The Diviner (29 page)

By the time it was over, everyone in the Shagara camp and everyone who had come with Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh had gathered to watch. When Alessid's horsemen came galloping back to the outskirts of the tents, the cheers were as loud as the thunder of hooves.

He had expected it, of course—so spectacular a display could not but produce delighted pride in his people. But he had not expected his own name to be chanted to the skies so even Acuyib must hear.

“All-ess-
eed!”

As his father Azzad had been spared in Dayira Azreyq nearly forty years ago, so there was a reason Alessid lived when all his family had died. Azzad had failed in Acuyib's purpose. Alessid would not. He had these people with him, truly
with
him, praising his foresight and shouting his name.

“All-ess-
eed!”

And there was nothing Abb Shagara could do about it. As Alessid led his cavalry into the small city of tents, Abb Shagara stood beside an awning, forgotten and furious. All other faces were elated: Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh, parents who hadn't a clue what their sons had been up to, boys who clamored to join their elder brothers and cousins, unwed girls who looked on these warrior Shagara with astonished fascination. Even Mirzah could not hide her satisfaction, though she tried very hard to present a composed expression and conceal any unseemly pride. Only Abb Shagara, narrow-eyed and stiff-spined with anger, disapproved.

Abb Harirri and Abb Azwadh went to the guest tents without saying anything to Alessid. Leyliah attended her husband's kinsman, and Meryem escorted Abb Azwadh—who once, long ago, had thought to marry her. Alessid gave Qishtan over to Jefar's care. He had no wish to join his troops in celebrating their triumph among themselves as they unsaddled and walked and rubbed down their horses—for the achievement truly was theirs, and they would enjoy it more freely without him. He wished to be alone for a time away from everyone else, to provide ample opportunity for discussion before he began to answer any questions.

So he went to his wife's tent, where a question was waiting for him.

“Ayia, husband, I assume you wish your children to eat something hot for dinner and not starve, so may I—Jemilha, Za'arifa, you will
hush
while I talk to your father!—may I also assume there must be some very good reason why my firepit is half demolished?”

“Say rather that it is half finished, Mirzah.”

“A pretty point of distinction,” she retorted. “I suppose my father will allow us to borrow his fire to cook dinner. Go inside and hear the girls' lessons. Not that they'll make much sense, after the spectacle they just witnessed.” And, to belie her sharpness, she leaned up in full view of anyone with eyes to look and kissed Alessid on the lips. “I am proud of you, husband.”

“You will be prouder yet, wife.” He stroked her cheek with one finger, a rare gesture of tenderness, and went inside the tent.

“I am less surprised than others that you've kept all this secret.” Meryem nodded acceptance of the qawah Alessid served her but declined the candied fruit and nuts Mirzah offered. “The Shagara are, after all, accustomed to keeping their mouths shut.”

“But for ten years?” Leyliah asked.

“Nearly seventeen,” Alessid replied blandly. “At first I disguised my intent as lessons in the full extent of their horses' capabilities.” He poured for Leyliah, then sat down on a small leather cushion usually occupied by one of the children. Tonight, the carpets and silk pillows were for their guests.

“A pity my son is not alive to see this,” Meryem said. “He would have enjoyed it appallingly.”

“And Fadhil,” murmured Leyliah.

“I regret this, too—more deeply than I can say.” Alessid sipped at his cup, then set it carefully on the low table. “I still miss them.”

“And even more so now, when you have a fool for an Abb Shagara?” She eyed him shrewdly.

“How large is the company of horseman, husband?” Mirzah spoke blandly, from mere idle curiosity, it seemed. But Alessid appreciated the two things she accomplished: deflecting an uncomfortable topic of conversation and letting Leyliah know that Mirzah was ignorant of his work. A lie of omission to one's mother was as bad as a direct falsehood. Alessid understood that; he had never been able to lie to his own mother, Jemilha.

“At present, nearly a hundred, as you saw today.”

Leyliah's gaze was as astute as Meryem's. “And the number trained to war, who no longer camp with the Shagara? This is something Abb Shagara has not yet considered, I think.”

“He may be close to guessing, but he won't know for certain until I tell him.”

“Neither will we,” snapped Meryem, flinging her long, silver-black braid over her shoulder. “So speak up.”

He repressed a smile. “Those who married into the Harirri, thirty-three. Five more than that with the Azwadh. Nineteen with the Tallib, twenty with the Tabbor, thirteen with the Tariq, and seventeen with the Ammal.” After a slight pause, he finished, “And those within the Shagara, who are trained but do not speak of it, two hundred and eighty-six—not including those you watched today.”

None of these three women ever revealed more of her thoughts or emotions than she wished. But as Alessid spoke the numbers, beautiful black eyes widened, and full lips parted, and golden skin flushed across high cheekbones—and Alessid realized all over again how supremely lovely Shagara women were.

“More than five hundred,” he finished, and gave them time to recover by pretending to be absorbed in selecting the perfect honeyed fig.

“How—?” was all Leyliah seemed able to say.

“The Shagara know how to keep a secret,” he answered calmly.

“And when—” Meryem paused for a large swallow of qawah to clear her throat. “When these others have instructed more young men—”

“I would guess the total would be about eight hundred,” Alessid remarked. “A more than respectable force, if correctly used.”

“How many does Sheyqir Za'aid have?”

“About a thousand in Hazganni. Thrice that spread around in the towns and villages.”

“And you know this because—?”

“I keep my ears open.”

“They believe us weak,” Meryem said slowly. “It is insulting—a mere four thousand warriors, for a land this size.”

“Yet they've held almost all of this country for seventeen years,” Alessid pointed out. “And what has anyone done about it?”

“You've been doing something for seventeen years,” Meryem said. “But you waited. It was not the training of men and horses that took so long, it was the uniting of the other tribes in outrage.”

He said nothing. She searched his eyes for a time, then shook her head.

Again Mirzah spoke, again quite mildly. “Of course, some of those who own suitable horses will be too old to fight. For the good of the tribes they must give up their horses to younger men who can—” She glanced at the closed tent flap, distracted by a polite rattling of the wooden chime. “Enter,” she called out, and to everyone's astonishment, Abb Harirri came into the tent. Mirzah sprang to her feet, welcoming her grandfather with an embrace.

“Child, you're looking more beautiful than ever. Leyliah, Challa Meryem, I swear to you that if I were not already married, I would carry one of you off to my tent. Or perhaps not, for how could I possibly make a decision to take one and not the other?”

The two women smiled, for, as time-honored as such extravagant compliments were, Abb Harirri truly meant what he said.

“No, I want no qawah or sweets, thank you. Abb Shagara gave me a dinner tonight that staggers me still. What I wish, if convenient, is a private talk with Alessid. With your permission, Mirzah?”

A few minutes later the two men were outside, walking through the soft spring night toward the thorn fences. Alessid waited for the older man to speak, but the words were a long while coming.

At last, when they were far from the tents, Abb Harirri said, “Tallibah is still without a child. I am afraid that she may have to divorce Kemmal.”

Expecting conversation about the horses and the cavalry and Sheyqir Za'aid, it took Alessid a moment to rearrange his thoughts. When he did, he was both disappointed and pleased. Only the former was expressed to Abb Harirri, though.

The older man nodded. “I too am sorry, but what can be done? Our friendship is separate from our kinship, Alessid—I hope you know this—but for reasons both of affection and of family I had hoped . . .” He ended with a shrug. “But you understand.”

“Yes.”

“I will of course support you in everything that benefits the Harirri.”

“My wife's father is Harirri, and my children are of that blood. Whatever I do, it will be with the Harirri in my mind.”

“Then we understand each other.” Abb Harirri stretched widely, his brown silk robe glinting by moonlight with a delicate tracery of gold embroidery. “Tomorrow will be a strenuous day, I think. Discussions begin early. I will retire now.”

“Sururi annam,” Alessid said, and watched him return to the tents. For himself, he walked for a while longer in the fragrant night, considering this new information.

Neither Kemmal nor Kammil had sired a child. Alessid now was certain that they never would. And whereas he wished they could have given him grandchildren, they were of even more use to him for what they had proven: that the Shagara blood was strong in his line. The twins' infertility was proof that Mirzah had borne two Haddiyat sons. When one of her daughters bore one as well, Alessid's position with the Shagara would be secured. It would mean that the bloodline ran true.

But he could not wait for his girls to grow up and marry and have sons— and then wait for the sons to grow up and marry and be divorced. The time was now. He was thirty-three this summer. He had already waited nineteen years for his vengeance—the same amount of time Azzad al-Ma'aliq had waited. But Alessid had put those years to much better use than had his frivolous, charming father. Where Azzad had created an empire of trade, Alessid would create an Empire.

He walked slowly back to his wife's tent. A little ways from it, he encountered Meryem. He would have nodded a good night, but what he had just heard from Abb Harirri and what he would do and say on the morrow made him stop.

“Challa Meryem,” he said formally, “I have just discovered that my two eldest sons are almost certainly Haddiyat. I think it might be time for me to learn precisely what this means.”

She was silent for a long while. Then: “I think you are right, Alessid.” And she led the way to her own tent, where she talked and he listened until dawn.

I
t was a clear, bright summer's night when Alessid watched his son Addad, qabda'an now of his own hundred warriors, ride away to return to his wife's tent at the Azwadh camp. The twins, Kemmal and Kammil, stayed.