Samarkand the Omnibus: Books 1-2 Read online

  Samarkand The Omnibus: Books 1-2

  Graham Diamond

  © Graham Diamond 1980

  Graham Diamond has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1980 by PEI Books, Inc.

  This edition published in 2016 by Venture Press, an imprint of Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For the real princess and the Saya

  Table of Contents

  Samarkand

  Prologue

  Part One - At the Close of the Hundred Year Solitude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Two - The Sands of the Prophecy

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Three - She Who Bears the Mark

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Part Four - Claws of the Panther

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Samarkand Dawn

  Part One: The Planting of the Seeds

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Part Two – Sowing the Harvest

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Part Three – The Bitter Fruit

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Part Four: The Night of Atonement

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Come, O Wearied Traveler,

  Sit Beside Me, Listen To

  The Tales I Have To Tell,

  Of That Splendored City

  Of Long Ago, Where Riches And

  Glories Reigned Unsurpassed

  In The Place Where West Meets

  East At The Very Crossroad

  Of The World,

  And Hear Then These Fables

  For Too Long Unrecounted,

  Of The Golden Days Of

  Samarkand.

  Samarkand

  Prologue

  The ebbing fire crackled in the windless chill of a winter night, the dark-haired youth hunched slightly forward in his place, nibbing his hands slowly above the small, leaping flames. Dark shadows cascaded across his chiseled features, adding a harsh pall over his deep-set black eyes. They were large eyes, thoughtful, piercing to gaze upon, carved into a face far more sensitive than might seem at first glance.

  At the hoot of a midnight owl the youth lifted his head and gazed first at the starry velvet sky, then at the perfect half-moon, and finally upon the thick trees sweeping down the side of the mountain. He stared at the indistinguishable boughs wrenched into hideous forms, shapes so often spoken of in Kazir folklore — demons and devils and all manner of hushed night-things that the village wives would whisper about during the long, cold months. Then he grinned, reminding himself that such demons did not really exist. They were for children; he was almost a man.

  “Can you see the lights now?” came the husky voice of Shoaib, the youth’s father.

  Tariq turned toward the old man and somberly nodded. Yes, he could see the lights, could see it all from his lofty vantage point. First there was the vast sweep of the plain, with its fields of wheat and grain for as far as the eye could see, then, beyond, was the dim outline of the city wall, huge, massive, slabs of quarried stone, centuries old, piled higher and higher atop each other until the wall almost reached the heavens themselves, and behind that were the great teardrop towers, enormous domes glittering in silver moonlight, minarets and temples, with great balconies from which the mullahs, the holy men, would call the people to prayer. This was his first glimpse of the sacred city, the now hated city, and he gazed transfixed with a mixture of fear and awe.

  Shoaib the goatherd stood; with hands on hips, his thick, silvered brush mustache hiding his scowl, he also, gazed down below at what was once the Kazirs’ home. A slight breeze brought a chill to his flesh, and he pulled the fur collar of his bearskin jacket above his ears. Then he spat into the fire, watching as a flame hissed and danced brightly.

  “You must never forget this night, Tariq,” he told his son softly. “Set your eyes upon Samarkand, and always remember that you have seen her. You, a son of the Kazirs, the people forever forbidden to enter inside her gates until our time has come.”

  Tariq nodded, peering up at the aging man with eyes that vowed to keep this promise. “I will not forget, my father. I swear to you: Tonight shall be burned into both my heart and my memory.”

  Shoaib smiled. “Good. Then all is as it should be, my son. And also remember that I myself was brought here to this very place upon reaching your own age. It was the first time I set eyes upon Samarkand as well, and never has the memory deserted me.”

  Shoaib shut his eyes in recollection. Tariq observed him respectfully but sadly as he noted the arching lines and creases marring the pockmarked face, the deep folds along the sides of his father’s mouth and underneath the eyes that seemed so much more exaggerated in the darkness. Truly his father had passed many years, many seasons of a Kazir’s grief; few more would be left.

  As if reading Tariq’s thoughts, Shoaib looked down at his son and suddenly said, “My days are numbered. For me it is not possible to live and see our ancient city given back; but for you, Tariq, it shall be different. You are young, strong, healthy, even as a Kazir, a child of the Steppes, must be to ensure his survival. You are a leader, Tariq.” He sighed again and turned away from the youth, gazing down at the harsh, lifeless soil at his feet. “I bless the name of the Prophet that you are here to take my place when the time at last comes.”

  “Father, please!” cried Tariq. He was pained to hear this strong and cunning Kazir elder speak now in such a fatalistic fashion, even if he knew that much of what Shoaib said was the truth.

  His father took a single pace toward the fire, stooped, and placed his hand upon his son’s shoulder. “Listen to me, child,” he said, speaking in a tone barely louder than a whisper. “Since three generations before the days of my grandfather have the Kazirs been driven into exile from our sacred lands.
Were we meant to be stepchildren of the forests and the Steppes?” He shook his head, narrow eyes squinting. “No, Tariq. We left Samarkand because we had no choice, because our homes were usurped by those who would deny our rightful place. Samarkand belongs to the Kazirs, no matter who now sits upon her ebony throne. One day, one day soon, we shall return. Every Kazir has vowed it in blood. And we will have back what is ours.”

  Tariq listened silently, knowing of these things as though they were a part of his very being. Every Kazir youth is told of how it had been in the old days, when his people freely governed their own lands and lives and were rulers instead of outcasts in Samarkand. He knew of the injustices and rebellions, the terrible conflict in which the Kazirs were once and for all hurled from their homes, their culture uprooted and thrown to the winds like autumn leaves. The proud and noble people fled the fertile plains, the river lands and valleys, the city itself. In shame and grief they led their camels, goats, swine, and sheep, headed far from the empire to the Steppes and to the forests, resetting their tents and sowing seeds upon hard soil, eating bitter herbs in memory of their loss.

  Nearly a century had passed since then, and now the Kazirs, well adapted to their new life, had come to hate Samarkand — for what it had become, for those who governed in splendor and wasted it away — yet they still loved the city; to them it was sacred, the place where the Prophet’s word had first come after sweeping out of the Arabian deserts, the place where West met East at the crossroad of civilization. Samarkand was the center of the world, the city through which all caravans must pass, home of a thousand trade routes from Damascus in the west to Cathay in the east. The Kazirs were Samarkand, and Samarkand was them — even in the depths of their exile.

  From high atop the tallest walls a pale orange glow glimmered, teardrop towers, reflecting moonlight, cast a softened outline against blue stars. Tariq gazed at them for a long time, wondering what manner of men now dwelled inside; for those lofty towers were part of the palace, the most splendid palace of the most splendid city, stolen these many years.

  After a while the youth turned back to his father and asked, “Shall the Legend truly come to pass in my lifetime, Father?”

  The goatherd stared into the embers, a finger rubbing along his mustache. “I do not know,” he replied at length, thinking it wiser to always remain honest. “But how long can our people be expected to wait? Have the Kazirs not suffered enough? Is not the mere sight of our beloved city, now forbidden to look upon, too painful to bear?” He shook his head slowly, wearily. “One day, and soon, we must decide whether to wait for the Prophesy or to raise our banners anew, come down from the Steppes, and fight. Mullahs cannot govern our lives forever.”

  Tariq noticed the hint of contempt in old Shoaib’s voice when he spoke of the priests. Among the religious Kazirs, the holy men always held a special place of reverence and honor; but even a boy could see that they promised rewards only of a later life, rarely giving hope for a better life now. Yet, they did speak of the Legend …

  “The century is not yet done, Father; there is still time.” Shoaib nodded slowly, spitting once more into the fire. The mullahs had predicted a Hundred Year Solitude to befall the Kazirs before these ancient wrongs might be righted. Now that time was nearly passed.

  “Allah asks much of us, Tariq” was all he said. “Mortal men grow impatient, even Kazirs” — he smiled grimly — “but what you say cannot be denied. In the years to come, when you are a full man and a leader and I am turned to dust, then we shall know if the mullahs have given us reason to match our limited patience.”

  Tariq wrapped his blanket more tightly around his thin but broad shoulders and leaned back, resting his head against his rough leather saddle. It was nearly time to sleep; by dawn they must be far gone from this hill lest a patrol of Samarkand’s soldiers catch them.

  Shoaib was yawning, making a more comfortable place for himself at the edge of the fire’s glow; Tariq did the same, but positioned himself so that as he rested he could still look out at the distant walls and towers. There was a total stillness in the air, a quiet that he found he could almost listen to — windless voices, soundless, yet compelling. Samarkand, they whispered. Samarkand …

  And he thought upon the Legend once more, the Legend so many of his people clung to: a vague promise of returning home; veiled visions recounted by the mullahs, speaking as though drugged, of things that young Tariq, son of Shoaib the goatherd, could hardly understand; a prophesy of One who would arise and lead the Kazirs from exile, a leader who, enigma of enigmas, would come neither from the Steppes nor from the forest but from the hated palace of Samarkand itself.

  Weary after such an eventful day, Tariq tried to sleep, but sleep eluded him. He stirred restlessly, growing uneasy at the thought of the Legend and how it was to come to pass in but a few short years.

  “Father, are you asleep?”

  “No, my son. What disturbs you?”

  “If the mullahs are wrong, Father, if there is no new leader for us, no one to bear the Gift to retake our home, what will happen?”

  Shoaib knit his thick, bushy brows and frowned, mulling over the question slowly. Tariq was already a man in so many ways, he knew; yet he was also a child, far away from bearing the duties that would be imposed upon him. There was so much for him to learn and so little time to teach. Shoaib grew angry at himself, silently cursing for having a son so late in life.

  “Tariq,” he replied at length, “the moment you speak of has not yet arrived. When it does, it will be in your own time, not mine. Thus, you must ask this question again; but only you can provide the answer.”

  The handsome peasant youth stared up at the stars and, smiling inwardly, made the promise: So I shall, Father. When the time does come, I surely shall.

  Part One - At the Close of the Hundred Year Solitude

  Chapter One

  Along the narrow ledge the Persian cat moved slowly, poking his head at the twisting vines curving over the yellow stone; he paused in his tracks at the sight of a nesting hummingbird perched on the bough of a hickory in the garden, then picked up his ears and turned his head at the sound of sandaled footsteps on the veranda behind.

  The girl stopped, head slightly tilted, and smiled when she saw him. The cat’s tail curled and he retracted his claws as she swept him up, holding him at half-arm’s length, sweetly laughing. “You devil, Majesty!” she cried, feigning anger. Then she cradled him in her arms, running her fingers through the perfect white coat, tickling at the magnificent ruff around his neck. Majesty slit his green eyes, growled, then squirmed and slithered out of her grip, landing feet first on the stone. He shook his thick coat and pranced off toward the garden.

  Sharon watched for a moment, still smiling, as he wound his way among the rosebushes, instinctively dodging the thorns.

  “One day, Majesty,” she admonished, waving a warning finger, “the gardeners are going to catch you, and I’m not going to be around to get you out of trouble.”

  A warm summer breeze swept across the veranda, and the multileveled gardens. Broad leaves rustled; grass gently swayed. Overhead a small flock of sparrows dramatically switched their path of flight and now soared east, in the direction of the old city. Sharon pushed away a loose tendril of hair from her eyes and strode from the portico to the garden.

  She was a tall girl, straight-shouldered, well proportioned. She had the richly textured chestnut hair of her mother and large, expressive brown eyes. Her nose was almost classic, perhaps a throwback to unknown Greek ancestors first come to Persia and then to Samarkand during the days of Alexander. Uniquely Arabic, however, were her high cheekbones and full mouth. Her paternal grandmother had been a full-blooded Bedouin, daughter of a sheikh, married off to the brother of Samarkand’s then reigning king, Prince Fahlad, her grandfather. Thus was she somewhat apart from other young women of the court, whose heritage remained unmistakably Persian.

  Beyond the winding path to the fountain stood a carved stone bench. S
haron pressed out the creases in her khafti and sat, letting the hem of her long, colorful robe swirl with a sudden gust. She amused herself by tossing off her sandals, leaning back, and watching the cat run circles around the trunks of trees. Majesty had been a special gift for her, how long ago now? Ah, yes; he’d been brought from the Persian court by her father five years before, a present for her fourteenth birthday. And since that time the cat had been an almost constant companion. At night he would slip into her rooms, cleverly avoiding the palace guards and servants, jump onto her bed, and curl himself into a ball at her feet, protectively alert at the slightest sound, staying until well past dawn.

  For many — chambermaids, guards, and the like — the cat was just a nuisance, a palace pest given free reign of the grounds by the young princess. But, for Sharon, he represented something much more. There was an understanding between her and this Persian feline, a mutual bond that somehow said, “You take care of me, and I’ll take care of you.” Fanciful? Perhaps. But Sharon enjoyed believing that this unspoken bond uniquely existed between them.

  It was early afternoon; much of the household was now closed away behind doors, resting or sleeping during the hottest hours, a custom of these climes as ancient as the city itself. So, Majesty ran about freely, without worry of being chased away. He darted happily among the trees, cutting spryly across the narrow path leading down from the garden and out toward the rows of willows lined behind the carefully pruned hedges.

  Sharon called for him to come back, but the cat clearly had a mind of his own; he was out to explore, and nothing was going to stop him. She slipped back into her sandals and got up hurriedly. This time she’d have to keep him leashed, she knew. As much as she hated to do it, it was for his own good. Majesty was heading away from the garden grounds and out in the direction of the greenhouse — her father’s special pride.

  For many years her father had been the emir’s special ambassador, traveling to the courts of a dozen and more distant lands. Well regarded and respected, and always well received, her father had never failed in opening new avenues of trade for Samarkand that spanned the world. His love for botany followed him everywhere, and ever mindful of adapting rare flora and fauna to Samarkand’s climate, he had brought back some of the world’s most exotic plants to be studied: thus the well-tended greenhouse. If the cat ever got inside, Sharon knew there would be hell to pay.