Kindred Of The Crescent Moon
by Gerald Pearce

* * * *

We had heard that the city called Ras al-Wadi was protected by a tribe of witches. But when we finally came to the edge of the plateau and looked down and saw it off to the right, beyond the dense forest of date palms crowding the valley floor, we found it protected by a defensive wall more than twice a man’s height like any small oasis town, as unremarkable as mud.

Behind me on the lead ropes the pack camel and Mujahid’s mare stirred briefly.

Mujahid turned in his camel saddle. The effect of his sudden smile was startling. He hadn’t smiled since before his father died, weeks ago. Now suddenly he was his old self again, his broad muscular face alight, confident as a child’s.

“Now all we have to do is go down there and find him. When we do —”

Slowly, almost lovingly, he drew a hard brown forefinger across his throat just above the collar of his thaub, and his smile took on the sometimes irritating assurance of a man who knows he is lucky. He was. Bedouin life was a gamble that Mujahid always won. Before his beard was more than a wisp and a shadow, he had been leading successful raids, bringing back booty in livestock and nubile women. His daring in battle was unmatched; only his luck kept his skin whole. His herds thrived. He had a persuasive tongue and was gifted at poetry and love songs, and his endless success with young women delighted him. Utter confidence could give his smile the arrogant edge I saw now. I had never expected to be glad to see that again, but any sign of the old Mujahid was preferable to the grim, obsessed, silent stranger I had been riding with all these weeks.

“You can’t know he’s here,” I told him. “He didn’t have to stop. He could be well on his way to the Red Sea.”

Mujahid shook his head, faced the valley, drew in a deep breath.

“What do you smell?” he asked.

“Rain in the air. Oasis smells — moisture, green things growing.”

“I smell my luck. It’s been hiding from me. Thank you for your patience; I’ve been a stranger to myself as well as to you. Come on, let’s find a way down.”

Neither of us would have come to Ras al-Wadi if Kadhim bin Ja’far hadn’t fallen in love with old Hasan’s young wife. Hasan was Mujahid’s father. The young wife’s name was Filwa, and she was the prettiest, gentlest girl I had ever seen, with wide eyes as deep as night and lips always on the verge of a smile that was partly humorous but mostly shy. She was hardly any older than I was, and she haunted my dreams. But I was only a servant, with neither ancestors nor tribe, and I probably owed my life to Hasan: so it was loyalty as much as self-protection that made me keep those dreams in check.

Nothing had ever restrained Kadhim bin Ja’far. He had a face like a knife and his eyes were angry. His short black beard was denser than most bedouin beards, and his voice had the edge and cold weight of an enemy’s sword. Some said he had the Evil Eye and kept their children from falling under his gaze. Others said he was just a bully that no one had ever stood up to because he was the heir of a rich family of the Numayr clan of the Bani Faris tribe and no one wanted to risk antagonizing him. His approach to Filwa had frightened her into complaining to Hasan.

We were at the tribal center in Hasa oasis at the time. Hasan, the head of a less prominent family of the same kindred, was close to sixty, gray-bearded, calm, with nothing left to prove. He went to Kadhim’s tent to warn him away from Filwa and the two were heard arguing. A bit later Kadhim came out carrying his saddlebag. He picked up a waterbag and mounted his riding camel and disappeared south into the Jafura sands.

Toward sunset Kadhim’s sister found Hasan in Kadhim’s tent with a deep wound under his ribs. Two days later he died.

Grief like a sword bled me of my strength.

When the women had finished their lamentations, the Numayri elders and several shaykhs of the tribal council gathered in Mujahid’s tent. They advised, predictably, that he accept Kadhim’s permanent banishment and the payment of blood-wit instead of insisting on vengeance, as a blood feud within the clan would weaken it and hurt the tribe. It was sensible advice.

Mujahid only shook his head. No easy flow of words now. His face clenched like a fist, he stepped outside the circle of the impromptu council. He strung his bow, took a single arrow from his quiver, and held it for all to see. The iron tip gleamed dully. The shaft was clean. This would be his arrow of recision, the one thing that could rescind his obligation to avenge a murdered relative. The others, understanding, stood up and followed him outside. I stumbled numbly after them.

Mujahid’s tent was pitched not far from Hasan’s on the edge of the Hasa oasis. Half-visible through the date palms a huddle of mud-walled houses was the village called Bayt Faris, the tribal center. Beyond the village lay orchards, palm groves, wheatfields, other villages, a marsh where peasants grew rice, even a small walled town. There was a profusion of wells and hot springs. Hasa oasis was an extravagantly watered depression near the shores of the Arabian Gulf, as green and fresh as the surrounding land was desolate.

We went through dwindling palms and a line of tamarisk into the open desert. There, surrounded by witnesses, Mujahid shot the arrow high into the softening empty cloudless sky of late afternoon.

It came hissing back through the dry air, thudding into the sand.

Half its length glistened with fresh blood.

Hasan’s spirit, or some God, demanded vengeance.

Unless of course it was magic.

People cried magic the first time I shot a wild dove out of the sky — I was supposed to be a skilled bowman but not that skilled. I tried it again later with no watchers and failed and never found the arrow. So much for magic. Later still I had a few successes and a few failures, enough to prove it was skill, an intuitive sense of where the bird’s flight and the arrow’s had to meet, perhaps helped occasionally by luck. Mujahid’s luck was reliable. Mine wasn’t.

But Mujahid had no skill in magic, and trickery was impossible. We had all seen the clean arrow leave the bow, pierce empty air, and now the blood on it was there to be seen and smelled and touched.

Only one man didn’t join in the cries of astonishment. His name was Suhayl, and he was Mujahid’s mother’s eldest brother. He gave his nephew a speculative stare before adjusting the drape of his headcloth away from his neck and gray-bearded face.

“The tribes have been using this ritual time out of mind,” he said mildly. He pointed to the arrow, which Mujahid had plucked out of the ground and was holding between fingertips of both hands. “But I never heard trustworthy accounts of its returning this answer.”

Suhayl was known for his skeptical appraisal of men. What he seemed to be suggesting was that the ritual had been dreamed up by cunning shaykhs anxious to reduce the number of blood feuds, and surely that was taking skepticism too far. Most of the council seemed to think so. There were troubled murmurings. Umar bin Auda was scandalized.

“Mother of the Gods! Are you asking for a curse on your family, on the Nu-mayr clan, or perhaps on the whole tribe?” Umar’s voice was peppery and his eyes flashed. He was a lot older than Hasan had been; his beard and eyebrows were sparkling white. In recent years he had become increasingly devoted to the study of the Gods and their activities, and though some thought he was sliding into his dotage no one knew enough to argue with him. “Next you’ll be denying sorcery, the existence of jinns, the powers of the Gods themselves . . .”

Suhayl shook his head. “No,” he said unemphatically, and Mujahid stepped in front of him and held the arrow up before his uncle’s eyes.

He said in a quiet, driven voice, “My father was your brother-in-law. You owed him kinship duties when he was alive, now you owe him the right to be avenged. It’s my right to avenge him.”

Several eager voices offered to help. Mujahid, holding the arrow like a cult object, slowly shook his head.

“I’ll take one trusted servant. Talal.”

Talal son of no one. Young man with no ancestors. Me.

Anyone of unknown parentage was said to have no ancestors. Ten years ago, when I was five or six, I had been a half-starved orphan who had deserted or been dumped by a passing caravan and been caught stealing plums from Hasan’s small orchard near Bayt Faris village. Hasan had taken me in and raised me as a bedouin and his well-treated servant. Mujahid, who was some ten years older than I, taught me to ride and use a bow and was the closest thing to a big brother I would ever have.

I supposed, with distant astonishment, that he wanted me along for my skill with the bow and my loyalty to Hasan. But I thought his refusing other help was silly. Avenging Hasan should be a matter for the whole family, not an occasion for a hothead’s bravado.

Suhayl made an impatient gesture. Clearly he thought so too; but arguing with Mujahid at the best of times brought out only his cheerful impudence and stony obduracy, and this was not the best of times. Shaking his head, Suhayl subsided. Unexpectedly Umar bin Auda spoke up.

“Is that wise, Mujahid?” The peppery old voice was almost quiet. “You’re a man of experience and luck, we all know that; and though you have no brothers your four brothers-in-law will be eager to help you, and so will others, not because duty demands it but because of their regard for your father, may the Gods have mercy on him. You could scour the desert like an army. But Talal. . . he’s only a boy.”

“He’s a man,” Mujahid said, “who hasn’t had much chance to prove it. If he acquits himself with honor we can adopt him into the tribe and our ancestors will become his too.”

Umar turned troubled eyes on me.

“And you, Talal. You want to go with him?”

As though I had a choice. I was a dutiful servant, a grateful friend, an admiring if sometimes irritated little brother. And Hasan had to be avenged.

“Of course,” I said. Filwa would have expected it of me.

After a long moment Umar nodded. He sighed, a dry resigned rustle. “The Gods make plans. No doubt this is part of a pattern we can’t see.” And on that the council broke up.

Mujahid seemed not to have realized that Filwa was now his by inheritance. All he had to do to claim her was throw his cloak around her. Bani Faris law gave him three days to exercise this right; otherwise she was free to return to her own people. . . .

What she actually said when she heard I was going with him was, passionately, “Are you crazy?” I only shrugged and went on loading the pack camel. What mattered was getting Mu-jahid away before he came to his senses and remembered. The disloyalty made me unable to look anyone in the eye.

We left before sunset, riding after Kadhim into the Jafura sands. Filwa and the honored lady Zaynab, Hasan’s first wife and Mujahid’s mother, threw a couple of potsful of water after us as a charm to assure our finding water on the journey.

Mujahid turned his camel’s head away from Ras al-Wadi and urged the beast southward along the rim of the plateau. His smile still lingered. In the weeks of riding I had never once seen him weep for his father. Perhaps the relationship between fathers and sons was more complicated than it seemed. Of course I could only guess.

All day we had been riding west over barren plains and ancient lava beds and rocky hills where the sun glinted off flints and broken pebbles and a thin, hot, bitter wind whipped grit from the desert floor into our eyes. As the shadows lengthened all this had changed. Now, towering black clouds hid the colors of sunset. The wind had shifted, and had an edge, and smelled wet. And as we came to where the drop into the valley became a negotiable slope by way of a well-used camel trail, rain began falling in slow, widely-spaced drops that splashed dust up from the trail and left wet smears as big as a man’s hand on the rocks of the valley wall. For a couple of minutes the air smelled of wet dust, and then it began to rain faster.

I looked up at the low lead-colored sky. Rain caught on my eyelashes. Dust from my lips washed into my mouth.

Mujahid turned and threw me his lucky smile.

“We arrive with the rain. It’ll assure us a good welcome.”

The trail took a sharply angled turn, became steeper, then leveled out and almost disappeared on a gradual slope dotted with spiny desert shrubs. It was darker than it had been above; the mass of the palm trees was only an outline against the slightly paler clouds, and even that disappeared when the steady shower suddenly became a downpour. The whisper of the rain became a rattle on the palm fronds, then a roar, until lightning, pale as death, vicious as Ka-dhim’s dagger, blazed into the ground just ahead of Mujahid’s camel with a thunderclap loud enough to curdle courage and split stones.

The world became a chaos of frightened animals plunging about in rain and darkness.

For moments I saw only the memory of the lightning. In that time the pack camel, lunging and dragging on its lead rope, dislodged the saddle I was riding; it tilted, both animals I had been leading reared free, and I went over blindly. I landed on hip and elbow and scrambled madly to avoid the trampling hooves of the horse.

As I blundered clear, a safely distant lightning flash showed Mujahid’s camel struggling to stand, and over the following thunder’s echo I heard a muttered curse. By then I could almost see clearly again. A few paces away Mujahid was picking himself out of a prickly shrub he’d fallen into, bending to disentangle his wet cloak from its stiff twigs and spines.

I said, “Mujahid?” and as though my voice had turned him into stone he suddenly stopped moving. He didn’t speak. I don’t think he breathed. For a slow count of three he just stood hunched over in the rain until suddenly he jerked to life, gave a strangled cry and reared back, tearing the cloak free.

Bending over, he picked up a double handful of wet gravel and broken rock and flung it into the heart of the bush he had trampled.

“. . .I take refuge with the Mother of the Gods from all evil!”

I recognized the ritual with sudden dread. Without moving his feet he turned to me like an old grandfather withered by age and old battle wounds. Vaguely he reached up under his head-cloth and touched the side of his head above the right temple, lowered his hand, examined the fingertips, stared at me. His face framed by the dripping headcloth was empty, slack, his eyes lost in wells of darkness like a skull’s.

“An ausaj bush,” he muttered. “I fell and trampled an ausaj bush . . .”

My mouth was dry as blown dust. I licked rain off my lips to moisten my tongue.

“. . . Perhaps you’re wrong,” I croaked. “It’s dark, perhaps you mistook a —”

“You brainless dog turd!” He scooped up another handful of gravel and flung it — at me. I ducked with my arms around my head. Half a dozen small rocks bounced off me painfully. “Next you’ll say I need sunlight to tell a woman from a man . . . Gods! — that this should happen when we’ve practically caught him. . .” He put a vague hand to his head again. “Are you dreaming? See to your animals.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Not yet.”

None of the animals had bolted, and Mujahid’s camel was only ten paces away. As he approached her his knees buckled. He stumbled forward, kept from falling only by catching the decorative strips trailing from his saddlebag.

Perhaps the women’s charm to assure us water was working too well. The lightning had moved away, and the thunder had become a distant grumble, but the rain continued to hiss and rattle, and profligate streams sluiced heedlessly down the steep valley wall. The space between the wall and the palm trees had become a shallow lake.

The difference between an ausaj and other stiff, dry desert bushes is this: that only the ausaj is protected by jinns. A vengeful jinni’s curse can end a man’s life in a day or follow it through decades of tragedy and dishonor. No better way to earn such a curse than to violate an ausaj, which is why bedouin take care to avoid them, hurling a rock or a pebble and taking refuge with the Mother of the Gods. What power had luck against the enmity of jinns? Maybe the lightning bolt had signalled that the reign of Mujahid’s luck was over. . . .

Soaked, weary, beginning to shiver, I sloshed through ankle-deep water, leading all four animals up the valley toward the city. The three camels were linked one behind the other. The horse I led carefully by the sodden wool halter rope attached to her headstall. On her back slumped Mujahid, inert and dejected, without his headgear but with a bandage made from a strip torn from the hem of my thaub around his head. I kept expecting him to fall out of the saddle. . . .

We took a jog to avoid a rocky outcrop taller than a man, had just emerged beyond it when a child’s voice laughed out of the rain. The laugh cut off sharply. I halted the animals, peered toward it.

A small naked boy pointed at us.

From a patch of deep water near him, an indistinct shape rose and turned to us. I saw a young woman in a narrow dress; I couldn’t see details but had the impression of streaming hair falling past her shoulders, two slender braids on either side framing her face. Women often celebrated the coming of rain by joining the children splashing about in the short-lived pools and puddles, and our arrival had caught this pair by surprise. They studied us in startled silence.

But only for a moment. Even as I started formally to wish them peace, the young woman called out, “Ahlan wa sahlan” — a greeting with overtones of welcome. Her upturned hands caught the falling rain and tossed it back at the clouds. “A propitious time: your arrival is green! Tomorrow the wells will be full and the whole world fresh.”

“May the Gods prosper you, lady.” I wished I were talking to a man. A man had more authority. “My master is injured and appeals for your protection.”

“You must take your appeal to my mother.”

“Not to your father, or perhaps an uncle — ?”

“My fa— ?” A surprised pause. A bubble of amusement appeared in her voice; she quelled it politely. “No. We of Ahl al-Hilal do things the old way.”

If the men were absent it would of course be proper to appeal to her mother, but somehow I thought she meant more than that. Ahl al-Hilal — kindred of the crescent moon. I’d never heard of them. But I had heard the rumor about a tribe of witches. Was it true after all? Might this kindred have no need of men? Might they have the power to call down lightning to guard Ras al-Wadi’s approaches?. . .

The young woman said something to the boy. He turned and ran, splashing through the rain and the gathering dark toward the date palms. I thought I saw the outline of a small building up against the trees. Then she was speaking again.

“. . . Lead the animals this way.” A careful look at Mujahid. She couldn’t have seen much. “Follow me exactly. I’ll keep you on level ground.”

The house was a minute’s walk away, a low rectangle of mud brick thickly daubed with mud and straw. The flickering light from a small indoor fire showed an open doorway beyond which I could make out no details, and then someone blocked the firelight, ducking out into the rain holding what was probably a thick wool cloak overhead like a tent.
 
“Is that the injured one?”

A woman’s voice, deep-toned and decisive even when asking a question.

“On the horse,” I said. “His name’s Mujahid bin Hasan an-Numayri and he appeals for your protection.”

“He has it. Ahlan wa sahlan. I am Nur bint Hind. Mabruka!”

“Mother?” the young woman said.

“Tell Latifa to move her bedding in with us; we need her room for our guests. And bring in a candle.”

Latifa was an aging servant woman with a small skinny old body muffled in peasant wrappings. In a cheerful cackle she assured us that Nur usually put up a tent to accommodate guests but how could you, when the world was under water? She bundled up her bedding with ostentatious good nature to emphasize the hospitality of her mistress’s household and scurried out one door and into the other. There were two rooms in the building with no interior door between them.

To my eyes it was pitch dark in La-tifa’s room. With no will of his own Mujahid allowed himself to be guided inside to what my toes told me was a rug, at one end of which he obediently sat. I heard the settling rustle of clothing as Nur bint Hind sank to the floor beside him. Then I turned back toward the door to go and see about the animals and baggage just as Mabruka came in, cradling the guttering flame of a tallow candle with a careful hand.

Once inside she stood up straight and held the candle to illuminate the room. Or at least the people in it. What it showed best was Mabruka. Perhaps that was the idea.

In the candlelight her eyes were huge and dark and almost magical. I had thought her young but not this young. Two years ago she could have showed no sign of the breasts and hips that pushed against the fabric of the narrow wet dress. New womanhood glowed from her like a mystery, increasingly exciting in its unfolding possibilities. Perhaps she was fourteen. I couldn’t imagine anyone less like Filwa. Filwa was taller, slimmer, her beauty quiet and shy. Mabruka’s was sturdy and exuberant, as outgoing as laughter, as confident as a spring sunrise.

Her eyes slid past me to her mother, then fixed on Mujahid. Lucky Mujahid. Mabruka knelt at the edge of the rug, brought the candle nearer his face. He turned slightly to look at it, then at her. His eyes below the rough bandage showed no spark of interest. I was suddenly afraid that this was no temporary despondency, that the old ways and the smiling assurance were gone for good.

Something bitter twisted my lips. A flower of remorse blossomed suddenly under my ribcage, bewildering me. No, not remorse. Guilt. I was guilty of something, the accusation was unanswerable, but. . . of what was I accused? And once the question was asked the answer came without effort. You are accused of secretly, bitterly, under a cloak of admiration, resenting Mujahid’s good luck. And hard on the heels of this recognition came the further question: Must it mean that now I actively wanted Mujahid’s luck changed?

I was appalled. Since I had already been feeling obscurely disloyal to Filwa for the impression created by my first good look at Mabruka, I had to wonder if I had any loyalty at all. Of course I didn’t want Mujahid’s luck changed! — if only for the practical reason that he might need it to avenge his father, and if he did I certainly would too. Besides, though we shared no formal kinship ties yet, circumstances had made me as much a Numayri of the Bani Faris as anyone; he was my brother, and my friend.

Nur bint Hind leaned into the candlelight. She had dropped the cloak that she’d held overhead down around her shoulders. She had a light shawl draped over her hair and wrapped about her neck; a strikingly handsome woman I guessed to be no more than twice Ma-bruka’s age, her face calm under dark level brows, her eyes direct, with a challenging intelligence. Her hands rose to Mujahid’s bandage, showing on her fingers silver rings set with turquoise and red stones, on one wrist the wink of solid silver.

“Are you a healer, lady?”

“I have no magic, but I’ve treated the cuts and scrapes of many children besides my own, more than my share of lance and knife wounds, and seen women through childbirth. If his hurt’s beyond my skill we’ll take him in the morning to a healer we know in the city.” She slipped the bandage over his head, detaching it carefully from the wound, then used a corner to wipe away congealing blood.

Mujahid flinched slightly. He flinched again when she prodded delicately around the edges of the wound, which I couldn’t properly see. Then she sat back on her heels, dropping her hand into her lap and giving him a thoughtful stare which, after a long moment, she turned on me.

“I’ve seen worse head cuts on five-year-old boys playing sword fights with sticks. Did something else happen to him?”

“His camel stumbled.” I licked parched lips. My tongue felt like dry wool. “He was thrown and hit his head and trampled an ausaj bush.”

She finished the explanation for me. “He fears a jinn curse.”

I nodded.

She thought a moment, then looked full into her daughter’s face. Her brows rose slightly, an unvoiced question.

Mabruka nodded, settling slowly back on her heels. She lowered the candle and sat with the other hand in her lap, unmoving, not visibly breathing. I only had the space of a heartbeat to wonder what was happening before I felt myself caught in a curious moment of stretched time, like an insect caught in a drop of honey, with the world stopped. My vision was restricted, I saw only the heavy silver bracelet on Nur’s wrist, the upturned fingers of Mabruka’s hand lying in her lap. The candle flame was unnaturally still, a golden blade glowing in the first red light of some mythic dawn in a desert without landmarks where the only sound came from the collision of one sand grain against another, each tick and click distinct and separate, slower than the rattle of a kitten’s first purr, inexorable as the fall of mountains but more threatening

Who knows under what spell I was falling? Or perhaps it was only weariness and anxiety played on by the candle flame, evoking a waking dream finally interrupted when an impurity in the tallow caused the flame to sputter and flare up. I was instantly wide awake, my heart hammering under my ribs, and I was staring at Mabruka.

She was on her heels, her body tilted slightly forward from the waist in an attitude of attention, her breasts urgent against the wet dress. Desire for her went through me like a sword. My knees dissolved. I almost groaned aloud.

Mabruka met her mother’s eyes and shook her head. Mujahid could not have cared less. Nur looked past him up at me.

“Your master is safe. My daughter tells me there are no spirits present.”

I said without thinking, “How would she know?”

“She knows. It’s her gift.”

“And there’s no curse,” Mabruka said. “A curse leaves ... a kind of echo.”

I stared. Mabruka looked defensive.

She said, “Some people can make poems, or play music. I can do this.”

“It’s a great. . . skill, gift,” I fumbled huskily, hopelessly.

“It’s not fun, you know. It’s frightening.”

“Look,” Nur said.

Mujahid was returning to us.

Not quickly, as at the snap of fingers. I didn’t know what Nur had seen but when I looked he moved his shoulders, like a child disturbed in sleep. Then his throat made a small soft sound, half query, half protest. After a while he blinked. Several times. When his eyes stayed open the lost uncaring look had left them and the slack lines of his face and body were tightening into a semblance of Mujahid living. Staring at Mabruka whose gleaming hair fell past her shoulders, the slender braids framing her face. At the hand holding the candle. At the other still resting in her lap. At her mouth.

When he spoke his voice was as light and dry as wheat chaff.

“Sorceress.”

“No,” she said.

Relief had begun storming through me at the first sigh of his recovery. Now it subsided, leaving me weak and angry.

“So you heard it was safe and decided to come back,” I sneered. “Where’ve you been?”

I was still standing. He looked up at me wanly. “Nowhere.”

Nur said, “Your injury’s nothing, a skin wound, hardly enough to take away your senses. Your servant’s been worried.”

“Sorry, Talal.” He thought a minute, and when he finally shrugged it was almost humorously. The old confidence was returning. In a minute more, I thought, he’ll be displaying the full panoply that identified lucky Mujahid, warrior Mujahid, courteous and tender Mujahid, Mujahid the romantic conqueror . . .

I almost snarled, “He thought a jinni was after him and it scared him witless.”

His face closed like a fist; he gave me a cold rejecting stare. It got even worse when a spasm quivered in his cheek and one corner of his mouth began lifting in a ghastly half-smile. I tried to match him stare for stare. I don’t think I did too well. And then his face began to relax. He sighed.

“A jinni’s a hard enemy to fight. You could be right.” His voice was getting stronger every minute. He explained my outburst to the two women: “Talal’s as much a younger brother as a servant. Or thinks he is. But that’s all right, I often think so too.”

I felt obscurely apologetic — and too angry to apologize.

I said awkwardly, “Whichever I am, I still have to see to the animals,” and went outside.

The rain had stopped. Water dripped noisily from palm fronds in the date garden that was only visible as a looming mass in the dark.

From somewhere the little boy had summoned a man I later learned was a field hand and the servant Latifa’s nephew. So at least these Hilali people weren’t a kindred of women only. The man and the boy had the pack camel barracked near the house and were unloading her. I joined them and soon we had all three camels unloaded and the gear and baggage and saddlebags carried in and stacked in Latifa’s room. The two women had gone to hurry up the meal that Latifa was preparing next door.

To keep the animals out of the vegetable field, the man helped me lead them into a mud-walled pen. I thanked him. He assured me no thanks were due for the performance of a duty, and when I squatted by a deep puddle to wash my face and arms and feet, the little boy told me to hurry and not miss my dinner because they had killed a sheep yesterday and there was meat in the stew. I said I was sure it was delicious. He nodded solemnly. I complimented Nur bint Hind’s hospitality. He proudly told me she was his mother; he was Sa’d bin Nur. I didn’t ask about his father.

“Soon,” he told me, “I go to my uncle to learn to be a bedouin herdsman and a hunter. I will hunt gazelle.”

I told him gazelle meat was tasty eating.

When I got back inside, Mujahid had a fresh strip of cloth tied around his head; he was sitting where I had left him, now wearing a dry thaub they had given him. Nur and Latifa were setting out food on the rug in front of him. No sign of Mabruka. A heady smell rose from the dish of well-spiced stew; there was a bowl of curdled milk, dates, dried apricots, a stack of flat circles of bread. It would have been a feast in any shaykh’s tent or house at Hasa oasis. To a bedouin just in from a weeks-long journey on a minimum of bread and dates and stale water the sight and smell were dizzying.

From a store of household furnishings stacked almost ceiling-high against the inside wall Latifa brought us a couple of cushions each and grinned and told us to be comfortable and eat well and then left.

I sat down and we started to eat when there was movement in the doorway and Mabruka came in.

She had changed out of the clinging wet dress into a fuller, black one with red embroidery in a band around the collar, and over this wore a light black mantle. In the candlelight, silver and turquoise glinted from her fingers. Around her neck were strings of red and black beads hung with silver ornaments and tiny silver bells and a string of thick oval honey-colored stones that must have come from beyond the farthest mountains. I twisted my neck to gape at her. Her lips parted and the wide bold dark eyes warmed in my direction and my heart pounded like racing hoofbeats as she crossed the floor to join us.

I had to move to offer her a place to sit between me and Mujahid, then scrambled to offer her the cushions La-tifa had given me. A servant’s automatic response. She thanked me sweetly, settling down to them in a single fluid movement with a faint tinkling of her jewelry and gave one cushion back, saying I was the guest, a far traveler, it was her duty to see to my comfort. I felt drugged with delight. Also uncomprehending. Therefore suddenly cautious.

Neither woman ate. Urged on by them, however, Mujahid and I ate heartily to show appreciation but not so much as to seem desperate for food. Mujahid seemed pretty much recovered.

I took a healthy pull at the curdled milk.

“Talal,” Nur said crisply. “Talal son of whom?”

I set the bowl down, wiped my lips with my fingers.

“Ibn abuh,” Mujahid said. Son-of-his-father. “But nobody knows who he was.”

“We’d call him son of his mother.”

“She’s unknown too. He was caught raiding my father’s orchard when he was no bigger than a locust. He couldn’t tell us much. He’d been traveling with a northbound caravan, who knows where or with whom, or whether he’d run away or been dumped. My father took pity on him and brought him into his household to raise as a servant. He had four daughters and only one son; accepting the orphan gave him another. No one ever claimed him.”

Mabruka smiled. “Your father is a good man.”

“He was, may the Gods be merciful.”

Both women echoed the wish. I chewed on a dried apricot, found Nur regarding me with a question in her fine eyes.

“I wasn’t formally adopted,” I explained. “When our . . . business is done and we return home, they’ve said they’ll adopt me into the family and the tribe. Until then I have no ancestors.”

She nodded. “Among our people,” she said, “that would be more of a problem for a woman than a man, since property descends through the female line.”

Mujahid looked blankly astonished. For all I know I did too. Then he looked scandalized, but that may have been pretense. Suddenly he had begun to enjoy himself. I hoped he wouldn’t say anything to antagonize these people.

“Among us,” he said, “property goes to sons who can defend it.” He sat up straighter, muscles flexing in the pride of manhood; but his smile was guileless.    “Do women of your kindred take up arms?”

Nur smiled. It made her look like Mabruka’s not-much-older sister.

Mabruka said slyly, “We haven’t the bodies for it.”

“I’ve noticed,” Mujahid said happily. “But are you governed by a shaykha, not a shaykh? Is the prince of that city of the valley actually a princess?”

“Oh, Ras al-Wadi isn’t ours,” Nur said. “It’s the tribal capital of the Bani Ghassan, and its prince is a man named Salah bin Mansur.”

“Your kindred isn’t part of the Bani Ghassan?”

“No. We were originally from further north. But there were . . . difficulties, and we separated from our own tribe and migrated with all our tents and livestock. This happened five, six generations ago. The details are in many songs and stories, and we’ve almost become a tribe of our own since then, but in those days our numbers were too few to displace a tribe or take over its range by force. But the Goddess is kind to her devotees, and our ancestors met an ancestor of Shaykh Salah when he was preparing to meet a traditional enemy in battle, and he made an offer: in exchange for help in battle, some land and the use of the Bani Ghassan range for our flocks under his protection. We agreed, the enemy was routed, and this has been our base ever since.”

“Have you had to defend it often?”

“Not too often. Often enough.”

“But you haven’t become part of the Bani Ghassan?”

“No, we’re still under their protection.”

“Do they follow your customs of inheritance and tracing descent through the mother?”

“Oh no, I’m sure they’re just like you.”

“How about intermarriage?”

“It happens, of course. My own sister married an outside trader and left the valley. Others of our women have chosen to marry Ghassani men and into the Bani Ghassan tribe, which means into its jurisdiction and customs. When they do they forfeit their property to their sisters or other female relatives, and become their husbands’ property.”

“Why would they do that?”

“For some it’s all for love, some expect to live more comfortably in the house of a rich foreign husband, some simply want a life of more limited responsibility. And sometimes of course one of our men will marry one of their women. But neither will bring more than personal possessions to the marriage, the man because it’s all he owns, the woman because only a poor Ghassani gives his daughter to another poor man: he just wants someone else to take care of her. Such marriages we discourage as much as possible. They tend to expand our unpropertied numbers, and force people to live wedged into a corner between the two societies.”

“And when a Ghassani man marries one of your women, under your laws?”

“Our marriages are contracted for specific lengths of time, usually five years. He gives her a gift, she gives him a tent and a lance. He takes care of her flocks and fields. She sleeps with him, rides with him, cooks for him, but is not his property. If both want to, the terms of the marriage can be extended for a further period. The children carry her name and are of her family, not his . . .”

“Then he’s no better than a servant!” Mujahid protested, and though he was smiling I thought he was dangerously close to insulting the man or men who had fathered Nur’s children. We didn’t know these people, or what they might consider a serious offense.

“Hardly,” I said. “Whoever heard of a servant with a property-owner for a wife?”

“Spoken like someone with no ancestors,” Mujahid said airily. “We’ve tried to make a bedouin out of you but you’re just a peasant at heart, Talal. What of your pride? Your freedom?”

“You’re confusing pride with property. And what freedom? Freedom to do what?”

Mujahid grinned broadly, glanced at the two women in turn. They watched him expectantly.

“I do anything I please,” he said simply, turning back to me. “Raid, make love, travel. You won’t be a servant forever. You can do the same.”

Like the rest of us, most of his traveling was in search of pasture for his herds, a search that controlled and conditioned every bedouin’s life. Not even Hasa oasis could support a whole tribe’s livestock. I’d never thought about it, but it seemed to be that a bedouin’s wide skies and open horizons gave only an illusion of freedom, that he wasn’t really any freer than a village carpenter or farmer. And both raiding and making love assumed like-minded partners . . .

His grin widened. “Of course, if you’ve decided to settle down with a lady of Ahl al-Hilal.. . .”

I said, with a modest smile, “I never aspire above my station,” and to my relief everyone laughed. Mabruka turned those great dark eyes on me for a long appraising look that turned my spine to candle-grease. I forgot to breathe.

“If you adopt him into your tribe,” Nur told Mujahid, “that glib tongue will make him chief councilor in six months and shaykh before he’s forty.”

“Does the sorceress confirm that prediction?”

Mabruka hadn’t taken her eyes off me. She said without interest, “I’m not a sorceress.”

“You mean you can’t even tell whether he’s going to be a great leader, or just a farmer?”

Nur said unexpectedly, “You’re looking at him closely enough. What do you see, if not the future?”

“A lean young man with careful eyes and a face that’s thin and still, like a good blade, waiting.”

“Anyone can see that,” Nur said softly. “What can you see?”

Mabruka tensed, started to speak, then changed her mind. She sighed, paused, reached for my hand. It felt rough and uncouth between both of hers. My heart thudded. I stared into her eyes and watched the reflection of the candle flame, twin golden splinters in the mysterious black depths of her pupils.

She shook her head — in surprise. Her eyebrows contracted. She turned her face to look uncertainly over her shoulder toward the wall by the doorway where I had stacked our gear. Her hands slid away from mine.

“You keep trying to get me to do more than I can,” she told her mother; then to me, in a puzzled voice, “You brought something in from outside . . .”

“Our baggage.”

“Of course!” Mujahid pushed himself to his feet. He moved carefully but seemed steady enough as he crossed to his saddlebag and dug into it.

He produced a slim bundle wrapped in cloth, which he brought back to the rug’s edge. He knelt and unrolled the wrapping, revealing the arrow he had shot into the sky the afternoon Hasan died. He picked it up almost reverently, holding it close to the candle. Dried blood discolored half its length.

“With this arrow,” he said almost wonderingly, “the spirit world ordered me to avenge my father’s murder. Is some spirit following the arrow ... to see if I obey?”

Mabruka shrugged. “I don’t think so. I don’t know.” Her expression was resentful.

He leaned toward her. The golden glow from the candle met a pale sick light flickering deep in his eyes. His look was still wondering, almost childlike, but his voice was relentless; tension made it almost unrecognizable.

“Last time you tried, the arrow was outside. I have to know if the spirit of my father is following the arrow, the spirit of Hasan bin Nasir an-Numayri .!”

“She’ll tell you what she can,” Nur interrupted, straining to keep her voice gentle, “but she’s neither sorceress nor seer. You mustn’t expect too much of her, even if I sometimes do.”

Mujahid ignored her. For the space of one gasping breath he seemed about to attack Mabruka to force an answer from her. I was appalled. None of this made sense. I thought wildly of jinni curses, of delayed effects from his fall from the camel. I tensed to launch myself in a preventive attack —just as he paused, startled recollection coming into his eyes.

After a moment he sat back on his heels. The tension began draining out of him, and a look of deep embarrassment settled on his face. He began an unconditional apology for behaving badly while enjoying protected status under the rules of sanctuary and hospitality.

I knew just how fully he had recovered when, in the middle of the apology, he rediscovered his smile, which he soon turned with growing warmth on Mabruka. It was supposed to melt her bones and turn her brain to buttermilk. I couldn’t tell if it was working. Nur smiled faintly. Mabruka overrode the apology with a clucking tongue and a fluttering hand, insisting that he had done no wrong, was distraught from his bereavement and shaken by his fall, which prompted him to tell the story of our search for Kadhim bin Ja’far.

No bedouin ever forgets a traveler seen along the way. Even in the wastes between the wells, people meet and share news: of migrations, marriages and alliances, raids and warfare, acts of chivalry and treachery, who rode to meet whom for reasons known or rumored, even news of lone travelers complete with meticulous descriptions of dress, accoutrements, animal or animals and the tribal brand showing on their flanks. Even someone who had not seen Kadhim might remember hearing about him from someone who had. And so we had followed the fugitive almost to the edge of the Great Sands to the south, lost him, doubled back and met a party of Khalidis moving east; they had seen Kadhim two days before, riding west as though harried by demons. We followed. Three days’ ride beyond the Dahnaa — the curving belt of red dunes that flares northward like a flame to burn, it is said, into the tribal range of the distant Shammar — the trail turned north until we came to a well with the single tent of a Bani Tha’lab family pitched nearby. They told us that Kadhim had stopped to fill his waterbag two days previously, then ridden west toward Ras al-Wadi, about which we knew only of its rumored guardians and that it was a small city of no importance off the main trade routes.

Neither Mabruka nor her mother recognized Kadhim by name or description.

“In the morning we’ll look for him in the city,” Mujahid said. “If he’s already left, someone may know in which direction.”

Latifa came in to clear away the remains of the meal. From the stack against the inner wall Nur and Ma-bruka produced bedding for us, and on her way out Mabruka threw me a secret smile, the tiny silver bells on her necklace making a small sweet clash of sound every time she moved.

I closed the lightweight palmleaf door. Mujahid spread his borrowed quilt on the rug and wrapped himself in it. He looked stronger and healthier than at any time since the lightning strike.

He grinned broadly, kept his voice low.

“Admit it: you thought I was going to say the wrong thing to our hostess. You thought my brain was scrambled.”

I spread the second quilt on the woven grass mat they had given me.

“Yes! When you got into that business about your father’s spirit. . .”

I thought his voice acknowledged some embarrassment, though it wouldn’t have been obvious to anyone who didn’t know him well.

“All right, that was a weird idea I had. I got carried away, I admit. Let’s just say that the crack on the head and the ausaj business mixed me up for a while, all right? But it got us protected status — though what good it does to get the protection of a couple of women I don’t know.”

That would depend on the respect that they and their menfolk were held in.

“Women, one of whom,” I reminded him, “you kept calling a sorceress.”

“I was mixed up. What she is, is a beauty just aching to lose her virginity.”

“How do you know she’s still got it?”

I punched out the candle, took off my headcloth and thaub. At least they had had time to absorb warmth from my body. The quilt was as cold as a winter’s dawn wind. I wrapped it tightly around me, suddenly impatient for sleep. The packed earth floor felt like solid rock. I wouldn’t ever be warm again.

“You develop an instinct about these things,” Mujahid said. “You noticed how she got dressed up in her feast finery, with jewels . . .”

“Careful. Maybe these people expect their unmarried girls to be chaste.”

“Then I’ll steal her in a raid.”

“A fine way to repay their hospitality.”

“Hospitality,” he said airily, “is an obligation in the desert. No payment is expected. My instinct also tells me her thighs have the texture of rose petals.”

My throat tightened on a sudden urge to yell at him.

“What about Filwa’s thighs?” I whispered violently. “Why didn’t you claim her while you had the chance?”

I heard movement from his direction. Perhaps he was coming over to kick me in the head. I wouldn’t have blamed him. Obviously he hadn’t claimed her because bereavement and the need for vengeance had driven all else from his mind. But he was only adjusting his position. When he spoke it was without rancor, his tone dry, a little amused.

“I just didn’t, that’s all. I didn’t even stop to figure out whether I wanted to.” A pause. I heard voices from the next room, the words indistinguishable. Perhaps he was thinking how much more desirable he found Mabruka. Unexpectedly he said, “She’ll be there waiting when we get back.”

“Why should she be? She told me I was crazy to be going with you. She doesn’t sound like one of your uncritical admirers.”

“So what? Why should she want to go back to her own people? Her father would only marry her off to another old man.”

“And of course she’d much prefer a vigorous young man like you.”

“Of course!” The smile in his voice shone through the darkness, but under the smug tone I heard a note of weariness. “Respectable married women have been known to sigh over me, you know.”

“How do you know?”

“Their younger sisters have told me. They’ve also told me you’re shy. Or is it unadventurous?”

“I’m a servant,” I reminded him.

“That wouldn’t have bothered some of the young women. Perhaps when we get home I’ll give you Filwa.”

“You didn’t claim her, she’s not yours to give. Why, anyway? To get back at her for not being an uncritical admirer?”

“Don’t worry about the motive, just enjoy the gift.” As though he had already given it. “Mother of the Gods, shut up and go to sleep, can’t you?”

“Wake in goodness,” I grunted, burying my head under the quilt.

Warmth had begun to gather in my cocoon. My eyelids quickly became heavy.

His voice said out of the darkness, “I’m sorry you were worried.”

“I was afraid I might have to avenge Hasan myself, is all.”

He grunted. I heard him turn over. I hoped he was through talking. I was more than ready not to have to respond. In a few moments I wouldn’t be able to.

He said cryptically, “Maybe it would be better you than me. I might not be . . . acceptable.”

I sat bolt upright, staring into the darkness.

Acceptable to whom?

The usual scurrilous epithets leaped to mind cataloguing alleged vices, impugning ancestry. Instead I said, “You shit — are you trying to frighten me?”

After a pause I heard his head turn suddenly. His voice was blurred, vaguely surprised. “— What? . .For all the Gods’ sake, Talal, are you crazy? Go to sleep. . .”

Either he was faking, or he had spoken before more asleep than awake, uttering nonsense or perhaps giving unconsidered words to some secret concern that gnawed at his heart like the disease of the crab. In which case his well-being must all have been sham, put on for my benefit.

“Mujahid?”

No answer.

I lay back down and wrapped the quilt tightly around me, apprehension a cold stone in my belly.

It was still there when I woke up at daybreak, nagged at by already-forgotten but disturbing dreams.

Mujahid breathed deeply, regularly, almost snoring. I crawled out of the quilt and pulled the thaub the women had left for me over my head. It was worn but clean, and its hem brushed the ground. I got a thin length of cord from my saddlebag and belted the garment up to ankle-length before opening the door and stepping out into the morning.

The air was cool, the sky a soft clean blue. The sun must have cleared the edge of the desert but wasn’t high enough to shine over the rim of the valley, so everything lay in uniform soft shadow, washed clean and dustless. No sign of the sheet of water that had hidden the trail last night except the healthy color of the earth between the valley wall and the dense mass of the palm trees.

A patch of ground planted in what looked like onions stretched away to a clutch of peasant huts and a bedouin tent of brown goat hair, and in this space I saw Nur bint Hind conferring with a tall thin man who had the hem of his thaub picked up and tucked into his belt to shorten the garment to knee length, working peasant style. Somewhere, distantly, a man’s voice rose in a half-shouted conversation. Closer by, chickens clucked and squawked.

I went in among the palm trees to relieve myself, returning by way of our penned animals. Someone had already fed them. Nur’s hospitality was thorough. The camels were barracked and looked immovable; the mare was standing, drinking in the morning air, her nostrils making a soft snuffling sound when she saw me.

The chickens were quieter now. As I walked back toward the house, Ma-bruka came from behind it carrying a basket of eggs. No mantle or shawl this morning, just a plum-colored dress with embroidery at the neck and a decorated gazelle-skin belt, no jewelry except a necklace of agate beads and a couple of silver finger rings. Enough to remind me that she was no peasant or servant girl, as out of reach as the crescent moon itself.

But not nearly so cool. She saw me and smiled. My heart lurched.

“Morning of goodness, Talal.”

At that moment the sun’s edge looked over the rim of the valley, already losing its gentleness, the last of dawn’s gold warming her cheek and turning her hair into a gleaming fall of black water. I felt hollow as chaff and about as much use. I bit down hard on empty jaws before returning the formal response to her greeting.

“Morning of light,” I said stiffly.

Her smile vanished. The wide dark eyes blinked once, twice, became suddenly opaque.

“. . . I’ll . . . send in Latifa with breakfast if you’re ready.”

“I’ll make sure my master’s awake.”

Mabruka turned away and I stuck my head into Latifa’s room. Mujahid was propped up on one elbow, his free hand poking cautiously at yesterday’s scalp wound.

“Breakfast’s coming.”

“I heard.”

“How’s the head?”

“Hurts a bit. Nothing to worry about.”
 
Good,” I said, and turned back outside.

Mabruka had disappeared. Two horses with riders, cantering from the direction of the city, swung off the trail and approached.

One of them, a small gray, slowed and stopped in front of Nur’s house. The rider carried a lance; he was a young man with a cast in one eye, wearing the unadorned clothing of a servant or a groom. The other horse, a rangy roan, shifted without pause into a thudding gallop when its rider drove his heels into its ribs. This pair charged past Nur’s house to the mud-walled pen, where the rider hauled savagely on his halter rope and pulled the horse into a barbarous pirouette to face back toward us, prancing and curvetting while the man took a long look at our animals. Then he came galloping back. The other rider moved the gray out of the way so the roan could be stopped in a storm of stamping hooves and empty bravado.

The rider was no herdsman. His clothes were too good and too clean; despite his lean hard look something in his face said settled comfort. A narrow-bladed dagger in a decorated leather sheath was attached to the belt around his waist and he looked somewhere between Mujahid’s age and mine. His nose curved like a scythe. He had full lips that dipped in the middle and tilted up at the ends, like the wings of a bird, like a smile gone wrong. Small disdainful bright eyes regarded me with unpleasant speculation. Then their focus changed and I realized that Mabruka had come outside again.

“Peace be unto you, Mabruka.” The man on the roan smiled, his fastidious, delicately curved nostrils curling up as though he found himself downwind from something dead.

“Ahlan, Zuhayr.” She stood a half-step outside the door, now folded her arms loosely across her middle. She was polite, withdrawn, disinterested. “Will you eat with us?”

“I have already eaten. Have you reconsidered my offer?”

“Nothing to reconsider.”

“I’d give you sons to make history.”

“You mean I’d give you sons. And daughters for you to sell to the highest bidder.”

His smile deepened. “I’m chagrined, of course, but all that can wait. I have a message from the shaykh to all the kindred.”

“Which shaykh?”

“Ours. Shaykh Harith. He wants it known that yesterday a traveler came as a suppliant who placed himself under the protection of Salah bin Mansur of the Bani Ghassan. Out of regard for Shaykh Salah, we are to regard this man as being under our protection too. He is Kadhim bin Ja’far of an eastern tribe, the Bani Faris, and he’s in flight from a band of cut-throats because of a dispute over the ownership of a strip of land at the Hasa oasis.”

Nur had come in from the field and was joining us. Mabruka’s face had stiffened at the names of Kadhim and the Bani Faris but nothing more. She waited as though expecting him to go on, nodded politely when he didn’t. The reptilian eyes of the young man she had called Zuhayr flickered briefly in my direction, and Mujahid came out of the room behind me.

He was wearing his headgear, the drape of the kaffiyya hiding his scalp wound. I guessed he’d taken the bandage off. He wore the borrowed thaub with his leather belt, the dagger in its worn sheath attached in the horizontal position at the right side of his belly. He looked untroubled, relaxed, his broad face trying not to smile.

Then Zuhayr noticed that Nur was among us. He directed a deep smile at her. His nostrils performed their unintended commentary.

“Morning of goodness, Nur.”

Her smile was everything politeness demanded and not a hair more.

“Morning of light, Ibn Zahra.”

Zuhayr laughed.

“You never miss a chance to remind me that we Hilalis trace descent through the mother, do you, Bint Hind? But things are changing, I promise you. I see you have guests. Suitors of Ma-bruka’s, no doubt.”

“If they are they haven’t announced it,” Nur said. “They arrived last night, at the height of the storm, asking protection. Which I gave. One had been injured.”

“I trust he has recovered.”

“I have,” Mujahid said. “The Great Goddess is kind.”

“ ‘Goddess,’” Zuhayr murmured. “And yet I hear that beyond these deserts the chief Gods are thought to be male.”

Mujahid laughed.

Nur said, “That would be blasphemy if it weren’t so funny. As I presume you learned when you examined the brands on their animals, our guests are Bani Faris. This Kadhim did familiarize you with the Bani Faris brand, didn’t he? But there are only two of them, no party of cut-throats. If any harm comes to them, my kinsmen will hunt Kadhim down and I’ll see the council goes after Shaykh Harith. They’re not too happy with him anyway because he’s grown complacent and slack.”

“Who says so?”

“I do. Last month again, some herdsmen from the Bayt Ali clan of Bani Ghassan tried to dispute one of my herdsmen’s right to water his animals at Ghazala well. This has been happening for over a year and Harith has done nothing. He should get the behavior stopped or get the Bani Ghassan council to declare the old policy of cooperation and protection rescinded.”

“And suppose they did that?”

“Then we’d move. But they won’t. Alone they’re not strong enough and they know it.”

Zuhayr thought a moment, then smiled faintly.

“The Bayt Ali are hooligans,” he acknowledged. “They wouldn’t bother you if you or Mabruka had a powerful husband.”

Nur’s face softened, her eyes warmed, and her lips parted suddenly in the disarming smile I had seen take years off her last night.

“Why Zuhayr, I believe you’ve been behind these harassments all along!”

Zuhayr jerked visibly, as though poked with a sharp stick, his hard young face slack with astonishment and chagrin. But he recovered quickly enough.

“If I’d thought of it, I might have.” He had no gift for levity; even this light humorous concession made him uncomfortable; he backed away from it sharply, turning to Mujahid. “I am Zuhayr bin Zahra, aide to Shaykh Harith bin Mit’ab ofAhlal-Hilal.”

“I’m Mujahid bin Hasan an-Numayri of Bani Faris,” Mujahid said mildly. ‘This is my servant, Talal.”

Zuhayr gave him a long look. He couldn’t ask Mujahid his business in the valley; the implied suspicion would be a discourtesy to Nur. Mujahid, half smiling, the picture of bland innocence, wasn’t about to tell him anything.

Zuhayr sighed, and switched his attention to me.

“Talal . . .” he said thoughtfully, as though the name bothered him. The small eyes were bright as polished brown agates but less friendly. His brows contracted faintly. “Not Talal the bowman, who brings down wild doves in flight?”

So Kadhim had mentioned me.

I shrugged.

“Sometimes.”

He looked surprised. Perhaps he expected someone older. Then his expression shifted subtly.

“Don’t Goddess-worshipers hold the dove sacred?”

I shrugged again. “The Bani Faris don’t.”

He looked slyly at the two women.

“I told you things were changing.” His nostrils described their faint insulting curl. Abruptly he turned the roan’s head toward the trail. “More people to see. Peace unto you.”

The two horsemen thudded away, turned down the valley, and picked up speed.

Latifa began carrying our breakfast from one room into the other. Hunched and scowling over a bowl of curdled milk, she paused to stare after Zuhayr.

“Cockroach!” she spat. “Traitor! And he wants to marry the baby, my darling, and make a foreigner of her.”

“Isn’t he one of you?” I asked.

“He is,” she admitted, “but he’s picked up the notion that women should have no power at all, even over their own selves or property. He thinks we’d be better off like Bani Ghassan. So he wants to marry Mabruka under Ghas-sani law.”

“At least he can’t get his hands on the property she’ll inherit,” Mujahid said.

“He’s working on it, you can be sure!” Latifa broke into a cackling laugh. “He’s ambitious, young Zuhayr. I think he dreams of combining the Ghassani and Hilali peoples and becoming prince over everyone and making us all worship his piddling male Gods.”

“Oh, he’s just a nuisance,” Mabruka said.

The laughter vanished from Latifa’s old face.

“ ‘Just a nuisance!’ — who’s making himself indispensable to Shaykh Har-ith and who knows who else! What do you know? You’re only a child. . ..” The flare of anger died in her eyes. Her snappish voice became a mumble. “Oh. The breakfast….”

“I’ll help you,” Mabruka said, and Mujahid and I were soon seated on either side of the breakfast they had laid out on the rug in Latifa’s room. The old woman wished us health and ordered Mabruka in to her own breakfast next door, would she bother the men at their meal, did she want her mother to eat alone?

When they had gone Mujahid grinned broadly. No sign of the vacillation and despondency of last night. He seemed confident, and very much at ease.

He tore a round of fresh warm bread in two and gave me half.

“So Hilali women are strong in the council too, are they? That’s probably one reason why they’re not happy with Shaykh Harith: he’s not happy with them.”

“No shaykh can go against his council,” I said. “Not for long, anyway.”

“But when the council includes women . . . ? Women think with their bellies. And what do these women give us for breakfast? Why, curdled milk and honey, of course — a combination long trusted to sustain virility. The dates and bread are only to make the intent less obvious. I wonder whose idea it was?”

“Latifa’s. She wants to make sure you have something left for her when the other two are through with you. Too bad we have work to do.”

He started to laugh but it died in his mouth. After a moment he sighed, a disconsolate sound, and stuffed a piece of bread between his teeth. He chewed without interest, his face abstracted. Vaguely his hand went up inside his headcloth, fingers poking at the edges of yesterday’s wound.

We ate in silence.

He muttered finally, “What that snake-eyed bandit Zuhayr said makes it harder.”

He meant Kadhim’s protection by the two shaykhs. Killing Kadhim within their reach would not only shame them and invite swift retribution, but would also blacken Nur’s face because Kadhim was considered under the protection of all Ahl al-Hilal and we were her guests and under her protection too. We might escape the valley, but who knew how far the shaykhs’ men — and doubtless Nur’s kinsmen too — would follow?

“You’ll find a way,” I said. “With your luck you’re bound to.”

“That’s the trouble with luck. People expect great things from you.”

“I’m confident,” I assured him.

“Good.”

He delivered the word with something of the old glint. His head tossed as though he were about to let go a peal of laughter. He didn’t but his lips stretched and the grin flashed, the one that scattered doubts and lifted the souls of the faint-hearted. The trouble was I remembered my doubts of last night: he could still be faking it. I was beginning to suspect that behind the laughing eyes and the self-assurance lay a stranger no one had ever been aware of. Mujahid was my brother, but after all the years I simply didn’t know him.

We finished breakfast and went back outside. Old Latifa was shaking out a skimpy quilt. She saw us and called Nur, who came out of the other door with Mabruka close behind her. Still withdrawn and distant, Mabruka stayed by the entrance, leaned one shoulder against the wall, folded her arms. . . .

“So the man Kadhim has powerful protectors,” Nur said crisply. “Powerful hereabouts, anyway. You’ll be making new plans. Until you know what they are, you’ll be my guests.”

Mujahid thanked her. “How do I get to see the Ghassani shaykh?”

“You go to the palace in the city and ask for an audience,” Nur said. An idea struck her. “Except today might be different. I think he’s holding a public court of justice. You might present yourself and make your case against Kadhim there. For what good it’ll do.”

Mujahid nodded. “That’s this morning?”

“We could go to the city and find out,” Mabruka said unexpectedly. “We know enough people, we might learn something useful.”

Nur gave her a sharp look but said nothing. Mabruka stood unmoving and indifferent, her arms still folded.

“There’s no danger, mother. No one wants to risk violating anyone’s protection.”

“Our guests don’t. Can you be so sure of Kadhim?”

“Does Kadhim want more enemies than he has already?”

Nur tilted her head thoughtfully.

“I suppose not.”

“It’s settled, then.”

Mujahid asked, “Are you to be our guide, Mabruka?”

“Would you rather go alone?”

He gave her the slow smile, assured, gently mocking, shook his head and said,    “No, no!” in a voice like honey. He was beginning the campaign he had announced last night. He had to be feeling more like himself after all. Well, that was what I’d wanted, wasn’t it?

I threw Nur a quick glance. She looked back with ironic eyes.

I ducked into Latifa’s room and got my bow and strung it and hung the quiver of arrows across my back.

There was little talk as we walked to the city. Mabruka was so aloof she seemed hardly aware of us. Why had she suggested coming along? Maybe she just wished me elsewhere; which a good part of me did too.

The farmland and the great date grove beyond it ended; the trail curved left and we found ourselves crossing barren trampled ground toward the city wall. The narrow southern gate stood open between low towers with sloping walls and no guardsmen on top.

Once through the gate the trail became a dusty street advancing crookedly into the city between monotonous mud-plastered walls inset with occasional doors and windows and sometimes interrupted by narrow alleys. A knot of kids played in the dust. A few people of no great wealth went about their business, some carrying bundles or baskets. Donkey and camel droppings caked the street. The air baked and smelled of smoke and cooking and refuse, as though no clean desert wind ever penetrated the defensive walls.

We came to a small temple to the Goddess on the corner of a narrow street leading west, and the street we were on took a jog and opened into a market square. Neither rich nor particularly busy, it was small enough to be crowded by half a dozen barracked camels being unloaded by bedouin car-avaneers under the critical eyes of local merchants. Two streets entered the square on the north. Mabruka led us past the camels and a few shops and stalls and the entrance to a covered bazaar toward the street on the right, which proved to be short and to lead into a second and bigger square.

Also busier, but not much. At the far side the city’s northern gate stood open, showing tethered horses outside, an expanse of cultivation, and a broad trail leading up the valley to where it sloped sharply up to the level of the surrounding desert. Through the gate came a woman driving a couple of scrawny donkeys loaded down with something in sacks toward another entrance to the covered bazaar. Two fine riding camels knelt in the center of the square.

Open trading stalls under ragged awnings lined the square’s east side, and a high, mud-plastered wall with an impressive double door set into it ran down the west. The doors stood open. A burly man, with a sheathed sword at his side and a dagger in his belt, stood guard but allowed a group of peasants to enter with a word and a nod. They joined other people standing or sitting on the ground inside.

Beyond the walls a couple of tall date palms reached into the sky, nodding over a considerable building, two deep stories to the crenelated parapet surrounding the flat roof. A wind tower pushed even higher to catch the breeze to cool the interior. Overhead, a scavenging kite hawk with wingtip feathers like extended fingers wheeled and dipped.

“That’s the palace.” Mabruka nodded toward the double doors. “Nur was right about the court, it’s the only time they let the crowd in.”

Mujahid’s face looked suddenly older, thinner.

I asked, “What’s the plan? You won’t get him to revoke his protection.”

“I might keep him from extending it.” His sudden smile was thin as a knife edge.   “Anyhow Kadhim knows a shaykh’s protection won’t deflect a well-aimed bowshot.”

“We can’t ambush him here without betraying Nur.”

“He doesn’t know he can rely on that. He’ll worry. Maybe he’ll run. Here, I’d better go in there unarmed.”

He unbuckled the belt with the dagger on it and took it off and gave it to me.    

“Put it on. You look silly with that string around your middle.”

“I’d look sillier falling down because I tripped on my robe.”

“Not much,” Mujahid said, and started for the double doors while I buckled on his belt and followed with the silent Mabruka.

The burly guard had a muscular neck and a beard with gray patches and a knife or sword scar that ran from his forehead to his cheek, just missing his left eye. It could have made him look sinister but didn’t. When he answered Mujahid’s greeting his voice was almost friendly but thin and husky, as though at some time he’d taken a bad wound in the neck.

“I seek the shaykh’s judgment,” Mujahid said.

The guard’s eyes went from Mujahid to Mabruka and me — and quickly back to Mabruka. Then reluctantly returned to Mujahid.

“Your witnesses?”

“I need no witnesses. These are friends.”

“Go in and give them your name and wait your turn,” the guard said. “Your friends had better wait outside till some of the disputes are settled and the crowd thins out.”

“I would rather they were with me.”

“Wait outside with them until there’s room, then you can all go in together. But then you’ll be later in line; who knows when the shaykh’ll hear you?”

Through the double doorway I could see past the crowd in the yard to half of the building Mabruka had called the palace. Two guards with lances stood at either side of a big door with nothing fancy about it. Near the door a faded cloth awning cast a patch of shadow mostly on the wall, but when the sun rose higher it would shade an area of rugs and cushions that would presumably be occupied by the shaykh and members of his staff and council. This was the city version of the desert di-wan, the court of justice at which every tribal member could petition the high chief in person. Accusations ran from murder to theft, petty fraud to harassment. A shaykh who met his obligations as judge with skill and insight saw his name for wisdom grow and assent to his chieftaincy flourish. . . .

Mujahid looked at the crowd briefly, then turned back to the guard. “No, I’ll go in now.” He poked a forefinger at my chest. “Look around, see what you can learn. Come back later, or I’ll see you at Mabruka’s house.”

I agreed. He went through the archway and disappeared into the crowd.

“How long will it be?” I asked the guard.

He tore his eyes off Mabruka long enough to shrug. “Noon. Before noon. What can I tell you?” He hawked and spat, scratched delicately at the corner of his eye where the scar ran. “Sometimes these diwans last all morning, sometimes longer.” The husky voice was still affable, probably because the longer he talked the longer he could go on looking at Mabruka. She ignored him. I gave him a thin commiserating smile. He gave it right back.

With a small nod she drew me away in the direction we had come. When we were beyond the guard’s hearing she stopped and faced me. Her forehead was beginning to shine with sweat.

“What does Mujahid want you to learn?”

“The ways out of the city, into and out of the palace, where the main streets go, where Kadhim’s staying, things like that.”

“Where Kadhim is won’t be hard, there are people we can ask,” she said impatiently. “The rest I can show you. First I want you to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“His name’s Salman. The healer my mother mentioned last night.”

Why did she want me to see a healer? It wasn’t worth asking: her mood had made me cautious. After a moment she went on, “Only a part of his skill has to do with setting bones and knowing what herbs and oils have medicinal qualities: the rest is magic. He’s a powerful wizard. He has a way of freeing his spirit and sending it out.. . . Maybe you’ll see. He was my teacher.”
 
“All right.”

She started away, changed her mind, glanced back at the palace, then stared at me with baffling antagonism.

“Is he your lover?”

“Is who . . . Mujahid? Goddess, no! Mujahid loves only women.”

She kept me impaled on that disturbing gaze for a long moment, then shrugged faintly. Did she believe me? Did it matter?

“Let’s go to Salman’s,” Mabruka said.

The light was dim in the covered bazaar, the air stale. A hard incessant hammering came from the coppersmith’s. There were few shoppers. Perhaps the place got busier on established market days.

Mabruka took a sharp turn past the sandal maker’s. I followed her to a crookedly-hung door. She pushed through it. Harsh daylight flooded in. We stepped into a narrow alley between sun-bleached, mud-daubed walls. I closed the door behind me. We were between two rows of back-to-back dwellings strung together like clay beads on a string until an alley opened on the left. Around the bend was a wooden door, the only one in sight.

Mabruka rapped on it. It rattled in its frame. A light sharp voice said something and the door opened. A wedge of brightness fell through the opening. Beyond it was darkness.

“Morning of goodness, Salman,” Mabruka said.

“Mabruka! Ahlan wa sahlan!”

The door opened wider, showing someone who seemed thin despite a voluminous unbelted thaub. Salman? The name was masculine but the voice had neither virility nor weight and less indication of gender than a rustle of dry leaves. Under the gray gutra twisted around the narrow skull the face was thin, bloodless, beardless, almost un-lined except around the eyes and where sharp furrows hooked down from nostrils to mouth. “Come in, come in out of the sun!”

Mabruka stepped through the doorway, beckoning to me. I followed her into fragrant shadow. I thought my nose detected cloves and sandalwood and costly cinnamon from India. The room was small and furnished with a couple of heavy chests and a bare wooden bench; there was a worn rug on the floor and one corner had cushions and a roll of bedding. Jars and bottles crowded a shelf that ran along two walls. Strings of clay beads curtained a doorway into a back room.

“Salman bin Najma,” Mabruka introduced. “This is our visitor, Talal.”

“Ahlan, Talal.” Salman closed the door, darkening the room. He took Ma-bruka’s hand. “And you, child: are you ready to resume studying?”

“No, Salman. I’m not meant for sorcery. Perhaps when I’m older, a grandmother.”

“Develop it young or a gift often dies.” He turned to me. For the first time I saw that his eyes were pale: not the milky white of blindness but a color I couldn’t quite make out in the dim room; it seemed to combine green and gray and some other color in the bequest of a foreign ancestor. His look was at once piercing and expressionless. “Talal son of whom?”

“Son of my father,” I said.

“His parents are unknown,” Ma-bruka explained. “He was raised by strangers.”

“Ah.” Salman smiled faintly. “Don’t let it go to your head, Talal. There are always orphans. It’s quite humbling to know how few turn out to be lost princes or the rightful heirs to great wealth.”

My irritation was bitter as bile. What was I doing here?

“I’m just a bedouin,” I said.

“How modest. It’s ostentatious to undervalue yourself. It fools no one.” To   Mabruka: “You want to know his parentage?”

“Is it possible?”

“Probably not. Does it matter?”

“No, but it would be nice for him to know his real ancestors before he’s adopted into a family of Bani Faris.”

“You agree, Talal?”

To a whim of Mabruka’s? I rebelled, but couldn’t think of a way to say so politely. So I shrugged.

“Why not?”

“Stay still, then.”

I did as I was told. He took a slow breath, released it just as slowly, and I saw the angles and edges of his abrasive personality dissolve into the shadowed air. The slatey eyes were as still as a windless dawn, as water in a cup, and I felt myself trapped within his stillness as last night I’d felt myself an insect trapped in honey. The experiences were similar but this was a lot more powerful. And yet I breathed. My lungs kept filling, fuller and fuller without discomfort, in a giant leisured inhalation that brought a growing sense of well-being while paradoxically my sense of identity as Talal-bowman-without-ancestors, brother-friend-servitor to Mujahid bin Hasan, retreated to the vanishing point. I found this vaguely disturbing; but even though a thread of apprehension began to writhe and loop itself around and pierce my well-being like a living silver wire, it was not enough to jolt me loose from Salman’s spell —

And then abruptly it was over. I think my knees sagged. I heard myself gasp slightly and was instantly embarrassed. I didn’t want to seem weak, or ignorant of how to deal with these things. But of course I was ignorant, and sensitive about it. A lot of settled people think bedouin are little better than savages, and I didn’t want these two laughing at me.

I looked at Mabruka. She looked back with huge dark eyes in a grave, intent face.

“Better sit down,” Salman said crisply. He was back to his old self, all abrupt angles and that thin hard genderless voice.

“I don’t need to sit down.”

“We’ll get you some water. Stay here. Mabruka, come with me.”

I started to protest but they ignored me. The strung bead curtain rattled as he led her into the other room while I stood where I was like a little boy unable to argue with an arbitrary grandparent. I raged in silence. They took their time. I heard Salman’s voice murmuring rapidly but couldn’t make out the words, then the scrape of an earthenware jug against a cup’s lip, and water being poured. A moment later Mabruka came through the bead curtain with Salman right behind her.

She held out the cup. “Drink some, Talal.”

I started to refuse, but when does a bedouin refuse a drink? He seldom knows where the next one’s coming from. So I took the cup. It was rough and grainy against my mouth. Apparently Salman didn’t go in for luxuries. The water was cool and tasty, as though it had come from a container porous enough to sweat and cool the contents. My body was glad of it.

I gave the cup back. Mabruka drank what I’d left. Salman gave me a probing stare

“Feeling all right?”

“Of course.”

“Most people find the examination disconcerting.”

“How long did it take?”

Mabruka tilted her head and half smiled.

“As long as it took you to sigh one deep, peaceful sigh.”

It had seemed longer. I asked Salman, “What did you learn?”

“That you have a sound body, that you’re not under a spell or curse or haunted by any kind of spirit. Superficial stuff.”
   
“Nothing about my parents?”

“No. Your mind is closed like a fist around your present business. I couldn’t get past that determination. I would need time to get you properly relaxed, perhaps an infusion of the poppy. . .”

“I have no time,” I said stiffly, and gave formal thanks. “We should leave.”

Mabruka began, “But don’t you want to ask him — ?”

“What is there to ask? My parentage remains a mystery. I never thought it important anyway. As he said, there are always orphans.”

“Yes, but . . .”

“I’ve imposed on Salman enough.”
  
“Most orphans are just orphans,” Salman said abruptly. “But you didn’t just lose your parents, you lost your whole kindred. How did you manage that?” A sharp, angular gesture; he didn’t expect an answer. I shrugged. He went on, “Even if your mother was simple bad-awiyya, a herdsman’s daughter, imagine the complications if her people were like Ahl al-Hilal, tracing descent through the mother’s line, and if one day she were taken in a raid by a man of patrilineal tribe to whom the father’s name and lineage were everything.”

This time he waited. Involuntarily, resentfully, since I didn’t want to say anything, I heard myself mutter, “Complications?”

His stare was intense. I expected to feel the transporting influence of sorcery again.

“What happens to women taken in raids? They become wives or concubines. Imagine this happens to your mother. You are born. Your father naturally expects her to raise you according to her traditions, as a member of her kin instead of his, quite likely to grow into his sworn enemy. So he plans to kill you. To save your life she gives you away, probably to a childless woman of another tribe.”

“What I’ve always imagined,” I told him, “is simpler and more likely: my mother sold me or gave me away because she was too poor to raise me herself. I probably changed hands a few times before I was taken in by a Bani Faris family.”

“Good. The simple answer is usually the right one.” A vigorous nod. Then without change in voice or inflection he spun the apparent sign of approval into grounds for criticism. “Habitual diffidence often hides an arrogant personality. Don’t let modesty become just a bad habit.”

There was no answer to that. Irritation erupted in anger I fought to hide.

“Which hasn’t much to do with my ancestry,” I said stiffly. “Thank you for your efforts, but I have work to do. With your permission I’ll be about it.”

I turned to the door and pulled it open. The blast of sunlight from the dusty alley and the mud-plastered walls made me hesitate with my eyes almost shut. I stepped outside and turned to close the door and bumped into Ma-bruka. I hadn’t expected her to follow. I was at once startled and left feeling stupid. My anger slipped its bonds and I had the awful feeling I was going to make a fool of myself and couldn’t do a thing about it.

Salman, who was right behind Ma-bruka, said goodbye and told her to hurry back, then shut the door with a dry clatter.

She blinked while her eyes adjusted to the light. I turned and strode back to the alley we had taken from the bazaar and heard her hurrying after me.

“What did you bring me here for?” I tried to yell as she caught up with me. My throat was tight and my voice a whispery rasp. “What have I done to deserve this hostility?”

Her face went slack with surprise. Her left hand wandered to the agate necklace at her throat. Silver shone harshly from her fingers.

Her mouth had dropped open like a bewildered little girl’s. Her head shook vaguely.

“Well?” I demanded.

Her voice was disbelieving, no louder than a murmur.

“Were we wrong about you? Maybe you’re not like Mujahid, maybe you don’t love women . . .”

“Mujahid, Mujahid! What’s it to you whether I love women or little boys or sheep? You don’t wear jewelry and pretty clothes for me” — I hooked a fist into the loop of the agate necklace — “except to remind me that your mother has land and herds and I’m just a servant —”

“No, no!” Her head shook again, catching the morning glare. “What’s Mujahid to me? He’s a lost man who wears despair like a cloak . . .” Hurriedly she fumbled at the back of her neck, under her hair. The necklace came away in my hand. She grabbed it and threw it into the dust. “That wasn’t to keep you away, it was supposed to ... to attract you. . . .”

The word was as meaningless as the rattle of pebbles rolling down a hill. Attract. Of course it had a meaning. It meant draw. Lure. Entice. Decoy . . . And what was that nonsense about Mujahid?

“Is that improper among the Bani Faris?” she went on after a quick breath. “I just meant to remind you of the comforts I can offer . . . enough good food ... a fine riding camel. . .”

Half comprehending I yelled, “Am I something in a bazaar you can buy?”

She stamped her foot in the dust.

“Who’s trying to buy you? I don’t want to own you . . .”

Her eyes glistened. I bent down and snatched up the necklace.

“This doesn’t entice me.” I shoved it into her hand. “Try this.”

What I did then I would never had had the nerve for if I hadn’t been so furious. It was part attack and part expression of hopeless longing and the first was clearly excessive and the second as foredoomed to failure as desperate inexperience can be.

I reached for the front of her dress and covered her breasts with my hands and began fondling them.

An extraordinary thing happened. She made a small sound of surprise and clapped her hands to the sides of my face and kissed me on the mouth, the necklace grinding into my jawbone. I didn’t know much about this kind of thing and I don’t think she did either but lips and teeth and tongues came together with a life of their own.

For the longest time I didn’t believe any of it. I didn’t even enjoy it much. It was too full of desperate hurried clutchings and gropings, too frantic, too clumsy. My heart raced. There was a noise in my ears like a flash flood rushing down a wadi. And then a stream of sweat slanted across my temple into my eye and stung sharply. I paused to blink and heard in my head Mujahid’s gust-ing laughter, his cheerfully derisive advice, Wait, idiot — it’s finally happening; take time to enjoy it! and had the wit to realize that Mujahid was nowhere near, the advice quite imaginary but probably sound for all that, and had the further wit to disengage one hand to touch her cheek. Our mouths parted briefly then settled back together again. The last shred of my anger dried up and blew away. I trailed fingertips across her chin and down her neck and back onto her breast, caught the nipple under the cloth between two fingers. Her mouth slid away from mine.

“I think I know a place we can go. . . .

Mabruka, looking sweaty and disheveled and pleased with herself, sat up and pulled her dress down over her shins. I was euphoric to my fingertips, invulnerable as a stooping falcon, as strong as a young lion of the Omani foothills.

For a moment she looked almost shy, as though protecting some remote corner of her privacy.

“Salman approves. When we got you the water he told me not to let you get away.”

The place she had taken me to wasn’t much, hardly more secluded than the sun-blinded alley had been: just a ruined stable with two mud walls left standing. Part of the matting roof, frayed and bedraggled, sagged to the ground forming an accidental lean-to that threatened to collapse at every touch. The sun found its way through cracks and loose places in the weave of the matting and threw little jewels of light onto flesh and floor and clothing. Dust jumped at every movement.

Even being reminded of Salman couldn’t diminish my well-being.

“He disguises his approval well,” I told her.

“Don’t mind Salman. He’s always testing people, especially when he’s curious about them. I thought he might have some ideas about your . . . mission here, but you never asked; you were too eager to get away. But he likes me, you see, and I’d always promised him I’d seek his approval when I found someone . . . and then today I thought that if you knew who your real ancestors were, you might not feel you had to get some others by adoption. . . .”

She paused. Her expression showed the first flicker of hesitation. Even before she went on I felt my life begin to take a great dizzying swing. When she spoke I tried not to gasp.

“Then you might be inclined to stay here with me. Would you? Want to, I mean?”

“Of course I would. . . .”

“Only for as long as you want. It wouldn’t have to be for a full five years. And of course you have the other thing to do first, and you can’t do it here, you have to wait till Kadhim’s beyond the two shaykhs’ protection, so it’ll take time. . . .”

“Even after it’s done,” I said, “it would be ungrateful of me not to go back to Mujahid’s family, whether they adopt me or not. But as soon as I can I’ll be back.”

I slid a hand up past her ankles. Mujahid’s rose petal comparison was barely adequate. She gave me a small conspiratorial smile and pulled her dress up. We wouldn’t always have to do this in the cramped corner of a ruined stable at the edge of a city street. An extraordinary shared future stretched ahead. For as long as it pleased her I would be Mabruka’s, the father of her children. It didn’t bother me at all that they would be Hilalis rather than. . . what? Numayris of Bani Faris? Well, possibly, by adoption. It didn’t really matter who I was; it never had, though I imagined there was comfort in knowing where you fit into a sequence of people that stretched back time out of mind and off into the future — a particular people, with a center in a particular spot, with a tribal name and ways that went with it. Well, my children would be the sons and daughters of Mabruka the daughter of Nur the daughter of Hind of Ahl al-Hilal, and they would know my name and I’d make sure they’d remember me. And they would say, Once he was a servant till Mabruka saw him and said, ‘There is a man with a face like a good blade, waiting’ . . . What it was waiting for remained to be seen, I’d have to make sure it was worthy. Whatever it was might take some doing but I could do it. I was brimming over with confidence and self-renewing male strength and I was making love to the most desirable young woman in all the tribes and there wasn’t anything I couldn’t do.

Eventually, reluctantly, I remembered all the things I was supposed to be doing. So Mabruka and I crawled out of our refuge and dusted ourselves off. She checked the hang of the agate necklace and the position of the gazelle-skin belt, I slung my bow and quiver across my back, and she took my hand and led me off to learn the geography Mujahid had demanded.

It wasn’t hard. The narrow road past the little temple to the Goddess led to the city’s western gate. It too was narrow, unguarded, held shut by massive bars whose angles were filled with dust and cobwebs. This gate had had an eastern counterpart, Mabruka said; but it had been walled up long ago. The only other gates were those I had already seen.

On the north, only an alley separated the city’s defensive walls from the wall surrounding the palace. There were two ways into the palace grounds: one, the entrance Mujahid had used to join the crowd seeking the shaykh’s justice; the other, directly across the compound and through the palace stables. This one gave onto a street that wandered crookedly south to become the northwestern exit from the first market square we had come to this morning.

We wound up back at the square next to the palace. It was quieter. The sun beat down; the air baked, trapped between walls. The two riding camels were gone and in their place a string of pack donkeys waited for someone to come and lead them away somewhere. The gate to the palace grounds still stood open; near it, squatting in the dust with his back against the wall, was the scar-faced guard.

A fly buzzed near his eye. He brushed it away, looked up and saw us approaching hand in hand. After a long fixed stare at Mabruka, whose plum-colored dress was rumpled and sweat-stained and looked as though she’d worn it to work a harvest, he gave me a conspiratorial leer.

“Your friend’s still waiting,” he said with satisfaction, nodding toward the gate.
 
“Can we go in?”

“You can’t take that bow in with you.”

Was he just being obstructive, or had someone identified me as dangerous?

I shrugged. “I’ll wait here, then.”

Mabruka stepped past the guard and looked through the entrance.

The crowd had shrunk to a thin scattering. Over their heads I saw a big man — tall, black-bearded, of impressive girth — sitting in the middle of the patch of shade provided by the awning. The men with the lances, looking sleepy, stood nearby on either side of him. Six other prosperous-looking men sat in a rough crescent behind him. A man in peasant garb was before the shaykh with his back to us, presenting a case with many gestures toward someone in the crowd whom the black-bearded shaykh eventually invited forward to be heard.

“That’s Shaykh Salah of Bani Ghas-san, who’s also prince of the city,” Ma-bruka murmured. “Behind him, second from the left, older and thin with a gray beard, that’s Shaykh Harith of Ahl al-Hilal. The others are all members of the Ghassani tribal council, in case Salah needs help or more information in making a judgment.”

“Who decides disputes involving your people?”

“Our Shaykh Harith, of course.”

“And when they involve Hilali against Ghassani?”

“Shaykh Salah of Bani Ghassan.”

“That’s risky for him, isn’t it, giving judgment against one of his own in a dispute with an outsider? Doesn’t every judgment in a dispute between a Hilali and a Ghassani become a political judgment instead of a just one, on its merits?”

“He wants a name for fairness and wisdom. We’ve learned we can trust him.”

“But he doesn’t want to go against the Bayt Ali in your mother’s case — and even your friend Zuhayr calls them hooligans.”

She dug her fingers painfully into my waist just under my ribs.

“Don’t call that cockroach a friend of mine! . . . What case? She hasn’t brought a case. She doesn’t want a public controversy.”

“And that sounds like a political decision! She doesn’t want to risk tilting some balance somewhere. So she appeals to your Shaykh Harith, but he can’t get Shaykh Salah to restrain the hooligans. This morning your mother implied it’s because Shaykh Harith hasn’t the skill or the will, but. . .suppose it isn’t that at all. Suppose . . .”

I hesitated. My mind was racing but suddenly came up lame.

“Yes?” Mabruka prompted.

“. . .I don’t know. Some reason why Shaykh Salah is afraid of the Bayt Ali . . .”

Mabruka was silent. What was left of the crowd looked bored and uncomfortable. The shaykh interrupted the voluble petitioner in a voice too quiet to be heard. Mabruka sighed, “If only we’d thought to ask Salman . . .”

“Ask him what?”

“What you asked me. Why Salah may fear the Bayt Ali.”

“What would he know?”

“More than most people, silly. He’s a famous healer, he gets about and knows everyone.” A sudden decision. “I’m going to talk to him again.”

“Where will I find you?”

“Either at Salman’s, or I’ll find you here, or we’ll meet at my house.”

She kissed me briskly and walked with determined stride toward the entrance to the covered bazaar.

The guard watched her go with vacant eyes, then turned to me and sighed and shook his head pityingly. It was supposed to convince me he knew something I didn’t, to plant seeds of doubt. Nothing could. I responded with my best imitation of Mujahid’s demoralizing self-assurance, grinning cheerfully, and for the space of a heartbeat the guard’s face went slack. Then his eyes narrowed, his jaw muscles tightened. I almost heard his teeth grinding. I was having a morning of little triumphs as well as big ones. It was obscurely sad that an imitation of a smile should win one for me, but if Mujahid could fake being Mujahid, why shouldn’t I?

I turned away to watch the shaykh at his diwan.

He disposed of the case before him and two others followed. He continued to speak too quietly to be followed from this distance. When he gave his judgments no one capered with glee or broke into lamentations. Time passed. The sun was high in a sky of molten silver. Walls and ground threw back the heat. And then it was Mujahid’s turn.

The silent shadow of the circling kite hawk slid down the mud-brown walls of the palace and skittered over the assembled people as Mujahid took his place before the shaykh. Behind me now, the bird gave a short angry trill. I shaded my eyes and looked up. Two birds circled low over the market square. The newcomer was a small white scavenger eagle and the two were unhappy to see each other . . .

From the shaykh, a permissive gesture. In a clear bold voice Mujahid gave his name and tribe. The shaykh became still as a great stone, his eyes hidden in the shadow of his headcloth.

Between the shadow and his beard his lips pursed thoughtfully.

“You’re a long way from your tribal range, Ibn Hasan,” he said at last. “Do you petition for judgment against one of my people?”

Perhaps Mujahid’s name and the anticipation of trouble made the shaykh speak more loudly.

“No, lord, not one of yours,” Mujahid answered. “And judgment has already been given — against a man called Kadhim bin Ja’far of Bani Faris, who now enjoys your protection but is known to his family and tribe as the man who murdered my father.”

Shaykh Salah shifted position on his cushions, scratched the edge of one nostril with a little fingernail. When he didn’t say anything Mujahid went on without heat:

“I’m told that this Kadhim represents himself as being in flight from a band of cut-throats. In fact he’s in flight from me and my servant. We’ve been following him since the afternoon my father died and witnesses saw my arrow of recision shot into a clear sky and return bloodstained.”

The shaykh was startled. Perhaps not very, but enough to show.

He said, “Witnesses?”

“My kin, and Kadhim’s, and members of the tribal council.”

Salah was unmoving and thoughtful for long moments; then he looked off to one side and beckoned. A young man hurried over. He bent to receive whispered instructions, then straightened and hurried to the palace door and disappeared inside.

The shaykh turned back to Mujahid.

“So, Ibn Hasan: the arrow didn’t release you from your blood obligation. I wish I’d been there. But why bring this matter to me?”

“Only to assure you, lord, that I am no cut-throat.”

The shaykh smiled faintly.

“And perhaps to get me to rescind my protection?” He shook his draped head.   “Even if I knew that what you tell me is true I couldn’t do that.”

“Nor would I ask it,” Mujahid said, and the palace door opened.

The messenger came back out with someone who wore a clean white thaub, a light, brown, sleeved cloak, and a headcloth adjusted to shade his face. But I thought the dagger belt around his middle looked familiar, and when he moved toward Salah and the light fell differently I had a glimpse of the knife face and dense beard of Kadhim bin Ja’far.

He was half way to the shaded area under the awning before he recognized Mujahid. He stopped. Mujahid slowly raised his arms and held them straight out from his shoulders.

“You see I’m weaponless, Kadhim.”

Kadhim said harshly, “Does Shaykh Salah prepare this kind of surprise for all his guests, or am I the favored exception?”

“You recognize this man?” the shaykh asked.

“He’s the one I told you about, a hired cut-throat.”

“You’re a liar, Kadhim,” Mujahid said. “My father told you to stop bothering his young wife and you killed him. My arrow of recision insisted on blood for blood.”

Kadhim laughed shortly.

“With members of your own family as witnesses,” the shaykh told him, though I wasn’t sure he believed it.

“A trick,” Kadhim sneered. “Does he expect us to think the spirit world is within reach of any dung-eater with a bow?”

“It is,” Mujahid said.

“Then prove it or shut your stupid lying mouth.”

“Would you trust me with a bow, Kadhim — and you so close?”

Kadhim hawked and spat into the dust between them.

“I wouldn’t be afraid of you if you had a bow and a sword and I had nothing but my teeth —” He stopped abruptly. “Where’s Talal?”

The shaykh asked, “Talal? Who’s he?”

“My servant,” Mujahid said.

“His skill with a bow’s unnatural.” Kadhim began scanning the crowd intently. “I told you about him yesterday.”

“Of course — the servant who shoots doves on the wing.” I wasn’t sure Salah believed that either.

Kadhim had found me. He pointed an accusing finger.

“That’s him!”

A hand gripped my arm. I felt the tip of a blade touch my neck. The voice that spoke from behind my ear was thin and husky but still had power to carry.

“Shall I disarm him?”

A question to Mujahid satisfied the shaykh that the guard had the right man. He nodded. “Take his bow.” He offered Mujahid a reassuring gesture. “— Temporarily. Servants have been known to get. . . too zealous.”

I didn’t resist as the guard took the bow.

He murmured derisively, “On the wing?”

“Not always,” I admitted.

“Then what good are you?”

I had missed an exchange between Shaykh Salah and the two antagonists, and the shaykh was calling for something. Someone brought him a bow and a single arrow. Drawing his dagger he cut a nick in the arrow a finger-width from the fletching, resheathed the dagger, had both bow and marked arrow given to Mujahid.

Mujahid had accepted Kadhim’s challenge. Of course. The spirit world itself would condemn Kadhim and Shaykh Salah would witness it.

The sparse crowd had been silent and intent since the confrontation began. A brief protest rose as the two men with lances began urging everyone to move back, which they did, clearing a broad strip of dusty ground running all across the palace yard. The crowd settled quickly into a new silence.

Nothing could possibly go wrong; but Mujahid, stepping slowly into the cleared area, nocked the arrow stiff-fingered, as though he’d never held one before. He tilted his head back, looked into the sky. His face with the sun full on it was tormented and rigid as wind-scoured rock. Then he raised the bow and drew the arrow back to his temple and let fly almost vertically into emptiness.

Anyone else would have got out of the way in case a vagrant puff of wind returned the arrow on a dangerous path. Mujahid shaded his eyes and followed its flight without moving.

It plunged to earth between him and the shaykh.

For the time it takes to count the fingers on both hands no one moved or spoke. The shaykh’s voice rang with the iron of authority.

“No one touches it.”

He shifted his bulk, got his feet under him and stood up, crossed out of his patch of shade to the arrow and plucked it from the ground.

A murmur went up. Even I could see the glistening red wet smear along most of the arrow’s length.

Salah looked at the nick he’d cut into the shaft; then, holding it by its feathered end, raised it to his nose. His nostrils flared briefly. He nodded, then held the arrow up for the crowd to see.

“It’s the one I gave Ibn Hasan,” he told them. “His hands are clean, the bow is clean, but the arrow has blood on it. If anyone tells you that the arrow of recision is just a trick to reduce bloodshed . . . remember what you saw today.”

Perhaps he was surprised to find himself saying that. He turned and stared thoughtfully at Mujahid, then signalled an underling to take away the bow and the blood-smeared arrow. At last he faced Kadhim.

Kadhim’s face was lost in shadow. He made a disparaging gesture.

“Perhaps someone did kill this man’s father.” His voice was stiff and cautious.    “But it certainly wasn’t I.”

“Then why did you lie to me?” the shaykh demanded. “You also challenged Ibn Hasan — and you lost. You have my hospitality for three days, starting now. After that I’ll give you an escort anywhere you choose within reason. That’s where my protection ends.”

Kadhim muttered something and turned and stalked to the palace door and disappeared inside. The shaykh said something to Mujahid which I couldn’t hear either, then turned to the people clustered beyond the cleared area and beckoned them forward. They rose and surged to the front.

Mujahid came striding around the edge of the crowd. I had expected to see him elated at getting Kadhim’s sanctuary limited but his face was anguished.

I went through the double door to meet him. He gripped my arm painfully, almost dragging me back outside the palace compound.

“Get your bow.”

“The guard has it.” I shook my arm free. “Mother of the Gods, Mujahid, what’s the —”

“Get it, will you?”

He shoved me at the guard who was watching us carefully, holding my bow with both hands.

“You’ll get it back when you’re outside, fellow.”

I gestured at the compound entrance. “I’m already outside.”

“Outside the gate! Beyond the wall! There’ll be no trouble while I’m on duty.”

Mujahid demanded in a grinding voice, “Are you another of the Bayt Ali bodyguard?”

“. . . What’s it to you?” The guard herded me toward the northern gate. “Yes, I am.”

“Are all Shaykh Salah’s bodyguard of the Bayt Ali?”

“Not yet. You’re wasting time.”

Mujahid’s feet kicked up fine dust as he strode the distance to the city gate. I followed, trying not to let the guard rush me. Beyond the gate a horse was tethered to a wooden peg and another team of scrawny donkeys waited sleepily for the stunned discomfort of midday to pass. The cultivated fields looked wilted. Against a sky as bleak and shining as a polished blade the kite and the scavenger eagle described their separate paths, wheeling out over the fields, then banking and stroking the exhausted air with their wings once or twice and sailing back across the market square.

The guard held out the bow. I took it.

“Don’t bring it back inside the walls, sonny.”

I almost assured him that if I did he’d be dead before he saw me: a childish threat: actually I’d never loosed an arrow at a man. But Mujahid, impatient as though driven by a demon, snarled something under his breath and jerked my sleeve and set off at a pace just short of a run, following the city wall westward. So I swallowed my empty retort and chased after him.

The wall angled south, taking us out of sight and hearing of the gate and the guard. Mujahid stopped.

“The spirit world’s getting impatient, Talal. If I fail this obligation I’ll wish a jinn curse had fallen on me.”

“You won’t fail it,” I said reasonably. “He’s got three days to clear out. We’ll follow till the escort leaves him and then—”

“We’d risk losing him on the road, or being attacked by the bodyguard in a careless moment. We have to kill him the moment he’s outside the walls.”

“That’s crazy. We’d have to kill the bodyguard too.”

“How many can there be? Three? Two? They’ll probably leave by the side gate when the main gates are closed at sunset — maybe even today. We can do it! — with no one to see or raise the alarm.”

“The side gate hasn’t been opened in years —”

“The shaykh could order it opened. He’s protecting Kadhim, he’d want him to leave secretly —”

“We’d blacken his face. He’d hunt us down.”

“He’ll never know. We’ll bury the bodies and take their mounts. Salah may wonder when the escort doesn’t come back, but what do we care what he thinks? He has the honor of a maggot, his justice is corrupt. D’you know why he won’t act against the Bayt Ali in Mabruka’s mother’s complaint? Because he’s in collusion with them. I heard the crowd talking before the di-wan. Most of his personal bodyguard are Bayt Ali warriors.”

“What abut Nur?”

“What about her?”

“We’d blacken her face too. Kadhim’s under the protection of all Ahl al-Hilal...”

He shoved me in the chest with both hands. I slammed back against the city wall.

“What do you care? The Hilalis are strangers. Nur’s just a woman . . .”

“You’re her guest. You owe her . . .”

“I owe my father more!”

“You’d do Hasan justice by dishonoring him?”

He shoved me again, more violently. I tripped over my feet, twisted, hit the wall with the point of my shoulder. The wall took it well but I yelled in pain. This was more than brotherly roughness.

“Are you trying to tell me my duties to my father’? You don’t even have a father. What do you know?”

“Are you trying to break my arm? D’you want to go against them alone?” I hugged my shoulder. The arm below it had gone numb. “Great Goddess, you’ve been following Kadhim for weeks, you’ve just caught up with him, how can you talk of the spirit world getting impatient?”

“Didn’t you see how much blood was on the arrow this time? Goddess, almost the whole shaft, as thick and fresh as if I’d just pulled it out of the heart of a gazelle.” His eyes widened. His voice dropped to a wondering whisper. “Whose blood, Talal?”

I stopped kneading my shoulder. I forgot to try working the paralyzed fingers at the end of my paralyzed arm. I just stared at him, and he stared back, waiting for an answer.

“Mujahid! I’m not Umar bin Auda. What do I know about the spirit world?”

He asked hoarsely, “Is it mine? My own blood?”

Which was no sillier than the rest had been but something was clearly wrong. He’d never been one to fret about the invisible world. He avoided places known to be haunted, until yesterday had managed to stay clear of ausaj bushes, and carried a she-cat’s or a fox’s tooth to protect him from demons. Who didn’t? The world beyond the world was inhabited by arbitrary and capricious powers, and you had to defend yourself against them with what you could. Mujahid’s luck probably meant the continuing influence of some hidden power which might now be extracting hideous payment: anyone could guess, but who could know? I doubted even Umar bin Auda really knew, for all his knowing talk about the Gods having patterns to create. So I swallowed hard, made what I hoped was a calming gesture, and tried to sound reassuring and ordinary.

“I only know this, Mujahid. Hasan was a good man. Nothing in either world could force him to make unreasonable demands of anyone, especially you. You were his only son.”

“But I betrayed him. I should have gone with him to see Kadhim . . .”

“How were you to know? If he’d thought it necessary he’d have asked you to —”

“Don’t understand, do you? I wasn’t available. I was doing something more important. When he went to talk to Kadhim I was in the village in the gardener’s hut, doing what Kadhim only wanted to do — lying with Filwa myself.”

I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. We just stood there, sweating.

My brain had congealed like tallow at the base of a candle, muffling thought and feeling, sealing off shock and disappointment which, if felt, might have proved too painful to bear. It would have yesterday. Yesterday Filwa had dominated my dreams. Not that I wanted her to. She was as far above me as the evening star was above the empty plain. As Hasan had been my father, she was my father’s wife. As she had been Mu-jahid’s father’s wife but he had apparently not let that bother him and that, curiously enough, was the greatest disappointment. Not that slender, lovely Filwa had played the wanton behind her husband’s back but that Mujahid had been the one to take advantage of it. The brother I loved had betrayed the father I loved.

I felt a distant surge of pity for Mujahid — and a simultaneous urge to hurt him.

So I said calmly, “How was she?”

Slowly the fire of anguish left him. His sigh was an echoing emptiness. He shrugged.

“Reluctant. What would you expect? But I am Mujahid: charming, good with words . . . and above all lucky.” His mouth twisted on the word. “Don’t I always get what I want? And what I wanted was Filwa, on a sudden whim when I walked through the orchard that afternoon and found her talking to the gardener in charge. Suddenly she was just another man’s pretty wife. So I sent the gardener off on an errand, and then I was never so amusing, never so persuasive, but I think she only gave in to keep us friends, because I was Hasan’s son. I took her on the floor of the gardener’s hut, expecting her to relent, expecting her to admit she loved it, and me. My luck wouldn’t go that far. Maybe that’s when it started dying.”

My turn to shrug.

“Your luck’s all right or we’d have lost Kadhim long ago.” Which might even be true. “You simply asked too much of it that time.” Plain now why he hadn’t claimed Filwa for himself.

He said, as though he hadn’t heard me, “That’s why Hasan demands vengeance of me, not an army of relatives — and no more waiting.”

“No.”

“Talal. . .why?”

“Partly because Hasan wouldn’t make this demand, mostly because I won’t blacken Nur’s face. Or Shaykh Salah’s. I have to be able to come back here.”

“What for?”

“For Mabruka.”

After a short pause he laughed.

“What makes you think she’d welcome you?”

“She already has.”

He looked briefly startled, then gave me a slow bemused look.

“You young thief. You’ve decided not to be any use at all, haven’t you? Give me back my knife belt.”

I unbuckled it. He took it impatiently.

“All right, Talal. I don’t need you.”

“You can’t do it alone. . . .”

“Watch me.” He started back toward the northern gate.

“Mujahid —”

“Who are you, son of no one? If you follow me I’ll crack your head open. Leave me alone.”

“He’ll kill you. Then I’ll have to do the job alone.”

“It’s not yours to do.”

That wasn’t what he’d said last night.

He disappeared around the bend in the wall.

I was so much of two minds I was almost two people: one a rejected child, the other a furious adult. Unsought responsibility was piling up. Being a brother wasn’t easy.

In his present mood Mujahid might do something stupid; I ought to keep an eye on him. The scarfaced guard wouldn’t let me in through the northern gate so I cursed and hiked through the glaring torpor of midday the length of the city wall and around and back through the southern gate and the twisted streets and the trapped breathless air to the first market square.

Animals dozed. A few trading stalls were open with vendors nodding off behind their merchandise. No one I talked to had seen anyone who looked like Mujahid. I approached the palace from the stables side, then ducked between the palace and the city wall to see the second square without showing myself to the guard. The door into the palace yard was closed. No sign of the man himself. His replacement was settling down on his hams, leaning back against the door in the narrow strip of shadow the wall was beginning to throw into the square now that noon was past. Still no Mujahid. I ducked back into the alley when the new guard began looking around, went back to the first square and entered the covered bazaar, where no one could remember seeing him either. I don’t think anyone was interested enough to give the question much thought. Anyway what would I say to Mujahid if I found him? Supposing he made good his threat to crack my head open? Finally I went back to the san-dalmaker’s and through the crooked door into the alley that led to Salman’s place.

He told me in his hard, genderless voice that Mabruka had already left — and seemed to wait for me to ask him something else. I had no other questions, at least none that Mabruka would not already have asked, and besides I still found his challenging manner unsettling, so I awkwardly took my leave and retraced my steps to the southern gate and back onto the trail that ran between the valley wall and the farmlands.

Out of the glare a horseman came galloping at me. With no one to show off for, he wasn’t mistreating the horse as badly as this morning, but he wasn’t being gentle either. Zuhayr of the heavy hands, on his big roan.

He thundered past, then wheeled around in a quick storm of hooves and flying dust, too close to ignore. I took a quick look back over my shoulder, met a pair of savage eyes in a face twisted with anger before he dragged the horse’s head back toward the city and galloped away.

Nur’s place blazed quietly in the afternoon glare but I heard voices. I called to Mabruka. Latifa came out of Nur’s room and invited me in with a grin of few teeth but much goodwill. Nur sat at a loom on which a handspan of pale sandy cloth had been completed. Mabruka, still in her dusty plum-colored dress, sat on a carpet nearby with a basket of wool by her knee and a wooden drop spindle in her lap.

Latifa followed me inside. When the outside glare had left my eyes I saw Mabruka’s warm secret smile. But Nur looked tense, her face drawn as fine as carved bone, her eyes glowing darkly.

“Well, Talal!” She turned from her loom, setting down her shuttle stick. “I hear that certain things have been settled between you two. I’m pleased. But you’ve come at a worrisome time.”

“Is anyone worried except Zuhayr?” I shed my bow and quiver and sat down beside Mabruka. “I met him on the road. He would’ve liked to run me down.”

“He came to warn us against you,” Nur explained. “He said your friend Mujahid was clearly a sorcerer, and that Shaykh Salah was convinced that your skill with the bow isn’t natural. He had you disarmed when you disrupted the diwan.”

“Zuhayr is a liar.” I told them briefly what had happened at the diwan. “Did he also tell you that Kadhim has three days to enjoy the shaykh’s hospitality, then has to accept an escort out of the territory?”

Mabruka’s lip curled.

“Mostly he told us how comfortable I would be as his wife,” she said. “Under Ghassani law, of course. And that I should be thinking about things like that because Ahl al-Hilal was only tolerated here and the life we’d known could collapse at any time like a tent in a gale. So I told him about us. He almost choked on his own spit.”

“I went back to Salman’s looking for you.”

“I went back to the palace entrance looking for you. That guard was closing the doors. He asked me what I was doing wasting time with riffraff like you. I told him he’d never understand.”

“He’s Bayt Ali. Most of Salah’s bodyguard are. Did Salman mention that?”

“Yes. He believes the other clans have been intimidated into preventing their men from taking bodyguard work.”

“That’s what Salah’s afraid of, then! Of becoming a Bayt Ali puppet! He can’t take on too many of his own clan: he could be accused of building a personal army to impose his will on the whole tribe. He may feel he can’t take on any of them.”

“There’s more,” Nur said abruptly.

“It’s a rumor,” Mabruka said, “but Salman thinks it’s true. It says the Bayt Ali are trying to get the agreement between Bani Ghassan and Ahl al-Hilal set aside. They want us out, our right to water our herds at Ghassani wells cancelled, our lands surrendered. Hil-alis who want to stay in the valley can do so — working as peasants on Ghassani land.”

“The motive is pure Bayt Ali greed,” Nur said. “They say Bani Ghassan are more numerous now, they don’t need Hilali manpower for defense, so why shouldn’t the Ghassanis have all the riches for themselves?”

I said slowly, “It may be only a rumor but I think Zuhayr believes it. He works for your Shaykh Harith. Does Harith know anything?”

“I’ll go and ask him,” Nur said. “Where’s your friend Mujahid?”

“We had a . . . disagreement.”

She looked faintly startled.

“He still has a duty to perform. He won’t try to do it alone, will he?”

“He’d better not. All he’s got with him is his dagger. Besides, he’s a man of honor; he wouldn’t violate hospitality and embarrass his hostess.”

“No, of course not.” Nur stood up in a rustle of clothing. “Child, get this man something to eat. Come on, Latifa, I’m sure these young people want to be alone; you and I will go and see Shaykh Harith. If I don’t appear with a servant in train he’ll think something’s wrong, I’ve lost status. If he can pretend I’m nobody I won’t get much out of him.”

A derisive cackle came from Latifa.

“These shaykhs get a little authority, right away they start thinking they’re something. Maybe we need a shaykha instead of a shaykh, eh, Talal? What d’you think of that idea?” Another cackle of laughter left her wheezing and gasping. “But the traditions say we tried it long ago. And the shaykhas are no better! Eventually they set themselves just as far above the people, and to make sure other tribes take them seriously they become more warlike than the men!”

“No one said being a chief was easy,” Nur said.

The laughter began again, raucous and good-natured.

“The chicken just laid a square egg,” Mabruka told me.

“A chicken, am I?” Latifa cackled. “Feed me today, wring my neck tomorrow, I know how that goes! But you’ll find me tough and stringy! . . . Now where’s that mantle of mine? I’m not going out into that sun unprotected. —Ah, there it is. Well?”

“Let’s go,” Nur said equably, throwing a light shawl over her head and pulling it forward to shade her face.

The two women left, Latifa closing the lightweight door before padding away, chuckling.

Their voices faded into silence.

In the dim light filtering into the room Mabruka turned to me and studied me with calm intensity. I found myself anticipating being trapped in a crystalline moment of stopped time like last night with the candle flame reflected as twin golden blades in the depths of her eyes, or like this morning in another unfamiliar room with my sense of self dissipating like smoke under Salman’s magic. But none of this happened. I was seated firmly on firm ground, heartbeat steady and familiar under my ribs, senses alert, thoughts clear, entirely myself.

Mabruka stood up in a single movement, poured a splash of water from a clay jug onto a wadded-up kerchief, came back and knelt and mopped my face.

“Are you hungry, Talal?”

“Not for food.”

I took the cloth from her hand, shook it out and washed her face and neck, then moved behind her to reach it more easily inside the embroidered neck of her dress to cool her breasts and armpits. When I withdrew it she stood up and turned to face me, unfastening her gazelle-skin belt, dropping it at her feet.

She wasn’t doing anything magical but in that dim room a vagrant thread of light pricked color from the embroidery at her neck and her eyes were dark and enormous and deeper than any well and for a fleeting moment I had the dizzying conviction I was floating above years of unrolling time in the presence of a power to summon lightning and govern whirlwinds and control the destinies of tribes, but it was brief, so brief I couldn’t be sure I hadn’t imagined it, and didn’t even ask about it later; and what she was doing now was pulling the plum-colored dress over her head.

It was late afternoon when Nur and Latifa came back.

The sun had lost its malevolence, the air was like a caress. The sky had softened, to a gentle blue through which the sun was dropping toward the valley’s western rim. The late day was soft and pretty as a flower.

I had seen to the animals while Ma-bruka went to the well to fill a tall water jug. We went back to the front of the house as Nur and the old servant turned toward us from the trail. Ma-bruka took the water jug inside and came back out. Latifa, scowling and ill-tempered, asked her if she’d started fixing dinner.

“No,” Mabruka said.

“What good are you?” Latifa snarled. With a gesture of contempt she disappeared inside.

Mabruka asked her mother, “What did Harith say?”

Nur slipped the shawl off her head. Coppery highlights sparked from her black hair.

“That Salman was right.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, her face calm, but her eyes were worried. “The Bayt Ali want us out and have the support of several important families. Shaykh Sa-lah is opposed and so far the majority of the tribal council is with him. If that changes, he becomes a prisoner of his Bayt-Ali-dominated bodyguard. This situation is why Harith didn’t want me to bring up the Ghazala well incident at a public diwan. If Salah judges in their favor it’ll happen more often. If he judges in my favor he’ll lay himself open to charges of having some private reason for favoring one of us over one of them. Which could get him deposed, or start him thinking we’re not worth the trouble.”

Mabruka’s face had gone blank, in a kind of little-girl shock. Her eyes snapped suddenly and she stood taller and the little-girl semblance was gone.

“Did you tell Shaykh Harith that his eager young aide seemed determined that we assimilate into Ghassani law and custom?”

“Yes.” Nur smiled thinly. “He snapped that Zuhayr was only a messenger boy.”

“If we’re dispossessed what do we do? Fight?”

“There aren’t enough of us. And we can’t buy off the Bayt Ali because then we’d have to buy off their friends and we’d end up with nothing anyway. All we can do is hope the council stays with us.”

“There must be something we can do.”

I said tentatively, “What about Salman? Isn’t he a sorcerer?”

“He’s a healer,” Nur said. “He has no magic for this problem.”

I felt silly for even thinking of it. Then Mabruka touched my arm and pointed past me. I turned and saw Mu-jahid leave the trail and come toward us, his face calm and ruddy in the approaching sunset.

He seemed unhurried, purposeful, with no sign of the anguish that had gripped him earlier. Nor of his charm. He greeted the women indifferently and came right to the point.

“You were right, Talal. It can’t be done alone.”

I agreed carefully.

He went on, “Kadhim’s leaving by the side gate as soon as it’s dark, taking the north road out of the valley.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Zuhayr told me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why! It doesn’t matter why!” He made an impatient gesture.   “Look, I met him in the city; he’d just ridden in after passing you on the road. He demanded very officiously to know what I was doing, if I was looking for Kadhim I should remember that every man’s hand would be against me. I said no, I was just trying to find out when he’d be leaving. He gave that a moment’s thought and his manner changed and he said very casually, ‘Maybe I can find out for you; wait for me here.’ I waited all afternoon, thinking he might be making a fool of me. But he came back with the information.”

“I wouldn’t believe anything he says.”

“Neither would I. But suppose he’s right. We intercept Kadhim when he gets out onto the desert or we’re back where we started.”
 
“We can’t violate hospitality.”
 
“Of course not.”

That was all the assurance I needed. In a few brisk minutes we had the animals loaded and were mounted and on our way.

We climbed the rock slope leading out of the farmlands, went over the valley’s rim and out onto the desert. We stopped then, and turned to look back the way we had come.

Slender columns of smoke rose from the little mud ovens in which farmers bake their flat loaves of bread. The valley floor was in shadow; thicker shadow oozed out of the hollows in the farmlands and climbed the walls inside the city. The light on the western horizon was fading and shrinking. The moon, not quite half full, began to glow, washing out the early stars.

The city’s northern gate swung closed. Either because of the angle or the thickening darkness, the side gate wasn’t visible. We were apparently well ahead of Kadhim.

We moved fifty or sixty paces back from the rim and Mujahid dismounted. Nothing was going to happen; but the distant confusion spreading under my ribs I recognized as excitement tinged with apprehension, which I tried to quiet; while Mujahid seemed seized by an odd calm that made him move slowly, almost dreamily. Without a word he strolled back to where he could watch the road up from the valley and sat on his heels, his back to me, and didn’t move a muscle until the sky had darkened and the moon glowed fully yellow and the stars were everywhere as bright as the moon would allow. Meanwhile I waited patiently on my camel listening to the sounds of the night, the howl of a distant jackal, an occasional raised voice from the farmland below, mostly to the sounds of the camels’ breathing and the grumbling of their guts.

Then Mujahid stood up and wandered back.

“Three riders approaching, Talal. Have your bow ready.”

“We’re not going to ambush them.”

“Three riders on horses, leading their camels. They’re expecting an attack.”

“So Zuhayr betrayed you.”

“Don’t tell me you’re surprised.” He took the back hem of his thaub and pulled it up between his legs and tucked it into his belt, turning the long garment into something like a pair of breeches, then unhooked the sheathed sword from his camel saddle and slung it around his waist. Disconnecting the mare’s lead rope, he checked her headstall and saddle and mounted.

That alone was almost a’ declaration of war.

I reminded him urgently, “We can’t attack,”

“We won’t have to.” He spoke in a disinterested murmur. “I suppose Zu-hayr saw this as a chance to get rid of you. Be glad you’re not lucky, Talal. Luck changes. You never know if you still have it, only that you had it the last time you needed it.”

He sighed, a faint whisper out of emptiness. I bent my bow around my saddle’s pommel, holding one end behind a knee and slipping the looped string into its notch at the other end.

Three horsemen came over the lip of the hill, followed by four camels on lead ropes. The horsemen came to a cautious halt, the camels moving aimlessly behind them before deciding they’d come to a rest stop and settling down. The three men stared at us.

Even with the half moon behind them I could tell that the one in the middle was Kadhim, and that he was drawing his sword. The man on his left made a series of familiar movements, drawing an arrow from his quiver, fitting it to his bow. Automatically I did the same, without thinking, my mind calm, my fingers on the arrow at once thick and unpracticed, skillful and deft. This wasn’t supposed to be happening! I couldn’t really believe it was. Surely I must be so calm because I was stupefied with fright. I didn’t feel frightened, only caught up in something utterly unfamiliar. My bones and muscles knew what they were doing, it was only half my mind that was at a loss, having to resist the urge to look around and go back and find its bearings.

The metallic whisper was Mujahid’s sword leaving its scabbard. He turned to me with the big careless confident grin of the Mujahid of old.

“Don’t worry, little brother. Shooting a man’s no different from shooting a dove, only easier.”

“You promised no violation —”

From fifty paces away Kadhim’s voice scraped like millstones.

“Mujahid!”

“I’m here,” Mujahid called back easily.

“I warn you, I’m under the protection of Shaykh Salah and Bani Ghassan.”

“You could be under the protection of the Mother of the Gods herself and it would do you no good. I’m going to kill you.”

“Try it, braggart.”

It might not have done any good but Mujahid could have answered, “Not here” or “Not yet” and given us an arguable claim of having respected Kadhim’s protected status; but that didn’t occur to me until too late, and what I actually said as Mujahid started his mare toward Kadhim was, “Not against three of them!” As the mare broke into a charge, hooves drumming against the rocky desert, the man on Kadhim’s left went into another series of familiar movements. I ducked low against my camel’s neck and heard his arrow rip the air above my head. I released my own arrow from low over the pommel of the saddle, a moment later heard a coughing grunt. I thought his bow jumped out of his hands, then one hand clawed the air and he lay back almost onto the horse’s hindquarters. The horse dithered and sidled, and Mujahid’s charge brought him up against Kadhim and the other bodyguard.

Hitting a man with an arrow in near-dark was nothing. Following blurred action involving three horsemen wielding swords against a background of disturbed camels in the same dark was impossible. Voices came in desperate half-articulated shouts, someone’s horse stumbled and almost went down, and then one of the other horses was trotting toward me.

It slowed as it came, was almost half way here before I saw it was Mujahid’s horse and that he no longer had his sword.

Behind him one of the two men had jumped to the ground, began with an air of desperation to search for something while hanging onto his horse’s halter rope and half dragging the animal behind him.

The approaching horse was walking now. Mujahid’s right hand plucked at something near his breast bone, then fell listlessly away. A sword hilt and a hand’s span of blade protruded from his chest. He must have been run clear through. He never said a word. He died, I think, there in the saddle. I heard a faint breath dribble from his throat and then he sagged forward and toppled sideways and fell to the ground, as limp and unprotesting as a discarded cloak.

The man on the ground found what he was looking for, picked it up. Mujahid’s sword. He jumped back onto his saddle. Kadhim was rearmed. He and the other man rode away from each other to attack from different directions.

I watched Kadhim turn his horse, facing me.

“Do you have a quarrel with me, Talal?”

“Of course I do,” I called back, looking around to keep track of the other horse too. “You killed my father and my brother.”

A heartbeat’s pause. Then the hoof-beats starting Kadhim’s charge signalled the other man to attack from the other angle.

Kadhim first. The bow was up, the arrow pulled back to my temple and let fly and I was reaching for another even before the horse’s lurch as its rider was hit and shifted weight told me I’d aimed well. Actually I’d hardly aimed at all. Even by half-moonlight a man was easier to hit than a dove. I loosed a second arrow at Kadhim, reached for a third arrow and turned atop my saddle when there was a slithering, scrabbling noise as the second horse lost its footing on a sloping patch of gravel and loose rock and stumbled and threw the rider over its head.

Man and horse were less than ten paces away. Behind me now I heard Kadhim’s horse falter, stop, and the inert thud as Kadhim fell from the saddle. His horse suddenly shied away and bolted, while the second horse found its footing and pranced away, scattering the camels. . . and the thrown man got to his feet.

“You don’t have to die,” I told him, but he was already running at me, sword raised. I hardly got the arrow drawn back enough to have the force to pierce skin, much less bone, but I did. It took him in the middle of the forehead. He fell over backward, knees buckling, the sword still in his hand.

He neither spoke nor moved, except for a while his free hand kept rising listlessly, as though to make some tired complaint, and falling back to the cooling ground. When I slid off the camel and looked closer I found he was the scarfaced guard from this morning at the palace.

Of course Mujahid was dead, as I’d known he had to be. I felt only a contained and far-away sorrow then, as though I were still tensed to fight off attackers and had no time to mourn a brother. Neither had I time to think of Mabruka, nor to examine too closely the suspicion, either sent by the spirit world or dreamed up by an anguished mind in the aftermath of bloody action, that by lying with Mabruka I had somehow ended Mujahid’s luck.

It finally struck me how stupid I had been not to realize before Mujahid told me that he had never known if he was still lucky. Of course he hadn’t! Luck didn’t mark the palm of your hand, or leave a sign like a tribal tattoo on wrist or cheek or chin, to fade when luck left you. How lucky I was not to be lucky! There was even a small spark of solace — bitter and unworthy and shameful though it was — to be taken from knowing I would no longer live in the shadow of Mujahid and his luck. Though I might not live among the Numayris. Who knew what they would do when I returned unharmed, alone? I might get sent back into the obscurity I came from, forever a man with no ancestors.

Kadhim had taken one arrow in the throat and one through the ribs. He wasn’t quite dead, though I never knew if he heard me saying it was disgraceful how easy he had been to kill. I retrieved my arrows and cleaned them on his cloak, undid his dagger belt and pulled it free of him and buckled it around my waist.

The man I’d traded arrows with was still on his horse, holding himself upright with stiff arms braced on his cloth saddle. The arrow was lodged in his side, and his eyes were closed and he made small moaning sounds with every breath. Helping him dismount might injure him worse. I asked what I should do but got no answer.

Then I heard faint cautious sounds approaching up the incline from the valley.

I nocked another arrow, crouched, waited until a man on a tall dark horse rode slowly over the valley’s rim. Alone. No lance or bow. I assumed he had a sword and dagger but couldn’t see them.

He pulled the horse to a stop, moving his head slowly to take in the scattered animals, the prone forms if not their identities, straining to see farther into the darkness . . .

I imagined his fastidious nostrils curling at the smell of blood.

I stood up.

“Ahlan, Zuhayr. Evening of goodness.”

He quelled his surprise and gave me a long stare.

“Did you do all this with your bow?”

“Not all of it. Mujahid’s dead. So are Kadhim and one of the escort, the one with the scarred face. The other one’s hurt.”

Zuhayr glanced briefly at the injured man then back at me. He had thinking to do. I wasn’t supposed to have survived. That I had was bad enough — but that one of the escort had, too, I thought, might really complicate things for him.

And he already knew that he would live no longer than a heartbeat if he tried to bolt.

At last he sighed and shook his head sympathetically.

“You don’t believe in making things easy for yourself, do you? Kadhim was under the protection of both Harith and Salah. They can’t let you get away with killing him. The fellow on the horse is one of us, a Hilali. If he lives, so what? The other guard was of Bayt Ali. You’re not rich enough to buy yourself out of a blood feud with them.”

“You’re going to advise me to run, aren’t you?” And of course not to come back. Coming back alone would only be a suicidal gesture. Coming back with a raiding party would be pointless too, because rescuing Mabruka would be no rescue, only an abduction. And anyway, how could I recruit a raiding party?

I went on, “Would you let me go without wiping out the disgrace to the two shaykhs?”

“You’re the bowman. I couldn’t stop you.”

“What about your friend there?”

“I’ll go back down the hill and bring some men with a litter. He can’t walk. Riding would kill him.”

“You’re a smooth liar, Zuhayr. You know very well you’ll have to kill him yourself.”

“Are you mad? Why should I kill him?”

“Because he knows you told Kadhim that we’d be here waiting to ambush him. So Kadhim and his two bodyguards rode out of the valley on horseback, ready for a fight, as you’d planned — to get rid of me. You set up a Hilali guard to get seriously injured and a Bayt Ali guard to get killed in a fight that wouldn’t have happened but for you. The Bayt Ali won’t like that. You think you’re in league with them but they’re only using you.”

Zuhayr laughed. It was raucous and jarring.

“You insulting little shit!” He snatched at the sword hilt I only now saw but had the sense not to draw it.

“Your Shaykh Harith says you’re only a messenger boy,” I went on, “but you know enough about what’s going on to know the Bayt Ali are trying to get the Hilalis dispossessed. But you still want to get your hands on Ma-bruka’s inheritance. It’s land she’ll own that you want even more than her. There’ll be no advantage to owning land, though, unless you’ve worked out some arrangement with the Bayt Ali to let you keep it. What do you have to do in return?”

He said blankly, “What are you talking about?”

The moon was behind him. His chin came up, his face moving side to side as though he were scanning the desert behind me. His chin came down again. While I maneuvered around so my back was less exposed, keeping my undrawn arrow pointed his way all the time, he said in an oddly bodiless voice, “What dispossession?”

The voice was more convincing than the raucous laugh or the hand-on-sword bluster. Mother of the Gods! — had I over-estimated him?

I said slowly, “The Bayt Ali are trying to get Shaykh Salah and the Ghassani tribal council to rescind the old agreement with Ahl al-Hilal.”

“Who says so?”

“Your own Shaykh Harith.”

I think his mouth hung open a while. Then he turned away from me to the open desert, without any attempt at concealment, craning his neck from side to side but not finding what he was looking for.

His head swiveled back.

“I don’t believe you!” Breath whistled in his nostrils. Then, in a petulant whine, “Dispossess us? After all these . . . lifetimes?”

I gestured with the point of the arrow at the fallen men, the blood, the scattered beasts.

“You mean all this was just over Mabruka? All the talk this morning of coming change was just an empty ignorant threat to frighten her into marrying you on your terms —when she wouldn’t have you as a servant?”

“Oh, she’ll have me — in my bed.”

“You’re forgetting. One of the men your treachery killed was my brother.”

I raised the bow.

He stuttered, “Y-you wouldn’t dare.”

“Count to three. See how far you get.”

Instead he tried to call his lance-bearer.

I put the arrow in his heart.

The big horse skittered away from the fallen body and ran nervously into the desert. Somewhere a calm voice spoke. The roan veered toward it. A figure moved out of a patch of deeper shadow and took the horse’s headrope.

“Come here,” I called. “There’ll be no more trouble.”

He took a moment to make sure the roan was calm before releasing the rope and approaching me without hurry or reluctance.

It was the man with the cast in one eye who had ridden with Zuhayr that morning. He was unarmed. He looked down at what had been his master and spat disinterestedly.

“His friends may mourn him but I don’t know why.”

The words were callous enough to make me say, “Didn’t you owe him loyalty?”

“Loyalty!” He laughed shortly. “Listen. He had me ride up here late this afternoon with a lance and a sword and find a hiding place and wait. I said, ‘If you’re so eager to get rid of this Talal, come with me; when he shows up we’ll ambush him and it’ll be over.’ He said, ‘Why take chances, we’ll let Kadhim do it for us; if something goes wrong we’re the surprise reinforcements.’ He was supposed to come up the hill right behind Kadhim’s party, not wait till the fight was over and everything was quiet.”

“You were a great help,” I reminded him.

A shrug, eloquent in its spareness.

“Everyone involved in this quarrel was under someone’s protection, so it was disobey my master or get an arrow in my liver or get done to death by one of the protectors.” His head shook. “Then when Zuhayr finally did arrive, I got very interested in what you two were saying . . .”

He looked around, found Mujahid’s body.

“You’ll want to bury your friend.”

My odd calm, the sense of unfamil-iarity approaching disbelief, hadn’t left me. It didn’t now. I hoped vaguely that it was some sort of natural condition and not a sign of spirit world interference. The spirit world was too arbitrary. I didn’t want its enmity, and I didn’t want to be singled out for favors that could mean I was being brought onto one side of some game I didn’t know was being played nor by what rules. The spirit world might be as much a place of rivalries and cross-purposes as our world. In which case some day Zuhayr’s male Gods might triumph after all, and old Umar bin Auda’s patterns of the Gods were no more than accidents, as unplanned as the patterns of flying dust.

“The others too,” I heard myself say. “I don’t want angry ghosts cursing me.”

“Leave them. Someone will take care of Kadhim. Everyone’s going to know what happened anyway” — his voice fell to a murmur — “unless you want to kill that one on the horse?”

“Goddess, no! Enough killing.”

I took the sword from Mujahid’s body and snapped the blade between two rocks and threw the pieces away. Zuhayr’s man helped me bury my brother in a scant grave we dug in a sandy hollow hot far off. Then we rounded up the animals. I roped Kadhim’s camel to our own and took all the waterbags. Shaykh Salah and Zuhayr’s family could have the other animals back. Zuhayr’s man thought that was silly; why didn’t I steal them as spoils of war?

“I have no quarrel with Salah,” I said. “I didn’t mean to blacken his face.”

“But you did. He and the Bayt Ali hotheads will be after your blood. Even Zuhayr got that part right.”

“How long before I can come back?”

“Never.”

He promised to get help for the wounded Hilali. I mounted my camel and led the other animals into the night.