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Pearls.”
She looked suspiciously at the profile of the man who rode beside her. “Who does she belong to?”
“Ah, that is the question—who has her, and where is she? You were not born, little wolf, and I was just a boy when Ibrahim Pasha brought the army of Egypt to the Nejd, to take Mecca back from the fanatics and break the Wahhabi’s power. He captured their prince, ibn-Saud, and with him the greatest collection of horses that has ever lived in the desert—all the best bloodlines harvested from the Bedouin were gathered in ar-Riyadh, and when ibn-Saud lost his war, he lost his horses. Ibrahim Pasha demanded them as tribute, and took them back to Egypt.”
“Yes,” Zenia said, “I have heard of this. And Allah sent that the horses died in Egypt, because Ibrahim Pasha sinned in his covetousness and greed to take them from the desert.”
‘True. It was a tragedy for the breed, little wolf, verily. But when are the Bedu without stratagems, or bitterness among themselves? Not all of the horses were taken—some were hidden away, and a precious few were allowed to remain in the hands of the Muteyr tribe, who had made common cause with Ibrahim Pasha against the Saudi prince. Which did not make the Saudis happy, you may trust.”
Zenia made a gloomy murmur of assent. The old Wahhabi prince had been beheaded in Stamboul—and if some of the tribes had fought on the side of the Egyptians to bring him down, the blood duty for vengeance would endure for generations.
“Once Ibrahim Pasha and his Egyptians got Mecca back for the sultan, Ibrahim took himself off after bigger game,” Lord Winter said, “and so for the past twenty springs, the Saudis have been free to amuse themselves by taking their revenge of the Muteyr. They have relieved them of their precious horses, until the only few that remained were sent away for safety. Among them was the finest mare of the finest strain, the Jelibiyat.”
“Sent where?” Zenia braced herself for the worst.
“The sheik of the Muteyr committed his last mares to the hands of two of his most trusted men, and charged them to be taken to ibn-Khalif, on the island of Bahreyn.”
Bahreyn meant nothing to Zenia; she thought it was far across the desert in the eastern sea. “So we go to Bahreyn?” she asked dubiously.
“Nay. When the Jelibiyat mare left the Muteyr, she was heavy in foal to their best Kuhaylan stallion. When she arrived, she had no foal at her side, nor carried one, and her milk was dry. She had lost it, the sheik’s men said, on the journey.” He looked aside at her, the kuffiyah shading his face and making his eyes seem as bright as the blue sky within shadow. “But some say that is not so. Some say that she gave birth to a filly that lived to be khadra barda, snow-white, with a dapple marking like a string of pearls about her throat.”
“Some will say any foolish thing.”
“That is so, by Allah,” he agreed.
“Or follow any foolish mirage!”
He smiled slightly. “She is no mirage, little wolf. Abdullah ibn Rashid has her hidden in the mountains of Jabal Shammar.”
“Rashid! The emir of Hayil and the Shammar?” Zenia made a moan of dismay. “My lord—you do not hope to buy her?”
“No,” he said, “I have no hope of buying her.”
“What do you intend to do?”
He said nothing. Zenia felt the hot air grow thick and unbreathable in her lungs. “My lord—please—” She could barely whisper. “You would not go to such risk only to see her.”
“Well, no, wolf cub,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid I mean to steal her.”
“Cry mercy of Allah!” she gasped.
As if in echo of her words, a shout rose from the far hill, where the Rowalla came charging back on his camel, shrieking, “Ghrazzu! Ghrazzu! A raid, yallah! Fly!”
Hard behind him a band of riders crested the hill, shouting the shrill war cry of their tribe. Before Zenia could turn her mount, Lord Winter struck his camel full force, propelling it
She looked suspiciously at the profile of the man who rode beside her. “Who does she belong to?”
“Ah, that is the question—who has her, and where is she? You were not born, little wolf, and I was just a boy when Ibrahim Pasha brought the army of Egypt to the Nejd, to take Mecca back from the fanatics and break the Wahhabi’s power. He captured their prince, ibn-Saud, and with him the greatest collection of horses that has ever lived in the desert—all the best bloodlines harvested from the Bedouin were gathered in ar-Riyadh, and when ibn-Saud lost his war, he lost his horses. Ibrahim Pasha demanded them as tribute, and took them back to Egypt.”
“Yes,” Zenia said, “I have heard of this. And Allah sent that the horses died in Egypt, because Ibrahim Pasha sinned in his covetousness and greed to take them from the desert.”
‘True. It was a tragedy for the breed, little wolf, verily. But when are the Bedu without stratagems, or bitterness among themselves? Not all of the horses were taken—some were hidden away, and a precious few were allowed to remain in the hands of the Muteyr tribe, who had made common cause with Ibrahim Pasha against the Saudi prince. Which did not make the Saudis happy, you may trust.”
Zenia made a gloomy murmur of assent. The old Wahhabi prince had been beheaded in Stamboul—and if some of the tribes had fought on the side of the Egyptians to bring him down, the blood duty for vengeance would endure for generations.
“Once Ibrahim Pasha and his Egyptians got Mecca back for the sultan, Ibrahim took himself off after bigger game,” Lord Winter said, “and so for the past twenty springs, the Saudis have been free to amuse themselves by taking their revenge of the Muteyr. They have relieved them of their precious horses, until the only few that remained were sent away for safety. Among them was the finest mare of the finest strain, the Jelibiyat.”
“Sent where?” Zenia braced herself for the worst.
“The sheik of the Muteyr committed his last mares to the hands of two of his most trusted men, and charged them to be taken to ibn-Khalif, on the island of Bahreyn.”
Bahreyn meant nothing to Zenia; she thought it was far across the desert in the eastern sea. “So we go to Bahreyn?” she asked dubiously.
“Nay. When the Jelibiyat mare left the Muteyr, she was heavy in foal to their best Kuhaylan stallion. When she arrived, she had no foal at her side, nor carried one, and her milk was dry. She had lost it, the sheik’s men said, on the journey.” He looked aside at her, the kuffiyah shading his face and making his eyes seem as bright as the blue sky within shadow. “But some say that is not so. Some say that she gave birth to a filly that lived to be khadra barda, snow-white, with a dapple marking like a string of pearls about her throat.”
“Some will say any foolish thing.”
“That is so, by Allah,” he agreed.
“Or follow any foolish mirage!”
He smiled slightly. “She is no mirage, little wolf. Abdullah ibn Rashid has her hidden in the mountains of Jabal Shammar.”
“Rashid! The emir of Hayil and the Shammar?” Zenia made a moan of dismay. “My lord—you do not hope to buy her?”
“No,” he said, “I have no hope of buying her.”
“What do you intend to do?”
He said nothing. Zenia felt the hot air grow thick and unbreathable in her lungs. “My lord—please—” She could barely whisper. “You would not go to such risk only to see her.”
“Well, no, wolf cub,” he said apologetically. “I’m afraid I mean to steal her.”
“Cry mercy of Allah!” she gasped.
As if in echo of her words, a shout rose from the far hill, where the Rowalla came charging back on his camel, shrieking, “Ghrazzu! Ghrazzu! A raid, yallah! Fly!”
Hard behind him a band of riders crested the hill, shouting the shrill war cry of their tribe. Before Zenia could turn her mount, Lord Winter struck his camel full force, propelling it
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