The Prophet of Akhran

by Margaret Weis, Tracy Hickman

  The monkey was not so polite. Riding on its master’s shoulder, the creature bared its sharp little teeth at Khardan and hissed. With a deprecating smile the master stroked the creature and admonished it in a strange language. The monkey, shaking its head and making a rude noise, skipped over to the other shoulder.

  “I apologize, Effendi,” said the man. “Zar does not like to be teased. It is his one failing. Other than that he is a wonderful pet.”

  “He seems a very useful one,” remarked Khardan, eyeing the cloth bag.

  The monkey’s master clapped his hand over the bag, his gaze suddenly narrowed and scowling. But seeing the nomad walking beside him amiably, his own eyes friendly and innocent of evil intent, the man relaxed.

  “Yes, Effendi,” he admitted. “I have walked the road with starvation my only companion for many years before I came across Zar, here. His name means ‘gold’ and he has been worth his weight in that to me many times over. Of course,” he added hastily, making a sign over the animal’s head with his hand, “Zar is a foultempered little beast, as you have seen. Many is the time he has sunk his tiny teeth into my thumb. See?” The man exhibited a dirty finger.

  Khardan expressed condolences, and knowing it would not be wise to discuss the monkey further lest the evil eye seek the animal out and destroy it, the Calif found it easy to change topics.

  “You spoke words I did not understand. You are not from around here.”

  The man nodded. “My home—What home I have—is in Ravenchai. But I have not been back there for many years. To be quite honest, my friend”—he drew nearer Khardan and gave him a conspiratorial glance from narrowed eyelids—”there is a wife in that home who would greet me with something less than loving devotion if I returned, if you know what I mean.”

  “Women!” grunted Khardan sympathetically.

  “It wasn’t her fault,” said the rascally man magnanimously. “Work is not fond of me.”

  “It isn’t?” returned Khardan, somewhat at a loss to understand this strange statement.

  “No, Work and I do not get along well at all. I take up with him on occasion, but we always end up in a dispute. Work demands that I continue pursuing him, while I am inclined to leave off and get something to eat or to take a small nap or to go around to the arwat for a cup of wine. Work ends up leaving me in a fit of anger, and there I am, with nothing to do except sleep, with no money to buy food to eat or wine to quench my thirst.” The man shook his head over this and appeared so truly devastated at this ill fortune that Khardan had no difficulty pronouncing Work to be the most unreasonable being in existence.

  “When Zar came to me— And that is a very strange story, my friend, for Zar did come to me, literally. I was walking the streets of—well, it does not matter to you what streets they were—when the Sultan rode out in his palanquin to take in the air. I was following along at his side, just in case the Sultan happened to drop anything that I might have the honor of restoring to him, when I saw the curtains part, and out from the bottom hopped this little fellow.” He patted the monkey, who had fallen asleep on his shoulder, its tail curled tightly about its master’s neck.

  “He leapt straight into my arms. I was preparing to return him to the Sultan when I noticed that the guards were engaged in beating off several beggars who had crowded around the other side of the palanquin. The Sultan was watching them with interest. No one, it seemed, had noticed the creature’s absence. Thinking that the monkey must have been badly treated, or he would never have left his owner, I thrust him beneath my robes and disappeared down an alley. That was several years ago, and we have been together ever since.”

  And he saves you from being involved with that dread fellow Work, Khardan thought with some amusement. Aloud he merely congratulated the man on his good fortune and then asked, casually, “Why is this great crowd going into Kich?”

  The man looked ahead. The city walls were close enough to them now that Khardan could see clearly the heavily armed guards walking the battlements. The morning sun gleamed brightly off a golden dome—a new addition to the temple of Quar, Khardan concluded. Paid for with the wealth and blood of the conquered cities of Bas, no doubt.

  The monkey’s master turned his gaze to Khardan in some amazement. “Why, you must have been far out in the desert not to have heard the news, nomad. This day the Imam of Quar returns victorious to his city.”

  Khardan and Auda exchanged swift glances.

  “This day? And the Amir?”

  “Oh, he comes, too, I suppose,” the man added without much interest. “It is the Imam all gather to see. That and the great slaughter of kafir that will be held tonight in his honor.”

  “Tonight!”

  “Slaughter of kafir?” Auda pushed forward to ask this question, drawing attention away from the whitefaced Khardan. “What do you mean, my friend? This sounds like a sight I would feign not miss. “

  “Why, the kafir of tht desert who have been imprisoned in Kich for many months and who have refused to convert to Quar.” The man looked intently at Khardan and Auda, noting the haik and the flowing robes with sudden uneasiness. “These kafir wouldn’t be relatives—”

  “No, no,” Khardan said gruffly, having recovered from the jolting shock. “We come from . . . from . . .” He faltered, his brain refusing to function.

  “Simdari,” inserted Auda, well aware that the nomad’s world was encompassed within his sand dunes.

  “Ah, Simdari,” said the monkey’s master. “I have never traveled in that land, but I am planning on journeying there when this festival is concluded. Tell me, what do you know of the arwats of Simdari . . .”

  Auda and the rascally man who did not get along with Work entered into a discussion of various inns, of which Khardan heard not one word. So much for good omens! All their plans, running like sand from between his fingers! How could he ever hope to see the Amir, who would be busy with returning to his palace, his city? And the Imam, prepared to destroy his people this night!

  It is hopeless, Khardan thought despondently. I can do nothing but stand and watch my people murdered! No, there is one thing I can do. I can die with them as I should have months ago—

  A hand touched his. Thinking it was Auda, he turned swiftly only to find Zohra walking at his side. Irrationally, he felt as if this bad luck was somehow his fault and she was going to gloat over him again. He was about to order her to return to her place when she saw and forestalled his intent.

  “Do not despair!” she said softly. “Akhran is with us! He brought us here in time, and his enemy opens the gates for us to enter.”

  The dark eyes above the veil glittered, and her fingers brushed lightly against his hand. Before he could respond or reach out to her, she was gone.

  Glancing behind, he saw her talking to Mathew, their heads bent close together, whispering. The young wizard nodded his veiled head several times, emphatically. His delicate hand made gestures, graceful as a woman’s. He and Zohra walked side by side, shoulders, bodies touching.

  Khardan suffered a twinge of jealousy, looking at the two, seeing their obvious closeness. It wasn’t the hurting, shriveling anguish he’d experienced when he’d feared Auda had . . . well, when he’d feared Auda. He couldn’t be jealous of the young man in the same way. He was jealous because this gentle wizard was closer to his wife than he, Khardan, could ever come. It was a closeness of shared interests, respect, admiration. And then it occurred to Khardan, startlingly, that just as his wife was closer to Mathew than to him, so he was closer to Mathew than to his wife.

  Khardan was genuinely fond of the young man. He knew his courage, for he had seen it in Castle Zhakrin. The fact that he—Khardan—could relate to Mathew as a man and that Zohra could, at the same time, relate to Mathew as a woman was a phenomenon that completely baffled the Calif. He allowed it to occupy his mind, crowd out more dismal and hopeless thoughts. These returned full force, however, when Auda came to walk beside him once more.

  “The situation is
not quite as desperate as you first thought, if what this fellow says can be trusted. The Imam will make a speech this night in which he will exhort all kafir to renounce their old Gods and come to the One, True God, Quar. Those who refuse will be given the night to consider their waywardness. In the morning, at dawn, they will choose to find salvation with Quar or be considered beyond redemption in this life and considerately put to death to find it in the next. “

  “So we have until dawn,” muttered Khardan, not overly comforted.

  “Until dawn,” Auda repeated with a casual shrug. “And our Enemy opens his gate to us. “

  The second time I have heard that. Khardan tried to see this as the miracle that everyone else did. Yet he was naggingly reminded of the fable of the lion who told the foolish mouse he knew of a wonderful place where the mouse could find shelter for the winter.

  “Right here,” said the lion, opening his mouth and pointing down his gullet. “Just walk in. Don’t mind the teeth.”

  Khardan raised his eyes to the city walls, the great wooden gates, the soldiers massed on top of the battlements.

  Don’t mind the teeth. . .

  Chapter 3

  They swept through the gate on a tide of humanity. No guard saw them, let alone attempted to stop and question them. The nomads were in far more danger from the crowds than the soldiers. It was all Auda and Khardan could do to keep hold of their horses. Brave in battle, accustomed to blood and slashing steel, and to being accorded the highest respect by humans, the animals were angered by the rough jostling, the elbows in the flanks, the whines of the beggars, the clamoring cries, pushings, and shovings of the mob.

  Just inside the gate was a large, cleared area where wagons used to haul goods to the city were stored. Slaves of every type and description were driving camels and donkeys into, out of, and around the cartstanding area; the fodder sellers were doing a literally roaring business. Khardan glanced askance at the confusion, but a momentary regret that he had chosen to bring the horses passed swiftly. They would need them in their escape . . . Akhran willing.

  Catching sight of a tall, thin boy of about eleven or twelve years who was staring at them intently, Khardan motioned him near. The boy’s eyes had not been on the nomads themselves, but on the horses, gazing at the magnificent animals of the desert with the hungry love and yearning of one who has grown up in the twisted streets of the city. The child never knew the freedom of the singing sands, but he could see it and feel it in the beauty and strength of the descendants of the horse of the Wandering God. At Khardan’s gesture the boy shot forward as though hurled from a sling.

  “What is your bidding, Effendi?”

  Khardan’s gaze scanned the cartstanding area, then turned to the boy. “Can you find food and water and rest for our horses and watch over them while we conduct our business?”

  “I would be honored, Effendi!” breathed the boy, stretching forth trembling hands to take the reins.

  Khardan fished another precious coin from the purse. “Here, this will purchase food and stable space. There will be another for you if you keep your trust.”

  “I would let myself be split in two by wooden stakes driven through my body, Effendi, before I allowed harm to come to these noble beasts!” The boy put a hand upon the neck of Khardan’s steed. Feeling the gentle touch, the animal quieted, though he stared around with rolling eyes and pricking ears.

  “I trust that will not be necessary,” Khardan said gravely. “Watch over them and keep them company. You need not worry about theft. I do not like to think what would happen to any man who tried to ride these horses without our sanction.”

  The boy’s face fell at this. “Yes, Effendi.” he said wistfully, twisting the mane lovingly in his fingers.

  Grinning, Khardan caught hold of the boy around the waist and tossed him up on the horse’s back. The boy gasped in delight and astonishment and could barely hold the reins the nomad thrust into his eager, trembling hand.

  “You may ride him, my fine spahi,” said the Calif, handing the boy the leads for the other three animals. A word in his horse’s ear and the animal suffered himself to be ridden away by the proud boy who bounced unsteadily in the saddle and wore the look of one who has ridden since birth. The other three horses followed their leader without hesitation.

  “Sond,” muttered Khardan beneath his breath to the air, “see that all is well with them.”

  “Yes, sidi. Shall I have Usti stand guard?”

  “For the time being. We may need him later.”

  “Yes, sidi.”

  The Calif heard a yelped protest, “I refuse to be left in a horse stall!” that ended in a smacking sound and a blubbering whimper.

  Now that the horses were settled, Khardan stared around him confusedly. His chief worry had been getting through the gate. This having been accomplished with an ease and swiftness that left him breathless, the Calif again felt a sense of disquietude about it, as if he had been given a valuable gift that he knew deep within was no gift and feared the dread payment that must be exacted later.

  A shout from Auda saved Mathew from being ridden down by two donkey riders and recalled Khardan to the fact that they were standing in the center of the main road of Kich and were in danger of being trampled or separated by the mob. Though it was Zohra’s first time to see the city, she was glancing about in a haughty disdain which, Khardan had come to know, masked uneasiness and awe. He knew how she felt; he could feel his own face settling into that very expression. Mathew was calm, but very pale. Above his veil, his green eyes were wide, and he kept darting swift glances at something behind Khardan. The Calif looked back, saw the slave market, and understood.

  “What now, brother?” asked Auda.

  What now indeed? Khardan continued to gaze around helplessly. The Amir had once referred to the nomads—outside of their hearing, of course—as naive children. If Qannadi had been present to witness Khardan’s confusion, the Amir would have been able to acknowledge himself a wise judge of men. Months ago, in the pride of his standing as Prince of the desert, Khardan had walked into the palace and demanded and received an audience with the Amir. He’d had it in mind this time to do the very same thing when—standing once again in the city streets and reliving that audience months before—he suddenly realized that he had been duped. He had been admitted purposefully, attacked purposefully, allowed to escape purposefully. He’d had a glimmer of this; Meryem’s assassination attempt revealed as much, but now the light of truth shone glaringly down on him. Just why the Amir had gone to this trouble with him was still vague to Khardan, who did not know—and probably never would—of Pukah’s bungling, doubledealing, mischief making.

  The Calif swore bitterly, cursing himself for a fool. Would the Amir see him now? A ragged Prince whose people were imprisoned, doomed to death? Qannadi was just returned triumphant from battle. There would be supplicants and wellwishers by the hundreds who had undoubtedly been waiting weeks to see him and might possibly wait weeks longer until the Amir was at leisure to turn his attention to them. Qannadi might not even have arrived in the city.

  A blare of trumpets came as answer to Khardan’s thoughts. A clattering of many hooves warned him of his peril just moments before the cavalry of the Amir swept through the city gate. Their nags whipping behind them, the soldiers’ uniforms were vivid splashes of color among the drab browns and whites, grays and blacks worn by those milling about the streets. Hurrying to the side of the road just moments before they would have been stampeded into the hardpacked earth, Khardan and his companions watched the soldiers ride heedlessly through the crowd, knocking aside those who did not move out of their way, ignoring the curses and shaking fists that heralded their entry.

  They were all business, these men. It was their duty to clear the way, and this they did, with ruthless efficiency. An ax through flesh, they cleaved through the masses, the welltrained horses pressing the people back against the walls of the Kasbah on one side, the slave market and the first stalls
of the bazaar on the other. Foot soldiers, marching in ranks behind them, were swiftly deployed by their officers to keep the crowd back, taking up positions on either side of the street, holding spears out horizontally before them to form a living barricade. Those who tried to cross or who surged forward were given a swift clout with the buttend of the weapon.

  Khardan searched the faces of the riders intently, looking for Achmed, but there was too much confusion, and the soldiers, in their steel helms, looked all alike to him. He heard Auda shouting, “What is it? What is happening?” and several voices crying at once, “The Imam! The Imam is come!”

  The stench, the heat, the excitement, was suffocating. Khardan felt fingers dig into his arm and turned to see Mathew clinging to him desperately so as not to be knocked off his feet by the heavings and surges of the mob. Khardan gripped the young man by the arm, holding him close, and looked to see Auda deal swiftly and silently with an overzealous believer attempting to shove Zohra out of his line of vision. A gasp, a groan, and Quar’s faithful sank down into the dust where his unconscious body was immediately set upon and picked clean by the followers of Benario.

  A mighty shout rose from the throats of the people, who strained forward with such force that the soldiers holding them back stumbled and fought to keep their footing. Line after line of the Imam’s own soldierpriests appeared, walking proudly down the street. Unlike the Amir’s men, these soldierpriests wore no armor, believing themselves to be protected from harm by the God. Clad in black silken tunics and long, billowing pantalons, every soldierpriest had a story about how an arrow, shot at his heart, had bounced off, how Quar’s hand had turned aside a sword thrust meant for the throat. Such tales were often not far from the truth, for the soldierpriests ran into battle in a shrieking, confused knot, hacking with their naked blades, the light of fanaticism gleaming in their eyes. More than one enemy broke before them in sheer panic. The soldierpriests carried their curved blades in their hands. At the cheers of the crowd, they raised the swords above their heads and shook them in triumph.