Reave the Just and Other Tales (22 page)

“Wizard,” Caliph Akhmet replied as if I had not spoken, “my advisers are fatuous in all things, but especially where the wonder of my dreams is concerned. Pious Khartim attempts to interpret what I dream. Sour Moshim attempts to interpret the fact that I dream—and remember. Only you have not made a fool of yourself on this subject. Why is that?”

“Two reasons, my lord,” I said at once. “First, I am a wise man. I understand that there are powers which lie beyond mortal interpretation. There the Vizier makes his mistake. He sees nothing which surpasses his own mind. Second, I am a wizard. I know that those powers will not allow themselves to be limited or controlled. There the High Priest makes his mistake. He fails to grasp that religion is not an explanation or a control for that which transcends us, but is rather an explanation or a control for how we must live in the face of powers which will not be defined or interpreted.”

“Very good,” said the Caliph, and his eyes glittered with the confused penetration of the simoniac, at once insightful and blind. “I see that you want to live. Now you will earn your life.

“I have dreamed the most wonderful dream. I remember it all. Every detail lives in my soul, shining and immaculate, never to be lost. No man has ever remembered such things as I remember them.

“Wizard, I will tell you what I have dreamed. Then you will tell me what to do.”

I bowed my acquiescence calmly, although my mouth was dry with fear, and my heart trembled. I had not come to this crisis adequately prepared. I still did not understand.

“I dreamed of wine,” said the Caliph, his gaze already turning inward to regard his dream, “of strange wine and music. There were colors in the wine which I have seen in no wine before, hints of black with the most ruby incarnadine, true gold and yellow among straw, regal purple swirling to azure in my cup. There were depths to the liquid which my eyes could not pierce. Its taste was at once poppy and grape, at once fermented and fresh, and all its colors entered my body through my tongue, so that my limbs lived and burned and grew livid because of what was in my mouth. My member became engorged with such heat that no mere female flesh could cool it.

“And while my nerves sang with ruby and gold and cerulean, the music about me also sang. At first it was the music of lyre and tambour, plucked and beating. But as the colors of the wine filled my ears, the music became melody, as if strings and drum had voices full of loveliness, sweet as nectar, rich as satin. Those voices had no words for their song and needed none, for the song itself was as clean as air, as true as rock, as fertile as earth. And the music entered my body as the wine had entered it, came through my ears to live and throb in every muscle and sinew, transporting all my flesh to song. It was promise and fulfillment, carrying comfort to the core of my heart.

“Then the heat of my member grew until it became all heat, all passion, and my whole body in its turn became a part of my member, engorged with the same desire, aching with the same joy. And because of the wine and the music, that desire, that joy, were more precious to me than any release. I knew then that if my member were to spend its heat, all my flesh would experience the climax as part of my member, and the sense of ecstasy and release which would flood my being would be glorious and exquisite beyond any climax known to men—and yet that ecstasy and release, despite their greatness, would be only dross compared to the infinite value of the engorged desire, the aching joy.

“Therefore I was not compelled to seek release, as men are compelled by the lesser passions of wakefulness. Transformed by wine and music, I hung suspended in that place of color and glory and song until the dream ended and left me weeping.”

The Caliph was weeping now as he remembered his dream, and his voice was husky with sadness when he again addressed me.

“Wizard, tell me what to do.”

He might have been a small boy speaking to his father. Yet his need was not for me, but for a father wiser than I or all the old men of Arbin.

It is conceivable that I could have helped him then. But still I did not understand. I had lived too long in the world, away from dreams.

“My lord,” I said, “you are the Caliph. You will do what you wish.”

He strove to master his emotion, without success. “And what is it that I wish?”

There I failed him. As if I were wise and sure, I replied, “You wish to make your dreams live. That is why you have summoned me.”

He stared at me while the tears dried in his eyes, and his mouth drew down into lines of simony, and I knew then that I had failed him. “Explain yourself, wizard,” he said in the tone of a man who hurt women for pleasure.

Now, unfortunately, I could not stop or recant. “My lord,” I answered as well as I could, “dreams and wizardry have much in common.”

From within my robes, I produced a bouquet of rich flowers.

“Both are composed of illusion and freedom.”

When I spread my hands, the flowers became butterflies and scattered themselves about the chamber.

“Yet the freedom and illusion of dreams are internal and may only be reached in sleep, without volition.”

Again I spread my hands, and now music could be heard in the air, soft voices whispering melodiously of magic and love.

“The freedom and illusion of wizardry are external, matters of choice.”

A third time I spread my hands, and this time flame bloomed in my palms, rising toward the ceiling as I spoke.

“You wish the power of wizardry to make the wonder and glory of your dreams accessible to your waking mind, to make wonder and glory matters of choice.”

When I lifted my arms, the flame enveloped me entirely, causing me to disappear from his sight. Only a pillar of fire remained before him, burning the air, consuming nothing. From out of the flame, like the voice of the music, I said, “Wizardry is the path you must follow to pursue your dreams. You must turn away from cruelty and become my disciple. You will find no true happiness in the pain of helpless girls.”

Then I stepped from the flame and let the fire go.

“My lord,” I said, speaking quietly to contain my fervor, “allow me to serve you. I have knowledge which will enable you to make your dreams live.”

That was my best effort, yet I had already lost him. He held a harsh bit clenched between his teeth, and his eyes were as wild as an overdriven mount’s.

“So you are a fool after all, wizard,” he snarled. “You do not understand. For all your
knowledge,
you cannot comprehend the worth of my dreams.”

The truth must be told. Behind my aged composure, I was near to panic. Nevertheless fright has its uses. It gave me the courage to say, “You are mistaken, my lord. I comprehend very well. Dreams have no worth in themselves. Their only value is the value we find in them, the value we bring to them with our waking eyes and hearts. Because they stir us or move us or teach us, they are precious. Otherwise they are nothing.”

The Caliph regarded me, a twist of loathing on his lips. “Do you believe that?”

I made some effort to hold up my head. “I do, my lord.”

“Then, wizard,” he said grimly, “you will have the satisfaction of dying for your beliefs. They are a fool’s beliefs, and they become you.”

I could think of no way to appeal to him as his guards dragged me from the chamber.

For reasons which I did not grasp at the time, however, he let me keep both my head and my life. Instead of sending me to the block—or to the lion pits, or to any other more imaginative or painful death—he sealed me in my workrooms, with little food and water, less light, and no companionship. Indeed, the only contact I had with the court or Arbin came daily at noon, when for a brief time the Vizier Moshim Mosha Va was permitted to stand outside my door and report on the state of Caliph Akhmet’s rule.

At first, of course, I believed that I was simply being held in my rooms until a suitable torture and death could be devised. By the second day, however, I began to think that young Akhmet had other intentions. When the Vizier came to my door, I asked him, “Why am I not dead? Does the Caliph imagine I fear death so extremely that I will go mad here among my arts and tools?”

In a sour tone, Moshim Mosha Va replied, “He is not done with you, wizard.”

“What remains?” I inquired, daring to hope that I would be given one more chance.

“Who can say?” The Vizier’s words were deferential, but his manner of speaking was savage. “Our illustrious lord surpasses us all. There are signs, however, which perhaps you will read better than I can. This morning he commanded one of his wives to be stretched upon the rack. And while her limbs strained with agony, he mounted her. His thrusts caused her to bleat like a sheep.”

“Indeed,” I muttered to myself. “How quaint.” Then I asked, “And what pleasure did the Caliph take in this action?”

“He appeared blissful,” retorted the Vizier, “if such fierceness may be called bliss, until he had spent himself. But then his joy curdled. He ordered the torturer racked until he died, as though the fault lay in the instrument of his will. I think, however, that he meant the man no harm. He was merely vexed.”

Perhaps that was the point at which I began to understand Caliph Akhmet and his distress.

“Indeed,” I said again. “You have become sagacious since the passing of His Serene Goodness, Vizier. You have grasped an important truth. He means harm to none of us. He is merely vexed.”

Moshim Mosha Va made a noise which would have been a curse if the Caliph’s guards had not stood beside him, listening. After a moment, he resumed, “Nevertheless the hand of our good lord’s vexation is heavy. Why do you not free yourself, wizard? Surely wizardry is good for that, if not for Arbin.”

It may have been possible for me to do as he suggested. I could have conjured an affrit to appear before the guards and command them to unlock my prison. Perhaps they would have obeyed instead of fleeing. Freedom lay no farther away than the other side of the heavy door. Yet the distance was too great for me. I had loved Abdul dar-El Haj. I loved Arbin. And I had begun to hope again.

“Wizardry is illusion,” I replied to the Vizier. “It is not power. And it is assuredly not freedom. I will await my Caliph’s pleasure.”

Then, whispering to reduce the hazard that the guards would overhear me, I added, “In the meantime, you must provide for the succession.”

The Vizier snorted in disgust and went away.

For a number of days subsequently, he came at noon as he was permitted, bringing me the news of Arbin, which was essentially the news of Caliph Akhmet’s attempts to achieve the sensation of his dreams through the exercise of power. He caused considerable pain and occasional death, striving to grasp a knowledge of mortal hurt. At unexpected intervals, he was generous, even benign, so that he could see gratitude on the faces of his subjects and compare it to the look of their distress. Well, he was young, and the young are foolish. He had had too few years in which to learn that power binds rather than releases. It was little wonder that he was vexed.

Therefore I readied myself for the time when he would summon me again.

He did not summon me again, however. Instead, covered by a bright blaze of daylight and torches, he came to see me in my workrooms. The door was flung open, allowing me light for the first time during my captivity. Among guards armed with lamps, Caliph Akhmet strode forward to confront me.

I endeavored to hold up my head, but failed. My old eyes could not bear the brightness. As if I were weeping and ashamed, I bowed and hid my face before my lord.

“Wizard.”

I was unable to see him. I could only hear the strain in his voice, the struggle against frailty and grief.

“I need you.”

“My lord,” I mumbled as if I had become decrepit, “I will serve you.”

“Tell me what to do.”

“You are the Caliph. You will do what you wish.”

“I do not know what I wish.”

Indeed. This I had already grasped. Softly, I said, “Tell me what troubles you, my lord.”

Out of the light blurred by my tears, young Akhmet answered, “Wizard, I am only myself.”

There at last I became sure that I had gleaned the truth. “The same may be said of all men, my lord,” I responded gently.

“But all men do not remember their dreams!” If a tyrant can suffer anguish—if such pain can be ascribed to a man who causes so much pain in others—then the Caliph deserved pity. “They are the most wonderful dreams! And I remember them all. Every touch, every color, every joy. Nothing is lost. I have with me now the first dream as clearly as the last, and both are desirable beyond bearing.

“But when I have dreamed, I awake, and I am only myself.

“Help me, wizard.”

“I will, my lord.” My voice shook, and I cursed the blindness of so much light, but I did not falter. “You wish to live your dreams. You desire to be possessed by dreaming, to give yourself to that glory and freedom always. You wish to cease to be yourself. Therefore you resent anything that takes you from your dreams, any interpretation, any distraction, any release which restores you to your mortality. Waking, you strive for joy and accomplish only dross.

“My lord, I can make you dream always, waking or sleeping. I can enable you to be entirely the dreamer who remembers, beyond interpretation or distraction or release.”

I felt his hands clutch at my robes, felt his fingers grip my shoulders to implore. “Then do so. Do so. Do it now.”

“Very well, my lord. Give me a moment in which to prepare myself.”

In order to gather my strength, as well as to draw the attention of the guards to me, I stepped back from Caliph Akhmet.

Rising to my full height, although I was still effectively blind, I said in the resonant voice of wizards, “Let all witness that what I do now, I do at my lord’s express command. He has made his wishes known. I seek only to fulfill them. By my arts he will become his dreams, become dreaming incarnate.”

Before the guards could ask whether it lay within their duty to permit this to happen to their lord, I spread my arms and filled the room with fires I could not see.