Feisal glowered; his black eyes in the sunken hollows of his wasted face blazed with his anger, but he could say nothing. By making the matter of the Temple’s destruction a military one, Qannadi had snatched it neatly out of the priest’s hands. Though a religious man, the Emperor of Tarakan was also a very practical man who was enjoying the wealth of the newly acquired territory of Bas. What’s more, the Emperor trusted and admired his general, Abul Qasim Qannadi, implicitly. Should Feisal choose to appeal the Amir’s decision, the Imam would receive no support from his Emperor, and that was the priest’s final authority here on earth.
As for appealing it to the Highest Authority? If Feisal had been praying to Quar for an enemy arrow to embed itself in the Amir’s chest, no one knew of it but the Imam and the God. And apparently the God, too, was satisfied with the work Qannadi was performing in His Holy Name, for the only time the Amir had been in serious danger during the entire campaign, the young man Achmed had been there to rescue him. The Imam had publicly offered thanks to Quar for this heroic feat, but both priest and God must have found it ironic that a follower of Akhran (albeit former follower) had been instrumental in saving Qannadi’s life.
Pausing upon the fifth landing in the long line of stairs leading up to the Temple, Achmed turned to look at the crowd of people waiting patiently in the heat of late morning to hold audience with the Imam. The young man wondered at Qannadi’s decision. There were no signs of rebellion that he could see, as in former cities they had captured. There were no threatening slogans scrawled on the walls in the night, no defacing of Quar’s altars, no mysterious fires started in abandoned buildings. Despite the fact that her soldiers had fought a bitter and bloody battle and lost, the city of Bastine appeared only too pleased to be under the rulership of the Emperor and his God. Undoubtedly the immediate reopening of trade routes between Tarakan and Bastine and the subsequent flow of wealth into the city had something to do with it, as did the other blessings of Quar that were being showered upon the heads of those who converted to him.
That was the honey the people of Bastine fed upon now. The bitter herb they had been forced to swallow was the slaughter of five thousand neighbors, friends, relatives. As long as he slept the dreamtroubled sleep of the living, Achmed would remember that awful day. And he knew that no one in this city would ever forget it either. But were these people ruled by fear? The young man looked at the lines of supplicants and shook his head. Climbing the remaining three flights of stairs, he exchanged greetings with the Amir’s guards posted there and, entering through a side door, walked into the cool, shadowy confines of the Temple.
Seated upon his throne of carved saksaul wood that had been carted the length and breadth of the land of Bas, the Imam was holding his daily divan. Behind him, mounted upon a dais, the golden ram’s head of Quar gleamed in the light of a perpetual flame that burned at its base. Smoke drifted up in lazy spirals, and although the frescodecorated ceiling was high above them, the odor of incense in the closed confines of the Temple audience chamber was heady and overpowering. Feisal’s newly formed soldierpriests were stationed at the main entrance to the audience chamber, keeping the crowds of supplicants in order, permitting each to advance only when the Imam gave the sign.
Although Achmed kept himself invisible in the shadows, he had the uncanny impression that Feisal knew he was here; he could even swear that when he looked away, the burning black eyes fixed their intense, soulsearing gaze upon him. But whenever Achmed confronted the priest, the Imam’s attention seemed centered solely upon the supplicant kneeling before him.
What fascination draws me here? Achmed could not say, and every day when he left, he vowed he would not return. Yet the next day found him climbing the stairs, slipping in through the side door so regularly that the guards had become accustomed to his visitations and no longer even raised their eyebrows at each other when Achmed walked past.
The young soldier took up his usual position, leaning against a cracked pillar near the side door; a position where he could see and hear, yet remain unseen and unheard; a position that was generally isolated. Today, however, Achmed was startled to find someone else standing near his pillar. His eyes growing accustomed to the darkness after the glare of the sun outside, the young man saw who it was, and the blood mounted into his face. Bowing, he was about to withdraw, but Qannadi motioned him near.
“So this is where you spend your mornings when you should be out drilling with the cavalry.” The Amir spoke softly, though the chattering and praying and occasional arguments among the waiting supplicants was such that it was unlikely he could have been overheard if he had shouted.
Achmed sought to reply, but his tongue seemed swollen and incapable of producing coherent sounds. Noting the young man’s discomfiture, Qannadi smiled the wry smile that was little more than a deepening of the lines on one side of the thinlipped mouth. Achmed moved to stand beside the general.
“Are you angry, sir? The cavalry is doing well without me—”
“No, I’m not angry. The men have learned all that you have taught them. I drill them only to keep them alert and ready for”—the Amir paused and glanced at Achmed through shrewd eyes surrounded by a maze of wrinkles—”for whatever may come next.”
Now it was Qannadi who flushed, the color deepening in his sunburned skin. The general knew that the next battle might be against the boy’s people—Achmed’s people. His gaze shifted from Achmed to the Imam. This was a subject neither discussed, though it was always there, following them as carrion birds follow an army.
The Amir heard the buckles attached to the young man’s leather armor jingle as he shifted restlessly.
“Why don’t you let the Imam tear down this ugly place, sir?” Achmed said in an undertone, his voice covered by the shrill arguments of two men accusing each other of cheating in the sale of a donkey. “There is no hint of rebellion in this town. Look, look at that!”
The young soldier nodded his head in the direction of the two men. Quar only knew how, Qannadi thought in grudging admiration, but Feisal had settled the argument to the satisfaction of each, apparently, to judge by their smiles as they left the presence of the priest.
“These people worship him!”
“Think about what you said, my son, and you will understand,” replied the Amir as the Imam, seated on his throne, raised a frail hand in Quar’s blessing.
“You are right, of course,” Qannadi continued. “Feisal could tear the city down around their heads, stone by stone, and the citizens would cry their thanks to him. With his words, he turned murder into a benediction. They praised him as he butchered their friends, their neighbors, their relatives. Praised him for saving the souls of the unworthy! Do they line up to bring their problems to me to judge? Am I not Governor of this wretched city, proclaimed so by the Emperor? No, they bring their dealings with donkeys, and their quarrels with their wives, and their disputes with their neighbors to him.”
“And would you have it any other way, sir?” Achmed asked gently.
Qannadi cast him a sharp glance. “No,” he admitted, after a moment. “I am a soldier. I’ve never been anything else, nor do I pretend to be. No one will be more grateful than I when the Emperor’s regent comes to take over this city and we can return to Kich. But in the meantime, I must make certain that I have a city to turn over to him.”
Achmed’s eyes opened wide. “Surely the Imam would not—” He hesitated to speak. The thought alone was dangerous enough.
Qannadi spoke it. “—defy the Emperor?” The Amir shrugged. “Quar’s power in heaven grows. So do the number of the Imam’s followers. If Feisal chose to do so, he could split my army today, and he knows it. But it would be only a split. He could not gain the loyalty of the entire force. Not yet. Maybe in a year, maybe two. There will be nothing I can do to stop him. And when that day comes, Feisal will march triumphant into the capital city of Khandar with millions of fanatics behind him. No, if I were the Emperor, I would not sit easy on my throne.
Why, boy, what’s the matter?”
Achmed’s face was pale, ghostly in the shadowy darkness. “And you?” he said, his voice cracking. “What will—He wouldn’t commit—”
“Murder? In the name of Quar? Haven’t we seen that done already?” Qannadi laid a comforting hand on the young man’s trembling shoulder. “Do not fear. This old dog knows enough not to take meat from Feisal’s hand.”
That much was true—a simple precaution. Qannadi never ate or drank anything that had not been tasted first by some man paid well enough to risk poisoning. But a knife thrust from behind—that, no one can fight. And it would surely be the work of a lone fanatic. No one would appear more shocked at an assassination than Feisal himself.
“There is no dishonor in retreating from a fight with the God,” Qannadi continued, lying to put to rest the boy’s fears. “When the day comes that I see I am defeated, I will pack my khurjin and ride away. Perhaps I will go north, back to the land of the Great Steppes. They will soon have need of soldiers—”
“You would go alone?” Achmed asked, his heart in his eyes.
Yes, boy. The God willing, I will go alone.
“Not if there are those who would bear the hardships with me,” Qannadi replied. Seeing Achmed’s pleasure, a true smile, a deep smile, warmed the Amir’s dark expression. But it lasted only briefly and then disappeared, the sun shining for an instant before the storm clouds banished its rays. “In many ways, I look forward to that, to the freedom, to being rid of the responsibility,” he said with a soft sigh. “But that time will be long in coming, I fear. Long for all of us.” And bitter, he added, but once again only to himself.
Does the boy know the horror he faces? Does he truly comprehend the threat to himself and to his people? I have adopted him as son in all but name only. I can protect him, will protect him, with all the power I have left. But I cannot save his people.
Qannadi did not regret attacking the nomads; that had been a sound military decision. He could not have marched south on Bas with his right flank unprotected, thousands of those wild desert fighters yearning after his blood. But he did regret falling into the Imam’s scheme of bringing the people into the city and holding them captive. Far better that he had fought them to the death. At least they would have died with honor.
Ah, well, thought Qannadi wryly. If Khardan is dead—as he surely must be, despite the Imam’s misgivings—the soul of the Calif will soon rest easy enough, seeing me fall in defeat as well. And perhaps his soul will forgive mine, for—if it is my last act—I will save the younger brother the nomad Prince loved.
Or at least, I will try.
Putting his hand on Achmed’s shoulder, Qannadi turned and walked silently with the young man from the Temple.
Chapter 5
The Imam saw the Amir’s departure from the Temple without seeming to see it or care about it, although in actuality he had been waiting for it with extreme impatience. When the side door had shut behind the two men, Feisal gestured immediately to one of the under priests and said softly, “You may bring her now.”
The priest bowed and left.
“The morning’s audience is concluded,” Feisal said loudly.
This started a hubbub among the waiting supplicants. None dared raise his voice in protest, but all were determined that the soldierpriests remember each man’s position in line, and clamored for attention. The priests took names and calmly, firmly, forcefully herded Quar’s worshipers out the door.
Other priests had hurried outside to impart the news to the supplicants waiting upon the stairs and to swing shut the huge wooden Temple doors. Shrill cries of beggar children rose into the air, offering to hold the places of supplicants in line in exchange for a few pieces of copper. Wealthier citizens took advantage of this to leave the Temple and sustain themselves with a midday meal. The poorer worshiper sought what shade he could while still holding his place in line and munched on balls of rice or hunks of bread, washed down with water supplied by the priests.
When the huge doors boomed, shutting out the noise and the daylight, and the room was left to the silent, incensescented darkness, Feisal rose from the saksaul throne and stretched his legs.
He approached the golden ram’s head. The altar flame glistened in the unblinking eyes. Looking about him carefully, making certain he was alone, Feisal knelt before the altar, so near the flame that he could feel its heat upon his shaven head. Raising his face, he stared up at the ram. The heat of the coals beat upon his skin; sweat beaded on his lips and rolled down his thin neck, staining the robes that hung on his wasted body.
“Quar, you are mighty, majestic. In your great name we have conquered the land and people of Bas, driven their God into hiding, destroyed his statues, taken his treasure, subverted the faith of his followers! The wealth of these cities goes to further your glory! All is as we dreamed, as we hoped, as we planned!
“So why is it, Hazrat Quar—” Feisal hesitated. He licked his dry, cracked lips. “Why is it . . . what is it . . . that you fear!” The words burst out—a hushed, awed gasp.
The fire flared, flames leaped up from the whitehot coals. Instantly, the Imam collapsed, hunching his body as if in pain. Crouching before the altar, he shivered in terror. “Forgive me, Holy One!” he chanted over and over, clasping his thin hands together and rocking back and forth in agony. “Forgive me, forgive me. . .”
A voice called his name softly. “Imam!” Lifting his eyes, he stared at the ram, thinking for one wild moment that its mouth had moved. But the voice repeated itself, and the priest realized with a pang of disappointment that the sound came from behind him and that it was a mortal who called him, not the God.
Rising shakily to his feet, having forgotten in his religious fervor that he had issued orders, Feisal glared angrily upon the one who had dared interrupt his prayers. Trembling visibly, the young priest shrank before the Imam’s wrath. The woman who accompanied him was likewise stricken with terror. The blue eyes above the veil glanced about wildly, and she began to sidle back toward the secret way through which they had entered.
Reveling in the ecstasy of heaven, Feisal realized that he had not been interrupted—the God was choosing to speak to him through human lips.
“Forgive me,” the Imam said, and the young priest mistakenly thought his superior was speaking to him.
“It is you who should forgive me, Imam!” The priest sank to his knees. “What I did was unpardonable! It was just. . . you said it was urgent that you talk with the woman—”
“You have done well. Go now and assist your brethren to make easy the waiting time of those who have come to us with their burdens. Meryem, my child.” The Imam took her hand, starting slightly at the chill feel of the fingers. His own skin was burning hot. “I trust you have had refreshment after your fatiguing journey?”
“Yes, thank you, Holy One,” Meryem murmured inaudibly.
The Imam did not speak again until the young priest had taken himself, bowing and walking backward, from the Temple. Meryem stood before Feisal with lowered eyes. She had removed her hand from his grasp and was nervously twisting the frayed gilt hem of her veil. When they were alone, the Imam remained silent. Meryem lifted her eager, still halffearful gaze to meet his.
“I have seen him!”
“Who?” Feisal asked coolly, though he knew well enough of whom the woman spoke.
“Khardan,” Meryem faltered. “He is alive!”
The Imam turned slightly, with a glance for the ram’s head, almost as if to assure himself it was listening. “Where is he? Who is with him?”
“I . . . I don’t know where he is,” Meryem said, a break in her voice as she saw the Imam frown with displeasure. “But the witchwoman, Zohra, is with him. And so is the redhaired madman. And their djinn. “
It seemed to Feisal that the eyes of the ram flickered. “And you don’t know where they are.”
“It is a kavir, a salt desert, surrounded by blue water—water that is bluer than the sky. I did
not recognize the place, but Kaug says—”
“Kaug!” Feisal looked back at Meryem, his brows lowered ominously.
“Forgive me, Imam! I did not think it would be wrong to tell the ‘efreet!” Meryem’s tongue ran across her lips, wetting the veil over her mouth. “He. . . he made me, Holy One! Or he refused to bring me here! And I knew you wanted this information most urgently—”
“Very well.” The Imam contained his ill humor that was, he realized, nothing more than jealousy of the ‘efreet and the honored and trusted position Kaug held with the God. “I am not angry, child. Do not be frightened. Go ahead. What did Kaug say?”
“He said the description matches that of the western shores of the Kurdin Sea. When I saw Khardan, Imam, he was stepping out of a boat—a fishing boat. Kaug says there is a poor fishing village on the northeastern side of the sea, but the ‘efreet does not believe the nomads came from there. He said to tell you that he thinks it probable, from certain signs he has seen, that they were on the Isle of Galos.”
“Galos!” Feisal paled.
“Not Galos!” said Meryem hastily, seeing that this news was unwelcome and knowing that bad news generally garnered little reward. “That was not the name. I was mistaken—”
“You said Galos!” Feisal cried in a hollow voice. “That is what the ‘efreet said, wasn’t it?” The priest’s eyes burned in their sunken sockets. “That is what he told you to tell me! He is warning me! Thank Quar! Warning me!”
This was good news, then. Meryem relaxed. “Kaug said something about a God called Zhakrin—”
“Yes!” Feisal cut her off, not liking to hear that name spoken aloud. His thoughts went to Meda, to the dying man’s bloodstained hand gripping the priest’s robes, the curse spoken with the body’s last shuddering breath. “There is no need to go into this further, my child. What other message does Kaug send?”
The Prophet of Akhran Page 3