The Diviner (27 page)

Mirzah seemed determined to provide him with it. As the women yelled demands to strip Alessid (“Make sure exactly what you're getting, girl!”), she circled him slowly, drawing out the moment. He stood frozen, a muscle in his jaw twitching, and flinched when a trailing edge of her scarf brushed his hand.

At last she stood in front of him, looking up at him through silver silk, and smiled just a little before turning to Abb Shagara. “I suppose he will do.”

There were groans of disappointment and cheers of approval, and Abb Shagara waited them out before saying, “Then the man Alessid of the tribe al-Ma'aliq is accepted by Mirzah Shagara as husband. He shall live in her tent, and father her children, and become our brother. Do you agree to this, my people?”

None but shouts of approval now, and Alessid felt a soft, stirring warmth inside him. Something deep, and profound, and more exciting even than Mirzah's tantalizing glance at him from beneath her silvery veil. These people were his people now. They accepted him for his father's sake, yes, but now, after this year with them, also for his own.

Abb Shagara gestured, and Alessid remembered that now he was supposed to lift his bound hands. As he did so, Abb Shagara said, “Alessid alMa'aliq, you may choose to accept this marriage freely, and take the Shagara as your own tribe. Or you may resist, and be forced to wear hazziri to bind you to her and to us. Whichever you choose, never doubt that you are well and truly married to this girl, and the only means of separation is a divorce of her choosing, not yours. Shall you be free, or bound?”

“Free. I accept the Shagara as my own tribe, and Mirzah as my wife.”

Abb Shagara untied his hands and replaced the ropes with armbands of his own crafting—one gold, one silver, both set with gems and carved with runes. Then he lifted the scarf from Mirzah's face, and once more Alessid was astonished by his reaction to this familiar girl. She had never been pretty before. She had never looked so happy before. Was it truly because she was marrying him? Women were a mystery, indeed.

Abb Shagara arranged the scarf across her shoulders, leaving her shining black hair uncovered, and fastened about her neck a gold hazzir on a short chain, also made by him. The he stood back, and gestured with both hands.

“Mirzah, here is your husband. Alessid, here is your wife. Acuyib be praised!” As the cheering swelled, he turned to Alessid and complained, “You could have put up a bit more fuss, you know. I was looking forward to some resistance. It's much more fun that way.”

“Why should I resist what I have wanted this year and more?” Alessid asked, and took Mirzah's hand.
And wanting it more every moment,
he thought, and hoped his eyes were telling her so.

That night, very late, after the feasting and dancing and singing had quieted somewhat, he again took his bride's hand and led her to her new tent. Outside were wind chimes that rang sweetly in the cool wind: for happiness, for love, for many children. Inside were bright cushions, beautiful rugs, and an iron brazier for warmth in the winter night.

Mirzah removed her veil in a swirl of silk, and folded it carefully away in a small wooden chest. She stripped off the belt, rings, earrings, bracelets, necklaces, and hairpins that were the collected finery of all her unwed friends, and sorted them by owner for return in the morning. It was considered a good omen to lend jewelry to a bride, in the belief that her happiness rubbed off.

At last she stood before him in the dim glow of the coals, slim as a flame in her loosened amber dress, the hazzir glinting in the hollow of her throat.

“Ayia, husband?”

He looked her up and down, much as she had done to him—but without any sense of teasing her. Abruptly uneasy, he asked, “Would you have taken me if I had been stolen by your father from another tribe?”

“Oh, yes.” A tiny smile quirked her full, soft lips. “But I would have asked to see you naked first.” She untied the ribbons at her neck. “I would ask now, but virgin men are notoriously shy.”

“And Shagara women are notoriously bold.” He froze. “Who says I am virgin?”

“I do. And so does Fadhil.”

He mentally cursed his father's old friend. But in mid-invective he was struck by a horrible thought.“Are you—your father told me you had never—”

“He did not lie, Alessid. My father never lies.” Suddenly he saw that her fingers were trembling. “I could have, when I was fourteen. But then you came to us, and I decided that each of my children will not be only Shagara—though that is enough pride in itself—they will also be al-Ma'aliq, descended of powerful sheyqirs.”

So he would be her first, as she would be his. He had a momentary twinge of nerves. What if he couldn't please her? In the next instant he relaxed, for if she was as inexperienced as he, she'd never know the difference.

Because of him, because she wanted her children to be al-Ma'aliq, she had refused to bear a child to prove she could do so, and perhaps provide a Haddiyat for the Shagara as well. He drew himself up proudly, knowing she valued him more than her own traditions.

But what if she were barren? What if she could not give him the sons and daughters he required? They could not divorce except by her declaration—and the onus would be on him, not her. That was how it was done with the Shagara; a woman who did not conceive within three years of marriage divorced her husband for infertility and married someone else. It held even for women of other tribes who wed Shagara men. What if—

There was only one way to find out.

At least she was as ambitious for their children as he was. They would make fine babies together, Shagara sons and daughters descended from sheyqirs. He had to believe that. He had to convince himself that she—

“Alessid,” said Mirzah, “I know that you are often away elsewhere, even when you are standing before me. I don't mind it, not usually. But I do mind it very much when I am standing before you like
this
.”

He looked, and saw. Abruptly—urgently—he wanted to find out if he and she could make babies together.

But within a few scant minutes, he forgot about babies completely.

 

“Good! Excellent! Now sweep to the left—the left, Hassam!—and attack!”

Alessid watched his “cavalry” maneuver their horses across the plain. They were far in advance of the main caravan of Shagara, on their way to the winter encampment. For more than a year, since before his marriage, Alessid had been drilling more and more youths his own age and slightly older in the techniques of armed, mounted warfare. This was all a secret from their elders.

In this generation, one of the marks of full manhood had become the acquisition of one's own horse. Alessid had come to the Shagara with his own mare, Zaqia, and fifty-six more horses besides; by the standards of the Shagara, he was insanely wealthy. Eventually he would be the one gifting young men with horses, and their loyalty would be to him.

Azzad al-Ma'aliq had always gelded the colts marked for sale. He warned buyers of fillies that as strong as they looked, they were too delicate to be bred to the native studs.
“Try it, and you'll end with a dead foal that has killed its mother.”
Three times it had happened, and that had been enough to convince people that the al-Ma'aliq mares must not be bred. And so Azzad had kept total control of the supply.

Alessid had to admit that his father had been clever in this, at least. The Shagara and the Harirri were clever, too, following the same policy. The descendants of Khamsin and the Geysh Dushann stallions were kept separate from the huge draft horses, trained differently, and doled out to boys when they became men.

Now, as Alessid watched his troop sweep down on an imaginary foe, he stroked Zaqia's sleek neck and smiled. They knew the basics. Soon he would teach them more complex tactics. And their horses, trained for riding, would be trained for war.

“Alessid! Alessid!”

He turned in his saddle, scowling at the sight of a lone rider galloping toward him. A quick whistle broke the lines of cavalry into chaos that would disguise their maneuvers as a game of yaqbout—he only hoped someone would be quick about putting into play the stitched sheep bladder that served as a ball. Fortunately, the man riding toward him was not the observant sort regarding anything but medicine.

“Your wife has birthed the child!” shouted Nassayr.

Alessid gripped his saddle. Fadhil, Meryem, Leyliah—all had said Mirzah's time was another month distant. “She lives?”

“Of course—Chal Fadhil is with her. And the baby is fine—a strong son!”

“Acuyib be praised,” he whispered, then heeled Zaqia around and galloped the four miles back to the main caravan.

Fadhil was just emerging from Leyliah's wagon. Alessid leaped down from Zaqia to embrace him. “Fadhil! I have a son!”

“Yes, and a second time yes.” The healer grinned wearily. “Nassayr raced away to tell you before he knew there was more to tell.
Twin
sons, Alessid. A very good omen. Come and see.”

Mirzah lay on piled rugs, her mother kneeling beside her. Leyliah smiled and held up two babies, one cradled in each arm.

“Beautiful,” Alessid said, looking at his wife.

“Now I know why I could get no sleep,” she replied with a sigh. “When one stopped kicking, the other started!”

“Have you named them yet?”

“Kemmal and Kammil,” she replied. “'Beautiful' and ‘perfect,' because that's exactly what they are. I hope you approve,” she added—for courtesy, because the naming of a child was the mother's prerogative. He had wanted something a little more powerful, but was well-pleased with her choices. At least Mirzah had not followed her mother's suggestion; at least she had not named a son for Azzad.

“They're very fine names for very fine boys.” He knelt down to inspect his sons, taking one into his arms. “Which one is this?”

“Kammil,” said Leyliah. “You can tell by the white yarn around his wrist. We put yellow on Kemmal.”

Staring first at one and then the other, he appreciated Leyliah's wisdom. The boys were as alike as two ears on a horse. All at once he began to laugh. The al-Ma'aliq dynasty had begun.

A
lessid had been expecting the summons to Abb Shagara's tent. Creating the impression that he was not expecting it, however, took some doing. The normal course of his day was to rise at dawn, start the fire outside in the stone pit and set the water on to boil, then wake his wife. They shared a large mug of qawah together—outside, if the weather was fine, to watch the sunrise gild the desert and spark white off distant snow-covered mountains—then woke the children for the morning meal. After this, he went to greet his wife's parents, and he and Razhid tended and trained horses until noon. Another meal at his wife's tent, a brief rest, an hour spent listening to the children's lessons, and he was back with the horses until dusk. It was a calm, rational, productive, well-ordered life, and very little ever happened to disturb it—or the self-discipline with which he conducted it.

But today would be different. Today he must be readily available while appearing to be vitally busy. He lingered inside the tent until Mirzah chased him out. Rather than leave the vicinity, he spent a great deal of time inspecting the sand-colored wool for imaginary worn spots. He hauled out his best saddle and polished the silver hazziri, then did the same with the bridle. He scrubbed iron grills and pot hangers, cleaned ash from the firepit, and was in the middle of rebuilding the entire circle of stones when at last Abb Shagara's fourteen-year-old nephew came to him.

“Alessid,” said Jefar, “if you have time, Abb Shagara asks for your presence in his tent. If you have time,” he repeated diffidently.

Alessid was well aware that the new Abb Shagara had not phrased it that way. If anything, it had been a direct order—
”Bring Alessid to me instantly.”
How he regretted the death of Meryem's wise and whimsical son. But the successor was the one he must deal with, and a haughtier man he could not imagine. Jefar, however, was a polite boy, deferential to his elders, and in awe of Alessid's horses, so on his lips brusque command became respectful request.