Bazir began to laugh silently. Zellim, inspecting brindle-gray Shouzama, glanced over with a grin. “You must forgive her the insult,” he said. “A black horse is a rarity in our land. It is said that in times long past, whenever a black foal was born, it was instantly killed.”
“But why?” Azzad was horrified.
“Acuyib in His Wisdom created for the benefit of mankind the brown sheep, the gray goat, the red deer, and the white-spotted cow. Seeing this, Chaydann Il-Mamnoua’a laughed into his beard and created the horse, a vile-tempered and contrary animal, to plague mankind. It is only by the Grace of Acuyib that the horse was tamed. Even now, it serves us reluctantly, and we must always watch for signs of its creator’s influence. And a black horse—”
“Azwadhi izzahn, azwadh qalb,” the girl announced, tossing a long braid over one skinny shoulder. Black horse, black heart.
No wonder everyone looked askance at Khamsin, Azzad thought. “But you see,” he said to Zellim, for in this land one did not address a girl without permission from her male relatives, “Ibbir will be just like his sire—sweetnatured and biddable.” As if understanding this choice mendacity, and resenting the slander, Khamsin snorted from his nearby stall.
“Huh!” Allowing for the different lengths of their noses, the noise from the girl was a fair match for Khamsin’s. “Just wait until you try to hitch him to a wagon or a plow!”
Azzad forgot his manners and glowered. “Not one of these foals—not a single one!—will ever—”
“We shall ride them,” Bazir interrupted smoothly. “I told you that, qarassia. Azzad will show us how.”
“What use is a horse that can’t pull something?” Then she laughed, a surprisingly lovely sound, like sunlight sparkling on a mountain stream. “No matter, Chal Bazir! It will be so funny watching him try to train them!”
Azzad gulped. This little pest must be none other than Jemilha al-Gallidh, who would inherit every stick, stitch, and stone of her family’s vast holdings. Sheltered in her father’s house in Hazganni, educated at her own insistence, she came to Sihabbah rarely. Azzad had in fact never seen her before today; considering his lowly status, this was not surprising. But he would have to get into her good graces, for in a way, she too was his partner in this venture.
Her scorn did not bode well for the future.
By spring, Azzad could see that he had been correct about the advantages of cross-breeding. Many others eyed the five half-breeds with doubt, disgust, or—as in Jemilha’s case—amused scorn. How could such small, spindle-legged, scrawny horses ever be of any use? But these foals when fully grown would indeed combine the strength of the native breed with Khamsin’s grace and speed. As for temperament—at least, unlike their mothers, they didn’t try to kick or bite everyone who came within range.
When the foals were a year old, and four more al-Gallidh mares had delivered Khamsin’s get (all fillies), Azzad asked for permission to visit the Shagara.
“I owe them my life, al-Gallidh,” he explained to Bazir. “In the two years since I left Rimmal Madar, I have prospered, thanks to—”
“—to Khamsin’s efforts!” The older man laughed. “No, I do not devalue your hard work, but were it not for your horse, you would yet be cleaning stalls.”
“I know,” Azzad admitted. “Having nothing to recommend me, I would probably have starved by now.”
“So now you wish to repay your Shagara friends. This is an excellent thing, Azzad. I approve. What will you gift them with?”
“Two of our first horses,” he said forthrightly. “I will cede total ownership of two others to you. The fifth will be ours together.”
“This is agreeable to me—for you shall also be transporting some small gifts from me to the Shagara. How long will you be gone from Sihabbah? One month? Two?”
“Two, I think, possibly a little longer.”
Bazir nodded. “I shall miss you, my friend. Now, tell me, what would the ladies of the Shagara appreciate most from an old man admiring of their beauty?”
And so, nearly two years after Azzad had left Dayira Azreyq, he left Sihabbah of the clouds and descended from the mountains to the wasteland. He rode Khamsin and led two donkeys loaded with gifts. The filly Farrasha lived up to her name by flitting all over the landscape as lightly as if she had wings; Azzad was forever whistling her back from her explorations, and finally had to put her on a lead rein. Her half-brother Haddid, still small but stronger than Azzad had dared to hope, needed no tether and followed placidly in Khamsin’s wake. The colt, tranquil of temperament and soft of gait, would be given to Abb Shagara. Azzad wasn’t sure who would be able to ride Farrasha, but he was betting on Leyliah.
Confident, eager to see his friends, he rode blithely into the wilderness bearing gifts.
He got lost, of course.
Farrasha, escaping her tether, galloped away into the wilderness and would not return at his whistle. He could not chase her—the donkeys were slow, and heavily laden. He cursed fluently all day long, agreeing at last with Jemilha al-Gallidh that horses were surely the work of Chaydann.
All day he followed puffs of dust raised by Farrasha’s hooves, the air black with his mood as he imagined the filly lying helpless, her leg broken, about to be devoured by a rimmal nimir. At length even Khamsin, after so much soft living, was tired. Azzad decided to search one more day, and if he did not find Farrasha, he would continue on to the Shagara without her. The next day brought no sign of her. Worse, he had no idea in which direction the Shagara tents lay.
At dawn the next morning as he saddled Khamsin, a familiar voice asked, “Whatever are you doing way out here?” Azzad laughed—once his heart started beating again after the shock—and embraced Fadhil, asked after all the Shagara, and finally told him what had happened.
Fadhil merely shrugged. “So her name is Farrasha? Fitting. She flew into our camp yesterday and fluttered about until dusk before we caught her. We knew her for Khamsin’s, so I came looking for you.”
The Shagara had identified the filly as Khamsin’s get easily: three of their own mares had birthed foals that looked exactly like her.
6
Farrasha having given early warning of Azzad’s arrival, by the time Fadhil led him into the camp, preparations were underway for a feast. Azzad went around to each tent with bags of pine nuts and exotic spices as well as candied fruit for the children—making sure everyone knew that Bazir al-Gallidh was the source of the gifts. His own presents were given in private. For Chal Kabir there was a new scale to weigh medicines and a bag of mountain lavender for sweetening potions; for Meryem and Leyliah, tooled leather purses; for Fadhil, a set of fine surgical knives; for Abb Shagara, the two horses with all their equipment and a pair of tall leather boots. And finally, also for the ladies, long white silk scarves embroidered at either end with silver snowflakes.
“Bazir al-Gallidh,” Azzad said, smiling as Meryem and Leyliah exclaimed over the beauty of the work, “has read a little and heard a little more about the Shagara.”
“Truly an elegant man,” Meryem replied, running the filmy silk through her hands. “But bold, to send presents to women he has never met.”
“I am sure,” grinned Abb Shagara, “that Azzad spoke so much of you, and in such detail, that the al-Gallidh feels he knows you both!”