The Diviner

doing.

Azzad glanced at their entourage. Every last one of them showed chagrin that this man could speak freely to such beauties; one or two frowned as if trying desperately to remember if more than a casual acquaintance could be claimed with Azzad. He grinned cheerfully at them, dismounted, and escorted the ladies inside the courtyard.

“How long has this been going on?” he asked as he swung the gates closed.

“All morning,” Meryem said at the same time Jemilha replied, “Almost three years.”

Azzad blinked. Jemilha glared as if daring him to disbelieve, then went into the house, her silks aflutter.

Azzad turned to Meryem. “What did I say?”

“What did you not say?” she countered. “And to think my son admires your way with any and every woman!”

“Jemilha isn’t any woman,” he heard himself say. “She’s Jemilha.” Meaning the leggy little scrap of a girl who had insulted Khamsin’s foals.

“Ayia? Those men outside have a different opinion.” And with that, Meryem followed Jemilha into the house, leaving Azzad to wonder what she meant.

“You did rightly in giving the finest of our donkeys to the esteemed Harirri,” said Bazir. “But it seems poor payment for such magnificent horses.” He smiled, pouring more qawah for Azzad and another cup of herbal chiy for himself. “Moreover, white horses! That will please Jemilha.” Sipping, he arched heavy brows in surprise. “What does the Lady Meryem do that this is so much better than what my cook prepares for me?”

“I’m sure she’ll share her secret, to please you.” He grinned. “Surely you’ve noticed, al-Gallidh, that you’ve made a conquest?”

“And it took nothing more than my books, whereas in years past it needed music, recitations of poetry, languishing glances, and an expedient gift of jewelry.” He sighed dramatically, dark eyes dancing. “If I’d known in my youth that it was so easy, I would have canceled my elocution lessons—and my account at the gem cutter’s.”

Azzad laughed and drank more qawah, and they settled to business again. Fields, orchards, horses, donkeys, timber, mining, fishing, trapping—all the varied enterprises of the al-Gallidh estates that Azzad had been managing were discussed in detail. Bazir declared himself satisfied—and then brought up a different subject entirely.

“Azzad, how old are you now?”

“Twenty-four this summer.”

“Not so great an age, to one of my years,” al-Gallidh sighed. “But to you, it must seem rather advanced.”

“Not at all.” He had no idea where this conversation might be going. “I believe a man grows wiser as he grows older—for in my former home, those who were unwise did not live long enough grow old.”

“What contributes to this wisdom, do you think?”

“Attention to work and responsibility, of course.” Azzad thought for a minute. “Learning from friends and superiors. Studying as his interests take him.”

“Ayia, I quite agree. But you have forgotten marriage to a clever woman.”

“I—I have no opinion on the subject, al-Gallidh.” He could now see the destination of this chat, and did not much like the scenery.

Bazir continued with exquisite casualness, “My own opinion is that a man should marry when he is old enough to have established himself in his work but young enough to need a woman’s brain to help him, so that he is grateful for her presence as well as her person.”

Azzad took a deep breath. “Is it your wish, al-Gallidh, that I look for a wife?”

“By Acuyib’s Glory, no!” He laughed, as if at some private joke.

Confused by the change in direction, Azzad frowned. “If not, then—”

“Have you no wish for a house of your own?”

He thought of Beit Ma’aliq, to which no other home could compare—and wondered which of Nizzira’s progeny lived in it now. If, indeed, it had been rebuilt at all, or still remained as a burned scar in the city. “No, al-Gallidh. I am content.”

“But I am not. It is therefore my intention that you shall live from now on in my house in Sihabbah.”

“Al-Gallidh—I am honored, but—I cannot, it would not be right—”

“Nonsense. That great empty house does nothing but gather dust. The servants are idle, and the town is desolate—for as you know, I used to give entertainments. But my home has been silent, and I do not like to think of it that way.”

“You—you are very generous, but it is not my house, I am not al-Gallidh—”

“Ayia, there is that, I suppose.” The old man eyed him.“But if you became part of my family . . .” He paused.

Azzad abruptly realized that this was all leading to a place he hadn’t envisioned.

“Is the idea so displeasing to you?” ask al-Gallidh.

“No—not at all. She is beautiful, and—and—” He gulped for air. “But she—”

“Do not say she is too far above you, al-Ma’aliq descendant of sheyqirs.”

“Here, she is infinitely my superior,” he said frankly. “Here, I am nothing.”

“Nonsense!” Bazir declared once more. “Your ‘nothing’ is a hundred times any other man’s ‘something.’ You are intelligent, ambitious, clever. You work hard and manage my estates wisely. And through your own efforts—and those of your Khamsin!—you will be a very rich man.”

Azzad heard the list of his virtues with no small perplexity of soul. His parents would not have recognized the description of their rascal son; had he changed so much in the nearly four years since he’d escaped the poison and axes and swords?

“Consider it, Azzad,” murmured Bazir al-Gallidh. “I ask this most humbly of you, my friend. I want you in my family. I want to know that when my brother and I are dead, Jemilha will have the best husband we could wish for her. I want to know that the houses of the al-Gallidh will be filled with my brother’s grandchildren and great- grandchildren, descended from sheyqirs.”

“What about Jemilha?” he blurted. “What does she say about—”

Again Bazir laughed, this time until he nearly choked. “Ayia, did you not know? It was she who demanded that I speak to you!”

“She did?”

“She thinks you will make a very good husband.”

“She does?”

The old man grinned. “And she likes the way you look on a horse.”

“She—” He swallowed the rest. So much for his intelligence and cleverness.

“Go riding, Azzad,” al-Gallidh advised kindly. “It always helps you to think.”

But even miles away from Hazganni, into fields and orchards not yet threatened by sand, where all was lush green life as Acuyib had intended, he had no clear thought beyond the stupefied realization that he was going to have to marry Jemilha al-Gallidh.

Just why he had to do this was a mystery to be untangled at some later date, when he had his wits about him again. He only knew that marry her he must—and as he rode back to the city through the golden dusky gloom of spring, he decided that perhaps this would not be so bad a thing after all.

“Lady,” Azzad said, “your uncle tells me it would not come amiss with you—that you would not object—that you—Chaydann take it, I don’t know what to say!”

He glared at his own face in the mirror, disgusted that the glib seducer had turned into a tongue-tied imbecile. He was lamentably out of practice. He could excuse himself with the fact that bedding had always been his goal, not wedding. Besides, Jemilha was a lady. He had to find just the right words, just the right tone of voice—

“Lady, it has come to my notice—you have come to my notice—”

Oh, yes, his haughty and august notice, as if he’d inherited all the alMa’aliq land and money. He tried