"Troy Denning - The Harpers 1 - The Parched Sea" - читать интересную книгу автора (Denning Troy)

in one corner, and Ajaman's weapons dangled from hooks on the wooden tentpoles.
The afternoon breeze drummed gently at the khreima, and Ruha heard feet scuffling outside. Several
men began whispering to each other in jocular tones, probably specu-lating as to why the tent was closed on
such a hot day. Irri-tated by the men's presence, Ruha lifted her chin toward the entrance.
"We have visitors," she said. By the custom of her peo-ple, only her husband could welcome guests to
their khreima.
Ajaman nodded. "I hear them." Turning to the entrance, he called the host's traditional greeting, "Has
somebody come to my khreima in need of help?"
"Time for the watch," came the reply. Ruha didn't rec-ognize the deep voice, but that was to be
expected. She had not been a member of the Qahtan tribe until her mar-riage.
Ajaman scowled. "It can't be dusk so soon."
"You have the night watch?" Ruha asked, frowning at the memory of her premonition. "We've only been
married two days. Let someone else take the duty."
"And shame our family so soon?" Ajaman replied, rising from the carpet.
Given her husband's reply, Ruha knew arguing the point would do no good. If Ajaman considered the
watch a matter of family integrity, even the certain knowledge of impend-ing death would not have stopped
him from going. Like all Bedine, he considered honor more important than his life.
"Besides," Ajaman added, "there is danger of raiding to-night. The Mtair Dhafir is not the only khowwan
within rid-ing distance, you know."
The Mtair Dhafir was the tribe of Ruha's father. Her marriage to Ajaman had sealed an alliance
between their tribes. There would be no raiding between the two khowwans while both Ajaman and Ruha
lived. Unfortu-nately, there were many other tribes with whom the Qahtan had no such ties.
It was not raiding that worried Ruha, however. By his pale skin, she knew that the one-eyed foreigner
did not be-long to any Bedine tribe. Whatever his reason for coming to the camp of the Qahtan, it was not
intertribal raiding.
"Come, Ajaman," grumbled the deep voice outside. "We're due at our posts."
Ajaman took his keffiyeh off its hook and slipped the white head-cloth over his hair. Ruha stood and
straightened it so the long apron hung square across his shoulders. "Stay alert, Ajaman," she said. "I would
be disappointed if you let some boy cut your throat."
Ajaman grinned. "Have no fear of that, Ruha," he re-plied, reaching for his scimitar. "I watch from El
Ma'ra's crown. I'll see our enemies from miles away."
Ruha knew the place to which her husband referred. A mile outside the oasis, a lonely spire of yellow
sandstone towered more than one hundred feet over the desert. That pinnacle was El Ma'ra Dat-ur Ojhogo,
the tall god who lets men sit upon his head.
Keeping her voice low so she would not be overheard, she said, "After dark, I'll bring you apricots and
milk."
Ajaman nearly dropped his scabbard belt. "You can't do that!"
"Why not?" the young bride demanded. "Is there any shame in a wife bringing food to her husband?"
Ajaman scowled at the challenge to his authority. "There is enough shame in violating your purdah," he
countered.
"The purdah is to keep frightened young brides from re-turning to their father's khowwan ," Ruha said.
"I am hardly frightened, and I have no desire to go back to the Mtair Dhafir. You have no need to isolate
me."
"I know," Ajaman whispered, his tone losing its earlier sternness. "But if someone should see you—"
"I'll say you told me to bring you supper," Ruha respond-ed slyly.
Seeing that his wife would not be denied, Ajaman sighed. "If all women of the Mtair Dhafir are this
willful, perhaps they are the ones who should pay camels the next time they send us a bride."
Ruha smiled, pleased that her new husband was not the type to bully his wife. The young bride had no
idea how she could safeguard Ajaman from whatever the vision pres-aged, but at least she would be with
him to watch for omi-nous signs.