Alamut (42 page)

His captors did not know what he was. She had not seen fit to tell them.

He began to smile.

28.

Sayyida burrowed in the depths of the clothes press, winnowing outright rags from clothes that could be mended from what needed no mending at all. Laila always relegated to rags what she was tired of, no matter its condition; Sayyida had already found a veil of peacock silk with gold thread in it, that would do very well for when she wanted to look pretty for Maimoun. She wrapped it about her neck and dug deeper.

“This would suit you,” someone said.

Sayyida erupted from the press. Morgiana held up a plum-colored gown. It clashed hideously with her hair.

By slow degrees Sayyida's heart stopped hammering. She took the gown in fingers that still shook a little, and drew a long, steadying breath. “I wish you wouldn't do that,” she said.

The ifritah laughed. Her throat was a patchwork of greening bruises, but her voice was her own again, only a little huskiness left. She looked as if she would have liked to dance.

No sooner thought than done. She swept Hasan out of the tangle of castoffs and whirled him about, to his manifest delight.

“You're in good spirits,” Sayyida observed, a little sourly.

Morgiana's grin was all mischief. “Oh,I am. I am!” She hugged Hasan to her and kissed him resoundingly on both cheeks. “Do you know what I've done?”

“Something appalling,” said Sayyida.

“Oh, yes. It is that. I haven't even killed anybody.” That sobered her a little. But her secret was too much for her. She held it yet a while, as if she could not bear to let it go. Then: “I have him now.”

“Him?”

“Him!” She bounced; there was no other word for it. “My Frank. I caught him before anyone knew what I did, and took him away. He's safe now, till I'm ready to claim him.”

Morgiana acting like a silly chit of a girl was a revelation. Sayyida tried to bring a little reason into the proceedings. “Does he have an opinion? Or aren't you letting him have one?”

“He will. When I'm ready.” She laughed again, almost — Allah help them all — a giggle. “Do you remember how you almost poisoned me? I borrowed the bottle. He'll sleep till I want him to wake.”

Worse and worse. “And then?”

“He wakes.” She waited; Sayyida failed to extol her brilliance. “You don't see. He wakes, in the place I've readied for him. He'll be wild, I know that. But I'll tame him. From hate to love is no distance at all; and we belong together. He's a child, but he has the beginnings of sense. He'll see what has to be.”

“You,” said Sayyida, “are stark raving mad.”

Even that could not touch Morgiana. “You are mortal,” she said. “You think in mortal ways. He and I — we are of the same kind. He will remember that. He will come to see as I see.”

“May Allah will it,” Sayyida said.

oOo

Sayyida wore the veil and the gown that night. Morgiana was delighted to help her: to wash her hair with a little of Laila's henna and put it up with a clasp that Maimoun had made himself, silver set with turquoises; and paint for her eyes, and even a whisper of scent. She had not felt so close to beautiful since her wedding.

Maimoun was late in coming. That was nothing to fret over: he was dining with a friend or two, and they liked to pass the night in playing backgammon. Maimoun would stay a while, for decency: a man should not seem too eager for his wife.

She waited alone. Fahimah and Morgiana had Hasan. She thought of going to fetch him, for the company, but it would hardly do for Maimoun to come back while she did it. She wriggled in her unaccustomed splendor, and tried not to rub the kohl from her eyelids. If he did not come soon, she was going to stop feeling splendid and start feeling silly. What was she doing in paint and scent and hennaed curls? She was plain gawky Sayyida, no more a beauty than she was a sultan's bride.

She knew his step: solid, like him, and a little self-important. It shook her out of her half-drowse, drew her up at the angle Morgiana had told her was her best, tensed her as it always did these days, since she had secrets to keep.

Outside the door, he hesitated. She held still. Sometimes his friends had wine, which she was not supposed to know about. But she always knew, because he moved more carefully and talked more freely, and his breath smelled of mint.

He came in slowly. His brows were knit. Her nose caught neither wine nor mint, but something sweeter. It reminded her of ...

She was wearing it. Laila's perfume.

No. He would never do that. Not with his master's wife.

His eyes fixed on her face. He never saw the veil at all, or the gown, or even the kohl that made her eyes almost beautiful. He said, “You've been hiding something from me.”

She opened her mouth, closed it again.

“I told you,” he said. “I told you not to see her.”

She could lie. She could deny. She could scream at him. She said calmly, “Who told you she was here?”

“Laila.”

It was out before he thought. He flushed.

“That,” she said, “was treachery.”

His flush deepened to crimson. “You admit it?”

“I won't lie.” Her hands shook; she knotted them. “I didn't have any choice, Maimoun. She was hurt; she was sick. She had nowhere else to go.”

He advanced on her. “I forbade you. You defied me. How dared you? How
dared
you?”

Her back struck the wall. She did not even remember moving. She had never seen Maimoun like this. “Maimoun! Won't you listen? She's a friend. She came to me; she needed me. How could I cast her out?”

“I told you not to see her.”

He bulked over her. She tried to get up; he pushed her down. She would not cry — she would not. “Why? Why do you hate her so much?”

“She is a horror. She has killed more times than anyone can count.”

“Who told you that?”

He would not answer.

“It was Laila, wasn't it? You know how little she loves me.”

“Sometimes she tells the truth.”

“You don't even
know
the woman!”

“Woman? Woman, is it? I know whose slave she is. I know how she has cursed your family. I know it all, Sayyida. You thought you could keep it from me, didn't you? All of you.” He sneered. “Bahram the eunuch. Bahram the unmanned, with a passion for silver-hilted daggers. You made a fool of me.”

She clutched his coat. “Maimoun! Stop. Please, stop.”

He tore her hands free. “No, I won't stop. You wouldn't stop harboring her, even when I expressly forbade you.”

Something snapped. She did not want it to. She tried to hold it together, to keep her voice from shaking. “She needed me. I've known her since I was a baby. I couldn't turn her away.”

“She needs nothing and no one. You chose. You chose her, and you defied me. What else have you done? Where have you gone? Whom have you seen? Spoken to? Slept with? Is even my son my own?”

“Maimoun,” she said. “Don't.”

He hauled her up. His spittle sprayed her face. “Don't! You command me, woman? You laugh in my face? Go on. Tell me he truth. Tell me how you scorn me.”

“I don't.”

“Liar.”

Her breath caught: a sob. “Don't call me that.”

“I'll call you anything I please.”

She could not hold it in any longer. She was sorry. She did not want it. But it was too big; it was too strong. It was rage.

It came softly, softly. “You will not,” it said to him.

He shook her, rocking her head on her neck. “I will. Liar.” Shake. “Liar.” Shake. “Liar!”

Her hand tore free and smote him with all the force of rage and grief and betrayal.

He clubbed her down.

oOo

“That,” said a voice as soft as the voice of Sayyida's rage, “was not wise.”

At first he seemed not to hear it. He gaped down at Sayyida, as if he could not understand how she had got there, sprawled at his feet. She stared up. What opened in her, she knew with cold certainty, was hate.

Morgiana stepped between them. She was in white. She looked like a flame before Maimoun's dark solidity; there was nothing human in her. Hasan clung huge-eyed to her neck.

She took no notice of him at all. “Shall I kill him?” she asked.

Sayyida swallowed painfully. Her lip was split; she tasted blood. “No,” she said. “No, he's not worth killing.” She paused. “You haven't done anything to Laila, have you?”

The ifritah smiled with terrible contentment. “No. Nothing. Except...” Her voice trailed off.

“What did you do?”

Her apprehension made Morgiana laugh. “Nothing criminal, I trust. I simply laid a wishing on her. To her husband, she must speak the truth, and only the truth, as she thinks it, without embellishment. It was,” she said, “illuminating for all concerned.”

Sayyida could not laugh, She did not think that she would ever laugh again. But she mustered a smile. “I can imagine.”

Morgiana's eyes sharpened; she leaned toward Sayyida. Her finger brushed the throbbing lip. She hissed. “He struck you.”

It was nothing, Sayyida was going to say. Not for love of Maimoun. Simply because she did not want any human creature to die on her account.

But he spoke first, blustering, blind to any good sense, seeing only that he was male and this, even this, was female. “Yes, I struck her. She is my wife. She is mine to do with as I please.”

“She is?” Gentle, that. Maiden-soft, maiden-sweet. Deadly dangerous.

He heard only the softness. His chest swelled. “She is.” He held out his hands. “Give me my son, and get out.”

Hasan's face was buried in Morgiana's shoulder. She looked from him to his father. Her nostrils flared. “What will you do if I refuse? Hit me?”

“A beating would do you good.”

“You think so?” She was all wide eyes and maidenly astonishment. “You really think so?”

Even he could hardly be as great a fool as to be taken in by that. He paused, eyes narrowing. She laid her cheek against Hasan's curls. One arm cradled the child. The other settled about Sayyida's shoulders.

His hands came up. One, a fist, wavered between the women. The other snatched at Hasan.

Morgiana recoiled. Sayyida leaped. Which of them she meant to defend, she never knew. His blow, too well begun, caught the side of her head and flung her against the ifritah. Morgiana cried out. Sayyida tried to. “No! Don't kill. Don't kill — ”

oOo

Silence.

Sayyida sat down hard. Her rump protested: it knew stone. Her head reeled, not only with the blow.

This was no room she knew.

She clutched. Yes, stone. A carpet over it, rich and jewel-beautiful. Lamps in a cluster; hangings of silk, flame-red, flame-blue, flame-gold.

Morgiana, white and crimson and fierce cat-green, with Hasan staring about in grave astonishment.

Sayyida held out her arms. He filled them; she held him tight and tried not to shake. Very, very soon, she was going to break into screaming hysterics. “Where,” she managed to ask. “Where are we?”

“Away.” Morgiana knelt in front of her. “This is my place, my secret.”

“Is it where you go, when you go away?”

“Sometimes.”

Sayyida clung to Hasan and rocked. She was cold; she was all bleak inside. More had broken tonight than her patience. “You didn't — you didn't kill him. Did you?”

“You told me not to.” Morgiana hesitated. She looked — of all things, she looked uncertain. “I left him goggling and yelling for you to come back.”

Sayyida's heart clenched.

“I can take you,” said Morgiana. “If you want it.”

“No.” Sayyida had not meant to say it. But her tongue had a will of its own. “No. He called me a liar. He grants me no trust and no honor. He cages me. I won't go back to that.”

“I won't make you.”

Sayyida thrust words past the knot in her throat. “Will you let me stay here?”

“As long as you need,” Morgiana said.

Forever!
Sayyida almost cried. But she was not as far gone as that, even yet. “For ... for a while,” she said. “Until I know what I want. If you don't — ”

“How can I mind? I brought you here.”

Sayyida laughed, because if she did not, she would burst into tears. “It's like a story. The princess in distress, swept away to the enchanter's castle. Do all stories come down to as little as this?”

Morgiana touched the mark of Maimoun's fist. “Not so little,” she said.

The tears came then, for all that Sayyida could do. Morgiana eased the whimpering Hasan out of her arms. She lay on her face and wept herself dry.

oOo

When Sayyida set her mind on something, she held to it, though it tore her to the heart. She would not hear of her family; she would not speak of what had happened. She settled in Morgiana's lair, with the baby to keep her busy, and a thousand small tasks such as Morgiana would never think of, still less find worth doing. They did, Morgiana admitted, make a difference, albeit a subtle one. Sayyida claimed a corner of the hall for herself and Hasan, heaped rugs and cushions there, and tried to keep in it the toys and baubles that Morgiana brought for the baby. In the lesser cavern, where was an ancient and blackened hearthstone and where the roof made itself a chimney to the distant sky, she established her kitchen. The rest she kept clean and tidy; she exiled the lizards and the spiders to a quarter near the cavemouth, and the mice with them, since Morgiana would not hear of their expulsion.

Morgiana had no delusions about her prowess as a housewife, but before a master of the art, she felt keenly all that she lacked. It dismayed her a little. It amused her considerably. She was — yes, more than anything, she was pleased to have these interlopers here, living in her secret place, changing it to suit their pleasure.