Jehane smiled up at the leather worker reassuringly. “It doesn’t matter what container you bring a sample in. Don’t apologize.”
By his coloring he appeared to be a Jaddite from the north, living here because the work for skilled artisans was better in Al-Rassan, most probably a convert. The Asharites didn’t demand conversions, but the tax burden on Kindath and Jaddite made for a keen incentive to embrace the desert visions of Ashar the Sage.
She transferred the urine sample from the chipped beaker to her father’s gorgeous flask, gift of the grateful king whose namesake heir was here today to celebrate an event that further ensured Cartadan dominance of proud Fezana. On a bustling market morning Jehane had little time to ponder ironies, but they tended to surface nonetheless; her mind worked that way.
As the sample settled in the flask she saw that the urine of the leather worker’s son was distinctly rose-colored. She tilted the flask back and forth in the light; in fact, the color was too close to red for comfort. The child had a fever; what else he had was hard to judge.
“Velaz,” she murmured, “dilute the absinthe with a quarter of mint. A drop of the cordial for taste.” She heard her servant withdraw into the booth to prepare the prescription.
To the leather worker she said, “He is warm to the touch?”
He nodded anxiously. “And dry. He is very dry, doctor. He has difficulty swallowing food.”
Briskly, she said, “That is understandable. Give him the remedy we are preparing. Half when you arrive home, half at sundown. Do you understand that?” The man nodded. It was important to ask; some of them, especially the Jaddites from the countryside in the north, didn’t understand the concept of fractions. Velaz would make up two separate vials for them.
“Feed him hot soups only today, a little at a time, and the juice of apples if you can. Make him take these things, even if he does not want to. He may vomit later today. That is not alarming unless there is blood with it. If there is blood, send to my house immediately. Otherwise, continue with the soup and the juice until nightfall. If he is dry and hot he needs these things, you understand?” Again the man nodded, his brow furrowed with concentration. “Before you go, give Velaz directions to your home. I will come in the morning tomorrow to see him.”
The man’s relief was evident, but then a familiar hesitation appeared. “Doctor, forgive me. We have no money to spare for a private consultation.”
Jehane grimaced. Probably not a convert then, sorely burdened by the taxes but refusing to surrender his worship of the sun-god, Jad. Who was she, however, to question religious scruples? Nearly a third of her own earnings went to the Kindath tax, and she would never have called herself religious. Few doctors were. Pride, on the other hand, was another matter. The Kindath were the Wanderers, named for the two moons traversing the night sky among the stars, and as far as Jehane was concerned, they had not traveled so far, through so many centuries, only to surrender their long history here in Al-Rassan. If a Jaddite felt the same about his god, she could understand.
“We will deal with the matter of payment when the time comes. For the moment, the question is whether the child will need to be bled, and I cannot very well do that here in the marketplace.”
She heard a ripple of laughter from someone standing by the booth. She ignored that, made her voice more gentle. Kindath physicians were known to be the most expensive in the peninsula. As well we should be, Jehane thought. We are the only ones who know anything. It was wrong of her, though, to chide people for concerns about cost. “Never fear.” She smiled up at the leather worker. “I will not bleed both you and the boy.”
More general laughter this time. Her father had always said that half the task of doctors was to make the patient believe in them. A certain kind of laughter helped, Jehane had found. It conveyed a sense of confidence. “Be sure you know both the moons and the Higher Stars of his birth hour. If I am going to draw blood I’ll want to work out a time.”
“My wife will know,” the man whispered. “Thank you. Thank you, doctor.”
“Tomorrow,” she said crisply.
Velaz reappeared from the back with the medicine, gave it to the man, and took away her flask to empty it into the pail beside the counter. The leather worker paused beside him, nervously giving directions for the morrow.
“Who’s next?” Jehane asked, looking up again.
There were a great many of King Almalik’s mercenaries in the market now. The blond northern giants from far-off Karch or Waleska and, even more oppressively, Muwardi tribesmen ferried across the straits from the Majriti sands, their faces half-veiled, dark eyes unreadable, except when contempt showed clearly.
Almost certainly this was a deliberate public display by Cartada. There were probably soldiers strolling all through town, under orders to be seen. She belatedly remembered hearing that the prince had arrived two days ago with five hundred men. Far too many soldiers for a ceremonial visit. You could take a small city or launch a major raid across the tagra—the no-man’s-land—with five hundred good men.
They needed soldiers here. The current governor of Fezana was a puppet of Almalik’s, supported by a standing army. The mercenary troops were here ostensibly to guard against incursions from the Jaddite kingdoms, or brigands troubling the countryside. In reality their presence was the only thing that kept the city from rising in revolt again. And now, of course, with a new-built wing in the castle there would be more of them.
Fezana had been a free city from the fall of the Khalifate until seven years ago. Freedom was a memory, anger a reality now; they had been taken in Cartada’s second wave of expansion. The siege had lasted half a year, then someone had opened the Salos Gate to the army outside one night as winter was coming, with its enforced end to the siege. They never learned who the traitor was. Jehane remembered hiding with her mother in the innermost room of their home in the Kindath Quarter, hearing screams and the shouts of battle and the crackle of fire. Her father had been on the other side of the walls, hired by the Cartadans a year before to serve as physician to Almalik’s army; such was a doctor’s life. Ironies again.
Human corpses, crawling with flies, had hung from the walls above this gate and the other five for weeks after the taking of the city, the smell hovering over fruit and vegetable stalls like a pestilence.
Fezana became part of the rapidly growing kingdom of Cartada. So, already, had Lonza, and Aljais, even Silvenes itself, with the sad, plundered ruins of the Al-Fontina. So, later, did Seria and Ardeño. Now even proud Ragosa on the shores of Lake Serrana was under threat, as were Elvira and Tudesca to the south and southwest. In the fragmented Al-Rassan of the petty-kings, Almalik of Cartada was named the Lion by the poets of his court.
Of all the conquered cities, it was Fezana that rebelled most violently: three times in seven years. Each time Almalik’s mercenaries had come back, the blond ones and the veiled ones, and each time flies and carrion birds had feasted on corpses spread-eagled on the city walls.
But there were other ironies, keener ones, of late. The fierce Lion of Cartada was being forced to acknowledge the presence of beasts equally dangerous. The Jaddites of the north might be fewer in number and torn amongst themselves, but they were not blind to opportunity. For two years now Fezana had been paying tribute money to King Ramiro of Valledo. Almalik had been unable to refuse, not if he wanted to avoid the risk of war with the strongest of the Jaddite kings while policing the cities of his fractious realm, dealing with the outlaw bands that roamed the southern hills, and with King Badir of Ragosa wealthy enough to hire his own mercenaries.
Ramiro of Valledo might rule a rough society of herdsmen and primitive villagers, but it was also a society organized for war, and the Horsemen of Jad were not to be trifled with. Only the might of the khalifs of Al-Rassan, supreme in Silvenes for three hundred years, had sufficed to conquer most of the peninsula and confine the Jaddites to the north—and that confining had demanded raid after raid through the high plateaus of the no-m
an’s-land, and not every raid had been successful.
If the three Jaddite kings ever stopped warring amongst each other, brother against uncle against brother, Jehane thought, Cartada’s conquering Lion—along with all the lesser kings of Al-Rassan—might be muzzled and gelded soon enough.
Which would not necessarily be a good thing at all.
One more irony, bitterness in the taste of it. It seemed she had to hope for the survival of the man she hated as no other. All winds might bring rain for the Kindath, but here among the Asharites of Al-Rassan they had acceptance and a place. After centuries of wandering the earth like their moons through heaven, that meant a great deal. Taxed heavily, bound by restrictive laws, they could nonetheless live freely, seek their fortunes, worship as they wished, both the god and his sisters. And some among the Kindath had risen high indeed among the courts of the petty-kings.
No Kindath were high in the counsels of the Children of Jad in this peninsula. Hardly any of them were left in the north. History—and they had a long history—had taught the Kindath that they might be tolerated and even welcomed among the Jaddites when times were prosperous and peaceful, but when the skies darkened, when the rain winds came, the Kindath became Wanderers again. They were exiled, or forcibly converted, or they died in the lands where the sun-god held sway.
Tribute—the parias—was collected by a party of northern horsemen twice a year. Fezana was expensively engaged in paying the price of being too near to the tagra lands.
The poets were calling the three hundred years of the Khalifate a Golden Age now. Jehane had heard the songs and the spoken verses. In those vanished days, however people might have chafed at the absolute power or the extravagant splendor of the court at Silvenes, with the wadjis in their temples bemoaning decadence and sacrilege, in the raiding season the ancient roads to the north had witnessed the passage of the massed armies of Al-Rassan, and then their return with plunder and slaves.
No unified army went north into the no-man’s-land now, and if the steppes of those empty places saw soldiers in numbers any time soon it was more likely to be the Horsemen of Jad the sun-god. Jehane could almost convince herself that even those last, impotent khalifs of her childhood had been symbols of a golden time.
She shook her head and turned from watching the mercenaries. A quarry laborer was next in line; she read his occupation in the chalk-white dust coating his clothing and hands. She also read, unexpectedly, gout in his pinched features and the awkward tilt of his stance, even before she glanced at the thick, milky sample of urine he held out to her. It was odd for a laborer to have gout; in the quarries the usual problems were with throat and lungs. With real curiosity she looked from the flask back up at the man.
As it happened, the quarryman was a patient Jehane never did treat. So, too, in fact, was the leather worker’s child.
A sizable purse dropped onto the counter before her.
“Do forgive this intrusion, doctor,” a voice said. “May I be permitted to impose upon your time?” The light tones and court diction were incongruous in the marketplace. Jehane looked up. This was, she realized, the man who had laughed before.
The rising sun was behind him, so her first image was haloed against the light and imprecise: a smooth-shaven face in the current court fashion, brown hair. She couldn’t see his eyes clearly. He smelled of perfume and he wore a sword. Which meant he was from Cartada. Swords were forbidden the citizens of Fezana, even within their own walls.
On the other hand, she was a free woman going about her lawful affairs in her own place of business, and because of Almalik’s gifts to her father she had no need to snatch at a purse, even a large purse—as this one manifestly was.
Irritated, she breached protocol sufficiently to pick it up and flip it back to him. “If your need is for a physician’s assistance you are not intruding. That is why I am here. But there are, as you will have noted, people ahead of you. When you have, in due course, arrived at the front of this line I shall be pleased to assist, if I can.” Had she been less vexed she might have been amused at how formal her own language had become. She still couldn’t see him clearly. The quarryman had sidled nervously to one side.
“I greatly fear I have not the time for either alternative,” the Cartadan murmured. “I will have to take you from your patients here, which is why I offer a purse for compensation.”
“Take me?” Jehane snapped. She rose to her feet. Irritation had given way to anger. Several of the Muwardis, she realized, were now strolling over towards her stall. She was aware of Velaz directly behind her. She would have to be careful; he would challenge anyone for her.
The courtier smiled placatingly and quickly held up a gloved hand. “Escort you, I ought rather to have said. I entreat forgiveness. I had almost forgotten I was in Fezana, where such niceties matter greatly.” He seemed amused more than anything else, which angered her further.
She could see him clearly now that she was standing. His eyes were blue, like her own—as unusual in the Asharites as it was among the Kindath. The hair was thick, curling in the heat. He was very expensively dressed, rings on several of his gloved fingers and a single pearl earring which was certainly worth more than the collective worldly goods of everyone in the line in front of her. More gems studded his belt and sword hilt; some were even sewn into the leather of the slippers on his feet. A dandy, Jehane thought, a mincing court dandy from Cartada.
The sword was a real one though, not a symbol, and his eyes, now that she was looking into them, were unsettlingly direct.
Jehane had been raised, by her mother and father both, to show deference where it was due and earned, and not otherwise.
“Such ‘niceties,’ as you prefer to call simple courtesy, ought to matter in Cartada as much as they do here,” she said levelly. She pushed a strand of hair back from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I am here in the market until the midday bells have rung. If you have genuine need of a private consultation I will refer to my afternoon appointments and see when I am available.”
He shook his head politely. Two of the veiled soldiers had come up to them. “As I believe I did mention, we have not time for that.” There still seemed to be something amusing him. “I should perhaps say that I am not here for an affliction of my own, much as it might gratify any man to be subject to your care.” There was a ripple of laughter.
Jehane was not amused. This sort of thing she knew how to deal with, and was about to, but the Cartadan went on without pausing: “I have just come from the house of a patient of yours. Husari ibn Musa is ill. He begs you to come to him this morning, before the consecration ceremony begins at the castle, that he might not be forced to miss being presented to the prince.”
“Oh,” Jehane said.
Ibn Musa had kidney stones, recurring ones. He had been her father’s patient and one of the very first to accept her as Ishak’s successor. He was wealthy, soft as the silk in which he traded, and he enjoyed rich foods far too much for his own good. He was also kind, surprisingly unpretentious, intelligent, and his early patronage had meant a great deal to her practice. Jehane liked him, and worried about him.
It was certain, given his wealth, that the silk merchant would have been on the list of citizens honored with an invitation to meet the prince of Cartada. Some things were becoming clear. Not all.
“Why did he send you? I know most of his people.”
“But he didn’t send me,” the man demurred, with easy grace. “I offered to come. He warned me of your weekly market routine. Would you have left this booth at the behest of a servant? Even one you knew?”
Jehane had to shake her head. “Only for a birth or an accident.”
The Cartadan smiled, showing white teeth against the tanned, smooth features. “Ibn Musa is, Ashar and the holy stars be thanked, not presently with child. Nor has any untoward accident befallen him. His condition is the one for which I understand you have treated him before. He swears no one else in Fezana knows how to alleviate
his sufferings. And today, of course, is an . . . exceptional day. Will you not deviate from your custom this one time and permit me the honor of escorting you to him?”
Had he offered the purse again she would have refused. Had he not looked calm and very serious as he awaited her reply, she would have refused. Had it been anyone other than Husari ibn Musa entreating her presence . . .
Looking back, afterwards, Jehane was acutely aware that the smallest of gestures in that moment could have changed everything. She might so easily have told the smooth, polished Cartadan that she’d attend upon ibn Musa later that day. If so—the thought was inescapable—she would have had a very different life.
Better or worse? No man or woman could answer that. The winds blew, bringing rain, yes, but sometimes also sweeping away the low, obscuring clouds to allow the flourishes of sunrise or sunset seen from a high place, or those bright, hard, clear nights when the blue moon and the white seemed to ride like queens across a sky strewn with stars in glittering array.
Jehane instructed Velaz to close and lock the booth and follow her. She told all those left in the line to give their names to Velaz, that she would see them free of charge in her treatment rooms or at the next week’s market. Then she took her urine flask and let the stranger take her off to ibn Musa’s house.
The stranger.
The stranger was Ammar ibn Khairan of Aljais. The poet, the diplomat, the soldier. The man who had killed the last khalif of Al-Rassan. She learned his name when they arrived at her patient’s house. It was the first great shock of that day. Not the last. She could never decide if she would have gone with him, had she known.
A different life, if she hadn’t gone. Less wind, less rain. Perhaps none of the visions offered those who stand in the high, windy places of the world.
Ibn Musa’s steward had briskly admitted her and then greeted her escort unctuously by name, almost scraping the floor with his forehead in obeisance, strewing phrases of gratitude like rose petals. The Cartadan had managed to interpose a quiet apology for not introducing himself, and then sketched a court bow of his own to her. It was not customary to bow to Kindath infidels. In fact, according to the wadjis, it was forbidden to Asharites, subject to a public lashing.
The Lions of Al-Rassan Page 2