Omar could not grasp his luck yet. Ten days ago, he would not have even dared to dream to ever be let into the great feast hall and now he was even one of Abu Feisal's favored guests. To his honor was given a celebration to which the heads of the nine richest families had come. And he was allowed to dine with them. He maybe was not sitting to Abu Feisal's right, there had taken vizier Jikhbar ibn Tamrikat his place, who was representing the sultan, but alone the fact to hold this festival with the exalted men was an honor, probably not given to a former slave before.
Again did he wave to the slave with the slender amphora, who observed attentively the spree and let his silver goblet be filled. The noble date wine was better than anything he had been drinking before. No compare to that, what the slaves of more generous masters got to drink on festive days. The wine seemed to turn the blood into fire and let everything in the hall appear a little bit more beautiful as it was anyway already.
The precious cushions and carpets on which the guests had seated themselves were sprinkled with rose water by the slaves so that they spread a pleasant scent. The walls were decorated with colorful rugs of finest linen.
High above them, on a small balcony, sat three musicians who otherwise stood in the service of the sultan and delighted the guests with their arts. An old man plucked with his head lowered, on a bandurria that was decorated with inlaid work of shell limestone and the strings were apparently made from the hair of the long died love. To his right sat his son and played the tabl, a small with camel hide spun drum that he had placed between his knees. But although these two musicians were mastering their art very well, they paled against the not anymore quite so young woman who played the kabas flute. So swiftly, that one could hardly follow them, her fingers paced up and down the instrument to lure the tones out of the flute that was made of long reeds, that could tell more than thousand words of life, love and sorrow.
Sometimes her play made Omar so sad, that tears shot into his eyes, only to bring his blood to boil in the next moment with a quick rhythm that he felt how his heart pounded in his chest.
Suddenly the music broke off. A splendorous dressed slave entered the fest hall. It was Habish, the first of Feisal's cooks in his palace, who brought his master a tablet with freshly baked bread to open the feast.
Feisal greeted the slave with a short gesture and bend then down to the tablet to kiss each of the flatbreads. After that, Habish beckoned more slaves with slim bowls made of brass who gave each guests a bread. Abu Feisal showed with this manner that he valued every guest of the same measure. With shaking hands, Omar took the bread that was given to him. At least at this evening he was being elevated to the same worth as the others and in this moment sprouted hope that his dream could come true after all, that returned almost every night since he had killed the lion.
In his dream, he carried the splendorous garments of a sheikh and he sat in an enormous hall in which a hundred guests had taken their place. And before all the guests danced Mawdliyah. But although the highest and most exalted men of the man had gathered, Mawdliyah gave him with small gestures to understand that he was the only man to whom her heart was longing like to no other.
While Abu Feisal's finest slaves brought the meals for the festivity, Omar had completely drifted into the picture of his daydream in which he imagined how the benefactor gave him his daughter Mawdliyah out of thankfulness. Omar hardly looked at the delicious food that a slave brought to him on a small table made of nacre and onyx to his right. Pieces that would have even been served in the hall of the caliph he recognized no more than a bowl of millet gruel. The music that had begun now again, the sweet date wine, all that enraptured and delighted him. Only as Abu Feisal stood up and clapped into his hands to end the dining, Omar awoke from his dream.
»My dear friends how glad am I, that I had not to say farewell from this world yet and you show me the endless generous mercy that you came tonight into my house to celebrate. As I do not own anything that I would have to be ashamed of, that I can share, allow that I invite you to a delight that has become the sunlight of my age. I hope I will not disappoint you with my choice, for I know that among all the pleasures of life alone the most exalted can bring rejoice.«
Abu Feisal bowed deeply and sat down again.
With a wave of his hand did Omar point to the slave to fill his goblet again with wine, while somewhere in the more distant halls sounded a gong. Almost to the same time, the light of the brass embossed lamps that hung from the ceiling was dimmed, so that the shadows on the walls became deeper. As a second gong echoed, entered nine veiled servants the hall. Each of them carried a blue bowl of glass from which white steam rose. The bowls they placed in a white circle in the middle of the room, bowed to the guests and retreated without a word.
While the aromatic scent of the slowly burning incenses filled the hall, rose the sound of the kabas flute again. And to Omar it appeared like the pillars of steam that rose from the blue vessels were winding themselves to the sometimes melancholic, sometimes cheering rhythm of the flute play. Quietly did the tabl and the bandurria join and from the hallway behind a high arched door sounded suddenly the bright tone of the silver castanets of a dancer.
With soft swaying steps entered a veiled Sharisad through the high door and bowed with playful gesture before the guests. She went into the middle of the wide circle that the glass bowl on the ground marked and began to turn around herself, faster and faster until Omar seemed to loose all his senses alone from watching.
Some of the guests began to clap and fired the dancer on, until the music had reached a speed, that could impossible be risen any further.
Suddenly sounded another strike of the gong. The dancer froze in her graceful posture and tore, with a single gesture, the almost ground long veil from her face. Omar gulped. It was Mawdliyah. She stood so close to him, that he could have touched her. One breath long she seemed to look at him, then she turned slowly around to regard also the other guests.
She wore a thin sark of white silk through which the dark skin shimmered. To that heavy chains with thin golden coins that rang up quietly by every of her steps. Around the hips she bore a broad, with pearls and amulets decorated girdle from which more than dozen stripes of silk hung like a skirt. Around the ankles and wrists she wore more golden laces. Her slender fingers played with the pair of the castanets. Still while Mawdliyah turned slowly to know every guest with a short look to be welcomed, the music set in once more and the dancer took up the slow rhythm of the tabl.
With impressive gestures did Mawdliyah tell the tale of a woman who was courting a man who came from a much higher place and would never take her as wife. So at least appeared it to Omar who could not take his eyes off the dancer. With luring movements she turned slowly in circles and as she stood in front of him again, she waved to him, as if she would beckon him to secretively follow her. Omar felt as if pulsating fire would run through him. Every fiber of his body was longing for the dancer. For her touch, for her hot breath and her unexplainable spell. In one gulp he emptied the silver goblet, but instead of cooling his desire, the sweet wine seemed to fire it only on.
Slowly the dancer retreated from him, but while she held her hands up as for defense, her gaze was betraying the passion. Omar waved for more wine. His mouth was dry like after a sandstorm and he had to drink or he would perish. How much he longed for this woman! Thousand times he had wished to see her dance but it was forbidden to the male slave to only be in the near during Mawdliyah's exercises or by the performances on the feasts of her father. Many nights had Omar been lying awake and tried to imagine how the Sharisad was dancing to the partly stormy, partly coaxing flute melodies that could be heard in the entire palace. But even in his boldest dreams it all had been only a dim reflection of that what he saw now. Ever quicker and quicker switched the gestures between courting and playful flight. The aromatic incenses and the heavy wine let the room shrink further and further. The faces of the guests became pale spots and blurred then completely with the darkness. Although there was a voice in his deepest consciousness that told him that he was not alone in the great hall, so was he entirely certain that Mawdliyah was dancing only for him. That she called him with gestures and that the same devouring flame burned within her.
Never before had Omar seen a more perfect woman. Her hair shimmered black as onyx, reached down to her hips and surrounded her like a veil. Her skin was of a bright, silken brown. Noble swung but at the same time full and sensual, promised her lips kisses full of hot embers and passion. Dark, almost black were the luring eyes. Mawdliyah's face appeared of such harmonic proportion that no artist, who had wished to sing a song of praise for the women would have been able to conjure up a more pleasant appearance.
The kabas flute sounded now in strange penetrating tones, that released a never known pain in Omar's chest.
Mawdliyah had been gliding to the ground and was winding in ecstatic convulsions and yet did she radiate the purity of a woman who had never been touched by a man before.
Again sounded a gong in the distance. Like through a spell did the last lights in the hall perish. The music had gone silent. Only the breathing of the guests and the quiet ringing of Mawdliyah's jewelry could be heard.
The time seemed to stand still. The strange spell that lay on the hall was only becoming weaker as slaves entered the room with torches to awake the gone out lights to new life. Even as it was bright enough again that the men could see each other, it took quite a while until they found back into reality.
As first, Jikhbar, the vizier of the sultan raised his voice. »By Rastullah, Feisal! I bow to the art of your daughter. The Sharisadrim that I have seen dancing already were more numerous than the hair that still crowns my head, but except in Mherwed, the city of our caliph, I have never seen a better dancer. You can truly be proud of your daughter. I am certain, one day she will dance before the ruler of all the righteous men of the desert.«
One after the other did also the guests find their voices again and praised in the highest the spell that Mawdliyah had woven.
Only Omar kept quiet. He missed the skill of weaving the words like a merchant and the swift tongue of a flatterer. Yes, he believed that every word was only a crude distortion of that what he had seen. Hence he was silent and waved to the slave that stood by the door to fill his goblet once again.
For a while yet did the conversations circle around Mawdliyah's dance, but finally it was Feisal who changed the topic and asked the vizier Jikhbar after his opinion of the bold hoax that the pirate El Harkir had played. The topic was supplying the guests with cheerful laughter and quite some mockery, for the pirate had accomplished to capture the leader of Umbar's fleet from his own ship, midst the unseizable haven. But although the others laughed, the vizier remained serious. He feared that Konâk, one of the patriarchs of Umbar and one of the servants of the Eye would not leave the insult unrecognized so that much blood spilling would arise from that deed.
After a while came the conversation to the hunt that Feisal had begun and the triumph over the wild beast.
The night was not young anymore, the moon leaned towards the horizon and all guests had been drinking a lot of the sweet date wine, as Abu Feisal stood up and pointed at Omar.
»See now this splendid youngling! Hardly does the fluff show on his cheeks and he already ashamed the renowned hunters that I have called to my house and the hunt. All alone and with a mere spear he has slain the lion that haunted for so many weeks the caravans from Abârrim to Hayabêth. What did you feel as the lion was leaping?«
Omar, who had been quietly following the talk being exchanged, felt a little embarrassed about such praise. Still was his mind clouded from the spell of the Sharisad and his tongue heavy of wine as he sought stuttering for words.
»Fear, I was terribly afraid. And anger. I did not want to die yet ... And if I had to die, then ... then I wanted that also the beast dies.«
One of the guests laughed loudly up. »Afraid he was. Of what? What does a slave have to loose? Say, that you hang unto this miserable life.«
Omar looked insecurely at Abu Feisal.
»That is over!« The benefactor turned to his guests. »Omar is now a free man, almost as we are.«
The others laughed loudly as if he had told an amusing tale.
»Yes, almost as we are«, a fat merchant sneered. »Only that he cannot do much with his freedom as he is poor.«
»O, I will gift him!«, Feisal called. »He shall not leave my house with empty hands. Nine camels he shall have from me. If he returns with them to his tribe in the desert, he will be a rich sheikh there.«
»Nine camels is your life worth then?« A gaunt man with the face like a vulture had gotten up from his cushion and looked mockingly over to Feisal. »You do not seem to like yourself too much.«
The benefactor became red. »How do you dare, Hamas, you son of a scorpion? My family was rich and mighty already as your ancestors were still striding as hungry bandits through the desert. I ...«
»But we have not acquired our riches through blasphemous cheapness.«
»Cheapness, cheapness ... I can afford gifts that would bring you to the beggar's stave, Hamas.« Slightly swaying Feisal turned around to Omar. »If a djinn would grant you a wish, what would you then wish for, boy?«
Omar hesitated. Only one wish was filling out his entire mind.
»End this unworthy argument«, Jikhbar, the vizier said now as well. »From such only grows ill fortune and corruption.«
»You cannot command me in my own house«, Feisal growled sinister back. »Go on, boy, tell me what you wish for. Speak ...«
Feisal's voice seemed as if it would echo through a long tunnel. In unending repetition the words were leaping over themselves in Omar's mind. »... say, what you wish ... say, what ...«
»There is but one wish ... that I still have ...«
Although the wine had turned his body into a glowing flame, so his tongue had become tired and Omar had to fight for every word. »Give me ... Give me Mawdliyah as wife ... There is nothing else that I yearn for ...«
Suddenly it was deathly quiet in the hall. All eyes were set upon the benefactor and Omar.
Feisal paled. His lips quivered. He had formed his hands to fists.
»What? What ...«
»It seems like you have raised an adder«, sounded the mocking voice of Hamas.
»You mangy bastard.« Feisal grasped Omar with both hands and drew him up from the cushion. »With glowing pincers I will rip out your tongue from your maw. How can you insult me like this, where I wanted to give you a new life ...«
»I ...« Slowly it dawned to Omar what he had wished for and the ember of the wine fled before the coldness of the fear of his death. »I ...«
»Be silent! No one wants to hear your words anymore. What evil spirit has confounded your senses ...? How can you believe that I will give my only daughter to a former slave as wife?«
»What will you do with him, Feisal?« Hamas stood now next to the benefactor. »You cannot allow that your honor is stained like that. Every slave in the city will scoff at you and the shame will forth on follow you and your daughter like a shadow.«
»But he saved my life ...«
»What does that count anymore? Do you not see that not you alone, but all of us he has insulted? No freeborn may enter the upper city without our permission. We are chosen and we have abided this former slave an entire evening in our middle, as if he was one of us, to reward him for his deed. But now he was grasped by delusions of grandeur. He might believe he really was one of us. What ever you may think, Feisal, this son of a mangy bitch has also insulted me and I ask his head for compensation.«
»Well spoken, Hamas«, one of the guests agreed.
»I did not know, what I was saying ...«, Omar stammered. »It was the wine ... it has tricked my senses.«
»Lies«, Hamas bickered. »The wine has brought forth the truth, I have seen with what lustful glances you have followed the daughter of our host during her dance.«
»It is enough, Hamas. Do not insult my house as well. This slave, whose name I shall forth on not know anymore, has gambled away my favor with his insolence. Therefor, that his lecherous sense aspires the innocence of my daughter, he shall be punished, as if he had secretly snuck into the rooms of the women to see what was not meant for his eyes.«
»No, please ...« Omar tore himself away from Feisal.
The other guests drew their knives. Desperately he looked to the exit, but already hurried slaves into his direction that sought to grasp him.
A cold blade laid itself unto his throat. Hamas had been sneaking up to him and whispered into his ear: »Your freedom ends now, and if it would go after me, I would have you punished right here.«
»Leave him, Hamas«, sounded Feisal's voice. »In this hall, where I welcome my friends and guests shall no blood be spilled.« Then he addressed the slave that had hurried to the commotion. »Bind him and get him out of my sight! Tomorrow morning shall the hangman blind him, so that he can never lay his lusting glance upon my daughter and the tongue shall be ripped out of him, so that his blasphemous talk will come to an end.«
»Please ...« Pleadingly Omar raised his hands. »Please, be indulgent! I am sorry for my words. I was not master of my senses.«
»Get him out of here!«
Harshly did the slaves grasp Omar by his arms. In vain he tried to escape them. His limbs were still weak from the wine and one promising moment he wondered, if that all was not just a terrible dream, from which he would awake soon.
But nothing like that occurred. He was brought out of the palace and these slaves that he had called friends only a few days ago, mocked him now for what a precious gift freedom was.
Mawdliyah did not want to believe what her handmaiden Nedime had told her. Exhausted from her performance and enraptured by the heavy wine from Khand that she had enjoyed, the Sharisad sat on her bed covered with pillows.
»He wanted what ..? Me as his wife? Why ...«
»He says, he loves you, milady. What else could bring a man to dare everything for a woman that he hardly knows? As all male slaves, he ever saw you only from afar.«
»And because he has asked for my hand out of love, my father has sentenced him? Do you find that just?«
Nedime evaded her gaze. Also Mawdliyah's handmaiden was only a slave. She had dark, full hair and for a woman of Harad, surprisingly bright skin. Nedime said, her father was a knight from a land far to the north, but Mawdliyah knew that at least the mother of her handmaiden had only been a Saltstrider. Her cold-hearted husband had sold Nedime into slavery, right after her death. Maybe it was true then, that Nedime had not really been his daughter. But should her father been a knight, so was Nedime the spawn of a swift night that had no further meaning for the noble. After all, she had only gotten from the elusive father than the skin and the unusual pride for a slave. This pride was the reason why Mawdliyah had chosen the filigree Nedime with her blinking emerald colored eyes as handmaiden. She was not as boring as the otherwise so submissive slaves that lived in her father's palace. And the red scars that begun at her chin and twirled up to her lips and decorated her forehead, let her appear mysterious. Unconcerned whether Nedime was a bastard or not, as long as her mother had lived, she had been risen as Saltstrider and so had acquired at the tenth year of her life the decorative scars that were alone meant for the Saltstriders and their children.
Patiently waiting regarded Mawdliyah her handmaiden, who still was staring to the ground. It was usually not her manner to lay words unto a scale. The Sharisad sighed quietly. She was heated up despite the cold night by the wine and her performance. Everything tonight seemed to have a special glimmer to it. Her dance had let Mawdliyah forgotten about the pressing promise of marriage. The only thing that she had perceived as clear as the music, had been the eyes of the guests. It had been lying a shimmer in them, that betrayed a feeling between dedication and greed. It had been eyes, that had not been able to let go off her. That was power! She could have asked everything of the men, after she had danced for them.
Maybe the wish of this slave Omar had sprung alone from greed? Yes, maybe it had nothing to do with love at all. The thought angered Mawdliyah. Whenever she danced, she was not certain if those who applauded her loudly, loved her for her performance or were just hanging after their lecherous greed. Not even her teacher Sulibêth had been able to give a clear answer on it. Instead, the old woman said, that a Sharisad did not ask herself such questions. But what did she know! Angrily did Mawdliyah shoo the doubts away and turned again to her handmaiden.
»Now, Nedime, you are not usually so reserved. What is your opinion? Was the sentence of my father just?«
»No, milady. He had promised Omar to fulfill one of his wishes and as Omar uttered his wish, your father ordered the death of the man instead, who saved his life. That is not just! Although, Omar's wish was presumptuous and he was nothing more but a former slave.«
»So ...« Mawdliyah did not know what she should think of it all. This sentence was moving her and threw a shadow over the triumph of her dance. She felt that it was her fault that Omar was to be executed. Was she allowed to let it happen, that a man died, only because he had dreamed of her? That would be unjust and Rastullah would punish her father, if he would handle his life savior in that way.
Furthermore, Omar had not been just a slave anymore, but a free man and would have actually had the right on a court decision. But apparently, all nine families had agreed on the punishment. What judge would dare to speak against them? A court hearing would prolong the execution only a few days, but certainly not lead to a different sentence.
What was to be done? Mawdliyah knew her father well enough to know that he would never take his verdict back. That would mean, to loose his face before the guests that had heard in what way Feisal the Magnificent would punish the insolent one.
»Do you think that your father has acted rightly?« Nedime had spoken in that particular proud, almost tacky tone that Mawdliyah often liked on her, but now it annoyed her.
»You mean, he should have given me to a man who had yesterday been still a slave, as wife?«
»That is not the point. That you know too! He will be crippled tomorrow by the man whom he saved the life. The man that loves you and has gambled away his luck for the love to you and ...«
»I have heard that he only drunk a bit too much.«
The objection nettled Nedime even more. »You know yourself that wine only loosens the tongue. It is not the wine that had let the love sprung in him. No! The wine gave him the courage to utter what he thought probably since long already. And then there was your dance. Had you not aimed to enchant every man, including your father, in the hall? Have you not brought up all power that Rastullah granted you to weave a spell, that ...«
»Silence! You forget that you are nothing more than a slave in the end and you have no right to reprimand me.«
A moment long it appeared as if Nedime was about to give an answer to that and to the first time, since she had taken the young woman as handmaiden, Mawdliyah thought why she should not let the slavemaster come to have Nedime's temperament be put reigns on. But also the handmaiden seemed to feel that she had crossed her borders. So she bowed in exaggerated submission and let Mawdliyah with her doubt alone.
Maybe this daring slave was right? Maybe her spell had unintentionally worked fate that Omar would be brought before the hangman tomorrow? But what possibility did she have to prevent that?
Of course she could appease her father through a dance and bring to the promise that he would have mercy on Omar. But her spell never endured for long. She knew her father too well to imagine that he would hold unto such a promise. After all her father believed that it was about his honor. And for his honor he would anytime sacrifice a set free slave.
Besides did Mawdliyah have the feeling that her star would soon pale. She would soon complete her seventeenth year of life. She became older and her father would not wait much longer to have her marriage be arranged. Alone Rastullah knew how long she could still enchant him and make him postpone the wedding. And then ...
Before her lay a life at the side of a bony old man. Maybe he would even prohibit her to dance, or let her only dance for him alone. But Mawdliyah was certain that all noble men of the land of the First Sun would lie at her feet if she would just have the opportunity to dance before them. The most famous warriors, lords and scholars would excel each others to read every wish off her eyes and as reward to hope for naught but a smile. And that all she was supposed to let go off only to share the bed with an old man? Only so her father would become even more rich and powerful than he was anyway already?
Maybe Rastullah had given her a sign through Omar? Ever so often did Mawdliyah think about fleeing from the house of her father. Of course it would not be enough to flee to Abârrim or Kesh. Only when a few hundred miles and at least a mountain range would lie between her and Hayabêth, she could truly feel save.
Mawdliyah let herself sink back on her bed and regarded the arched, with pearls and jewels decorated ceiling over her bed. How often had she observed this precious illusion of the night-sky over the desert and dreamed of a better fate ...
Mawdliyah sighed. Was she not just as much a prisoner in the house of her father, such as Omar and all the other slaves? Maybe Omar had it even better than her. He would likely die tomorrow. She was condemned to live and feign love to an old man.
Was that truly her fate? Was she not born to dance one day before kings? When she wanted to flee however, then they would have to cross the great desert and she knew all too well that she would die there without help.
Far to the west there were lands of men where art was loved, so Mawdliyah heard the talk of travelers. Yes, they valued the singers, charlatans and acrobats so much that they were allowed to build houses in the cities and only who paid good silver was allowed to watch them. In such a land, one could become rich with dancing. She needed no old merchant and still had not to miss on luxury, that the palace of her father had to offer.
There, she could become glad! Only Harad's land, the unending glowing desert that devoured already armies was barring her way. But was Omar not born in the desert? No man in the city would dare to lead her over the long way beyond into the kingdoms of the west. They all would be afraid to draw the wrath of her father and his kin on them. Only Omar had nothing to loose anymore.
So had the events of that evening been signs after all. Mawdliyah felt how her heart began to race of excitement faster and faster. Today was such a night that only existed in fairytales. Before the sun raised itself again over the horizon could the wave of fate change her life. Mawdliyah was certain, she would have to grasp this luck now, for otherwise there would never be such a chance again.
But could she trust Omar? He had said to love her. And if not? She needed a guide in the desert. But she would not surrender herself to him. Not to a mere slave! For that, Mawdliyah was certainly born too high.
She would take Fenthal with her, her bodyguard. Would the Northman ride at her side, Omar would not dare an insolence when they were in the desert. And Nedime had to come, too. Without a handmaiden, she could not cross the wide sands!
Mawdliyah stood up and looked out the window. The silver disk of al'Tiloun had almost sunken behind the gardens of the upper city. There were only few hours left until dawn.
Omar believed again that he would have to be dreaming as the door to his prison was opened and Mawdliyah stood before him.
»Quick, we must hurry!«
Confounded he stood up, but the iron shackle around his ankle did not allow him to bring more than two steps of distance between him and his bed of straw.
»Fenthal, get him out of there!«, Mawdliyah hissed and stepped to the side.
Without a loud the bodyguard of the Sharisad scurried inside and knelt down next to Omar. »You are a lucky child of Béma, boy, and you have more luck than thought.«
Fenthal had the confusing habit to constantly speak of foreign gods. He came from the north and came from a people of wild riders and horse lords. Whenever Mawdliyah's bodyguard was being asked why he was so far down south, he answered that he was exiled by his kin. Omar actually did not like Fenthal really, or better said, he was afraid of him. Fenthal was maybe not too high grown in size, but very muscled and he always carried so strange weapons like a double-bladed axe and a sword with a straight blade with him. Over the lip he let a red, fuzzy mustache grow. Although he lived long already in the desert, his skin was still extraordinary pale.
Despite all the prejudices, Omar had never been happier in his life to see the strong Northman.
A bit swaying, he got up, just to fall on his knees before Mawdliyah again. »My heart is blessed with wings, if I see you, milady, and my tongue finds no words that could express my thankfulness.«
Hesitatingly he raised the seam of Mawdliyah's wide kaftan and kissed it. »You saved my life and I will forever be thankful for it. No hour shall forth on pass in which I will not think of you and no danger will be so great that I cannot withstand it, if I can only hope for a smile from you for it. I ...«
»Enough words, Omar! You will have the chance to prove your promise come true. Bring me to the kingdoms of the west, far beyond the borders of Gondor and you may be certain of my favor.«
»You wish to journey through the sands?« Omar let go surprised off the seam of her kaftan and stood up. »You, that you are the most tender flowers from the gardens of Hayabêth, want to suffer the deadly rays of the sun in the heart of the desert?«
»Rather do I suffer the rays of the sun, than the wrath of my father. Will you guide me or not?«
Omar hesitated one moment long. What was he about to slip into? But as he thought about tomorrow, to escape the sentence and that Mawdliyah would die without his help, he nodded. »Your wish is my command, milady.«
The Sharisad turned around and led the small group through the gardens to the stables in which Abu Feisal held his Shadif: Steeds of the Haradrim, of which one was more worth than hundred goats.
As they were twenty steps away from the stables, gave Fenthal a sign to seek cover in a few bushes.
Then the Northman snuck on alone. A while did the warrior observe the stables. A guard stood before the brass embossed gate, which decorative eyes and protective symbols should ward the horses from spells and evil curses. Suddenly did the Northman step out of his cover and strode up the guard post as if he was on his nightly walk. His skill of the tongue of the desert was still crude, but such he greeted the man and began to talk with him. Omar thought already about the possibility, that Fenthal would betray them, as the Northman struck down the guard with a hit of his fist. Only one strike he had needed! What a warrior!
Fenthal raised the man up, so that he sat against the wall and one would believe from the distance that he would be asleep. Then the Northman opened the door and disappeared into the stables. It seemed to take N eternity to Omar until the Northman re-appeared at the gap of the door and waved them over. Ducked, they ran over the lawn and slipped into the building.
The scent of straw and dried horse dung surrounded them. Omar loved stables. As free man he had wanted to breed horses. But of that would now nothing become anymore.
With big eyes he looked around. The stable in which the precious Shadif had been brought he had never been allowed to enter. Abu Feisal said that the presence of slaves would do ill the pride of the magnificent steeds. That was why only free men were allowed to work here. While Omar was humbly regarding all the animals, the Sharisad walked to one of the fences, patted the nostrils of some horses and called others by the name. Then Mawdliyah chose four steeds for their flight.
»We will also need two pack-horses. Four horses are not enough to carry us, the rations and your luggage, milady«, Nedime said.
»What does a slave know of Shadif?« Mawdliyah regarded her handmaiden with a mocking gaze. »None of these creature would abide it to be saddled with rations and water skins. Such as there are chosen ones among the race of Man, who are fated to rule over the others, so are the Shadif the most noble horses in the land of the First Sun. And they know well about their position. You can be glad, if I can convince one of them to abide you on its back. Now go and bring my garments and my jewelry from the hiding, instead of talking of things of which you understand nothing.«
Nedime's eyes were sparkling of anger, but she retreated.
»Not, that I would want to overstep my boundaries, but your handmaiden is right. We need pack-horses.« Fenthal had crossed the arms before the chest and leaned against a post in the stables. »If you want that I come with you, I will insist that we take a few Shadif as pack-animals. They are also just horses in the end.«
»You speak like a barbarian.« Mawdliyah had formed her hands to fists and turned around to the Northman.
A few moments they estimated the other with gazes. Omar was eager to see how this uneven duel would end. Surprisingly, it was Mawdliyah who lowered her eyes. »We can at least try it. Although I am not sure that it will go well. We should better buy on the way additional pack-horses from a caravan.«
»That we can still do then«, Fenthal muttered obviously satisfied. Then the Northman took over a dozen water skins from a hook and left the stables.
Although she had backed off from her bodyguard, Mawdliyah's anger had still not been undone. Pale of ire she turned to Omar.
»Do not stand around here and stare like a camel-bull in love. Make yourself useful! Bridle the horses!«
Without a word against Mawdliyah's wish, Omar went to work.
