Chapter 3

In the arwat, the immortals resumed their pleasuretaking, giving the body of Sond nothing more than a cool, casual glance or—at most—a look of bitterness for having bled all over the carpet (this from the rabat-bashi).

“Get him out of here!” the proprietor muttered to two ma- malukes, who bent down and—lifting the dead djinn by his flaccid arms—appeared prepared to drag him unceremoniously out the door.

“The back door,” specified the rabat-bashi.

“No one’s taking Sond anywhere,” declared Pukah, drawing a dagger from the sash around his slim waist. “Not until I have some answers.”

Dropping Sond’s arms, which fell with a lifeless thud on the floor of the arwat, the two immortal mamalukes drew their daggers, eager grins on their faces.

“Pukah, no!” cried Asrial, hurling herself at the young djinn.

Gently he pushed her away, his eyes on the knifewielding slaves who were circling, one to either side of him, steel flashing in their hands.

“You there!” cried the proprietor distractedly, gesturing to another mamaluke, “roll up that other carpet! It’s the best one in the house. I can’t afford to have it ruined as well. Quickly! Quickly! Excuse me, sir”—this to Pukah—”if you could just lift your foot for a moment? Thank you. It’s the blood, you see, it doesn’t wash—”

“Blood!” Asrial put her hands to her head in an effort to concentrate. “This is impossible. Our bodies are ethereal. They cannot bleed, they cannot die!” Lowering her hands, she looked at Death. “I don’t believe this,” the angel stated flatly. “Sond is not dead! Not even you can make the immortal mortal. Pukah, stop that nonsense.”

Somewhat startled, Pukah glanced at her, then at Sond lying on the floor. Slowly he lowered his dagger. “That’s true,” he said. “Sond can’t be dead.”

“You are both young,” said Death, turning the empty eye sockets toward them, “and you have not lived long among humans—especially you,” she said to Asrial. “You are right, of course. Sond is not dead—at least not as mortals would term it. But he might as well be. When the sun dawns tomorrow, this djinn will regain his life—but nothing else.”

“What do you mean?” Pukah glared at the cold and lovely woman suspiciously. “What else is there?”

“His identity. His memory. He will have no knowledge of who he is, whom he serves. He will be—as it were—newborn and will take on whatever identity occurs to him at the moment. He will forget everything. . .”

“Even the fact that he is immortal,” said Asrial slowly.

Death smiled. “Yes, child, that is true. He will have the mortal hunger to live life to the fullest. As are mortals, he will be driven—blessed and cursed with the knowledge that it must all come to an end.”

“This is why the immortals are lost to the world,” realized Pukah, staring at Sond. “They no longer remember it. And that is why Nedjma did not know my poor friend.”

“She is no longer Nedjma, nor has she been for a long time now. Only a few nights ago she died at the hands of a jealous lover. Days before that, she was accidentally killed in a street brawl. No one in this city”—the hollow eyes turned to Asrial—”remains alive from dusk to dawn.”

A hoarse cry interrupted them. The djinn who had stabbed Sond staggered out of the inner room, clutching his throat with one hand, a halfemptied goblet of wine in the other. Falling to the floor, he writhed in agony for a few seconds, then his body went rigid. The cup fell from his hand, rolling across the carpet, leaving a trail of spilled wine. Nedjma swept out from the room. Standing above the body, she deliberately brushed a fine, white powder from her delicate fingers. “Let this be a lesson to all who think they own me!” Tossing her honeycolored hair, she vanished behind another beaded curtain.

“Wine. . . it stains are almost as bad as blood,” whined the proprietor, wringing his hands.

Death watched appreciatively, her lips slightly parted as though she were sipping the dead djinn’s life.

“So,” said Pukah to himself. “I am beginning to understand. . .” His hand went to the tourmaline amulet Kaug had given him. As he touched it, he thought he saw Death flinch. The hollow eyes met his, a fine line marring the marble smoothness of the white brow.

Tucking his dagger into his sash, Pukah crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “There is one who will leave this city at dusk or dawn or whenever I choose. Me.” He held up the amulet that he wore around his neck. “My master cannot do without me, you see, and so has insured my return.”

“What is this?” Death peered closely at the tourmaline, the coldness of her eyeless gaze causing Pukah’s flesh to shiver and crawl. “This goes against our agreement! I am to have all who come here! Who is this master of yours?”

“One Kaug, an ‘efreet, in the service of Quar,” answered Pukah glibly.

“Kaug!” Death’s brow furrowed. The shadow of her anger descended upon the arwat, causing the rabat-bashi to hush his complainings, and the guests to hastily withdraw to whatever dark, obscure corners they could find.

Pukah saw Asrial staring at him pleadingly, begging him to take her from this place. The thought that she might die and forget her protégé must be terrifying to her. What she didn’t realize—and Pukah had—was that he could leave, but she couldn’t. Death would never allow it. I am to have all who come here. The only way for them to escape, the only way for all the immortals trapped here to escape was Pukah’s way. Pukah had a plan.

Not only will Hazrat Akhran reward me, Pukah thought blissfully. All the Gods in the Jewel of Sul will be forever indebted to me! I will be an immortal among immortals! Nothing in this world or in the heavens will be too good for me! One palace— hah! I will have twenty palaces—one given by each God. I will spend the heat of the summer in a vast stone fortress on the Great Steppes. I will winter in a grass hut of thirty or forty rooms on one of those little tropical islands in Lamish Aranth, sleeping on the feathery wings of a grateful, loving angel . . .

Seeing Death’s pallid hand reaching for the amulet, Pukah hastily clamped his fingers over it and took a step backward.

“Rest assured my master reverences you most highly, my lady,” Pukah sajd humbly. “ ‘Death is second to Quar in my esteem.’ Those were the ‘efreet’s very words.”

“ ‘Second to Quar!’ “ Death’s eyeless sockets grew dark as endless night.

“Quar is becoming the One, the True God,” Pukah said apologetically. “You must concede that. The number of humans worshiping Him grows daily.”

“That may be true,” Death said sharply, “but in the end their bodies are mine! That is the promise of Sul.”

“Ah, but didn’t you hear—” Pukah stopped, biting his tongue, lowering his eyes, and glancing at Death from beneath the lids— “but then I guess you didn’t. If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I really should be getting back. Kaug is dining on boiled ray tonight, and if I’m not there to remove the sting, my master will—”

“Hear what?” questioned Death grimly.

“Nothing, I assure you, my lady.” Grabbing hold of Asrial’s hand, Pukah began to sidle past Death toward the door. “It is not my place to reveal the secrets of the Most Holy Quar—”

Death raised a pale, quivering finger and pointed at Asrial. “You may have an Amulet of Life, djinn, but this feathered beauty here does not! Tell what I need to know, or she will be struck down before your eyes this instant!”

Death gestured, and the two mamalukes, their daggers still in hand, looked with eager, burning eyes at the angel. Asrial caught her breath, pressing her hands over her mouth and shrinking next to Pukah. The djinn put his arm around her reassuringly. The foxish face was pale, however, and he was forced to swallow several times before he could speak.

“Do not be hasty, my lady! I will tell you everything, for it is obvious to me now that you have been the victim of a trick played upon you by the God. I assume that it was Quar who schemed to trap the immortals by laying this spell upon the city of Serinda?”

Death did not reply, but Pukah saw the truth in the face whose marble facade was beginning to crack. Hurriedly he continued, “Quar gave you the delightful task of casting this spell over the city, knowing—as He did—that your greatest pleasure in life comes from watching others leave it?”

Again, though Death did not answer, Pukah knew he was right and spoke with increasing confidence, not to mention a hint of smugness. “Thus, Lady, Quar rid the world of the immortals—all the immortals, if you take my meaning. Your grave and lovely self included.”

“Pukah! What are you saying?” Asrial glanced up at him in alarm, but the djinn hugged her into silence.

“For you see, O Sepulchral Beauty, Quar has promised all who follow him eternal life!”

Death sucked in a deep breath. Her hair rose around her in a wrathful cloud, a cold blast of fury hit those in the arwat, causing the strongest slave to tremble in fear. Asrial hid her face in her hands. Only Pukah remained confident, sure of himself and his glib tongue.

“I have proof,” he said, forestalling what he was certain would be Death’s next demand. “Only a few months ago, Quar ordered the Amir of Kich to attack bands of nomads living in the Pagrah desert. Were you present at the battle, Lady?”

“No, I was—”

“Busy here below,” Pukah said, nodding knowingly. “And your presence was sorely missed, Lady, I can tell you, particularly by the jackals and hyenas who count upon your bounty. For hardly anyone died in that battle. The Imam of Quar ordered them taken alive! Why? So that his God could grant them eternal life and thereby be assured of eternal followers! Before that was the battle in Kich—”

“I was present then!” Death said.

“Yes, but whom did you take? A fat Sultan, a few of his wives, assorted wazirs. Piffle!” Pukah said with a disdainful sniff. “When there was an entire city filled with people who could have been raped, murdered, burned, stoned—the survivors left to fend off disease, starvation—”

“You are right!” said Death, her teeth clenching in a skulllike grimace.

“Far be it from me to betray Hazrat Quar, for whom I have a high respect,” added Pukah humbly, “but I have long been one of your most ardent admirers, my lady. Ever since you took my former master—a follower of Benario—in the most original fashion—his body parts cut off one at a time by the enraged owner of the establishment my poor master took it into his head to rob without first checking to make certain that no one was at home. That is why I have revealed to you Quar’s plot to remove you forever from the world of the living and keep you here below, playing games.”

“I will show you how games are played!” Seething, Death approached Pukah, the hollow of her empty eyes seeming to grow larger, encompassing the djinn.

“Show me?” Pukah laughed lightly. “Thank you, but I really don’t have time for such frivolities. My master cannot do without—” It suddenly occurred to the djinn that Death was drawing uncomfortably near. Letting go of Asrial, he tried to back up and tumbled over a hubblebubble pipe. “What have I to do with this? Nothing!” He scrambled to his feet. “If I were you, now, Lady, I would leave this city immediately and fly to the world above. No doubt the Amir is riding to battle this very instant! Spears through chests, sword slicing through flesh. Arms ripped from their sockets, entrails and brains on the ground! Tempting picture, isn’t it?”

“Yes indeed! So Quar has sent you here to frighten me—” Death stalked him.

“Ffrighten you?” Pukah stammered, knocking over a table and small chair. “No, Lady,” he said with complete honesty, “I assure you, that frightening you is the furthest thing from my—his mind!”

“What does He want? His immortals returned? Eternal life! We’ll see what Sul has to say about this!”

“Yes, yes!” gabbled Pukah, backed up against a wall, his hand clutching the amulet. “Go talk to Sul! Wonderful person, Sul. Have you ever met Him?”

“I intend to speak with Him,” said Death, “but first I will send Quar his messenger back in the form of a skeleton to remind him of whom he is trying to cheat!”

“You can’t touch me!” said Pukah quickly, raising the amulet in front of Death’s baleful, empty eyes.

“No,” said Death softly, “but I can her!”

Death vanished and reappeared. The pale, cold hands were suddenly clasped around Asrial’s shoulders, the angel caught fast in Death’s grip.

The djinn stared into the angel’s blue, despairing eyes and wondered what had gone wrong. It had been such a simple, beautiful plan! Get Death out of the city. Set her on Quar. . . “I’ll make a bargain with you,” offered Pukah desperately.

“A bargain?” Death stared at him suspiciously. “I have had enough of your Master and His bargains!”

“No,” said Pukah solemnly, “this would be. . . just between you and me. In exchange for her”—he looked at Asrial, his soul in his eyes, his voice softening—”I will give you my amulet—”

“No, Pukah, no!” Asrial cried.

“—and I will remain in the city of Serinda,” the djinn continued. “You boast that no one lives from dawn to dusk in this city. I challenge that claim. I say that I am cleverer than you. No matter what form you choose to take, I can avoid falling your victim.”

“Ha!” snorted Death.

“No one shall goad me into any quarrel,” averred Pukah.

“No woman will slip poison into my drink!”

“And if I win, what do I get out of this bargain, beyond the pleasure of seeing you stretched lifeless at my feet?”

“I will give you not only myself, but my master as well.”

“Kaug?” Death sneered. “Another immortal? As you can see, I am well supplied with those already.”

“No.” Pukah drew a deep breath. “You see, Kaug is not my master so much as he is my jailer. Sond and I were captured by the ‘efreet and forced to do his bidding. My true master is Khardan, Calif of the Akar—”

“Pukah, what are you saying?” cried Asrial, appalled. “Khardan!” Death appeared interested. “Akhran holds that particular mortal in high favor. He keeps close watch upon him. I cannot get near. You are saying that if I win—”

“—the eyes of Akhran will be looking elsewhere.”

“You know that now your mortal, Khardan, stands in dire peril?” Death inquired coolly.

“No,” said Pukah, looking somewhat uncomfortable, “I didn’t. It’s been some time, you see, since I was captured, and I—”

“Not only him, but those with him,” said Death, her eyes on Asrial.

Clasping her hands, the angel gazed at the pale woman beseechingly. “Mathew?” she whispered.

“We will speak of this later, you and I,” said Death soothingly, running her cold hand over Asrial’s silver hair. “Very well,” she added, “I accept your bargain, Pukah. Hand me the amulet.”

“But you haven’t heard the rest of the deal,” protested the young djinn in offended dignity. “The part about what you give me if I win.”

Death glanced around the arwat. “If he wins!” she repeated. Everyone burst into shouts of laughter, the proprietor guffawing until he lost his breath and had to be pounded on his back by one of the slaves. “Very well,” said Death, wiping tears of mirth that sprang horribly from the empty sockets. “If you win, Pukah, I will give you what?” Your freedom, I suppose. That’s what all you djinn want.

“Not only my freedom,” said Pukah cunningly. “I want the freedom of every immortal in the city of Serinda!”

The laughter in the arwat suddenly ceased.

“What did he say?” puffed the rabat-bashi, who—between trying to breathe and getting thumped on the back—hadn’t been able to hear clearly.

“He says he wants us freed!” growled an immortal of Zhakrin’s, eyeing Pukah grimly.

“Freed!” said a cherubim, staggering out of a beadcurtained room, a goblet in her hand. “Free to go back to a life of drudgery!”

“A life of slavery,” slurred one of Quar’s ‘efreets from where it lay comfortably beneath a table.

“Death take him!” cried Uevin’s God of War.

“Death! Death!” chanted everyone in the arwat, rising to their feet, fingering their weapons.

“Free? Did I say free?” Sweat trickled down from beneath Pukah’s turban. “Look, we can discuss this—”

“Enough!” Death raised her hands. “I agree to his terms. Pukah, if you are alive by sunset tomorrow”—hoots and howls of derision greeted this. Clenching her raised fists, Death commanded silence—”then I swear by Sul that the spell over the city of Serinda will be broken. If, however, the failing light of the sun casts its rays over your body as it lies upon its bier, Pukah, then your master, Khardan, is mine. And his end will be truly terrible”—Death looked at Asrial—”for he will be slain by one whom he trusts, one who owes him his life.”

Asrial stared at Death in horror. “Not—” She couldn’t finish.

“I fear so, child. But—as I said—we will discuss that later. Hear me!” Death lifted her voice, and it seemed that the entire city of Serinda fell silent. “I owe allegiance to no God or Goddess. I have no favorites. Whatever else may be said of me, I am impartial. I take the very young. I take the very old. The good cannot escape me, neither can the sinner. The rich with all their money cannot keep me from their doors. The magi with all their magic cannot find a spell to defeat me. And so I will have no favorites here. Pukah will have this night to prepare his defense. The people of Serinda will have this night to prepare their attack.

“Pukah, this night you may keep your amulet and freely walk the city. Whatever weapon you find will be yours. Tomorrow, at the Temple in the city plaza, at the dawning of the new day, you will deliver to me the amulet and the contest will begin. Is this agreed?”

“Agreed,” said Pukah through lips that, despite his best efforts, trembled. He couldn’t meet Asrial’s despairing eyes.

Death nodded, and the people resumed their frenetic activities, everyone making eager preparations for tomorrow’s deadly contest.

“And now, child, you want to see what is happening in the world of humans?” asked Death.

“Yes, oh yes!” cried Asrial.

“Then come with me.” Death’s hair lifted as though stirred by a hot wind. Floating around her, it enfolded the angel like a shroud.

“Pukah?” Asrial said, hesitating.

“Go ahead,” said the djinn, trying to smile. “I’ll be fine, for a while at least.”

“You will see him again, child,” Death said, putting her arm around Asrial and drawing her away. “You will see him again. . . .”

The two vanished. Pukah slumped down into a nearby chair, ignoring the snarls, the hostile stares. Gulping slightly at the sight of daggers, knives, swords, and other cutlery that was making a sudden appearance, he turned his head to look out the window. He was not cheered by the sight of an imp pushing a grindstone down the street; the demon was besieged by a mob of immortals brandishing weapons to be sharpened.

Seeing his reflection in the window, Pukah found it more comforting to look at his own foxish face. “I’m smarter than Death,” he said, seeking reassurance.

The unusually gloomy reflection made no answer.