The Diviner

hazziri. They did, covetous and trying to hide it—all that lovely gold and silver, and the gemstones! He was rather surprised that he still wore them, and his rings, but evidently the laws of the dawa’an sheymma still applied, and a patient’s belongings were safe.

Separated from his troops during the battle, he told them, he had been wounded in the leg, and loss of blood had toppled him from his horse, and he then became nauseated with pain and weakness and heat. And that was when the Shagara had found him.

So far, so good. What had happened after the battle, they knew better than he. It was the part before that was a bit dodgy.

“Young to be an officer,” one of the healers remarked. “Favorite of some sheyqa or sheyqir, are you?”

“Pretty thing like him? Of course,” said another.

“When I joined the Riders, an al-Ma’aliq sheyqa gave me these,” he said, quite truthfully, touching the hazziri at his breast and the one depending from his left earlobe. “That was the last time I saw her—or any al-Ma’aliq of Tza’ab Rih.” This was also true; he hadn’t seen his mother since that day, and all his cousins were al-Ma’aliq of Joharra, Granidiya, Ibrayanza, and Qaysh. He wasted no time or wit wondering if he’d ever see any al-Ma’aliq again. “I am loyal to my name, like all the Za’aba Izim.” When they looked blank as he used the term, he said, “The Seven Names. The desert tribes. Surely you have not been so long from home that you’ve forgotten—”

“This is our home,” snarled the oldest of the healers. “We are now part of this land, and it now belongs to us. And it will never become part of the Tza’ab Empire.”

“Ayia,” Qamar admitted, “they don’t even know where you are.”

“And it will stay so.” The old man hesitated, and an odd, reluctant yearning glazed his dark eyes. “I would know what you might tell me of the tribe whose name we share.” Qamar’s surprise made him add, “My grandmother was wife to a Shagara, one of those who first came here. Her name was Omaryya Tariq.”

Grandmother—? But suddenly Qamar realized that although this man looked old enough to be a grandfather himself, he was not. He never could be. He was Haddiyat and could not be more than 45 years old. Repressing a shudder of pity, he sifted through his brain for whatever he knew about the Tariq. “We remain in the desert, and live according to the traditional ways, making the usual yearly round of camps.” This was pleasing to the healer. Taking his cue, Qamar went on, “And of course we never send any of our people to the court, and we marry mostly with the Tabbor and Ammal—never the al-Ma’aliq!” This the healer liked even better. “In fact, we stay aloof from the larger affairs of Tza’ab Rih, except to contribute the finest soldiers in all the army, as befits our Name.” Tariq meant conqueror. Qamar wondered for a moment if he’d laid it on a bit thick, but the proud smile indicated otherwise. “So I can’t imagine anything is much different since your grandmother left.”

This was precisely what everyone wanted to hear. It was as if with all the changes they had been compelled to make, all the compromises, the difficult adjustment of staying in one place, the experimentation necessary to continue their arts in this land of strange and exotic plants, they needed to know that the life their grandparents had left behind remained just like the stories that had been told them about their ancestral home.

Qamar hid his amazement that they knew so little of the history of the last seventy or so years. Then again, they would not want their antecedents known to the local populace and so could not ask much about affairs back home—and the way the old man had declared that this was now their home held a certain defiance. The wicked ways of the al-Ma’aliq had exiled them. Very well; so be it. They were no longer of Tza’ab Rih.

But they remained Shagara. As Qamar rattled off pleasing little tales of how the Azwadh, the Tabbor, and the Ammal also remained faithful to the traditional ways—his audience was made up of healers who descended from those tribes—his gaze kept flickering to his supposed Tariq kinsman. White hair, lines, wrinkles; hands cruelly twisted by bone-fever; eyes dimming, muscles more feeble by the day . . . yes, they were still Shagara.

And so, through his father, was he. The distinctive Shagara coloring Jefar had bequeathed meant these people had let Qamar live. These distant cousins might honor him because of their shared ancestry, but honor and trust were two different things. Once he was recovered enough from his leg wound to rise from his bed and explore the intricate, inconvenient maze of alleys and passages between the stone buildings of their fortress, he was never left alone. One or another golden-skinned, dark-eyed young man shadowed him at all times. He was diverted from the outer walls, not permitted near the innermost fortification. As a Shagara, he was allowed certain liberties. As a cavalry officer of Tza’ab Rih, he was prohibited from taking advantage of them.

Some eight or nine days after he had fully recovered, a hammering rain woke him in the middle of the night. Just as well that it had: Someone was in the tiny cubicle he had been assigned, someone who moved in whispers of wool clothing and bare feet on cold stone. This person had not reckoned on lightning flashes through the high, barred windows. Nor, truthfully, had Qamar. When the sudden, fleeting illumination showed him the long gown and hooded cloak and startled face of a girl, it also showed her a man sitting straight up in bed with a clay candlestick in his hand.

“Who are you?” Qamar demanded.

“Singularly unoriginal,” she snapped as night devoured the room once more. An instant later came another crack of lightning, just enough to show her bringing a knife out of her skirt pocket. “I know how to use this,” she warned.

“I don’t doubt it.” He used the darkness to scramble out of bed, and tripped over his own boots. Her stifled giggle infuriated him. “That was a mistake,” he said, leaped to one side so she could not get a fix on his voice, tossed the candlestick toward a corner to further confuse her, and lunged for where he was sure she would be.

He grabbed empty air and lost his balance. Fetching up against a wall—hard, bruising his shoulder—he cursed and swung around. The room wasn’t that big; there weren’t that many places to go.

An abrupt rush of air and the faint squeal of a hinge told him she’d opened the door—which was always locked when he retired for the night—and gone back outside. More noise from the hinges, a stillness in the air—and a metallic rattle that meant she was about to lock him in.

He grabbed the bars of the grille set at head-height in the door and yanked.

A moment later he was on his backside on the uncarpeted floor, and brief lightning showed him wildly waving arms and a shocked face beneath hair the color of sand as she staggered into the room. By the time she landed on him, it was pitch black again.

He laughed and wrapped his arms around her. She was smart enough not to struggle; he was smart enough to pin her elbows to her sides so she couldn’t get at him with that knife. Lying back flat on the flagstones, he tightened his grip.

“Not that I’m not perfectly charmed by your visit, qarassia,” he said into her ear through a mouthful of her blonde hair, “but was all this stealth really necessary?”

She called him something unspeakably filthy in the barbarian language—Raffiq Murah’s little translation guide hadn’t included it, but it was a soldier’s obligation to learn how to swear at the enemy in his own language.

“Acuyib preserve me, such a mouth!”

“Let go of me!”

“Tell me why you’re here, and I might consider it.”

“I’ll scream!”

“If you haven’t by now, you won’t anytime soon. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I had the key, didn’t I?”

“Stolen or borrowed, it doesn’t matter. Nobody makes a social call in the middle of a rotten night like this one. If your visit was legitimate, or even sanctioned, you wouldn’t be sneaking about with no shoes on. Now, why are you here?”

“I—I wanted a look at you.”

He smirked. “To judge for yourself whether or not I’m as handsome as rumors must have it?”

“To see if you’re really Shagara, like they say you are.”

“No, sorry, not good enough.” It was increasingly apparent to him that it was a sweet, dainty little bundle he wasn’t quite cuddling. Beneath the bulky skirt and heavy cloak—which was soaked with rain, and getting his nightshirt wet—he could discern a slim body with inspiring curves. “Why are you here?” he asked for a third time.