The Diviner (21 page)

“It is entirely my pleasure,” Azzad told them. “He's a fine worker.”

“You're too good to us, al-Ma'aliq,” said Yaminna.

“He's too good to
everyone
,” said Lalla.

“That's why I can't understand why those dreadful men keep coming to kill him,” said Akkilah, arriving with a pot of steaming qawah.

Yaminna frowned as she poured for Azzad. “That reminds me, alMa'aliq—there was another one through here last night—”

“—he was small, though, and younger than the other four we've seen,” added Lalla.

“—we searched his clothing while Lalla kept him busy, but there were no swords or axes,” said Akkilah.

“—and we were about to send one of the boys down to tell you, only you've come here to us instead!” finished Yaminna.

“Cease this chatter at once,” came a scolding voice from the doorway. “By Acuyib, anyone would think you descend from geese!”

Azzad turned and got to his feet with a smile as Feyrah entered the cottage. In days long past, he had divided his favors—and his wages—equally between her and her sister Addah, but Feyrah had been his secret favorite. Perhaps this was because her sharp wits and acidic tones reminded him of Challa Meryem. She ran her family business as acutely as Azzad ran his.

“Greetings and Acuyib's Blessings, Feyrah,” he said with a short bow of respect.

“And to you, Azzad.”

She was one of the few people in Sihabbah who did not call him
al-Ma'aliq.
A single gesture of elegant fingers scattered her daughters and nieces, and soon she and Azzad were comfortably drinking qawah and nibbling dates stuffed with almonds. According to the traditions of her calling, Feyrah asked no questions and merely waited for Azzad to get around to what was on his mind. For his part, he too adhered to custom and entertained her with a story he knew she would enjoy. And soon indeed he had her giggling at Alessid's latest exploit, a project involving ducks, a belled cat, and the fluttering terror of the waterfowl when a bell rang but no cat appeared.

“Ah, I would have liked the honor of that one's initiation myself,” Feyrah said at the conclusion of the tale. “But a boy needs a girl, not an old woman.”

“I know you too well to think that I need scoff and compliment,” Azzad countered. “That sort of thing is for other men to stammer their way through. What I will say is only this: If you are what old age looks like, then Acuyib have mercy on every girl of nineteen from here to Rimmal Madar.”

“Very nicely said,” she approved, her eyes dancing. “And just the right age, too. Any older, and I would have been insulted. Any younger, and I would have been so busy being offended by your mockery that I would have missed that lovely piece of exaggeration at the end. But while we are on the subject, I have it in mind to propose Meyza—who really
is
nineteen!—for Alessid. Your opinion?”

He considered, and nodded approval. Thoughtful and playful by turns, Meyza was a lovely girl and an entirely appropriate choice. “Perfect. I tell you without flattery or exaggeration or any other pretty words, Feyrah, that I feel fortunate such fine girls are here to teach my boys what they must know to please a wife. My own father sought all over Dayira Azreyq to find just the right girl for me.”

“If she was your first, I will cut off all my hair and go north to the barbarian lands, and live in one of their dreadful walled arrareems.” She offered him more qawah. “Now, tell me why you have come to talk to me today.” When he drew in a long breath and let it out in a sigh, she added, “Of course I will have heard none of it, once you set foot outside my door.”

He nodded gratefully. “I never thought otherwise. Here, then Feyrah, is my problem.”

She listened, asked no questions, and refilled their cups at intervals. At last, when he had finished, she pursed her lips and began toying with the crimson fringe of a pillow.

“Azzad, I see now why you are a rich man.”

He blinked his surprise at this observation.

“Had you only yourself to consider, you would have done one of two things long ago: sink into utter obscurity or die of a jealous man's anger when he caught you with his wife. In the first case, you would have discovered that charm and good looks are worth only so much in this life, and in the second, you would have learned that charm and good looks can also be the means of leaving this life. But because you are the last of your blood, except for this cousin you mention in your homeland, you used your charm and your good looks for goals other than your own gratification.” She smiled through her lashes. “I approve of this, Azzad. Everyone ought to have an ambition.

“But yours,” she went on, serious again, “is very much greater than yourself. You are the least avaricious man I have ever known—and yet you have worked these many years to accumulate riches. I have wondered about that, and now I understand. Your ambition has nothing to do with you, or your family here, or even those who died long ago. It has everything to do with your sense of what is right and what must be punished. Wickedness and waste offend you, someplace deep inside where you might never have looked had not everything else been stripped from you. I believe that in this place you saw something very simple: a disorder of things that must be put right.”

“You ascribe to me too much honor,” he replied slowly. “All I am after is vengeance.”

“That is not true. It is a part, but it is not all. There are people like you in the world, Azzad, very rarely—those whom Acuyib uses. You may believe yourself prompted by personal and even selfish considerations, but there is something more profound at work here. What the Sheyqa did to your family was a very ugly wrong. It is obvious that your task is to right that wrong. But it is for you to decide how ugly you wish the righting to be.”

“I want . . . I want her to suffer as my mother and sisters suffered. I want her to know what it is to be helpless. But I do not want her to die. I want very much for her to live—and that makes me worse than she, Feyrah. Much worse.” Azzad looked into her large, fine eyes and said, “And perhaps the worst thing of all is that although I know this,
I do not care
.”

“Then you will certainly succeed.” She regarded him for a long moment. “I have done nothing to ease either your heart or your mind, have I? But ease is not what you were seeking, I think. Nor approval.”

He had to shake his head. “Neither one, you are right. I think what I needed was to hear myself say it to someone . . .” He paused, at a loss to explain.

“Someone for whose life you are not responsible,” she interpreted, nodding. “Ayia, it has been accomplished, then. I won't ask if it helped.”

“But it did. Very much. I'm not sure I agree about any greater purpose, but I do understand more clearly some of the possible consequences.”

“Do you?” She rose smoothly to her feet. “I wonder.” From a pocket of her robe she took a small brass bell that Fadhil had made for her long ago, and rang it four times. “You have said nothing, I have heard nothing,” she told him just before the girls ran lightly back into the cottage.

“We've been petting Khamsin—”

“—I hope it's all right that we gave him carrots—”

“—he nibbles daintily as a lamb!”

Azzad laughed. “He knows to behave himself around ladies.” Pushing himself to his feet, he bowed to Feyrah. “My thanks, as always. Perhaps you will agree to advise me on a new type of qawah blend some farmers along the coast have concocted. I shall send a bag up to you, and await your judgment.”

Feyrah nodded acceptance of this means of paying her for her time. “I'll look forward to it.”

“You're not leaving so soon!” cried Lalla.

Yaminna made a face at her pouting cousin. “Do you really think to tempt al-Ma'aliq?”

Azzad bowed. “I am tempted almost beyond reason every time I visit here.”

“A lie!” laughed Meyza. “Everyone knows your eyes are only for your wife!”

He smiled ruefully and shrugged. “Nonetheless, I must abandon the unique fascinations of your company. I have an appointment later today with Ferrhan Mualeef, who has literary ambitions and seems to think my life makes a good story.”

“Ayia, he was here some days ago,” Lalla said with a giggle. “What
do
they teach their young men in Hazganni?”

Azzad deduced she had not been impressed and gave thanks he had learned
his
lessons in Dayira Azreyq.

It all seemed a very long time ago. Another life. Another Azzad. As he rode back down to Sihabbah proper, he reflected on how much this land and its peoples had shaped and changed him, had made him their own. His life had been saved by the Shagara, who befriended him and made his enemies theirs. He had married a noblewoman of Sihabbah, who had made him so thoroughly hers that he had not even thought about another woman since his marriage. What had he done in return, for these people and this land? Ayia, the horses and the trees—they were the most obvious—but most important were the children. They belonged here, to a land and a people theirs by right of birth. Azzad had given five sons and two daughters to this place that had become his life. He considered the debt paid.

But the debt to the Shagara, for giving him back the life he had so nearly lost in the wastelands—that could never be repaid. For the wise Feyrah had been correct: It was the loss of everything else that had made him look deeper than he ever would have done, and if she had been mistaken about the nobility of what he'd found there . . . still, it made a pretty wrapping for a thing that would be very ugly indeed.

 

The Geysh Dushann who had visited the ladies was seen in Sihabbah only once more—when his body was recovered from a streambed that marked the border of Azzad's farthest pasture. The fence he had evidently attempted to climb was studded every few handspans with thorns such as were used in Shagara fencing; perhaps he had pricked a finger and died of the poison, or perhaps he had simply lost his balance. By the time he was found, it was difficult to tell.

A curious thing was found in his possessions, something the ladies had not known to be significant. A small drawstring pouch, stamped on the outside with talishann, hung from a leather thong around his neck. Inside was a chunk of pyrite and a bit of hammered tin with a sign Fadhil did not recognize, packed in amid six different kinds of dried leaves and flowers. Fadhil identified two herbs as moderately curative, but to put them in combination with the others was a waste of a healer's time and effort. Perhaps the blend had been meant merely to provide a pleasing scent—if so, it had long since faded.

The pyrite was of interest for its qualities of practicality, memory, and protection. The Shagara markings on the pouch meant nothing more sinister than success, luck, and knowledge. But when Fadhil detected a trace of rust-colored stain on the tin, he frowned and sorted through the dried herbs again. A tiny clump of leaves and flower petals was stuck together with blood. Shagara blood. Whatever the unfamiliar talishann meant, someone had been serious about this pouch and its contents.

“No match for your skills, certainly,” said Azzad, shrugging, and poured more qawah for his wife and Fadhil. “Merely another failed assassin.”

Jemilha, watching Fadhil's studied lack of expression, said quietly, “Or the first to be armed with Shagara work. He is the first, is he not?”

“Insofar as I am aware,” the healer admitted, uneasiness shifting his shoulders just a little. “I think that he may have obtained these things illicitly—in which case the talishann would not function as well as if they had been made specifically for him.”

“Have you ever seen such a collection before, worn in a pouch filled with herbs?” she persisted.

“Ayia, there are certain antiquated customs—”

“Herbs that are mostly useless for healing? Herbs that had lost their fragrance long since?”

Azzad approached and formally presented her with a fresh cup of qawah. “Qarassia, if it will bring peace to your thoughts, I will send to Challa Meryem and ask. But we all know that the Geysh Dushann are forbidden the healing tents of the Shagara, so this man must have stolen these things—hoping in vain that they would protect and aid him. They did not. So ends another Geysh Dushann.”

“And this discussion?” she asked, in that silken tone he had come to dread over the years, a tone like a soft fog that wrapped a man's heart in sudden ice.

“If there is nothing else to say, nothing else to learn, and nothing to plan for . . .” He shrugged again.

“And you have far more important plans to make—yes, I know, husband.” She set aside her untasted drink and rose. “The children's lessons must be heard. I will leave you to your plans.”

Azzad hesitated, then asked, “Once Alessid, Bazir, and Kallad have recited to your satisfaction, may I see them afterward?”

Her face tightened like an angry fist. But all she did was nod and stalk out of the room in a swirl of bright silks.

“She isn't happy,” Fadhil said mildly.

Azzad cocked a sardonic brow. “I'm sure she was hoping you wouldn't notice.”

“She could forbid this, you know. It is well within her rights.”

“Happy or unhappy, approving or disapproving—she
understands
. Men simply see a thing and decide one way or another and don't bother much with reasons. Women
think
. And those who think longest understand best. As the writings have it, men's thoughts are the sand, easily scattered by any wind that happens along. But women are the rich earth that grows thoughts and ideas, and from these come understanding.”