Down in The Bottomlands (and Other Places)

Park sternly suppressed a sigh of relief. If nobody asked that question, he would have had to plunge in cold. As it was, he had the perfect chance to give them his name and impressive title. Then, into abrupt silence, he went on, “I am a citizen of the Bretwaldate of Vinland, and a Christian by religion. You will treat me as Muslim law requires you to treat a Person of the Book.”

The Moors started arguing among themselves. That was as much as Park had expected. The pilot’s voice rose above the babble, loud with outrage: “Well, what if he does belong to the Ahl al-Kitab, the People of the Book? Those other three I see in there don’t. They’re pagan Skrellings, and they’re mine!” When no one argued with him, he started toward the downed airwain again, still clutching that knife.

“One is my servant from Vinland, and a Christian like me,” Park said. The pilot shook a fist at him. He continued, “The other two men are of Tawantiinsuuju, yes. But they fly me — I ask them to fly me — to help make peace between the Son of the Sun and your Emir. You should let us go on our way, free from harm.”

He didn’t expect that to happen. He figured, though, that if he only asked for what he wanted, he’d end up with less. One thing he’d never been short on was gall. He stood on the wing, trying to look as impressive as possible, while the Moors kept on arguing. Finally, when they seemed about to come to blows, one of them said, “Let’s take it to the qadi.”

“Yes,” Park said at once. “Take us to the qadi. He will judge the truth.”

“They’re mine, curse it!” the frustrated fighter pilot said again, but most of the Moors on the airstrip shouted him down.

“Come down,” one of them said to Park. “By Allah, the Compassionate, the Merciful, you will all stay free and unhurt till the qadi lays down his judgment.”

“Agreed.” Park stuck his head back into the airwain. “Come on out. One of their judges is going to figure out what to do with us.”

Despite the Moor’s promise, men crowded close to Park and his companions to make sure they did not break and run. He wondered where they could run to, but on second thought was just as glad to have a lot of bodies around — the pilot never had put away that knife.

The qadi’s tent was at the edge of the jungle, close by several dozen man-sized rugs spread on the ground: the airfield crew’s worship area, Park realized. “Excellency!” a Moor said.

Everyone bowed when the qadi came out. Park was slower than the Muslims, but quicker than Dunedin, Ankowaljuu, or Waipaljkoon. When he straightened, he got his first good look at the Muslim judge; all he’d noticed before was the Arab-style robes the man wore.

The qadi was no Arab, though. With his round, copper-ski

The qadi said, “Who are these strangers? Why do you bring them before me?”

Park spoke up before anyone else had a chance: “Excellency, I am qadi myself — a judge of the International Court of the Continent of Skrelleland. Your pilot made my airwain land by mistake.”

“They are my prisoners, my battlefield booty!” the fighter pilot cried. “Even this Christian who calls himself a qadi admits that these”-he pointed at the two Tawantlinsuujans-“are but pagans, deserving only death or slavery.”

The qadi frowned. “This is too complicated to decide at once. Come into my tent, Muawiyah” (that was evidently the pilot) “and you foreign folk as well. And, to keep anyone from getting ideas perhaps he should not have, you come too, Harun, and you, Walid, with your weapons.”

The tent was crowded with so many people inside, but it held them. The Muslims with pipes sat behind Park and his companions. The qadi also found a place on the rug. He picked up a book — a Qu’ran, Park guessed.

“Now we may begin,” he said, then added, “I suppose I should tell you and yours, O qadi of the Christians, that I am called Muhammad ibn Nizam. Do you all speak Arabic?”

“I do, qadi Muhammad,” Ankowaljuu said at once. Waipaljkoon and Dunedin did not understand the question, which was answer in itself.

“Translate as you need,” Muhammad ibn Nizam told Park and the tukuuii riikook. “We shall allow the time.

‘Allah’s judgment surely will come to pass: do not try to hurry it along,’ as Allah says in the chapter called The Bee. Now, unfold me your tale.”

Park again spoke first, describing how he had been chosen to arbitrate the dispute between Tawantiinsuuju and the Emirate of the Dar al-Harb, and how, in spite of his efforts, war had broken out between them. He told how Ankowaljuu still had hopes for peace, and had arranged to have him fly to meet the Son of the Sun — and all the trouble he’d had since. “I also hope for peace now,” he finished, “but not for the same reasons.”

“I had heard of your mission,” Muhammad said. “Beyond your Frankish look, can you prove who and what you are?”

“Yes, Excellency. My papers are in the trunk inside our airwain. Other important papers, too.”

Muhammad nodded to the Moors behind Park. “Have this trunk fetched here.” One of the men hurried away. The qadi went on, “While we wait, I will hear what Muawiyah has to say.”

Park half-listened as the pilot told how he had intercepted the Tawantiinsuujan airwain and forced it to land. “The pagans, at least, are mine,” he insisted, “and their airwain, as booty won in our righteous jihad.”

Just then, two men lugged the trunk into the tent. Park opened it and extracted his credentials. He had three sets: English, Ketjwa, and Arabic, all gaudily scaled and beribboned. Muhammad ibn Nizam carefully read the Arabic version. He kept his face still until he was through. Then he nodded.

“It is as the Christian qadi says,” he declared. “Both the Emir, Allah grant him long years and prosperity, and the pagan king have agreed to harken to his judgment. May it be wise.” He bowed to Park.

“Then we are free?” Park asked, bowing back in delight. That was better than he’d dared imagine.

“You and your servant, yes. Not only are you an honored judge, but, as you said, a Person of the Book, even if your Christian Gospel has only in corrupted form the truth of the glorious Qu’ran. Still, by Allah’s holy law, you may not be wantonly enslaved. That is not the case, however, for the Tawantiinsuujans with you.”

“What? Why not?” Park said. “They are with me, they fly me to try to make peace-”

“There can be no peace between Islam and paganism,” the qadi said. “In the words of the Qu’ran, ‘Kill those who give God partners wherever you find them; seize them, encompass them, and ambush them.’ ” He turned to Ankowaljuu. “You, pagan who knows the Arab speech, will you and your comrade yield yourselves to the truth of Islam?”

The tukuuii riikook spoke briefly with Waipaljkoon, then shook his head. “No, qadi, we will not. We have our faith, just as you have yours.”

“Then you know what must become of you. You are the pilot Muawiyah’s to slay or to sell into slavery, as he alone shall decide. You men”-he nodded to the armed Moors in back of Park and his party-“help the good pilot take them away.”

“No! Wait!” Park said.

Muhammad ibn Nizam shook his head. “I understand your concern, qadi of the Christians. I even have some sympathy for it. But under the shari’a, the law of Islam, this thing must be. I am sorry.”

“Wait,” Park said again. He was not about to let his friends go to a fate he thought worse than death, certainly not over a dispute where, as far as he was concerned, no sure right answer existed. And so he trotted out for a qadi of no particular importance the argument he’d intended to use on the Emir or his envoy to Tawantiinsuuju: “These men are not pagans. They too are People of the Book, for they have the truths of their religion set down in writing.”