Tales From High Hallack, Volume 1 Page 13

  The least of the houses on the way had been claimed by the rag picker Muledowa. He was always careful to thank the Great One of the Many Names for his luck in finding it when his former roof had nearly landed on his head and had put an end to two ragged hens which were in the care of his daughter Zoradeh. Well had he used his cane on her, too, for not foreseeing such a catastrophe and being prepared against it.

  He sighed as he slip-slapped along on his worn sandals, for no one looking upon Zoradeh’s unveiled face would ever come brideseeking—nor could he ever put her up for sale in the Market of Slaves, for again her djinn-given face would put an end to any hope of sale.

  Deliberately he pushed Zoradeh out of his mind as he wished he could pull the whole of her misbegotten face and skinny body out of his life as well. At least this day the Compassionate and All-Powerful had smiled in his direction. His grip about the edge of the collection bag tightened as he trudged along.

  *

  Caliph Ras el Fada might be the ruler of Nid and at least ten surrounding territories. But he was not the ruler of his own harem; and he frowned blackly every time he thought about that. He too had a daughter, a rose of a daughter, in whose person and face no man could find fault. The trouble was no longer hidden—and it was one often found among women—love of power and a hot temper. Better such a one be bagged and left in the waste to trouble mankind no more than introduced into the company of any foolish man. For Jalnar had a strong will and a sharp mind of her own. All smiling eyes and cooing lips could she be until she got her will—then, like some warrior female of the djinn, she became a force with whom no man could deal. Willing indeed was Caliph Ras ready to get rid of her. However, gossip was gossip and spread from the harem even into the marketplace. Since rumor had near a thousand tongues, he could not cut out every one of them. Also, there was the matter of the future rule of his town. Though he had taken four wives, and been served by a variety of eager and willing concubines, he had unaccountably no other child who had lived past the fifth year, save Jalnar. So he could not leave any heir save her husband—and he had yet to find one willing to accept, no matter how large a dowry he might offer; none for three years at least . . . until now. He ran his fingers through his beard, trying to put out of mind all else about this self-styled wizard Kamar, save the fact he had not only made an offer for Jalnar but had already gifted her with one of the dresses for her bridal viewing—all of silvery stuff, so sewn with pearls as to be worth a fortune.

  The caliph clapped hands and summoned his favorite mamluk, sending him to the harem with a message for the head eunuch. But still he was too ill at ease to retire to his gold-embroidered cushions, and his hand gave such a hard tug to his beard that the tweak brought smarting tears to his eyes and words to his lips which were hardly those of a sublime ruler and respected Commander of the Faithful.

  *

  Down the Way of the Limping Camel came Muledowa. Zoradeh moved closer to the wall, waited to feel his digging stick laid hard about her shoulders, though she could remember no recent fault which would arouse her father’s ire. To her great surprise he squirmed past the tall pile of broken mud bricks which served as a door without any greeting curse. To her even greater astonishment, he stooped to gather up the chunk of crumbling masonry which sealed the door and thumped it home, keeping his gathering bag still tight-pressed to him under his other arm. For the first time she could recall, there was an upturn to his lips within the thick beard which might be almost taken for a smile.

  The shadow smile still lingered as he looked at her.

  “Fortune sometimes aids the worthy man after all.” With great care he placed the bag on the pavement between them. “I am at a turning of the road now, and soon I shall mount a fine she-mule and have a slave to run before me. Nor shall I grub among foul things for bread to fill the mouth.”

  She eyed him warily, afraid to ask any questions for fear he might well slide back into that other whom she had always known. But he had gone down on his knees and was tugging at the fastening of the bag. Still paying her no attention, he brought out something which caused her to cry out when she saw it.

  Creased, and possessing a ragged tear down the front as if its last wearer had ripped it or had it torn from her body, was such a dress as she could not believe ever existed except in some tale. It was silver, shimmering, seeming to reflect the light here and there; and there were small and large pearls cunningly sewn in pattern on it.

  Her father was holding it up to the light, turning it carefully. He lifted the torn portion and held it in its place. Then for the first time he spoke to her. “Loathsome thou art, but still there is some use for you. Bring out your needle and the right kind of thread and make this as perfect as can be done. And” —he looked to the bucket of water she had brought from the well in the street— “wash your hands twice—thrice, before you lay hand on this. A princess’ ransom might be in your hold.”

  Zoradeh reached out a hand to the shimmering pile of beauty. Then she leaned far forward and kissed the dusty pavement at her father’s feet.

  “On my head and hands be this done,” she said as she gathered the bag around the treasure. She had myriad questions but dared voice none of them. She could only fear in silence that her father had in some manner stolen the robe.

  “Aye, on your head, your hands, and your eyes.” He went back to the broken door before he turned with infinite malice in both the look he directed at her and in his voice as he answered, “Good fortune seldom pays two visits to a man, and this is mine!”

  He looked back at the shimmering heap and then went out. Zoradeh listened to the slap of his worn sandals. He was going down the street toward the small inn where he would drink minted tea and strive to out-lie his two rivals for the rest of the afternoon.

  She followed orders and washed her hands three times, daring to put in the rinse water of the last immersion a bit of well-shaved cinnamon bark, so that its fragrance warred against all the other, fouler odors in the wash that had once been a courtyard. Then, taking up the bag that was still half-wrapped about the wonder her father had brought home, she scrambled up to the part of the house which she had made her own, her father not choosing to follow her over the loose brick which often started sliding under one’s feet. Once this must have been the harem of a noble house, for there were still fading pictures painted in flaring designs on the wall, or what was left of it. But now it was Zoradeh’s own place of hiding. She spread out the bag as far as she could and stood up to shake free the robe.

  Carefully the girl examined the tear across the front of the robe. It was a jagged opening apparently made by a knife, and, as she moved, pearls dripped from broken threads. Hastily she folded it tear-side-up and explored the bag and the floor until she had near a full palm of the gleaming gems. How many had been lost along the way, or still lay near to where her father had found it? Find it he must have done, for Muledowa was the last man in the city to put his right hand into jeopardy for theft.

  Oft times before she had mended thrown-away things her father had found in the trash and done so well that he was able to sell them to a dealer in old clothes in the market. But she had never set fingers to such as this before. Bringing forth her packet of needles, she chose the smallest, and, using ravellings of the material itself, she set to work.

  *

  In the tree-shadowed court of the harem which formed nearly a third of the Caliph’s palace, Jalnar lay soft and at ease on a pile of silken rugs while a slave rubbed her feet and ankles with sweet-smelling cream. She held up her silver hand mirror and studied her reflection in the polished surface critically. Nor did she turn her head as she spoke to the blowsy bundle of shawls and face-veil who squatted a few feet away.

  “They say that there be only two lots for a woman—marriage or the grave. To me it seems that these be equal choices and there should be a third—a hidden rule, which we will find within the hour. You did as was told to you, Mirza? The thing will never again see the light of day?�
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  “Hearing was doing, Flower of All Flowers. The dress was thrust deep amid the foul refuse of the city—no one would go delving for profit there.”

  “In a way, Old One, it is a pity, for I have never seen its like. But then I have never been courted by a wizard before, and who knows what tricks of magic he bound around it—what tricks he might use against me when I went among his womenfolk. Wizards claim great powers, and they may be right. Better not yield to such a one.

  “It is the duty of the caliph to provide me with at least seven bride dresses so that when I am shown to my lord, he sees me in full beauty. Why should this Kamar present one, thus breaking custom? Perhaps he would so bind me to some ifrit who would be ever with me that I may not in anything have my will.”

  The bundle of shawls shook. “Precious as Water in the Desert, speak not of such horrors. It is said that some may be summoned merely by thinking on them. It could well be that the wizard wishes only to do you honor, and that such affairs are arranged differently in his country. I have heard it ever said that foreigners have queer customs.”

  Jalnar slapped the fan on her knee and kicked out at one of the girls soothing her feet. “Be gone, it is done as well as your awkward hands can do so. And you, Mirza, forget such foolishness. Has not the mighty Orban himself laid upon this castle and all it contains a protecting shell? All have heard of Orban—who has raised a voice to cry aloud the deeds of Kamar? Only by his own words do we know that he claims to be a wizard at all.

  “If he is one, and has striven to burden me with some fate of his own devising—well, we have taken care of that, have we not, Old One?”

  “Hearing and obeying, Great Lady,” came her servant’s answer, so softly that Jalnar had to strain to hear it, and her ears were the keenest ever known in Nid.

  “Go now, all of you, I would sleep away the hot hours that I may appear at my best at the second showing—”

  There was a grunt from the shawls and Jalnar laughed.

  “So it has been said that Kamar wanted his gift shown tonight. Now you will whisper in the halls and kitchen that he misjudged my size—that my workers of needlecraft need to make some changes in it. Since he cannot come into the harem to search and ask, he needs must accept my words for that if he ask outright. You may tell all your old gossips that I shall wear it on the seventh night when the contract is to be signed, which will make me one to answer his slightest whim. That will bring us time and we can plan—” Her voice slid down into a hissing whisper as she waved all those with her away.

  *

  Zoradeh had feared the task her father had set her, for the stuff of its making was so fragile she thought that even handling might bring more destruction. Yet her needle slipped through the gauzy material as if there were holes there already awaiting it. She made fast each pearl with interweaving. It would seem that the rent was less than it looked at first, and she finished well before sundown. Standing up on the scrap of wall left to the house she allowed the faint breeze tug it out to the full. Truly a robe for a princess. How had her father come upon such a thing?

  She held it close to her and wondered how it would feel to go so bravely clad through the days with maids aplenty, eunuchs and mamluks to obey and guard her. Now she looked carefully down along the street, and then it was but a moment’s work to undo her trousers which were patch upon patch, and her faded, much-mended shirt. Over her head went the robe; and it settled down about her, seeming to cling to her as might another, fairer skin. Zoradeh drew a deep breath and brought forward the water pail, waiting for the slopping of its contents to end so that she could use it as a mirror. Then she whipped the end of the veil worn modestly about the lower part of her djinn-given face and looked.

  Ah! With her face thus covered she looked like someone out of a fair dream, and she straightened her back, aching from many hours of being bent above a task, giving her head a proud little toss… princess! So did clothes make the woman. Were she to venture forth with some guards and a bevy of maids, would her passage not have them talking about a princess very quickly indeed?

  “Pearl among Pearls!” The voice startled her so that she nearly lost her precarious footing and fell down into the courtyard. There was a man in the outer lane, mounted on a fine black horse which seemed to dance with eagerness under his hand. And he wore the red scarf of the caliph’s own guard looped about the rim of his helm.

  “Fortune’s Own Daughter!” He smiled gaily and raised his spear in salute. “Foolish is your lord to allow such a treasure to be seen. How came you here to glow like a lily under the full moon, but set in a marsh of muck so hard to reach and pluck forth—”

  She must rid herself of this stranger before the return of her father, and what better way to do so than to prove to him what ugliness could be seen as a woman’s face? Deliberately she jerked the wedge of the shawl from the veiling of her face, and waited for him to show distaste and dislike of the tooth-gnashing wrinkled mask as all the rest had done. Yet he did not turn away his head, spit out some charm against ifrit or demon. Instead he brought his horse closer to the crumbling wall and called up to her.

  “Are you wed, Pearl of Great Price? If this be so I shall search out your husband and ask him to try blade against blade with me—and I am counted a mighty swordsman. If the Uniter of Souls has decreed that you are not so tied to another, tell me then your name and that of your father that I may make him an offer—”

  She had backed away from the edge of the wall. Now sure that she spoke with a man whose wits were awry, she answered: “Master, why do you make me the butt of your cruel pleasure? You see me clearly—and so seeing you view what no man would bargain for.” Then she scrambled down the rude pile of bricks that led from her perch, not listening to aught he called after her, rubbing the tears from her eyes. So she stayed in hiding until she heard him ride away, and was able to reach for her own clothing and fold away the mended pearl dress in the bag.

  She could hope that he might forget his foolishness and that he could not indeed set forth on a hunt for Muledowa, for the latter would indeed deem the guard mad—as would any in this quarter hearing him speak so of the rag picker’s daughter, easily the most foul of countenance of any who drew water from the public well and went openly unveiled. She wrapped the dress carefully in her father’s collection bag and hid it under his sleep mat, hoping he would take it away soon. For within her, long-buried hope awakened; and she would not be so hurt again.

  *

  In the palace of the caliph there was much to do, for the seventh-day bride feast had yet three nights to go. Jalnar bathed and then had her smooth, pale skin anointed with a scent made of many herbs, so that it would seem that a whole garden had broken into the bathing chamber. Her dark hair was smoothed until there was the look of fine satin to its length; and the maid had just finished with that when Mirza scurried into the room and bent her shoulder the more so that she might kiss the ground before her mistress’s feet.

  There was such a look on her much-wrinkled face as made Jalnar wave her attendants away and lean toward her with a whisper for a voice.

  “Old One, what trouble does Fate or ifrit lay upon us? You look like one on the way to the beheading block, with no chance of any mercy at the end of that journey.”

  “Well, my lady, do you choose such a description.” Plainly there was both fear and anger to make her voice like the croak of carrion crown. “Our caliph, the great lord, the Prophet-descended one, has given an order—already he must be close to the guarded doorway—and he said with all men hearing him that this night you shall do proper honor to Kamar after the fashion of his own people, and wear for his viewing the robe which he brought—”

  “It is too tight, too small, it was damaged in the chest in which it came to me—I would do him greater honor if I wear it on the final night after it is repaired.”

  Mirza began to shake her head—first slowly, and then with greater vigor. “Lady, the Companion of djinn will see through such excuses, ev
en if it is you who speak them.”

  Jalnar caught a lock of her hair and held it between her teeth. The plan she had thought was so simple—how could she have hoped to use it against a wizard?

  “What shall I do then, Mother of Maids?”

  “You have the robe brought forth, and then perhaps it may be repaired in time. For those at the banquet sit long over such delicacies as your honored father has set before him. He is, thank the Compassionate, one who is not easily disturbed from any meal.”

  “There is wisdom in your speech, Old One. Go and have out that rag, and my best sewing maid, to whom the All-Seeing has given a great gift with the needle, shall see what she can do. It might be well that I wear the robe from the far eastern nation which was gifted to me three years ago, and then have the wizard’s rag brought in to show and say that I would keep the honor of its wearing to the last night of all, when my father gives me to this hunter of stars and teller of strange tales, despite all his present urging.”

  “To hear is to obey,” mumbled Mirza. She once more padded away. But when she sought the hole into which she had thrust the robe there was nothing there—save a number of date seeds, and the rind of a melon. For a moment or two she looked about her wildly, thinking surely she must have been mistaken. Only, she remembered so well other points of reference to that hidey-hole and they were still about.

  “Grub you for the kitchen leavings, Old One?” A boy who wore only a ragged loincloth and who was gray with the grime of the dump looked down upon her from a neighboring mound of refuse. “There will be naught worth the having there, for old Muledowa has already been here. Though his bones may be so old he cannot scramble around well, he has never lost what may bring him any sort of a bargain. Even the ifrit would welcome such skill as he has.”

  “Muledowa?” Mirza raised her voice a little. “He is known to you, quick one, and he has been here today?”