"The lord has no slaves in his household," the boy told her.
"None? But I thought the chieftains in Barbary usually kept slaves."
"He does not permit it."
"Why not?"
Mahmoud shrugged but could not explain.
But even without slaves, Alysson learned, Jafar had ample followers to serve him. Here, like in other Berber tribes, the members were divided into vassals who did all the manual work, and nobles who were required to do none.
Jafar was very definitely a noble, and yet he was not averse to physical labor, Alysson had to conclude. That very evening, after he had sent his equerry on some errand, he saw to the feeding of his horses himself. She could see him through the open door of the tent, his body a dark, lean silhouette against the lavender sky.
Despite her best intentions, Alysson was drawn to the doorway. Settling herself on the carpet, she wrapped her arms around her knees and pretended interest in the desert.
Eventually darkness fell and a crescent moon came out. The scene was beautiful, she thought, gazing out beyond the douar at the silvered landscape. Moonlight rippled over the pale desert sands, pooling in hollows and making the black shadows of ridges stand out in stark relief.
Yet her gaze kept straying from the distant sands to the man who had brought her here against her will, who had turned her life upside-down and stirred her feelings into a turmoil of nervousness and confusion. The night surrounded him, but lamplight from within the tent cast a faint glow over him as he tended to the horses.
Not for the first time since being taken captive, Alysson found herself wondering what kind of man Jafar truly was.
He was a leader, that much she knew. A hard man, certainly. But whether he was cruel and vindictive, she wasn't yet sure. Although he was often surrounded by others, he seemed to hold himself apart. She had never seen him laugh with any of his men. In fact the closest thing to friendship she'd seen him exhibit had been with his horses. He seemed, if not lonely, then alone. But he was a warlord. Perhaps he couldn't allow any of his men to become too close for fear of losing their respect—although that explanation didn't seem to fit. She believed Jafar el-Saleh would command respect, no matter how intimate or distant he became.
At the moment he seemed more approachable than usual, for he was treating his big black stallion like a pet hound. He'd removed the nose bag of barley, and was hand-feeding the noble beast dried dates, one at a time. The stallion apparently was accustomed to this ritual, for it chewed each one before skillfully spitting out the pit.
Alysson watched for a moment, then surprised herself by speaking. "Thank you . . . for allowing me to walk around the camp this morning."
Jafar looked over his shoulder, holding her glance. "I gave you my trust because you had earned it."
His reply stirred both anger and guilt in her. Anger because he'd apparently been giving her another of his "lessons in obedience." Guilt because she hadn't earned his trust. She'd spent much of the time searching, memorizing, plotting her escape.
Lowering her gaze, Alysson restlessly plucked at the skirt of her russet-colored robe. After a while, though, she found herself watching Jafar and the stallion again.
The noble animal obviously had a great fondness for Jafar, playfully nuzzling its intelligent head against him and nibbling at his fingers. The sight was almost amusing, Alysson thought, for the black beast most certainly had been trained as a war-horse. Its lean and vigorous lines were pure Barb, a breed noted throughout the world for speed and endurance.
This animal was rawboned and powerful, with a flowing tail and long thick mane that fell to the right side because
Arabs mounted on the right. The Barb stallion was not, Alysson decided, as handsome as her Arab mare, which possessed a refined head and silky mane. Bet in this savage land, beaaty was relative, Here a man's liis often depended on the ability of his mount. The swiftness to pursue or elude an enemy, the stamina to gallop across miles of desert or mountain range, die courage to charge as enemy in battle, all would be considered far more important than mere beauty, and valued far more highly.
She watched in spite of herself as Jafer began grooming the stallion, rubbing its sleek black coat with a woolen cloth.
"Your horse," she said after a while. ''What is he called?"
"Sherrar. It means 'warrior' ia ary language."
Alysson nearly smiled. "Warrior" didn't fit a creature with such a gentle disposition, "just now he doesn't seem to be living up to his name."
"He is a fine warrior," Jafar said softly, with pride. "I bred him myself."
Jafar's youthful reply made Alysson wonder curiously just how old he was. He seemed fairly young, in his late twenties perhaps, but there was no hint of boyishness about him.
"I've heard thai your desert horses are the swiftest in the world."
He sodded, "'Here in Barbary tfes horse is called chareb- er-rehh—'drinker of the wind.' "
"How beautiful."
"Yes." He murmured something to the stallion, who flicked its ears attentively. "The best horses are found in the mountains of the Sahara, not the plains," Jafer added after a moment.