Well-Wisher

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Ibn Zuhain, Lord of the Long Valley, walked through the evening shade of his private garden. Beyond its filigreed triple walls the desert sand and rocks retained the oven-fierce heat of the day, but within Zuhain’s sanctum the air was thick and fresh, seeded with moisture from a centrally placed fountain of elaborate design. The water, drawn from a deeplying spring, was so cold that as Zuhain approached the cascade he could feel himself breasting concentric rings of coolness. This, he knew, was yet another form of Allah’s bounty, and he was smiling his appreciation of it when he noticed a small blue flask sitting on the fountain’s onyx rim.

He examined the bottle without touching it and saw it was a poor thing, imperfectly glazed and sealed with resin, most certainly not one of his own possessions. Its presence meant that an intruder had entered the private garden.

Zuhain sighed heavily, both irritated and saddened by the fact that he would now—on an evening which should have been entirely devoted to prayer and pleasure—have to order one or more executions. He had no relish for seeing trained servants beheaded, but they all knew the punishment for failing in any duty, and to withhold it would be to encourage sinful laxity.

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