The Diviner (13 page)

“Badly, al-Gallidh. My mother taught me, but despaired of my ever becoming a serious player.”

“This is very, very old. My father always said he could imagine that this was the service on which Acuyib and Chaydann Il-Mamnoua'a played to divide up the world into the green lands and the red.”

Azzad nodded. “My mother used to say that chadarang was part of her devotions—it's the eternal struggle between the desert and the garden.”

Al-Gallidh picked up one of the towers, fingering a broken crenellation on the jasper. “Your mother sounds a wise woman. But I think there are things more subtle here. There are those of us who live in these, safe and stationary—” He set the tower back on its square and touched the carnelian sheyqa's crowned head. “—and those who have not the grandest title but who rule in truth by moving among the people.” Sitting back, he regarded Azzad thoughtfully. “I am told that you are a good worker.”

“I have tried to be,” Azzad replied.

“I am further told that you are clean, conscientious, do not drink or gamble or follow women about in the marketplace, and indeed have been exemplary.”

Looking into the older man's eyes, he felt an absurd desire to shuffle his feet and shrug like a little boy.

“How is it then,” asked the nobleman, “that this superlative servant has done my house such grievous wrong?”

Azzad blinked. “I don't understand. What wrong have I done?”

“Perhaps I ought to say that the wrong was done not by you but by your horse.” Leaning back, he eyed Azzad with a hint of whimsy. “Five of my best mares are with foal by that spindle-legged stallion of yours.”

“Five—?”

“Yes. At about the time you arrived here, they were coming into season and had just been separated from the herd. They were to be covered by my new stud, who was taken to them as planned. But I did not know until today that Khamsin had gotten there before him.”

“But—how?”

“Our horses do not require high fences,” Bazir replied mildly.

It was true. They could sooner fly than jump anything taller than this couch. But Khamsin—faster, lighter—he'd been trying to fly since he'd tottered to his feet and taken his first steps.

“I know,” Bazir continued, “because by this time the mares should be much bigger than they are. I was afraid that I was mistaken when I bought the new stud, that he had no vigor. But—five mares, all of the best bloodlines, all bearing runtlings at the same time? Then I happened to catch sight of your Khamsin galloping across the meadow. He leaped the stream merely for the fun of it.”

Azzad nodded slowly. “I am sorry, al-Gallidh. What can I do to—”

“—rectify the problem? Nothing. I blame myself, in truth, for not recognizing that he would get to the mares any way he could. We just don't think about horses leaping fences, you see. And so now we have a difficulty.”

Azzad tried not to gulp. This was an appalling thing Khamsin had done, potentially disastrous to the al-Gallidh horses' reputation, not to speak of whatever profits had been expected in this year's crop of foals—

But the nobleman did not look angry; indeed, he seemed almost merry. “I need draft animals, not racehorses. What am I to do with these half-breeds?”

Five foals, not as tall or heavy or powerful as their mothers—

“Mazzud says, and I agree, that judging by their smallness inside the womb, they will be much too frail for harnessing.”

—but as light and swift as their sire, perfect for—

“And so how can I use them?”

“Riding,” he heard himself say, and all at once the blurry idea of what seemed like years ago became as polished crystal in his mind. So did his mother's face. And the estimable Za'avedra el-Ibrafidia stared at him with disgust for his blindness. “Saddle them and ride them,” he said, excitement rising in him the way his manhood rose at the sight of a beautiful woman.

“We ride donkeys.” A flat statement, admitting no possibility of change.

“And look ridiculous on them!” Azzad exclaimed. “Only see, al-Gallidh, the advantages! They will be bigger than Khamsin, but not so big as your horses. The terrain here demands strength, which they will have—but grace and a sweeter temper as well, and speed—not so fast as he, but much faster than—”

“You speak as if they were already born.”

“I
know
how they will be, I can see every one of them!” And somehow he could.

“Along with that truth charm about your neck, did the Shagara give you a spell of foreknowledge as well?”

The crystalline images shattered. “A—a spell?”

“My brother Zellim also has interests,” Bazir murmured. “It was he who pointed out to me the charm and deduced its purpose. Through my own reading, I have learned that when our people rode into battle against the barbarians, they wore amulets to protect them—things of gold and silver made by the Shagara.”

“I did not know that, either.”

“And now that you do know, you do not believe?”

Azzad opened his mouth and found he had no words. In the matter of the pregnant girl, the people of Sihabbah had believed him. So, he realized suddenly, had the shepherds in that village, who had been ready to kill him; but after he had told them he meant no harm, Abb Sharouf, standing close to him, had believed him. Believed, and let him go. For no reason whatsoever.

Except the Shagara gold around his neck.

“Al-Gallidh,” he said at last, “I do not know. The Shagara were a peculiarity to me—kind and welcoming, skilled in medicine as everyone knows, but their ways were . . . eccentric.”

“So I have heard. So I have
not
read—which is curious, if they were so important in driving out the invaders. Their name is mentioned in the books, and that is all. Nothing of their ways, their lands, their customs. They crafted armbands and rings, a few shields for the nobility, necklaces—and that is all anyone knows.”

Azzad had not seen shields being made. Perhaps the Shagara made such things only in times of war. If, as Fadhil had told him, there was no war here—

Bazir sighed and drummed his fingers on a pillow. The pearl glistened with subtle iridescence by lamplight. “We will speak more of the Shagara another time. For now—you know that as owner of the sire, the foals will be half yours.”

This time astonishment completely robbed him of speech.

“In the normal course of things, once they are born, each partner has the right to reject any or all and be compensated.”

Azzad's mouth was so dry he thought his tongue would stick permanently to his teeth.

“These half-breeds will be of no use to me at the wagon or the plow. One might say that they are worthless, in which case you could buy my share in them for nearly nothing. However, the foals my mares usually produce are worth a great deal indeed, and it would not be unreasonable of me to demand a price from you to match what I lost when your Khamsin leaped that fence.”

Acuyib help him—he would be working off the debt for the rest of his life!

“So it seems the only thing to do is saddle them, as you have said, and I will keep my half-interest until it is clear whether or not these horses are of any value.” All at once he laughed. “It suits me, Azzad, that you will make right this very interesting wrong. And it amuses me greatly that while everyone was looking sidelong at your handsome face and guarding their wives and daughters, it was your horse that was the true stud, siring offspring on females not his own!”

 

Azzad rose in the little world of Sihabbah. Rather than the straw-lined cubbyhole that had been his dwelling all winter, he now occupied his own private room above the stable, with a window overlooking the fields, a mattress stuffed with horsehair, a table only a little rickety, a three-legged stool, and a covered earthenware chamber pot. It wasn't opulence—Azzad knew the feel and smell and taste and look of that well enough—but at this point in his life luxury's definition was leaving the pot outside his door each morning for somebody else to empty.

He was also admitted to Bazir al-Gallidh's maqtabba for dinner one evening of every eight or nine. As spring became summer, their dinners together occurred every sixth night, then every fifth. They discussed the mares, of course—how they galloped about the meadows, when usually by this time in pregnancy they would be plodding. They talked about training the foals to the saddle and bridle, with Bazir recoiling in comical horror at the notion that he be the first to learn how to ride. They exchanged ideas as well, speaking over games of chadarang about the differences in language, devotion, and tradition between this land and Rimmal Madar. They told each other their family histories—Azzad decided that in honor he could have no secrets from this kind, wise, generous man.

They shared a bond in that each was nearly kinless. Azzad had a cousin left in little Sayyida—nearly a year old now—Ammineh's daughter; Bazir had his brother and his niece, and that was all. Tragic as the fate of the alMa'aliq had been, the al-Gallidh had been afflicted as well. Bazir's father, an only child of an only child, died young in a climbing accident high in the mountains; his mother perished of a fever shortly thereafter; he lost his beloved wife in childbed, and his twin sons as well. Zellim's first wife, Jemilha's mother, was killed by her jealous sister, who poisoned her food; his second wife succumbed to lung-sickness.

“So,” Bazir said with a tiny shrug, “as you may surmise, we guard little Jemilha zealously.”

It was impolite for a stranger to enquire about a man's female relations, but Azzad knew he was now considered a friend. “How old is she?”

“Fifteen. Zellim trembles at the thought of her marrying and leaving him.”

“I don't understand why he doesn't marry again. You might do the same, for that matter.” This truly was impolite; he grimaced at his own words and said, “Forgive my presumption.”

“I knew perfect happiness,” Bazir said softly. “She was the heart of my heart, the light of my eyes.” After a moment's pause, he continued, “Zellim had more courage than I. He risked his heart twice. But he cannot do so again.”

“Not even for more children?”

“My friend, I excuse your words because you are young and have never loved.”

The one topic they never discussed was the Shagara. When Azzad attempted to tell Bazir of the time he'd spent with them, the nobleman shook his head and said, “Another day, my friend, after you have considered what is wise to say.”

“But I have no secrets from you. I have told you what happened to my family, and why, and my intentions for the future, and—”

“You have lived with the Shagara. I have only read of them. But those things I do know tell me that they have secrets that are not yours to disclose, even to me.”

Azzad thought about it and could not but agree.

After telling Azzad to design everything their horses would require, Bazir set about preparations of his own. Woodsmen felled trees up the mountain to build a new stable. Weavers set to work on beautiful saddle blankets. Tanners prepared suitable hides for bridles and saddles. Abb Ferrhan experimented at his forge with bits, stirrups, and a new, smaller horseshoe. Azzad was amazed by all this; not until the foals grew would he be able to tell just how to size the tack. But gradually he became aware that Bazir's wisdom had led him to involve Sihabbah's people in this curious accidental project. If the five foals were a success, all could take pride in them. And all would eventually profit, for if minds were changed and men began to ride horses instead of donkeys—Azzad hardly dared consider the measuring of his potential wealth.

He acquired a few new things himself. An embroidered cushion appeared one evening on his three-legged stool. Carved shutters of fragrant pine were placed at his window. A new mattress, stuffed with goose feathers, lay under a brightly patterned quilt. When he ventured to thank Bazir for the gifts, the nobleman professed to know nothing of them.

At last, on a morning early in autumn, one of the mares began her labors. She was early, and it happened so quickly and so easily that the first anyone knew of it was the sight of a leggy pewter-gray filly romping about the meadow in the warm afternoon sun. Delivery was just as swift for the other mares, although being forewarned by the first labor, the four were comfortably sheltered in the stable.

“Almost without effort,” sighed Bazir happily, resting his arms atop the stall door as he gazed at a coal-black colt with a white blaze down his face. “I've never seen it happen so fast.”

“They're small,” sniffed Mazzud, eyeing the foal. “Easy it was, al-Gallidh, and quick, but every one of them a runtling.”

“They'll be bigger than Khamsin, once they're grown,” Azzad countered. “Will you name them, al-Gallidh?”

The three fillies were called Farrasha, Shammarra, and Shouzama, for the markings of white on their gray hides: a butterfly, a candle, and a tulip. The sturdy black colt was named Ibbir, for he was the color of ink. The second colt—mud-gray, scrawny and tentative—Bazir called Haddid, which meant iron and which he hoped would inspire the little horse to strength.

The day after the last was born, the stables received visitors. Everyone in Sihabbah turned out, it seemed, to view the five half-breed foals. Comments ranged from “Beautiful” and “So sweet” to “They'll live two moons” and “Those skinny legs will snap”—but Azzad took no offense at the criticism until one young girl, who looked about twelve, peered into Ibbir's stall and announced, “That's not a horse, that's a mistake!”

Bazir began to laugh silently. Zellim, inspecting brindle-gray Shouzama, glanced over with a grin. “You must forgive her the insult,” he said. “A black horse is a rarity in our land. It is said that in times long past, whenever a black foal was born, it was instantly killed.”