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Authors: Stephen R. Donaldson
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left the widow and Jillet there in the study, they were safe.
They never saw him again.
As he had promised, he spoke to the magistrates. When they arrived at the manor house shortly after dawn, supported by a platoon of County pikemen and any number of writs, they confirmed that they had received Reave’s testimony. Their subsequent researches into Kelven’s ledgers enabled them to validate much of what Reave had said; Jillet and the widow confirmed the rest. But Reave himself did not appear again in Forebridge. Like the story that brought him, he was gone. A new story took his place.
This also was entirely characteristic.
Once the researches and hearings of the magistrates were done, the widow Huchette passed out of Jillet’s life as well. She had released him from his bonds and the chamber where he was imprisoned; she had half carried him to the one clear deed he had ever performed. But after Rudolph Huchette she had never wanted another husband; and after Kelven Divestulata she never wanted another man. She did one thing to express her gratitude toward Jillet: she repaid his debt to the usurer. Then she closed her doors to him, just as she did to all other men with love potions and aspirations for her. In time, the manor house became a kind of nunnery, where lost or damaged women could go for succor, and no one else was welcome.
Jillet himself, who probably believed that he would love the widow Huchette to the end of his days, found he did not miss her. Nor, in all candor, did he miss Reave. After all, he had nothing in common with them: she was too wealthy; he was too stringent. No, Jillet was quite content without such things. And he had gained something which he prized more highly—the story; the idea.
The story that he had struck the blow which brought down Kelven Divestulata.
The idea that he was kinsman to Reave the Just.
The Djinn Who Watches Over the Accursed
F etim of the al-Hetal made a serious mistake when he allowed himself to be caught in the bed of Selmet Abulbul’s youngest and most delectable wife. The mistake was not instantly obvious, however. Selmet was old and infirm: there was nothing physical he could do to Fetim, who was at least as strong as he was handsome. Furthermore, Selmet was unpopular, being a usurer: he had no friends he could call on to fight for him. Public opinion, in fact, would have applauded Fetim’s choice of cuckolds. And, sadly, the Abulbul clan was in decline. Selmet had no relations or children who might be persuaded to view Fetim’s action as a matter of honor. In short, he did not appear to be a man who could avenge insults.
But Selmet Abulbul the usurer knew how to curse.
While Fetim preened himself beside the bed, lacking even sufficient decency to be frightened, and the young wife pretended to cower among the sheets, Selmet called upon a few names which I am not permitted to record. He uttered several phrases which it would be sacrilege for me to repeat. Then, his voice quaking with rage, he explained what he wished the powers whose attention he had invoked to do to Fetim of the al-Hetal.
“In the name of the great father of djinn, let all those he loves be killed. Let him be readily loved—and let all those who love him die in anguish. Let all his seed and all his blood be brought to ruin. Let horror cover the heads of all who befriend him. Let his friendship be a surer sign of death than any plague-spot.
“And let the djinn who watches over the accursed protect him, so that his sufferings cannot end.”
From such a curse, Selmet’s youngest wife was safe: she loved no one but herself. But the clan of the al-Hetal was prosperous in that town. Hearing his doom, Fetim should have found it in his heart to be frightened.
He did not. “Are you done?” he asked politely. “We are taught that it is rude to leave a room while our elders are speaking.”
Selmet’s youngest wife also did not understand curses. A snicker at her husband’s expense
They never saw him again.
As he had promised, he spoke to the magistrates. When they arrived at the manor house shortly after dawn, supported by a platoon of County pikemen and any number of writs, they confirmed that they had received Reave’s testimony. Their subsequent researches into Kelven’s ledgers enabled them to validate much of what Reave had said; Jillet and the widow confirmed the rest. But Reave himself did not appear again in Forebridge. Like the story that brought him, he was gone. A new story took his place.
This also was entirely characteristic.
Once the researches and hearings of the magistrates were done, the widow Huchette passed out of Jillet’s life as well. She had released him from his bonds and the chamber where he was imprisoned; she had half carried him to the one clear deed he had ever performed. But after Rudolph Huchette she had never wanted another husband; and after Kelven Divestulata she never wanted another man. She did one thing to express her gratitude toward Jillet: she repaid his debt to the usurer. Then she closed her doors to him, just as she did to all other men with love potions and aspirations for her. In time, the manor house became a kind of nunnery, where lost or damaged women could go for succor, and no one else was welcome.
Jillet himself, who probably believed that he would love the widow Huchette to the end of his days, found he did not miss her. Nor, in all candor, did he miss Reave. After all, he had nothing in common with them: she was too wealthy; he was too stringent. No, Jillet was quite content without such things. And he had gained something which he prized more highly—the story; the idea.
The story that he had struck the blow which brought down Kelven Divestulata.
The idea that he was kinsman to Reave the Just.
The Djinn Who Watches Over the Accursed
F etim of the al-Hetal made a serious mistake when he allowed himself to be caught in the bed of Selmet Abulbul’s youngest and most delectable wife. The mistake was not instantly obvious, however. Selmet was old and infirm: there was nothing physical he could do to Fetim, who was at least as strong as he was handsome. Furthermore, Selmet was unpopular, being a usurer: he had no friends he could call on to fight for him. Public opinion, in fact, would have applauded Fetim’s choice of cuckolds. And, sadly, the Abulbul clan was in decline. Selmet had no relations or children who might be persuaded to view Fetim’s action as a matter of honor. In short, he did not appear to be a man who could avenge insults.
But Selmet Abulbul the usurer knew how to curse.
While Fetim preened himself beside the bed, lacking even sufficient decency to be frightened, and the young wife pretended to cower among the sheets, Selmet called upon a few names which I am not permitted to record. He uttered several phrases which it would be sacrilege for me to repeat. Then, his voice quaking with rage, he explained what he wished the powers whose attention he had invoked to do to Fetim of the al-Hetal.
“In the name of the great father of djinn, let all those he loves be killed. Let him be readily loved—and let all those who love him die in anguish. Let all his seed and all his blood be brought to ruin. Let horror cover the heads of all who befriend him. Let his friendship be a surer sign of death than any plague-spot.
“And let the djinn who watches over the accursed protect him, so that his sufferings cannot end.”
From such a curse, Selmet’s youngest wife was safe: she loved no one but herself. But the clan of the al-Hetal was prosperous in that town. Hearing his doom, Fetim should have found it in his heart to be frightened.
He did not. “Are you done?” he asked politely. “We are taught that it is rude to leave a room while our elders are speaking.”
Selmet’s youngest wife also did not understand curses. A snicker at her husband’s expense
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