The Diviner (20 page)

“Now you understand.”

Gazing at the crimson griffin painted above Nihazza's stall door—crimson paint, crimson blood—Azzad wondered again how much belief and knowledge, or their lack, played a role in Shagara magic. He had not known what his own hazzir meant and had not believed until multiple demonstrations of its power had convinced him. In the healing tent, people would believe they could be healed. But Fadhil knew what the ring was for and resisted it successfully—or so he said.

It was all very confusing. If one did not know, and even if one did not believe, the hazzir could do its work. If one knew and believed but rejected, it could not. He supposed the most beneficial combination was one of knowledge, belief, and acceptance.

But would it work on a horse?

Glancing one last time up at the griffin, he shook his head, laughed a little, and returned to the house.

 

Trade with Rimmal Madar was highly lucrative that spring of 628. Azzad had planned it that way. He knew his home country. He knew what would sell and what would be of no interest, which level of functionaries to bribe and which to ignore, and who among the merchants dealt fairly and who would swindle given half a chance. He had created several new markets—roasted pine nuts, for instance, beautifully woven cloth, fine timber, and elegant furniture made of that timber—and by now Dayira Azreyq clamored for the products of faraway Hazganni. It mattered nothing that no one had ever heard of the place before; no one really cared, so long as supply of Hazganni's goods was steady and not too expensive.

No one knew who was behind the trade. Azzad had made no secret of his name, not in Sihabbah or Hazganni or any of the other towns where he planted trees. For years now the Geysh Dushann had failed to kill him, but failure was not recognized in their code of honor. They wanted to take his head back to their kinswoman the Sheyqa. His head remained firmly on his shoulders. The hazziri had protected him. His association with the Shagara, and their declared enmity for the Geysh Dushann, had not caused the Ammarad to cancel the assassination, but it had limited their methods. The unambiguous trademark of an ax in the spine was not an option if the Ammarad wished to retain the privilege of Shagara medicine. Abb Shagara had let it be known that Azzad's death would be counted as murder of one of his own tribe. Thus all the attempts had been subtle, seemingly accidents that could have been fatal—but, because of the hazziri, were not.

Fadhil took a sort of solemn delight in practicing his craft, and not only for the safekeeping of the family. One year he made a lampshade for the maqtabba, set with tiny beryls to quicken the intellect; Azzad wasn't sure how well it worked, but it was beautiful nonetheless, with light gleaming sea green from the brass arabesques of the shade. He was convinced, however, that the silver nibs Fadhil had fashioned for the children's pens really had helped. From one day to the next, Alessid went from barely forming the characters of his own name to scribbling words like a chief scribe—with a pen bearing the likeness of an ibis, the bird of writing.

There were the more serious hazziri, too. Bazir al-Gallidh had long ago ordered a workshop built for Fadhil, which Azzad had expanded as his needs grew. The children loved to watch while he set a stone into a ring or armband. They didn't know, of course, what his true craft was; they knew only that sometimes on their birthdays, Chal Fadhil gave them a new piece of jewelry or a wind chime.

He spoiled them, of course. So did Azzad. Discipline came from Jemilha—not only for the children but for Azzad himself. Which would have had his grandfather demanding that he strip and prove his manly parts were still intact. His mother would merely have nodded with supreme satisfaction, well-pleased with Jemilha's effect on her wayward son. Every time Azzad looked at his wife, he was reminded of his incredible luck in coming to Sihabbah. The wastrel who had shuddered at the thought of marriage and sidestepped responsibility with matchless agility now gazed upon his wife and resolved to redouble his work on her behalf. Occasionally, lying beside her in the dawn light, he wondered why he had ever resisted marriage. Ayia, had he married back in Dayira Azreyq, it would have been to the wrong woman. Jemilha was the right one.

Acuyib had indeed smiled upon him. He had wealth, influence, respect, work he enjoyed, a wife he adored, sons to guide to manhood, daughters to gladden his heart—all that a man could wish. And now at long last it was time to begin the work for which Acuyib had spared him so long ago.

“Reihan,” he murmured, staring down at a report recently arrived from his agent in Rimmal Madar. The beryl-and-brass lamp shone down on the page, dappling it in sea-green and golden light. “Sheyqir Reihan al-Ammarizzad. The Sheyqa's favorite, most beloved son . . . .”

His agent sent voluminous letters full of events, rumors, descriptions, and speculations. Nizzira, after long, hard years of fighting the northern tribes made unruly by the demise of the al-Ma'aliq, had finally concluded a peace with them in 624. For the last few years she had been rebuilding an economy ravaged by war. Of this, Azzad had taken full advantage—while praying for Nizzira's continued health. At sixty-seven, she was hale and hearty, though it was reported she was emotionally weary while at the same time restless, which to Azzad meant she was probably bored. Governance was complicated, often tedious, sometimes troublesome; Azzad knew that from ruling his own little realm. That was why he loved to escape the maqtabba, saddle Khamsin, and gallop up into the high 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.

O
ne 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.