by Glen Cook
Out of adversity, opportunity?
Why had the place not been picked clean by thieves?
If you were a Believer, perhaps, the Disciple’s presence made it holy and immune.
Haroun did not see the man as a god descended to earth, but was willing to profit from such thinking.
He used shaghûn skills several times, always at the weakest intensity. Still, that should have attracted attention. Did they not have anyone watching for sorcery? Was the Disciple’s ban on witchcraft and wizardry actually observed at Sebil el Selib?
Excellent. He could be more bold. But not now. For now he had to remain a ghost.
He reached the tent unchallenged. This sector was quiet. These people were their own worst enemies.
Shadows embraced him as he explored.
He never saw a patrol, though there was a path beaten alongside the tent, maybe laid down by those who made sure pegs and ropes remained properly set and taut. The bottom edge of the tent was secured by iron spikes at two foot intervals. Haroun oozed along for a hundred feet without finding even one of those missing.
That was a lot of iron. He could not imagine why some villain had not taken every other one and sold them to Barking Snake, who could have a blacksmith hammer them into a slightly different shape before he sold them back as replacements.
He had to pull this off without leaving evidence. He had to penetrate a space he could explore only with a shaghûn’s senses. His skills were not infallible when he had to keep watch in a dozen directions at once.
Maybe there was a sorcerer out there. The excitement was collapsing slowly toward him rather than expanding.
Yasmid and Habibullah had just taken the latest confused reports from several baffled and weary Invincibles captains. Some of the elderly, hard-line imams had come to poke their noses in. They could not be denied.
Yasmid murmured, “Please, God, make this a false alarm. Better, make these old coots keep their mouths shut and their ears the same.”
Habibullah broke her heart by whispering, “The man in the pilgrim camp is the one we want. And he sounds like the man we don’t want.”
She understood. “Yes. He’s the one.” The fact that he had become a ghost was evidence enough. “But he isn’t Haroun bin Yousif.”
Habibullah surprised her. “I concur. This is someone who wants us to believe he might be a dangerous dead man. But he hasn’t affirmed it with the patterns of death that are the signature of the King Without a Throne.”
Yasmid considered Habibullah. What nonsense was this? Haroun never tried to leave the survivors thinking what a clever murderer he was.
Elwas reported, “He must have fled into the desert. There is no sign of him.”
Yasmid sighed. She could not conquer mixed feelings. She yearned for the door to spring open and those powerful arms to sweep her up… Waiting for that villain to miss a step and fall foul of men who had hungered for his life for two generations.
She loved him hopelessly.
She hated him with a deep and abiding fervor.
The coldly calculating eyes of the imams were hungry, too, since rumor had it that the invisible pilgrim might be the King Without a Throne. Yasmid met the gaze of Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, her most virulent detractor. She put into her gaze her absolute willingness to snuff his irksome candle.
Elwas went. Other Invincibles came. They had nothing good to report. “If you could give us a better idea of what you want us to find,” one said. “That would be an immense help.”
Another suggested, “Dawn isn’t far off. We should rest until we can see what we’re doing.”
That did sound sensible. Rushing around in the dark, someone was sure to get hurt.
There had been no contact with the pilgrim since two Invincibles interviewed him during the first few minutes of excitement.
“Ah. Jirbash is here. This could be interesting.”
Jirbash al-’Azariyah was a protégé of Elwas bin Farout al-Souki. His background was equally dubious. His brains and ferocity made him a terror to enemies of the Believers. He ran a contemptuous eye over the three old men and the slightly younger Ibn Adim. Only al-Dimishqi did not sway back.
Jirbash had been the architect of their humbling. He remained openly unhappy because he had been denied permission to bury them.
He stepped up to Yasmid and Habibullah, offering each a precisely calculated bow. He did not go to his knees. Yasmid had forbidden the practice. Only God Himself rated that level of obeisance.
“Report,” she said.
“We have been examining the effects of the criminal Farukh Barsbey al-Fadl, called Barking Snake. We are solving a great many criminal mysteries. Al-Fadl did take the pilgrim’s livestock and property in pawn, at a discount violating the usury laws. He claims to know nothing about the man, who called himself Aza. I believe him. Tonight’s events have shaken him. He never thought he would attract the attention of the religious authorities. He thought he was protected.”
Habibullah asked, “This news helps us how?”
Jirbash showed no impatience. “Even a void says something. It says there is nothing here. Go look somewhere else.”
A slight pinking appeared in Habibullah’s cheeks. “I see.”
“The villain Farukh al-Fadl says the pilgrim asked for water bags, which al-Fadl could not provide. He asked if there had been reports of dangers along the road to el Aswad. Al-Fadl says he advised the pilgrim not to go that way because the road is haunted by ghosts from the battle on the salt pan.”
Yasmid said, “El Aswad. The springs still flow there.”
Habibullah said, “There were early reports of disappearing water bags.”
“Jirbash. Catch Elwas. Tell him you two will catch the pilgrim on the road to el Aswad. Subdue him and bring him back alive.”
Behind her Habibullah offered subtle expressions assuring Jirbash that the alive part was not critical.
It was a boys’ conspiracy, entered into because the girl was too soft.
Haroun found himself in a part of the tent that appeared not to have been visited in years. His weak spirit light revealed that it was storage for plunder. The leather goods were dried out and starting to crumble. There was mold all over one heap of camel saddles, despite the bone-dry air. No one had cleaned the blood off.
The plunder “rooms” were vast and unorganized. Those who had stored the goods had not cared. Worthless stuff had been thrown everywhere. It took Haroun only minutes to create a hiding hole and disguise its entrance.
Elwas told Yasmid, “Lady, mentioning el Aswad was a diversion. Had he meant to run that way he would have done so straight from the criminal’s place. And he would have kept his mule.”
“You’re sure?”
“We looked. He didn’t go that way. Not even scavengers travel that road anymore.”
“Then he did what he does so well, again.” She vacillated between convictions. Right now she was convinced that she had passed within yards of her own Haroun before fate made it impossible for them to meet. No one had any idea where he had gone. El Aswad? Into the desert? Back across the Jebal? Some other direction? Or had he used sorcery to disguise himself as someone she saw every day?
Haroun bin Yousif. Her husband. The father of her only child. Her beloved. The man she hated so much.
Habibullah’s conviction of the moment was the opposite. Each report left him more certain that they had become entangled in a popular fantasy that would never wither completely. Too many people wanted it to be true.
“I am not pleased,” Yasmid said. “This pilgrim made fools of us all.” Who but her husband had the will and the skill?
“Back to the beginning. The man was here for days, camped where he should be, visiting shrines and memorials like any pilgrim. Evenings, he put on puppet shows for the children. Right?”
No one disagreed.
She asked, “Why wasn’t he doing anything? Wouldn’t a man with a sinister purpose make an effort to forward it?”
Jirbash suggested, “He was waiting for the right time.”
Yasmid wanted to believe that moment was one where he could see her alone. “Indeed? Could he have been just some Royalist spy?”
Jirbash said, “We can’t answer that without knowing who he was.”
Always the fantasy of a revenant Haroun returned to one pair of eyes.
Yet again, Yasmid demanded, “Why was he here?”
Ibn Adim suggested, “The demon came here because this is where he would find his mate.”
Deadly emotion crossed Jirbash al-’Azariyah’s face. The imam might have won a death sentence with one malicious remark.
Yasmid did not chide Jirbash.
Elwas suggested, “Why not assume that his goals are evolving? I agree that who he is would be useful in predicting what he might do, might want to do, and is capable of doing. But everything we do, perforce, shapes what he will be able to do.”
Ibn Adim recognized the death glow in Jirbash’s eyes. His voice was tight. “We’re chasing specters. Which will be what he wants.”
“Explain,” Yasmid said.
“He’s long gone, laughing. Whatever kind of rogue he was, he wasn’t the infernal genius you all want to make him.”
“Do go on,” Yasmid said. Honestly. The man might be making a point that had evaded everyone else.
“I propose that he was a common crook. A confidence man. He ran to al-Fadl when the Invincibles started digging. He got money and got out. He’s halfway to Al Rhemish or back in Souk el Arba, congratulating himself for being quick and clever.”
A couple of Invincible captains muttered agreement.
Yasmid looked to Habibullah. He shrugged. Elwas did the same. “So. We could be making mountains out of termite hills. So. We’ll search for two more days. Ask every question again. Re-turn every stone. Try to think of something that hasn’t been suggested before. If nothing new surfaces we’ll bow to Ibn Adim’s wisdom and congratulate the pilgrim for being quick and clever.”
Haroun was suffering from imposter syndrome. He could not believe his own success. He was inside the tent of the Disciple, his deadly enemy since childhood. He was within striking distance. Nobody knew. Nobody was alarmed.
He studied the geography of the tent and the routines of life inside the fraction that saw use. He learned that most staff lived outside. They did almost nothing when out of sight of their supervisors, who did not themselves much care if the staff kept busy.
Much of the complex was in worse shape than the trash space where Haroun hid. Several vixens had denned up in one eastern area. They and their kits squabbled constantly. The staff knew about them all. They knew about the rats and mice and camel spiders, too, and ignored them. All they did was keep the rouge on the old woman’s cheeks by maintaining what could be seen from outside.
These people had abandoned El Murid’s dream.
They stole from him, too. Mostly food, now. Traffic in salable trinkets had dried up because there was so little worthwhile plunder left. Haroun suspected that the staff payrolls included some family ghosts, too.
The court of the Disciple was swamped in corruption.
Come nightfall Haroun was free to do as he willed. He ran into no one even when he pilfered food. He eavesdropped when he could. He had nothing else to do but wait.
In time he would feel safe going out again, as someone new.
He could kill the Disciple. That would be easy. But it would put him on the run again, with nowhere to hide. And the result might not be positive. El Murid’s religion had become locked into an inward-facing stasis. His latest genius war captains defeated all external threats but no longer insisted on converting the world.
The movement was old and tired and befuddled, like its founder.
Kill him and someone competent might step in.
Assassination could wait until God Himself could be framed for it.
He wished he could slip the old madman some opium. One fat dose would undo all the good so many had achieved.
Even by day the people who worked in the tent never left the small occupied stain behind the entrance.
Haroun enjoyed himself the first week. During the second he grew more active because he felt more driven. During the third he began crafting schemes.
Yasmid greeted Elwas unhappily. “You have brought me nothing again.”
“True. The ghost has not returned from the spirit world. And we did agree that we would leave him there, some time ago.”
“Yet you kept looking.”
“I did. For your sake.”
“And?”
“No one has seen him since that night. People remember him on the coast. People remember him coming through the pass. He came here, then he vanished.”
“I really do have to let go.” Talking to herself, not Elwas.
“I want to talk about al-Fadl. He has given up the names of the people who sold him some of the more unusual properties we found at his place.”
“You’re about to tell me something I’d rather not hear?”
“I am. About bad people in places where we want only the best to abide. Barking Snake was rich. He got that way selling stolen goods. Most of those came from your father’s tent or from the shrines. Barking Snake’s business has been bad lately. Your father had been robbed of everything small enough to smuggle out of his tent. I talked to the guards. They check everyone going in but no one coming out. The need never occurred to them. I don’t think they were involved.”
“My father’s servants stole from him?”
“It wasn’t organized. It was individuals seizing opportunities.”
“Elwas, I despair of humankind. The best man in our world, chosen by God Himself, has been surrounded by rogues and thieves, like flies around dung, since the first day he preached. I wish God would put patience aside and destroy the evildoers.”
“That wouldn’t leave many of us to deal with the corpses, Lady.”
“No doubt. Any suggestions about how to deal with the thieves?”
“Let them know that they’ve been found out. Punish the most egregious. Let the rest be, but with a never another chance warning.”
“Accept their villainy?”
“Your father doesn’t tolerate change well. The swami worked a miracle, getting accepted as quickly as he did.”
True. Meals with her father were a regular event, now. He did not recognize her or speak to her yet but the Matayangan insisted they would get there soon.
She saw some improvement herself.
Phogedatvitsu said most of the indifference was stubbornness donned for the occasion.
“Can we recover any of the stolen goods?”
“Some, but, unfortunately, what the criminal still had is of little value.”
“Find out who was the most flagrant villain. Have his right hand cut off. Then have someone who knows how look at their accounts.”
“Very well. Will you cancel the next dinner?”
“No. Where is Habibullah? It is a beautiful morning. I’d like to go walking.”
“It is a fine day, indeed. Unfortunately, Habibullah is sick. He has whatever has been going around among the old men. He’ll be back in a few days.”
It was a fierce sickness—if it was not poison. One ancient imam and several elderly Invincibles had expired. Several other imams were not expected to recover.
Could someone be eliminating them?
Two more imams and another Invincible died. Habibullah recovered. Still so weak he needed help walking, he took his place opposite Yasmid next time she dined with her father.
Just they two were there. Elwas was outside removing a thief’s stealing hand.
It said much about El Murid’s attendants that none had fled despite al-Fadl’s arrest.
Elwas came late to his seat beside Habibullah but the Disciple was later still. Phogedatvitsu showed up long enough to say, “There will be a delay. This is the anniversary of an encounter from which he barely escaped death at the hand of a W
ahlig of el Aswad. He thinks he saw the man’s ghost this morning.” He did not use his interpreter.
Habibullah told Elwas, “There was a raid soon after Nassef captured Sebil el-Selib. Yousif and his brother Fuad caught the Disciple near the Malachite Throne. Only Nassef’s timely arrival saved him.”
“That was a long time ago.”
Yasmid asked, “Is this a good sign? That he can get excited about something? Or is it bad?”
Elwas said, “It’s a step forward. He has engaged the external world.”
Yasmid said, “An imaginary world.”
Habibullah said, “He could start seeing real people next.”
And Elwas, “Lady, when I brought the swami here your father saw legions of imaginary beings, mostly ghosts. And not the ones you would expect. Not your mother. Never your brother. He doesn’t remember that you had a brother anymore. He did see Nassef a lot. Nassef was always here. They engaged in spirited debates about everything imaginable. I heard only your father’s side and I’m too young to have seen the Scourge of God himself but I think I know him pretty well, now. He was a remarkable man.”
“Yes. And a bizarre mix.” Yasmid did not want to talk about the dead. Hammad al Nakir was inhabited more by ghosts than live actors. The people were tired of war but all looked back to the glory days of war, when captains like Nassef, Karim, el-Kader, and el Nadim had made the earth shake.
Yasmid had seen those days from the inside. She knew that the golden age was a delusion. The look-backers had forgotten the cost: women without husbands and sons, children without fathers, works public and private destroyed and, even now, not restored, and all the fertile lands laid waste. All in the Name of God the Compassionate.
Recollections of evil were fading. They would go extinct once the last folk who had survived those times went to their rewards. Then the Believers would grow infatuated with tales of glory till some young Nassef or el-Kader, some half-bandit, half-charismatic holy warrior, began the cycle anew.
“Lady?” Habibullah sounded concerned. “Is something wrong?”
“Yes. But we can’t do anything about it. We must be what God wills.”
Silence came. No one wanted a religious discussion. Habibullah did say, “Submission is God’s Law. You think about it too much.”
