with the cavalry and they would not be used today unless the Medans proved more stubborn than was expected. Chafing with inaction, he sat his magical horse high on a ridge overlooking the plains on which the two armies rushed together like swarms of locusts.
Achmed shifted in his saddle, his gaze darting to every boulder and bush, hoping to see some daring Medan raise up out of the cover with bow poised and arrow at the ready, endeavoring to end the war by killing the general, Achmed saw himself hurling his own body protectively in front of the Amir (the king’s bodyguards having fled, the cowards!). He saw the arrow fly, he felt it graze his flesh (nothing serious). He saw himself draw his sword and dispatch the Medan. Cutting off the man’s head, he would present it to the Amir. Refusing all assistance, he would say, with eyes modestly downcast, “The wound? A scratch, my lord. I would gladly be pierced by a thousand arrows if it would serve my king.”
But the Medans selfishly refused to cooperate. No assassin crouched in the bushes or crept among the rocks. By the time Achmed saw himself, in his vision, carried away on a shield, the Medans were throwing their own shields on the ground and handing over their weapons to the victors.
When the battle had ended, the Amir rode up and down the long line of prisoners that were drawn up outside the city walls. Most of the Medans stood with heads bowed, in sullen or fearful silence. But occasionally Achmed—riding at Qannadi’s side— saw a head raise, a man glance up at the king out of the corner of an eye. The Amir’s stern and rigid face never changed expression, but his eyes met those of the prisoner, and there was recognition and promise in that glance. The man would look back down again at his feet, and Achmed knew he had seen someone in Qannadi’s pay—a worm the Amir had purchased to
nibble at the fruit from the inside.
Achmed heard mutterings of disgust from the Amir’s bodyguards, who rode behind him. They, too, knew the meaning of that exchange of glances. Like most soldiers, they had no use for traitors, even when the traitors were on their side.
The young man’s face burned, and he hung his head. He felt the same stirrings of disgust for the treacherous who had betrayed their own people, yet all he could ask himself was, “What is the difference between them and me?”
The inspection came to an end. Qannadi announced that the Imam would speak to the prisoners. The Amir and his staff rode off to one side. Achmed, still brooding, took his place beside and a few steps behind Qannadi.
A creaking of the Amir’s leather saddle and a slight cough caused Achmed to raise his head and look at the man. For a brief moment a warm smile flickered in the dark eyes.
“You came to me out of love, not for money,” was the silent message.
How had Qannadi divined what he was thinking? Not that it mattered. This wasn’t the first time their thoughts had ridden together over the same path. Feeling comforted, Achmed allowed himself to accept the answer. Knowing it was true in part, he could feel satisfied with it and firmly shut out any efforts by his conscience to question it further.
In the past month that they had been together, Achmed had come to love and respect Qannadi with the devotion of a son—giving to the Amir the affection he would have been glad to give to his own father, had Majiid been the least bit interested in accepting it. Each filled perfectly the void in the other’s heart. Achmed found a father, Qannadi the son he’d been too busy fighting wars to raise.
The Amir was careful not to let his growing affection for the young man become obvious, knowing that Yamina watched her husband jealously. Her own child stood to inherit the Amir’s position and wealth, and neither she nor her mincing peacock of a son would hesitate to send a gift of almonds rolled in poisoned sugar to one who might pose a threat. Long ago, a pretty young wife of whom Qannadi had been especially fond and who was to have delivered a baby near the same date as Yamina’s had died in a similar manner. Such things were not unusual in court, and Qannadi accepted it. But it was one reason, perhaps, that he afterward exhibited no great affection for any of his wives.
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