Chapter 1

“It is the will of Akhran, sidi,” said Fedj. Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar groaned. “What have I done that Hazrat Akhran brings this curse upon me?” he wailed, flinging his arms wide, questioning the heavens through the hole in the roof. “Explain this to me, Fedj!”

The two, djinn and master, sat in the Sheykh’s spacious yurt, set up in the Hrana tribe’s winter camp. The sheepherding Hrana lived among the red rock hills that thrust up out of the western edge of the Pagrah desert. In the summer the sheep were pastured up in the higher elevations. Winter forced the nomads down into the desert, where their flocks lived off the sparse vegetation found there until the snow receded and they could move back to the hills in the spring.

It was a difficult life, every day proving a constant struggle to survive. The sheep were the tribe’s lifeblood—their wool providing clothing and shelter, their milk and their flesh providing sustenance. If Hazrat Akhran was good to the Hrana and the herds grew large, sheep and lambs could be taken to the city of Kich and sold in the souks—the bazaars—providing money for such luxuries as silk, perfume, tea, and tobacco. If Hazrat Akhran forgot his people, their herds dwindled and no one thought of perfume, only of surviving the winter in the desert.

Fortunately the last few years had been prosperous—no thanks to Akhran, Fedj thought angrily, though he did not dare say such a sacrilege aloud. How could the djinn answer his Sheykh’s plea for understanding? Fedj could not very well reveal the turmoil among the Gods to the mortals who looked up to them. And he didn’t see how this crazed scheme of his Eternal Master was going to help matters in that direction anyhow. Crouched on his knees before his mortal master, the djinn glanced about the yurt helplessly, seeking inspiration from the designs in the many-colored carpets that covered the felt walls.

Fedj had known Jaafar would take this badly. His master took everything so personally! Let a lamb be born dead, a tarantula bite a child—the Sheykh was certain to blame the catastrophes on himself and wander about in a state of gloom for days. Now this blow. Fedj heaved a sigh. Jaafar might well never recover.

“Cursed! Cursed!”

The Sheykh rocked back and forth on the bench among his cushions. Certainly it seemed the fates were conspiring against the Sheykh, beginning with his appearance. Although only in his late forties, Jaafar appeared older. His hair was almost completely gray. His skin was deeply tanned and lined from years spent in the hills. He was short and thin, with scrawny, sinewy limbs that resembled the legs of a bustard. The long, flowing robes of the shepherds enhanced his short stature. Two streaks of gray in his beard trailed from the- comers of his mouth in a perpetual frown that was not fierce—only sad. His black eyes, almost hidden in the shadows of his haik—long folds of white cloth bound around the head with an agal, a golden cord—were large and liquid and always slightly red around the rims, giving the impression that he was about to burst into tears at any moment. The only time these eyes were seen to lose their sorrow was at the mention of the name of his mortal enemy—Majiid al Fakhar, Sheykh of the Akar.

The sad eyes had flashed fire only moments before, and Fedj had some hope that hatred and rage might take the place of Jaafar’s missing backbone. Unfortunately the flames had been quenched by the Sheykh’s customary whining over his ill luck.

Fedj sighed again. The yurt offered no help to the djinn. He looked up through the hole in the top of the tent, seeking advice from the heavens. That was a joke, he realized, watching the smoke from the charcoal brazier spiral up and out of the tent. Night in the desert can get very cold, and the warmth of the burning charcoal was welcome to the djinn, who had lived among mortals so long he had fallen into the habit of experiencing physical sensations.

The round yurt, about six feet in height, was twenty-six feet in diameter. The skeleton of the semipermanent tent was made of strong wooden poles lashed together with thin leather thongs to form the side walls. On top of these, bent poles were lashed to a circular hoop about the size of a cart wheel. This central ring was left open to provide ventilation and to carry off the smoke of the burning charcoal, which—in a tightly closed area—could suffocate a man. The skeleton of the yurt was covered with felt—made of matted camel hair—both inside and out; the felt held fast with cords tied firmly around it. The inner walls were sometimes stamped with colorful designs, or in richer dwellings such as the Sheykh’s, the walls were covered with colorful carpets, woven by his wives.

The floor of the yurt was made of thick felt, a layer of dried grass, then another layer of felt, leaving a clear space in the center for the brazier. The wooden-frame door was left open in the summer, covered in the winter with curtains of felt rugs. Fedj was thankful it was covered. Only the servants crouched near the back of the tent were witness to their master’s display of weakness.

Fedj had made certain that he and Jaafar would be alone before breaking the news of the God’s command to the Sheykh. At this time of night—after eucha or suppertime—there would normally have been many of the Sheykh’s friends seated with him in the yurt, drawing smoke through the water of the hubble-bubble pipes, drinking bitter coffee and sweet tea, and regaling each other with stories that Fedj had heard a thousand times, told by their grandfathers and great-grandfathers. After a few hours they would disperse, the men going to the tents of their wives or heading for the flocks if it was their turn to take over the night watch.

Sheykh Jaafar al Widjar himself would select the tent of the wife he currently preferred, taking elaborate precautions to visit her tent in secrecy. This was an old custom, handed down from more violent days when assassins lurked in the shadows, waiting to murder the Sheykh when he was at his most vulnerable—alone with his wife.

Having been around in the old days and having seen relative peace settle at last over the various desert tribes, Fedj had always considered these precautions ludicrous and had hinted to Jaafar on occasion that they should be abandoned. Now, however, the djinn was moved to thank Akhran that his master had—out of nothing more than a childish love for pretending there were ghuls lurking beneath the bed—kept up the old customs. In the land to the west—land of their ancient enemy the Akar—these precautions against knife thrusts in the dark would undoubtedly be useful.

The Sheykh let out another wail, clasping his bony hands together. Fedj cringed, wondering what new calamity had struck Jaafar—as if this one wasn’t bad enough.

“Who will tell her?” the Sheykh demanded, peering around the tent with his sorrow-filled eyes that were, at the moment, glittering with fear. “Who will tell her?”

The servants huddled as far back into the shadows of the tent as was possible, each striving to avoid catching his master’s eye. One—a large, muscular man—seeing the Sheykh’s gaze linger on him, threw himself flat on the floor, scattering cushions and knocking over a brass water pot.

“O master! What crime have I committed that you should torture me thus? Even though I earned my freedom a year ago, haven’t I remained to serve you faithfully out of nothing but my love for you?”

And your love of the bribes paid by those seeking the Sheykh’s favor and the leftovers from the Sheykh’s table, thought Fedj. The djinn did not waste time considering the plight of the servants, however. It was time now for him to retire. He had delivered his message, listened to his master’s wailings and commiseratings, done all that could be expected of him. His eyes went to the golden ring on his master’s left hand. . .

“No, you don’t!” snapped Jaafar, clapping his right hand over the ring with an unusual amount of spirit.

“Master,” said Fedj, squirming uncomfortably, his gaze fixed upon the hand covering the ring whose somewhat cramped interior had never seemed more welcome, “I have performed my duty as given to me by Hazrat Akhran in delivering his message. There will be much work to do tomorrow, what with packing and preparing for the long march to the Tel, in which duties you can be assured of my help, sidi. I therefore beg leave to retire and rest. . .”

“You will tell her,” pronounced Jaafar al Widjar.

The slave in the comer gasped in relief and crept back into the shadows, throwing a rug over his head in case the Sheykh should change his mind.

If Fedj had possessed a heart, it would have sunk at that moment.

“Master,” the djinn began desperately, “why waste my valuable services by using me for duties fit for slaves? Give me a command worthy of my talents. Say the word, I will fly to the far ends of the world—”

“I’ll bet you would! So would I, if I could;” said Jaafar gloomily. “I cannot even begin to imagine what she will do when she hears this!” The Sheykh shook his head, shuddering from scrawny neck to slippered feet. “No, you tell her, Fedj. Someone has to, and after all, you’re immortal.”

“That only means I will suffer longer!” snapped the djinn viciously, cursing Hazrat Akhran from the bottom of his imagined heart.

Fedj kept his eyes fixed hopefully on his master’s hand, praying for a glimpse of the ring, but the Sheykh, with unusual stubbornness born of sheer terror, kept his fingers closed over it tightly. Rising from the bench, Jaafar gazed down upon the prostrate djinn.

“Fedj, I command you to carry the news to Zohra, my daughter, that one month from this day, by command of Hazrat Akhran, she is to marry Khardan al Fakhar, Calif of the Akar, son of my hated enemy, Majiid al Fakhar—may Hazrat Akhran infest his trousers with scorpions. Tell her that if she does not do this thing and remain married to the Calif until the Rose of the Prophet blooms upon the Tel, that it is the will of Hazrat Akhran that her people will all perish. Tell her this,” said the Sheykh morosely, “then bind her hand and foot and surround her tent with guards. You”—he gestured to a servant—”come with me.”

“Where are you going, sidi?” demanded Fedj.

“To—to inspect the flocks,” said Jaafar, throwing on a cloak to ward off the night’s chill. He started for the door of the yurt, nearly falling over the servants, who were—contrary to normal— racing to do their master’s bidding.

“Inspect the flocks?” Fedj’s mouth gaped open. “Since when have you decided to do this, sidi?”

“Since. . . uh . . . receiving reports that those thieving Akar— the sons of horses—have been raiding again,” Jaafar said, sidling past the djinn on his way to the door, his hand covering the ring.

“They are always raiding us!” Fedj pointed out sourly.

The Sheykh ignored him. “Come to me later. . . and—er—tell my daughter’s reaction to the. . . uh . . . joyous news of her betrothal.”

“Where will you be, sidi?” the djinn demanded, rising to his full height, his turbaned head poking out of the hole in the ceiling of the yurt.

“Akhran willing—far, far away!” said the father fervently.