You’re being ridiculous, Faithful commented. He would have cut you up and fed you to wild beasts if he had won. He was evil. He deserved to die.
“I wish I could view it that simply,” Alanna said ruefully. “I still wonder if perhaps I moved too fast.”
That’s what he wanted you to think. Remember? was the cat’s tart reply.
Alanna shook her head, still unconvinced. “Merciful Mother, is it dark already?”
“Night comes swiftly here,” Halef commented from the doorway. He crouched beside her, his face in shadow. “Already we have communed with the Voice of the Tribes. He comes.”
“Who is this Voice of the Tribes’?” Alanna wanted to know.
“He is the first among us,” the headman replied. “At sunset we gather at our fires and join with him—each man and woman among the Bazhir. Thus he knows our thoughts, our wishes. He knows what has passed during the day. He judges with complete knowledge of our hearts and our minds.”
Alanna shivered, letting the Bazhir help her to her feet. “I doubt that I would be fit for such a life,” she said dryly. “To carry all those memories every day? No, indeed!”
Halef Seif chuckled as he led her out of the tent. “Not many are called to the life of the Voice, if that soothes you,” he commented. “He will be here within the week.” For a moment the tall Bazhir sighed, looking older than his years. “Between thee and me, woman of my tribe,” he said quietly, “I hope the Voice will aid me to a fair solution in this matter of Ibn Nazzir. The old man disturbs the tribe’s balance between headman and shaman; it cannot end well.” He grimaced. “Come. There are tales you have not heard. Before I forget his message, the Voice asks me to say that you have met him, in the Sunset Room of Persopolis Castle.”
The Sunset Room? she thought, startled. The governor of Persopolis Castle! What was his name? Ali Mukhtab. He took us there, me and Jon and Raoul, Alex, Gary. He was the one who told us about the Black City. He was tall, with a nice vest, and intense eyes. Jon asked him for a written history of the Bazhir—
“Ali Mukhtab?” she whispered in shock. ”Ali Mukhtab is this ’Voice of the Tribes’?”
“He is,” Halef Seif confirmed. “What better man to keep watch over the castle, where our oldest records are kept? Come. For now, become a member of the tribe. The Voice will be here in seven days. He will answer your questions then.”
Halef Seif was a man of his word. Alanna and Coram were returning from a hunt with the young men of the tribe a week later when Faithful trotted out from the village to meet them.
He’s here, he yowled to Alanna in their private language. The Voice of the Tribes. He has very good taste: he likes cats.
“I know he likes cats, and I don’t think that’s an indication of good taste,” Alanna replied, leading Moonlight to her hitching place with the tribe’s other horses. “Who’s with him now?”
The shaman, Faithful replied. One of his women friends lured Halef Seif away with a lie about a quarrel in her household.
“The news isn’t good?” Coram asked quietly as they rubbed their horses down.
Alanna shook her head. “Ibn Nazzir’s stolen a march on us with Ali Mukhtab.”
Coram raised his thick brows. “The Voice of the Tribes? But weren’t ye sayin’ ye were friends once?”
Alanna shrugged, leading the way to her tent. “That was six years ago. He may have changed. I don’t know if he was this ’Voice of the Tribes’ then.” She opened her tent flap and stopped, astounded at the five bundles piled neatly inside. “What in the Name of—”
“It is the first written history of the Bazhir.” The smooth voice behind them made Alanna and Coram jump; they turned to face Ali Mukhtab. The Voice of the Tribes wore a flowing blue burnoose tied with a darker blue cord: religious colors among the Bazhir, Alanna remembered. He was the same as when she had seen him last: tall, with walnut-colored skin and a neatly trimmed mustache, his large hooded eyes framed with long curly lashes. He bowed now, his well-carved mouth turning up in a very small smile.
Remembering her manners, Alanna invited him in. She was just wondering how she would offer hospitality to her distinguished guest when Kara and Ishak arrived, bearing chilled wine and fruit. They presented their offerings first to Mukhtab, then to Alanna and Coram, before taking up stations just outside the tent flap. Mukhtab chuckled.
“I see you have been adopted,” he commented. “Those are two of the three young ones you’ve bewitched?”
“She hasn’t bewitched anyone,” Coram growled, emptying his cup with one gulp. “Ibn Nazzir’s a dried-up, jealous old man.”
“This is Coram Smythesson,” Alanna explained to the Bazhir. “He taught me the basics of the knight’s art, and he looked after me when I was a page.”