The Diviner

temperament and soft of gait, would be given to Abb Shagara. Azzad wasn’t sure who would be able to ride Farrasha, but he was betting on Leyliah.

Confident, eager to see his friends, he rode blithely into the wilderness bearing gifts.

He got lost, of course.

Farrasha, escaping her tether, galloped away into the wilderness and would not return at his whistle. He could not chase her—the donkeys were slow, and heavily laden. He cursed fluently all day long, agreeing at last with Jemilha al-Gallidh that horses were surely the work of Chaydann.

All day he followed puffs of dust raised by Farrasha’s hooves, the air black with his mood as he imagined the filly lying helpless, her leg broken, about to be devoured by a rimmal nimir. At length even Khamsin, after so much soft living, was tired. Azzad decided to search one more day, and if he did not find Farrasha, he would continue on to the Shagara without her. The next day brought no sign of her. Worse, he had no idea in which direction the Shagara tents lay.

At dawn the next morning as he saddled Khamsin, a familiar voice asked, “Whatever are you doing way out here?” Azzad laughed—once his heart started beating again after the shock—and embraced Fadhil, asked after all the Shagara, and finally told him what had happened.

Fadhil merely shrugged. “So her name is Farrasha? Fitting. She flew into our camp yesterday and fluttered about until dusk before we caught her. We knew her for Khamsin’s, so I came looking for you.”

The Shagara had identified the filly as Khamsin’s get easily: three of their own mares had birthed foals that looked exactly like her.

—FERRHAN MUALEEF, Deeds of Il-Kadiri, 654

6

Farrasha having given early warning of Azzad’s arrival, by the time Fadhil led him into the camp, preparations were underway for a feast. Azzad went around to each tent with bags of pine nuts and exotic spices as well as candied fruit for the children—making sure everyone knew that Bazir al-Gallidh was the source of the gifts. His own presents were given in private. For Chal Kabir there was a new scale to weigh medicines and a bag of mountain lavender for sweetening potions; for Meryem and Leyliah, tooled leather purses; for Fadhil, a set of fine surgical knives; for Abb Shagara, the two horses with all their equipment and a pair of tall leather boots. And finally, also for the ladies, long white silk scarves embroidered at either end with silver snowflakes.

“Bazir al-Gallidh,” Azzad said, smiling as Meryem and Leyliah exclaimed over the beauty of the work, “has read a little and heard a little more about the Shagara.”

“Truly an elegant man,” Meryem replied, running the filmy silk through her hands. “But bold, to send presents to women he has never met.”

“I am sure,” grinned Abb Shagara, “that Azzad spoke so much of you, and in such detail, that the al-Gallidh feels he knows you both!”

“All I ever said was that you were smart and beautiful,” Azzad promised them. “Of the rest, he knows nothing.”

“I never doubted that you would keep our secrets,” Leyliah answered graciously. Swirling the scarf around her shoulders, she admired the snowflakes again while saying, “And I know just when I’ll wear this!”

“Leyliah,” said Fadhil in a cheerful tone, “is getting married next year.”

Before Azzad could find words to express his congratulations, Abb Shagara added, “Her husband is Razhid Harirri, a man of subtle eyes, silken beard, and many fine goats. It’s my opinion that she’s marrying him for the goats.” Leyliah laughed and threw a pillow at him; he tossed it back, grinning. “But they’re very fine goats!”

“You should know,” she retorted. “You bleat like one!”

Turning to Azzad, Abb Shagara asked merrily, “So, have you met any girls?”

“My son,” Meryem said mildly, “you pry into thing that do not concern you.”

“He’s Shagara now, Mother—I can ask him anything I want. Isn’t that right, Azzad?”

Still in shock that Leyliah was marrying someone other than Fadhil, Azzad blinked and nodded mindlessly. Summoning his manners, he addressed Leyliah. “Razhid Harirri is a fortunate man—I hope he knows it?”

“Ayia,” laughed Abb Shagara, “we made certain of that before we accepted him! Now, Azzad, you cannot mean to say you’ve left not even one girl sighing for you in this Sihabbah you now live in?”

His thoughts flew at once to the women in a cottage up the mountain, who saw to the needs of Sihabbah’s unmarried men—and not a few of the married ones. It was a family business like any other, common in every community of any size from Dayira Azhreq to the Great Western Sea. Despite the differences between these lands and his home—which he was startled to find he had stopped thinking of as home—some things didn’t change. Still, he had been surprised to find Bindta Feyrah and Bindta Sabbah interesting company as well as skilled practitioners of their art, neither attribute an expected one in so remote a place as Sihabbah. But had he truly visited them only a few times?

Forcing a smile, he said, “I rise at dawn, eat, work until noon, eat, rest for a time, work some more, eat, and fall into bed. When is there time for women?”

This brought a stern lecture on the damage he was doing to his health. He bore it with good humor, hanging his head in pretended shame—which, after all, was not such a pretense. His mother would have sent instantly for the family tabbib; his grandfather, for his own favorite mistress.

“Enough!” Leyliah finally said, scowling at Abb Shagara. “Leave him alone, cousin. I want to hear about Sihabbah and this charming al-Gallidh, who sends such lovely presents. And so appropriate to my husband’s name!”

“He of the silken beard,” teased Abb Shagara, and Fadhil added slyly, “And many fine goats”—and both yelled as this time she threw pillows at both of them.

That night before the feast, Azzad washed up in Fadhil’s tent. His young friend was now Chal Fadhil, a fully trained healer, entitled to his own tent and the triple-braided ring of authority. Azzad congratulated him sincerely on his new status, wondering—but not quite daring to ask—why this high rank had not earned him marriage with Leyliah.

The feasting went on until well after dark and the dancing until midnight—and the drinking until dawn, as far as Azzad knew. Pleading the tiring length of his journey from Sihabbah, he left the celebrations a little after midnight, replete with excellent food, congenial conversation, some very interesting stories, and quite a bit of wine. He made his carefully studied way back to Fadhil’s tent, didn’t trip on any cats or dogs along the way, and fell onto a pile of carpets in the dark.

The carpets were already occupied.

“Fadhil,” he slurred. “Sorry—”

“No man could have had so much wine,” said a feminine voice, “that he cannot recognize that a woman is in his bed, not a man. Unless you would prefer Fadhil?”

Scrambling back, he toppled over and lay propped awkwardly on one elbow, trying to see into the blackness. “Leyliah?”

“I admit he is quite handsome, and a wonderful friend, but it seemed to me always that your eyes were for women, not men. I might be wrong, though.”

There was the sound of flint and iron, and a candle flame sprang to life. His elbow slipped out from under him with the shock. “Leyliah?” he repeated stupidly.

She wore nothing but her curling black hair and the white silk scarf with silver snowflakes, draped lightly about her slender form. “Ayia, Azzad, if my identity is now established, perhaps you would tell me if I am welcome to sleep with you for what remains of the night—or if I should indeed call Fadhil.”