Secondhand Sorcery

The mosque was the oldest building in the village, and the first one restored; it had a coat of paint on the walls inside, and real electric lighting, plus rugs, wall hangings, and a sturdy wood minbar. None of that was really all that surprising—at least, not compared to the part where the Imam was, you know, an actual imam. Fatima’d figured it was an honorary title, granted because the first people to fight the Russians around here had an imam in charge. This Ramzan dude was a Russian himself, and had been Muslim for like five years tops, so she assumed the actual prayers would be led by somebody with more experience.

Nope. Friday prayers rolled around, and he strolled up to the minbar and did his thing, and nobody batted an eye. Fatima couldn’t judge the sermon, since it was mostly in Russian, except for quotes from the Quran. Those were in perfect Arabic, like the prayers. That was another thing; the man’s Arabic seemed to be at least as good as hers, maybe better. That was more than surprising, it actually kinda pissed her off. Her delivery was hardly ever that smooth. How’d this white boy get that kind of skill?

Her third surprise of the day was that she got a chance to ask him that question in person. Once Friday prayers were finished and everybody left to get back to work, he followed her out of the mosque and took her aside for a talk. It was their first private conversation, and a little bit awkward. His Arabic might be fantastic, but his English just sucked.

He started out by asking about Rus. “He’s doing well, thank you,” she told him, wishing her limited Arabic didn’t make her sound so stiff. “He moved his hand this morning when I talked to him.”

“I am glad to hear it.” They were standing outside, down a street that didn’t see much use, looking out over the river canyon. The view was fantastic—not that it ever wasn’t. If you were outside with your eyes open around here, you were going to see something that would make a National Geographic photographer wet his pants. “You are all comfortable here?”

“It’s all wonderful,” she said, and it was mostly true. The bathroom situation wasn’t what you’d call ideal. “But I think we are ready for battle.”

He smiled down at her. The Imam of the Caucasus was tall, and had great teeth. He could look good even with that dumbass hat that looked like a dead beaver. “As are we. But are all of you in agreement? You don’t all seem happy.”

“The Frenchwoman is never happy. Her husband died two weeks ago, and her friend was badly hurt.”

“I am sorry. I did not know this. What about the other three?”

She wasn’t sure how much to tell him. “Yuri and his wife didn’t want to come to Russia.” Only stumbled a little bit on ‘wife.’ “They wanted to go to Iraq, where she has family.”

The Imam nodded. “She is a Karimi. They are known to us.” He gestured to the nearest ammo crate behind them. “That may have come from the Karimi family. They are one of several rivals for the trade here.”

Fatima should have expected that. “Do they deal fairly with you?”

“They want money, and give what is promised in return. But they do not believe in our cause, or any other. I will be honest: we did not want to invite you here, at first, because of her.”

“We can’t choose our family.” Maybe you could say she was feeding him intel, but really she wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know already. “Yuri loves her.”

He laughed. “And she is confident. Yesterday she tried to deal with me, offering a lower rate if I would teach her how to use my pipe. I asked her to quote the Quran—any quote at all. That was the end of our talk.”

Fatima didn’t think the bitch was even important enough to be making deals for her family in the first place. “What about the rest of us? Can you trust us?”

“That is a difficult question. You, we can accept. I have heard of your father, he was a good man and a brave soldier. The lady … she does not like us, and she is no Muslim, but she hates the Knyazya and will not betray us. Yuri and Miriam I do not know. I think she will want more work for her family before she is happy. That can be arranged. I do not know what he wants.”

“Neither does he.”

“Ah,” he said. He didn’t seem to know what she meant—and she wasn’t going to elaborate, unless he pushed—but didn’t ask for details. “And your sister?”

“Nadia?” Oh hell. “She … isn’t sure.”

“Does she doubt our sincerity?”

“No.” The truth was that Nadia just didn’t like this guy. As far as Fatima could tell, she thought Christianity had pissed on Russia first, so if men like ‘Ramzan Magomed’ were going to abandon state atheism, there was only one right way to do it. This whole setup offended her. Not that she’d ever admit that to Fatima, or herself—or that Fatima would ever tell the Imam about it. She settled for, “She isn’t used to dealing with Muslim culture.”

He gave her another smile, and she could tell he had a pretty good idea what she meant. “I might have become Christian, if things had gone differently. My grandparents, they, ah, put me in the water, when I was a baby.” It took her a second to work out that he was talking about baptism. She had no idea what they called it in Arabic. She made a go-on gesture, and he did. “They did not talk about it. Nobody did, under the Soviets. The Church was half-dead, and full of spies.”

“But the people here helped hide you?”

He shook his head. “More than that. I, too, was a spy, in the last days of the USSR. They had me send in my creations, to see what the people here were doing. As part of that, I taught myself some Arabic, and studied the Quran—in translation, mostly, but a little original. It helped me to understand them. Parts of it made more sense than Communism, even then. I was, we will say, not half a Muslim, but half of that, when Moscow turned against me.”

“Papi—my father—didn’t have that much. He was only tired of dealing with the American government, and did not believe in their war. That was when he found Islam.”

“So I have heard.” He hesitated. “I think we can work with you, my sister. We do not have the power to do much, outside these hills. But the oprichnik—do you know him?”

“Only a little. I heard he does … illusions?” She had to dig in her memory for the last word, and wasn’t sure she found it.

“Yes. Pugachev is a tool of Satan. He spreads lies and unbelief among the people. I would risk an alliance with you to destroy him. On conditions.” He started ticking them off on his fingers. “We do not want Shum-Shum in our land. He is too dangerous. Yuri will not use his jinni here.”

“I agree,” she said, then added in a hurry, “I mean, I think you are right. I will have to talk with my family before we can agree to terms. I cannot choose for them.”

“Of course not. Second, the rest of you will assist and bear your share of the risks together. All that are able, leaving your wounded brother.”

“I think that’s fair.”

“Third, the Karimi will remain under our observation for a time, until we know she can be trusted.”

“I think you are correct in your thoughts, but she may not agree.”

“She has no power here. She will submit to our rules, or she may leave our land. One more condition.” He paused again, and looked down at her for a long moment. “We are a traditional people. If yours and mine are to risk their lives together, I would like to make the alliance formal. We should be one kin. I propose a marriage.”

Whoa. “Therese is still mourning her first husband.”

Now the Imam looked almost annoyed, like she was being stupid. “Not her. She is not Muslim. She will never be one of us.”

Fatima took a moment to think about that, then her mouth gave out a mess of sounds that didn’t really add up to a word. She kept at it, trying to say something again and again, and finally gave up. What the hell was she supposed to say?

His smile was all pity. “I know you are young, and have lived long with the infidels. I will not force the matter. We may continue without your firm word. But their life is not the life you were born to, daughter of Omar. You are the heir to an Emir, and hold his full power. You are already a warrior for the Faith. I would have you be more still. Please consider it.”

He suddenly looked a lot taller than he had before. Not scary, exactly, but tall, like the mountain they were standing on. Fatima was pretty sure she managed to nod before she walked away, but her mind wasn’t all together yet. He gave a polite goodbye, and didn’t object when she said nothing back before walking away.

She found Nadia back at the house, trying to get Ruslan to track her finger and squeeze her hand. He seemed to be doing okay; when she came into the room, he turned to look, and half of his face smiled. For some reason, that half-smile, with the drool shining on his chin, bugged her. She couldn’t decide if he looked more like a baby or a drunk, and she wasn’t big on either. Or maybe it was just that she didn’t feel like handling Rus at the moment. She mumbled a hi and went into her room, slamming the door behind her by accident.

There was no sign of the others, but somehow Fatima knew she wasn’t going to get a moment to think by herself, and yep! She’d just got settled on her crappy camp cot when she heard a knock at the door. “What?”

Nadia just came right in. Technically, it was her room too, but if she wasn’t going to ask, why’d she knock? “Therese is trying to teach Mr. Rasul some new tricks with the VRIL, and Yuri and Maria are watching. How was, um, mosque?”

Fatima looked up at the ceiling. “Friday prayers? About the same as everywhere. Haven’t been in ages, so it was good to finally show up for one.”

“Oh. You took a while to get back, so I wondered. But I don’t know how long they’re supposed to last … Ruslan is doing really well, did you see?”

“Hard to miss it. Good for him.” This fake-ass cheeriness put her teeth on edge. She was trying to avoid offending these people with the sight of a sweet innocent little girl smoking, which didn’t make the situation easier. She wished she were kafir, and could have a nice stiff drink instead.

“Fatima, are you all right?”

“If I’m not, I’ll tell you. Dig?”

“I’d like to believe you, but I can’t. What’s wrong?”

She pushed herself up to sit with her legs crossed. Nadia, hands clasped, was hitting her with the big baby-blue headlights. What the hell. It wasn’t like she had anyone better to talk to. “The Imam asked me to—uh. No, I shouldn’t put it like that. I guess he wants me to jump the broom.”

“To what?”

What, was that not a common expression now? Shit. “Ma-rriage,” she said, loud and slow. “He wants me to get ma-rried. Can you understand that?”

Nadia’s jaw dropped. “Married. Married … to who? To him?”

“Maybe. He didn’t really say. I don’t think he has a wife yet.” Would that matter to her? Probably. Papi hadn’t had anybody else, and if she was going to get married she was damn sure going to be wife number one, but this was all real sudden.

“So, he wants you to get married just … in general?”

“It’s a political thing. That way I’ll be part of the family. He said I didn’t have to if I didn’t want—“

“Oh, that was very nice of him!”

“Shut up. I’m trying to make this work, here, to get you more help with your little teenybopper crusade. Could you try not to be an ungrateful bitch about it?”

“Fatima, when is your birthday again? When do you turn fifteen?”

“August. Stop being ignorant. People used to marry at our age all the time.”

“Yes, back when they thought disease was caused by evil spirits and women buried half their babies, when they didn’t die bearing them. That could happen to you too, you know.”

“It’s just part of the culture here. I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but you don’t have to be rude. If I do this, I’ll be one of them.”

Nadia put her hands to her temples. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. Fatima, this is disgusting. I don’t want help so badly that I’d trade you to a pedophile for it!”

“Oh, fuck you. You calling me a child, now? And insulting the people who are giving you food and shelter? They didn’t even say I’d be marrying somebody older than me.” Though she probably would, if she said yes. Unless somebody really important had a son the right age. “Oh, and lower your damn voice. This whole village doesn’t need to hear you lose your shit.”

“Oh my god.” Nadia turned around to face the doorway, and took eight or ten really deep breaths before she turned back. “Fatima, I’m sorry, I know you don’t believe what I believe. But I don’t think this is really what you want.”

“Are you talking about me, or you? Girl, I don’t even know what I want yet. He sprang it on me like an hour ago. But just so you know, if I’d stayed with Papi and never met you, there’s a pretty good chance I’d be talking marriage now anyway.” Just talking, probably, but what was a couple of months, or even a year? Anyway, he hadn’t even said who the groom was. If it was him, hey, he looked a lot better than Ruslan …

“We just met these people, though. Why are they bringing this up so quickly? Even if this is their culture, and yours too, I don’t trust it. I think they’re just trying to get a permanent hold on you—you and Mister Higgins.”

Fatima actually laughed. “No shit, Sherlock! You think I don’t know that?” Nadia really was a child. “I did say it was politics. The question for me is, are they going to offer me a good enough deal?” Nadia looked like she was about to throw up, or maybe just scream. “Oh, please. You think I’m some sad little poster child who’s going to live knocked up in the kitchen, waiting for an old man to get home and beat me with a stick? I’m armed and dangerous. There’s not a damn thing they could do to make me do anything I don’t want to, married or not.”

“That can’t be what you really want out of life, to just choose who you use, and who gets to use you.”

“Again: you trying to convince me, or yourself? You still don’t get it. This is the way shit gets done. This is what I’ve been looking for, all this time.”

“To get married at age fourteen in Dagestan.”

“No, smart-ass. I mean this place. These people. Not greasy mercenary daddies, or Russky spies, or whatever other losers some government wants to use to try and control us. Real, honest, competent people who really know when and how to fight, how to get what they want, when to retreat. Warriors, ghazis … I told you, it’s like coming home again.

“Now, I know I’m a hot property. I’m not going to sell myself cheap. You don’t need to worry about that. But the market’s open, and I’m going to look around. If you’re not going to help, you can keep your prissy virgin white dress fairy tales to yourself. I don’t roll that way.”

Nadia stamped at the floor, like she was about to throw a temper tantrum. “But, just a minute ago, when you came in … oh, you’re out of your mind. I can’t even talk to you right now!” She left, and the door slammed again. Such a child.

Fatima lay back down on the bed to think it over a bit. The idea didn’t seem so shocking anymore, but the Imam hadn’t said who. When she caught herself thinking in circles, she got up again and started leafing through the new Quran they’d given her. Married or not, she was going to need to up her game to keep up with these people.