Part 14 (2/2)

”Dirty?” echoed the heavier man. ”Ah, yes. Unfortunately. But you say rightly, my honored friend; it IS Granada.” Ras.h.i.+d erupted in fruity chuckles. ”My own people...”

But the qa'id turned back to the food as though Ras.h.i.+d were not even present. It meant nothing to him that Ras.h.i.+d had ”people,” such as the gentry of Granada counted them. In fact, he might as well have admitted to Hasiim that he had been born with the name of Paolo. He would have found himself neither more nor less respected on that account. The city man was not a tribesman of Hasiim's, and that was all that mattered.

The Berber pulled a piece of gristle from the lamb on his trencher. He examined it, frowning hugely.

Ras.h.i.+d sweated. In all his years in business he had failed to learn that one cannot impress a fanatic any more than one can impress someone else's watchdog. He tried.

”It is so hard,” he began, ”to maintain the mosques decent and clean in a place like this, in a city where no one knows how to keep Ramadan properly, and infidels wander the streets freely as the faithful.”

Once more Hasiim scooped, bit, chewed, and swallowed before answering. ”There is no need for mosques,” he said, his voice totally devoid of expression. ”In our hills there are no mosques.”

Ras.h.i.+d cleared his throat, but said nothing. He had begun to lose hope for this particular gathering.

Why had he invited this fellow anyway, with his stiff-necked puritanism and unwillingness to be pleased?

The answer surfaced unbidden: because Hasiim was of very high lineage, and his cavalry was barracked in the Al-hambra. These fursan were among the most powerful and fanatic of the Berbers, who were the most powerful and fanatic among the Arab conquerers of Spain.

The man of Granada felt an almost unconquerable desire to sit in a chair. Forty-two was too old to be squatting on the floor like a peasant.

Music intruded into his consciousness. The melody of the blond slave's music soothed his nerves as nothing else could. At least he need have no fear for the quality of his entertainment.

As a matter of fact, Hasiim was listening to Raphael with peculiar, brooding intensity. So were his silent fellows. Ras.h.i.+d waited until the end of the piece before he spoke again.

”Handles the instrument well for a straw-haired barbarian, doesn't he?”

Hasiim's eyes (brown and shallow set, like those of an Arab horse) flickered. ”There is no music worth making except that which glorifies Allah,” he stated. ”And there is no instrument worthy of praising Allah except the voice of a man.”

Ras.h.i.+d felt a mouthful of eggplant stick halfway to his stomach. His face p.r.i.c.kled all over. He turned to Raphael, who sat tailor-fas.h.i.+on on the hard floor behind the guests.

But there was no need to direct the slave, for at Hasiim's words Raphael had put the wooden ud down at his feet. ”Shall I sing, then, for you?” he asked, his blue eyes staring directly at those of Hasiim.

Ras.h.i.+d's terror of nerves resolved itself into a fury, that the boy should dare speak to an honored guest in that familiar voice.But Hasiim forestalled his discipline, replying, ”Yes, of course, if you can do so without impropriety.”

(For among the things which do not impress a fanatic are manners.) Raphael closed his eyes. He took a breath, let it out slowly, and then began to chant the same evening song he had shared with Djoura on his first day in chains.

In the kitchen the woman heard him. She raised her head and her hands clenched the handles of the cauldron she was dragging from the fire (black hands, black cauldron). Her eyes stung with tears she did not understand.

In the chamber of cus.h.i.+ons, no man spoke until the song was over. Then Hasiim stood up and walked over to Raphael.

”You,” he hissed. ”Could it be you are a Berber?”

The blond smiled as Hasiim lowered his leather-tough body beside his. ”No, I am not. But I sing that song together with my friend, who is a Berber.”

”His name?” pressed the other, for Hasiim knew the name of almost every desert soldier quartered in Granada.

”Her name,” Raphael corrected him gently, ”is Djoura.”

Now, in spite of himself, Hasiim Alfard smiled, and his face creased into dozens of sun wrinkles. ”And how, in the name of Allah's grace, did a barbarian like you meet a Berber woman?”

”We are slaves here together,” the blond replied innocently.

”No, a Berber cannot be a slave, ” stated Hasiim, as though saying, sheep cannot be green. ”Not even a Berber woman.”

”Djoura is,” Raphael dared to say. ”She is cleaning pots in the kitchen right now.”

There was a hideous silence.

7.

Saaras second procession through the worm hole was less eventful. The dragon was gone, but Gaspare stepped out into the cleft of suns.h.i.+ne, where that creature had so long been chained, and squinted. And sniffed. ”Doesn't smell bad, considering.”

Saara didn't bother to turn. ”Why should it, when he wasn't fed for twenty years?”

Gaspare made a worried noise at that, and followed Saara into the next dark tunnel. ”Speaking of which, do you think we can trust its-his-promise, not to eat Festilligambe?” His words rang and echoed through the darkness so that they were barely understandable.

”He didn't eat you,” was the Fenwoman's reply, and then she put her fingers to her lips for silence.

Gaspare didn't see the finger. Indeed, he saw very little of anything in the deepening gloom, and soon began to stumble. The witch was forced to take his hand.

It was long, this tunnel, and as sinuous as a serpent. But like a serpent it was smooth. It became more and more difficult for Saara to walk cautiously. But the amiable builder of the tunnel had been chained in the middle of it since its first construction. The Liar might very well have made changes; the very regularity of the walls and floor might well be designed to delude the wanderer away from caution, so she goaded her ears to hear and her skin to feel.

While feet are moving time is pa.s.sing, but neither Gaspare nor Saara had any sense of time's progression, and the weariness of their black march turned into irritability.

Gaspare fell, twisting his body like that of a cat in his effort to keep the lute from striking the ground.

The instrument was saved, but its back-curving neck smacked Saara sharply on the thigh as it fell. Shehissed her annoyance.

Gaspare himself whispered his curses to the floor, but as he clambered to his feet again (disoriented in the darkness), he remarked very calmly that a witch ought to be able to call fire to hand at need.

Delstrego had.

Saara was still ma.s.saging her leg, but this implicit criticism stung her worse than the blow. ”I have heard a little bit too much about Damiano Delstrego lately,” she said between clenched teeth. ”And what a great witch he was. There is a difference between accomplishment and simple talent, you know. Or perhaps you don't know!

”Of course Damiano could call fire. He had fire coming out of the top of his head! But it took me to teach him to make clouds.”

Gaspare snorted. ”So who wants to make clouds, except a peasant in a drought?”

Both had forgotten the necessity for quiet and for caution as well. Gaspare strode bullishly down the corridor, one hand tracing the right wall for support.

Until he fell again.

Saara heard the thunk, followed by a small weary whine like that of a child. All her anger melted away.

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