The Diviner

hills or down to the fertile valleys. Occasionally he took along Fadhil or his sons for company, but more often he rode alone. The Sheyqa could not do this; there was no escape for her, despite—ayia, because of—all her power. Azzad almost felt sorry for her.

But faint stirrings of pity had not prevented him from laughing when his agent reported that after Sayyida’s birth, not a single additional offspring had been born to any of the Sheyqa’s children. Not the sons, not the daughters—not even the grandsons and granddaughters. It was whispered that the men of the al-Ammarizzad tribe spent their vigor on the battlefield rather than in bed, and the women in scheming instead of breeding. With the arrogance and contempt of a strong young man who had sired seven children and would likely sire more, Azzad laughed and sent his agent many fine gifts in exchange for this delectable information.

The Sheyqa’s only true solace was Reihan. By all accounts beautiful and brilliant, Reihan was more and more at his mother’s side these last years, not only as an advisor but as a comfort. He played twelve instruments, sang exquisitely, wrote his own songs and poetry, and yet had also led troops into battle on several occasions, acquitting himself well as a warrior. The perfect son—so perfect that Nizzira was actually thinking of altering law and tradition by naming him to succeed her. But the eldest of Nizzira’s daughters had married a man with hundreds of powerful relations—too powerful to insult. There were many children of this marriage, including several daughters ruthless enough to contend for the Moonrise Throne. Azzad’s lip curled as he reflected that not even Nizzira would play the assassinate-the-whole-family game more than once. He was willing to bet every foal Khamsin had ever sired that in seventeen years no one had accepted an invitation to the palace without first making peace with Acuyib and downing an antidote to poison—just in case. Against swords and axes there could be no defense, of course. Not without Shagara tokens. So many ways of killing . . . but neither poison nor blade featured in Azzad’s own plans.

“Sheyqir Reihan al-Ammarizzad,” he murmured again, and with a sigh set himself to reading the sheaf of poetry sent with the report. The young man really was quite good, Azzad thought, and once more was almost moved to compassion for Nizzira.

Almost.

So it happened that Sheyqir Reihan, favorite of Sheyqa Nizzira’s sons, received in the winter of 629 a magnificent stallion of a breed never before seen in Rimmal Madar. With the horse came a letter, unsigned, begging the young man to accept Nihazza as thanks for the pleasure his exquisite poetry brought to a faraway admirer.

“But who has sent him?” Reihan asked the boy who held the reins. The child had no answer; he had been paid by an unknown man to bring the horse to the palace and ask for Sheyqir Reihan, and that was all he knew.

As Reihan galloped his new possession around the Qoundi Ammar parade ground, his brothers and nephews and cousins whispered in envy. This was the very exemplar of a warhorse: as swift as their own white stallions but obviously much stronger. To breed this stud to mares formerly belonging to the al-Ma’aliq would produce horses of superb quality. And with enough of them, perhaps the Sheyqa would abandon the shameful compact of peace and ride to war once again and this time fully obliterate the rebellious northern tribes.

But why wait years for more horses to be born and grow? Why not find the man who had sent this one? Where there was one such, there were certainly others. Many, many others.

Though Reihan cared little for war despite his proficiency at it, he agreed that the mystery of this golden horse and its giver must be solved.

After much inquiry, he learned that Nihazza had been sent by ship from a faraway land with which much trade had flourished in the last ten years. And in the spring, despite his mother’s unhappiness at losing his company for the duration of such a journey, Reihan, two of his brothers, and seven of their cousins set out across the desert wastes toward a city they knew only as Hazganni, a place of “luck” and “riches.”

—FERRHAN MUALEEF, Deeds of Il-Kadiri, 654

9

One morning Azzad woke with a great many things on his mind—and no wife lying beside him to tell them to. To hear Jemilha’s counsel and conversation while they lazed in their bed was one of the joys of his life—a joy increasingly denied him these days, part of her campaign to make him rethink his plans for Reihan al-Ammarizzad. She knew Azzad very well indeed; she knew she didn’t have to be in his presence to be foremost in his thoughts. Indeed, her wisdom was such that her absence was on occasion a more definitive statement than any words she might have spoken.

But this morning he wanted her. Something seethed inside him, perhaps to do with a dream not remembered, perhaps pertaining to the subject he refused to discuss with her. He lay there, listening to the wind chimes hung from the eaves outside the bedroom windows, picking out the different notes sounded by steel and silver and gold, telling himself that he really ought to use up his restlessness in starting the day’s work early. Work would tire him, but not satisfy him—and he realized that what he truly needed was to talk with a woman. Lacking his wife, he must find another with the shrewdness only women possessed. He required counsel, and no discussion with a man would suffice.

There was only one place in Sihabbah other than his own house that would provide what he needed, and it would be necessary to ride there—not only because it was up a steep hillside trail but because riding would show respect for the lady he intended to visit. Accordingly, instead of heading for the barns, he turned for the pasture where Khamsin ambled about in honorable retirement from everything but the occasional canter with Azzad on his back—and siring foals, of course. Azzad whistled; Khamsin did nothing more than raise his head from the sweet grass and blink at him, supremely uninterested.

“Look at you, you lazy old barghoutz,” he chided. “You’re as fat as a eunuch. Get over here. We’re going to pay a call on a lady.”

Azzad’s destination was the little group of cottages where the men of Sihabbah took their ease when they wished to escape their homes—and their wives. The two women Azzad had known during his first years here had retired, giving over the business to their daughters, as happened in any family trade. Azzad had not been their customer since his marriage, but he visited sometimes all the same. Bindta Feyrah in particular was a woman whose acumen he respected.

He knocked politely on the door of the main building and was admitted with cries of welcome. Akkilah, youngest and prettiest of the girls, instantly set about making fresh qawah. Meyza, Yaminna and Lalla made Azzad luxuriously comfortable in a throne of silken pillows.

“Our little brother Dawwad came to see us last week,” said Yaminna.

“He is very happy working for you, al-Ma’aliq,” said Lalla. “It was good of you to give him employment in your house.”

“We have Feyrah’s son to do chores and take care of the occasional drunk—”

“—but Dawwad isn’t big enough to be a deterrent—”

“—so we’re all very pleased he’s found such a good place with you,” finished Yaminna.

“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—”