It seemed Suhail had been out hunting. A splendid falcon sat on a perch in one corner of the tent, and a woman near the fire was plucking the feathers from one of several small birds, which I presumed were the fruits of Suhail’s labours (or rather his falcon’s). She cleaned her hands off and rose to greet us, along with another man.
Both were older and much weathered by the sun. Suhail, making introductions, said, “These are Umm Azali and Abu Azali—my desert mother and desert father.”
This he said in Scirling, so there was no chance of misunderstanding him. “Desert mother?” I repeated, my gaze slipping to the woman. She did not look much like Suhail, nor did the father—even allowing for the way desert life had thinned their flesh. Suhail was not a fat man, but we all looked plump next to the nomads, who seemed universally made of rawhide.
“They raised me during my fosterage,” he said. “It is custom, for many of us in the city. A way of making certain we do not forget where we came from.”
Pensyth had mentioned this, after a fashion. I wanted to inquire further, but felt it would be rude. The couple urged us to sit and fed us more coffee and dates, eager to share their hospitality; Umm Azali joined in, despite the mixed company, which meant I had to do the same. (I did not manage sleep until quite late that night; it has not generally been my habit to drink coffee after sunset.)
The conversation was pleasant, if largely inconsequential or else incomprehensible. It is incumbent upon any traveller to share news from the territory he has passed through; Yusuf had spoken to other nomads on our way here, and now he related what he had learned from them, little of which meant anything to me—when I could even understand his words. I mostly looked around the tent, which was made of goat-hair panels and surprisingly sparse in its furnishings. I felt as if I were among the Moulish once more, as in a sense I was: these, too, were a migratory people, for whom material possessions were often more of a burden than a luxury.
As you may imagine, I also watched Suhail, as covertly as I could. He seemed more like himself out here, which pleased me, but also surprised me a little. After all, I knew him largely as a man who loved the sea: I half expected him to pine in such an arid land. But it was clear that he was more comfortable and relaxed in the tent of his desert mother and desert father than he was in the house of his brother. And if he spoke to me but little, nor looked in my direction much—well. I had promised Pensyth I would behave myself; it helped that he did the same.
I was recalled to the conversation when Suhail spoke in my own language. “Tomorrow,” he said to Tom; I had missed the question he was answering. “It’s too late tonight. Besides, there was an argument over who would be your host. If I weren’t here, you’d stay with the sheikh—but since I am, Abu Azali won the argument.”
He was referring to our sleeping arrangements. Of course it was much too dark out to pitch the tent we had brought; but I had not thought about what that would mean. I was simultaneously relieved and alarmed: relieved that we would not be in the sheikh’s tent, and alarmed at the prospect of word reaching anyone that I had slept under the same roof as Suhail.
But it was also the same roof that sheltered Tom, Andrew, Abu Azali, Umm Azali, and Yusuf. The most inappropriate deed either of us could have performed in such crowded quarters was to accidentally tread on someone if we got up in the night. No one seemed to think there was any reason for concern, and so I went along.
The next morning we undertook the task of setting up our own household. Using the phrases Suhail taught him, Tom formally begged leave on behalf of our Scirling trio to become the “protégé” of Abu Azali, which is to say a guest under his protection. This is an extension of hospitality among the nomads, and meant that we would pitch our tent next to Abu Azali’s in the line, as if we were members of his family. Furthermore, they dispatched a girl—Shahar, daughter of their son Azali—to see to our domestic needs. This was reckoned good practice for her, as she was fast approaching the age at which she might marry, and thus become mistress of her own tent.
In this she reminded me a great deal of Liluakame, the Keongan girl who had been my “wife” during the time of our shipwreck. Here no such pretense was needed, nor was I providing an excuse for Shahar to delay marriage until her prospective husband would be ready. My household was, however, serving once more as a training ground for a future wife. Shahar was quite determined in her practice, and firmly halted any effort on the part of either Tom or myself to take on some of her duties; whether this was owing to her zeal or the status we had as associates of Husam ibn Ramiz, I do not know.
Indeed, for once we had no responsibilities at all save the pursuit of our work. To this end, Tom and I asked the very next day who might be able to guide us to the dragons.
We had to inquire of Abu Azali, because Suhail was nowhere to be found. Even conveying our point was something of a challenge—Yusuf had to assist—but once he understood, he responded with a flood of words that made Yusuf grimace. “The man you want is one of the Ghalb,” he said. “Al-Jelidah. He is not here, and no one knows when he will be back.”
“Who, or what, is a Ghalb?” Tom asked.
Yusuf spat into the dirt. “Filthy carrion-eaters. But they know the desert.”
This was, of course, not the most useful answer he might have given. Further questioning elicited that the Ghalb were a tribe—“If they even deserve that name,” Yusuf muttered—unlike any other in Akhia.
Indeed, some have questioned whether they are Akhian at all, or whether their ancestors hail from some other land. Certainly their way of life differs from that of the other nomads. They have no fixed territory, but pay a fee to the other tribes for protection and the right to pass through their lands. By law they are forbidden from owning horses, and most do not even own camels, instead making do with some sheep, and a breed of donkey that is esteemed above all others in the region. They survive largely by hunting, and by dispensing their skills in medicine and handiwork to the other tribes; for this reason, and because they are barred from raiding or making war, the nomads despise them as mere craftsmen. (Their reputation as carrion-eaters arises from the fact that they do not slaughter their meat according to either Segulist or Amaneen law.)
But the Ghalb, as even Yusuf admitted, know the desert. Because they do not engage in warfare and are permitted passage throughout Akhia, they are sometimes employed as guides by the more conventional tribes, directing them to good pasturage or hidden sources of water. It seemed the Aritat had been making extensive use of Ghalbi aid in seeking out caches of eggs; and this man al-Jelidah was the one who had been assisting this camp.
Tom, asking around, learned that al-Jelidah had gone to share his wealth with his family—or possibly to bury it, which the Ghalb sometimes do if they have no immediate need of the money. (The Scirling traveller Saul Westcombe wrote a sensational tale fifty years ago about the secret treasures of the “Gelbees,” for which he hunted fruitlessly through the mountains until a rockfall did him in. Likely he would have been sorely disappointed had he found the pittance of coins al-Jelidah had received.) But the men in camp assured Tom that Ghalbi assistance was not needed, not in this season; there were no eggs for us to find right now, only dragons. And for those, all we needed was our eyes.
Among the Moulish we had needed to delay our work, for not participating in the life of the camp would have marked us as inexcusably antisocial. Here, however, we had the imprimatur of the sheikh, and therefore were expected to carry out our duties post-haste. As it happened, we had an opportunity to begin our work the very next day—or rather, the very next night.