Surrender to the will of the night

23. Lucidia: Shamramdi

The Mountain honored the martyr Ambel by standing in for him in the wicked dives of Shamramdi. He drank in taverns belonging to Antast Chaldareans, for whom wine consumption was no sin, and whose customers were mostly Believer sinners in disguise. He whored in brothels high and low, a vice he had indulged at no time before, even when young. He had a wife…

In truth, he had no idea what had become of the woman. He had not seen her since his last approved visit to al-Qarn, years ago. His agents in al-Minphet reported nothing. He suspected they were making no effort. They would not care. Women were of no consequence. Plus, getting close risked bringing them to the attention of er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen.

Tonight, his fifth in Shamramdi, Nassim was drinking in a place with an unpronounceable name. Its signboard showed faded keys, dice, and a strange fish. The managing family spoke numerous languages, few of them well. Nassim communicated good enough to keep the wine coming. Coins did most of his talking.

He did not like the wine. It lay sour in his mouth.

The great question tonight was why he went on when he loathed the wine and was ashamed of what it did.

He persevered. Alone. In Ambel’s memory. Though there was a young man in shadow across the way who seemed inclined to flirt.

An alternative accepted by many Faithful. Nassim Alizarin was not among them. The idea repelled him. Nor was he capable of wrapping his mind around the sophistry involved in justifying the act.

The Written proclaimed homosexuals an abomination in the eyes of God. They were to be slain wherever discovered, preferably by stoning. Yet across the Realm of Peace it was acceptable for an older man to relieve his needs by using the body of a boy. Shamramdi had its male brothels. Even holy men indulged. No stones got thrown.

Nassim drank wine and was glad his comrades from Tel Moussa were not witnesses. Though they, more than most, would understand.

Ambel, really, was nothing to him. A boy he had known only by name before he went off to assassinate Black Rogert. A boy who, in the normal course, might have fallen anyway, before his time in the field ended. Whose loss, in that event, would have touched the Mountain no more than that of any other warrior.

The flirt did not become discouraged. The Mountain first thought the lad had no idea who he was trying to attract, then decided that the opposite must be true. There was villainy afoot. More appealing and much more likely targets were available.

The wine, however, encouraged Nassim to play along, to find out what was up. Which might have suited yon blackguard just fine, Nassim having failed to consider the full range of possibilities.

As soon as Nassim began to feign taking the bait, he found a drunk settling at the low table, crossing his legs. He came armed with a bottle of wine, mugs, and an aggressive personal aroma. He mumbled an unintelligible self-introduction as he flung a hand into the air and beckoned someone the Mountain could not see. Nassim was in no mood to squabble about sharing space. Sharing was expected in a crowded public house.

He watched the newcomer pour wine, studiously creating identical portions. His desert clothing was filthy. It boasted fresh dust over the filth. His headwear suggested generations of insects had nested and feasted there. The man had lost his right eye and, apparently, could not afford a patch to conceal the resulting scar. He grinned at Nassim.

Fate had not been kind to his teeth, either.

A brace of rogues as tasty as the first sat down. The one-eyed man offered Nassim a cup, grunting as though unfamiliar with the local dialect.

The flirt, who had started toward Nassim, decided to turn his attention elsewhere. He changed course.

The one-eyed villain tossed his hand up, as though to another acquaintance. And, in a cultured whisper absent any influence of wine, said, “You should be more cautious, Nassim Alizarin. We can’t always watch over you.”

The flirt headed for the exit. The one-eyed man muttered, “Tears will be shed in al-Qarn.” He poured more wine. After a while, he said, “The lord Indala will see you tonight.”

The Mountain was surprised. The famous Indala al-Sul Halaladin was as short as rumor claimed. And as old, though he bore his years with grace.

He looked every inch the lord and champion he was said to be.

He was, reputedly, fiercely insistent on his dignity, yet would set status aside entirely once convinced you accepted that dignity. In the Mountain’s instance he dispensed with formalities immediately.

“Sit, General. Make me understand the circumstances in which Rashid and his brothers found you.”

Indala’s dignity must be honored absolutely, here. Nothing but honest, straightforward truth would do. So Nassim told it, without embellishment, analyzing himself, sparing himself nothing.

“So, after the fact, you see yourself the same as the man by whose order your son was murdered.”

Nassim bowed his head.

“Despite all the obvious differences between the situations.”

“Acknowledging those seems like self-justification.”

“I understand.” Indala contemplated his folded hands. “Often the choices that affect the least number of people are the ones that trouble us most.”

“Exactly. Which makes acceptance all the more difficult. How many men have fallen since I took charge of Tel Moussa on your behalf? It must be more than three dozen.”

“Fifty-three dead or missing,” Indala told him. Revealing another facet of the character that made him the most honored chieftain of Qasr al-Zed. He would know most of their names, tribes, cities, and how they had died, too. If the stories were not greatly inflated.

“It was his idea,” Indala said. “He volunteered.”

“Yes. But I knew what he was giving up. And I let him do it anyway.”

Indala again contemplated his hands. When his gaze rose it was piercing. “Tell me, have you been damaged permanently? Can you go on? Can you send other mothers’ sons into the fire between Heaven and Hell? Will you hesitate in the critical instant when hesitation could be fatal?”

Nassim understood. His future depended on his answer. And Indala would be unerring in tasting his sincerity, or lack thereof.

“I am Sha-lug.” And, though he suspected Indala understood perfectly, he clarified. “I’ll come through this. It won’t fog my mind nor stay my hand when the arrows are in the air.”

“Well said.” Then, “Just a moment.” A man had appeared. He looked like young Az with three decades added. Indala gestured, giving him permission to approach. He came, whispered into the sheikh’s ear. Indala nodded. Nassim thought he was unhappy behind his aplomb.

Indala said, “I’ll send instructions before I retire.”

The message bearer bowed his way out. Nassim thought he lacked enthusiasm.

Indala said, “That was interesting. Gherig has a new castellan, Anselin of Menand, younger brother of Regard, King of Arnhand. He arrived at the head of a great troop of westerners, most of them Brotherhood of War.”

Nassim had nothing to say, other than an unhappy grunt.

“It would seem you worry them, General.”

“I doubt they think that much of me.”

Indala said, “Perhaps. So. Tell me about the boy, Azir.”

Surprised, Nassim did so.

“He has potential, then?”

“A great deal. So long as he receives proper guidance now. He’s brilliant. He’s quick. Men like him, most of the time.”

Indala nodded. “Good. I’d hoped. That was his father’s brother who just left. The son of my second youngest brother. They’re competent soldiers, too. But their men don’t like them.”

“Do they take on airs of privilege?”

Indala’s forehead crinkled into a deep frown. Then, “Exactly. They think too much of themselves. Because they’re related to Indala, Nirhem, and Sufik.” Nirhem and Sufik were uncles of Indala, deceased, who had been champions almost as great as Indala himself.

“Family connections. Being an outsider, I can tell you that family connections are the burden that keeps this entire kaifate from moving forward.”

“Most men won’t trust anyone but family.”

“So you marry your cousins and can’t imagine any allegiance beyond a tenuous loyalty to tribe. And that’s why a handful of Arnhanders were able to carve a kingdom and a half-dozen lesser principalities out of the Holy Lands.”

“That and most common folk don’t care who runs things as long as they deliver peace. Which isn’t common in the Holy Lands, historically.”

“One more reason the Crusader states persist. They’ve provided decades of peace where they’re in control. They’ve prospered because of that and the pilgrim trade. At Tel Moussa we fought Gisela Frakier.”

Indala chuckled. “Of course. We Believers of Qasr al-Zed would rather squabble amongst ourselves. Though I’m changing that. I wonder, then, why al-Minphet and the monolithic Sha-lug haven’t reclaimed the Holy Lands. Gordimer the Lion can’t be beaten in battle. And has hordes of warriors trained up from birth, probably the best in the world.”

Nassim started to respond. Indala raised a hand. “The question was rhetorical. The answer is: er-Rashal al-Dhulquarnen and Gordimer the Lion. Neither can escape the conviction that an army operating so far from their immediate control represents a personal threat. And they’d rather not take the field themselves.”

“The paranoia of princes.”

“Always justified. The higher you rise the more men want to bring you down. And those two create enemies indiscriminately, casually, willfully, almost deliberately. As though daring Fate to do its worst.”

“Add stupidly. They had no need to turn me against them. As they have no need to tempt the spite of the Night.”

“Let us consider those two. In particular, let us consider Gordimer. How much under the sorcerer’s thumb is he?”

“At the risk of sounding like a fakir, Gordimer is more under the Rascal’s control than he could ever believe. At the same time, he’s far less so than er-Rashal thinks. The relationship hasn’t been tested. It’s been ages since they faced anything where their ambitions diverge. Nowadays, Gordimer wants nothing but to hole up in the safety of the Palace of the Kings, where he indulges all the vices he found so despicable in his predecessor. Er-Rashal makes sure that he can indulge. So he gets a free hand.”

“Didn’t er-Rashal have the same understanding with Abad?”

“You know he did. Abad was farther gone than Gordimer is ever likely to be. If the honor of the Sha-lug faces a large enough challenge the Lion will find his roar. He’ll come out and fight. If that challenge crosses the sorcerer’s ambitions in a way that they need different outcomes to satisfy them, things might get interesting.”

“That’s worth some thought. Especially how to goad Gordimer.”

“An army from the north,” Nassim said.

“Yes?”

“There was a prophecy, when Gordimer removed Abad. It was vague. Those things always are. Gordimer interpreted it to mean that an army will come to al-Qarn to overthrow him. That it might consist of his own people is the nightmare that torments him.”

“In other words, you.”

“Could be. I wish. But, think. He does have enemies who aren’t Sha-lug. We all do. The New Brothen Empire wants to launch another crusade.”

“The Chaldareans talk about it all the time, General. But when the armies come together they fight their own kind.” Indala held up a hand to forestall a response.

Indala had not been aware of the prophecy overhanging Gordimer. Might that have been a true vision passed along by the Night? Might Gordimer fall to Qasr al-Zed? Unified, Qasr al-Zed and al-Minphet would have the power to drive the Unbeliever from the Holy Lands.

“This is marvelously interesting, General. Food for a feast of thought. But I’m feeling my years. I need rest. Before we part, though, I must tell you that your would-be paramour tonight claims to have come out of the Idiam. Says he’s a resident of the dead city.”

“That can’t be true.”

“I’ve never visited the haunted desert. I have no idea what’s true there and what isn’t. But I’m inclined to agree. The young man is one of er-Rashal’s agents. He may be Sha-lug. He may not. Er-Rashal’s men are good at not attracting attention. Remember that they’re out there. Stay out of places like the one where you were found tonight. Pull yourself together. Azir speaks highly of you. He thinks you’re invaluable. I want you to demonstrate that to the full war council tomorrow.”

When Nassim merely bowed his head in acceptance, Indala said, “I had a taste for vice myself when I was Azir’s age. If you stay here long you’ll hear of my adventures from my relatives. But a man of attainment has responsibilities. You have responsibilities. I want you here tomorrow afternoon, alive, sober, and not hungover.”

“It shall be as you say.”

“My personal guards will see you to your house.”

Nassim had been given use of a small establishment not far away. He shared it with Bone, old Az, and several young bucks from Tel Moussa.

Indala’s guards would make sure the Mountain did not wander during his journey. The message was plain.

Nassim did not look forward to the disapproval he would face from Bone and Az once they heard from Indala’s men. Those old campaigners had little give or understanding left.

Decades had escaped since a young Nassim had faced a disappointed professional sergeant. That Nassim had learned from those instructors then. He prayed that his lessons would take this time, as well.

There was a near full moon up. He enjoyed the silvery light. It went well with the chill of a winter night.

Later, it would cloud over. Snow would come with the dawn. It would stick for days, something alien to Shamramdi.

The children would enjoy it immensely.