by Glen Cook
...
Elwas al-Souki met the Lady Yasmid at the entrance to the Disciple’s tent—that being a sprawl of canvas and poles covering several acres.
El Murid had a philosophical resistance to residing in structures built of timber or stone. He would live in tents whenever he could.
This sprawl was a ghost of the canvas palaces he had occupied in his glory days.
Al-Souki said, “Lady, you are punctual. Sadly, we have not been your equal. We have run late all day, getting farther behind by the hour.”
“What are you up to, Elwas?”
The man did not dissemble. “I hoped to show you how your father is progressing while we wait.”
“Why?” She did not want to be here. Whatever prolonged her torment was sure to irk her.
“Because you need to know. Because your wretch of a father is also the Disciple, a shining star to millions. You need to see what we’ve done to resurrect the visionary from the ashes of the man.”
Habibullah averred, “That’s interesting talk, Elwas. Now make it mean something.”
Elwas flashed a happy face and beckoned them to follow.
They reached an open area fifty feet by a hundred with the canvas twenty feet above, supported by an orchard of poles. There were few furnishings. The floor was sawdust and wood chips mixed with strained sand and shredded clay in a groomed flat, soft surface. Thin, creamy light coming through the canvas revealed several men engaged in calisthenics. Swami Phogedatvitsu and his smarmy interpreter walked around them. The swami occasionally swatted one with a switch. No one wore anything but a loincloth. None of those bodies were worthy of flaunting.
Yasmid did not recognize her father.
When Habibullah brought her home—subjective ages ago—Micah al Rhami had been a fat slug, half blind, barely aware that he was alive. His caretakers kept him fat, drugged, and out of sight so he would not interfere in what they did in his name.
Most of those parasites abided with the Evil One now. The Invincibles and Harish had helped clean them out.
“Lady? Are you all right?” Elwas asked. He sounded genuinely concerned.
“I’m fine. I was remembering my return from exile, when I first saw what had become of my father. It was beyond belief.”
“I have heard tell.”
Yasmid glanced his way, unhappy. He was not feeling generous toward her, perhaps because of her profound disgust. That never won favor among men who considered her father the Right Hand of God, however far he had fallen.
Elwas told her, “He is free of the poppy. Heavy exercise is one of Swami Phogedatvitsu’s sharpest tools.”
“Wouldn’t that just aggravate his pain?”
“That is emotion expressed as pain, not actual pain. He feels the loss of your mother physically instead of emotionally.”
Yasmid nodded. An odd way of thinking but it did sound plausible.
“The swami also teaches skills for managing both the need for the poppy and the pain that excuses the need.”
Yasmid sucked in a deep breath, released it in a long sigh. Her father had suffered chronic pain forever. He had sustained severe injuries during his early ministry. Some never healed right. The pain, and the opium he used to control it, clouded his judgment later. Countless needless deaths resulted.
“I do hope that he conquers the poppy, Elwas. I pray for that regularly. But he has beaten it before, only to backslide when life disappointed him.”
“This time will be different. I hope you will let the swami manage your father’s health permanently.”
Habibullah snorted in disdain but did control his tongue.
Yasmid understood. It would be outrageous to hand the Disciple’s health and spiritual well-being over to a heathen mystic. The most coveted treasure a villain could win would be control of the Disciple’s person.
Elwas bin Farout al-Souki, though young, was cunning and had grown up in circumstances that made reading people a useful survival skill. “Lady, I have no interest in controlling your father. I am involved because my other duties make slight claim upon my time. We have no wars. We have no threats of war. Only a few young, green men want to train for the next war.”
Elwas had more to say. He did not get the chance. Swami Phogedatvitsu finished and sent his patients on to whatever they would do next. He donned a wrap of orange that concealed his flab, approached the observers wearing an agile, gleaming, sweat-shiny smile.
He appeared to be pleased with himself.
That was fine with Yasmid. “I am impressed. You have my father more active than I can ever remember.”
Phogedatvitsu’s smile turned condescending. “Thank you, Lady.” He was making excellent progress with the language. He inclined his head just enough.
Elwas said, “The meal isn’t ready. Swami, can you show the lady how you help our lord cope with pain?”
Phogedatvitsu turned to his interpreter. The small man rattled something in a language with odd rhythms. Yasmid believed the swami was buying time to think.
Phogedatvitsu said something. His interpreter then said, “Very well. Please follow.”
The swami set a brisk pace for a short distance, along what would have been a hallway in a normal house, then entered an empty, cloth-walled room six feet by ten.
The interpreter said, “These conditions must be met: you will say nothing and do nothing. You will not reveal your presence. Is this clear?”
Yasmid agreed because her father had been engaged in physical exercise.
Phogedatvitsu pulled a cloth wall aside. That exposed three men in loincloths lying face down on padded tables. All three were old and wrinkled and scarred and had not been eating well. Men of Phogedatvitsu’s race massaged and stretched the old bodies, asked soft questions, used a small brush to make ink dots on skin.
The swami again made signs abjuring speech, then joined the others. Yasmid drew breath to ask why foreigners were here in her father’s tent.
Habibullah grasped her left arm. Elwas moved in front of her. He wore a ferocious “What do you think you’re doing?” look.
She could shout and carry on later. Right now she had to stand still and keep quiet.
She shook her left arm. Habibullah’s grip was too tight.
She opened her mouth again.
Elwas was in front of her again, this time so close their noses bumped. He turned her around. He made her march. Habibullah did not interfere.
Back down the cloth corridor, voice low but intensely angry, al-Souki demanded, “What is the matter with you? Lady.” As an afterthought. “You swore you would…”
“That was before I saw…”
“You had to know you were going to see something unusual. Why would he take so much trouble to strive for silence, otherwise?”
“He was sticking needles into him, Elwas! What did you expect me to do?”
“To be silent and observe. As you promised.”
“But he was sticking needles in…”
Al-Souki told Habibullah, “She was right when she chose to stay away. We should not have risked that. She isn’t ready.”
Habibullah nodded, said, “Perhaps,” and stared at the earthen floor.
Yasmid demanded, “Does this mean you’re part of some…”
Elwas made an obvious effort to control serious exasperation. “Lady, the swami is using eastern methods to free your father from his opium addiction. Do you know more about that specialized work than you do about building construction? I note that you never inject yourself into the work of carpenters or masons. You will, on occasion, ask why something is being done in a certain way.”
Each word arrived under rigid control, reeking of truth. She hated him for that.
Then she started. She might have had an epiphany. A sudden grasp of the mind of the man whose special madness had led to generations of warfare and despair.
“Elwas, take us to where we will sit down with my father. We will wait there. And you will regale me with tales of sticking
old men with needles.”
...
The meal with the Disciple was not exciting. Yasmid’s father went through the motions in a lugubrious, mechanical fashion, like a mildly autistic child. He did not make eye contact. He did not speak. He brightened some at mentions of his wife and daughter but failed to recognize Yasmid as the latter.
Yasmid conceded that Phogedatvitsu had worked a miracle by reclaiming El Murid this much. Perhaps now the Disciple would learn to navigate the quotidian world and begin interacting with people.
But this man was not Papa.
What Yasmid wanted desperately was the man she had known when she was little.
Earthly, practical Yasmid bint Micah knew that the Papa she remembered never really existed outside her head.
The swami thanked her repeatedly for being interested in his efforts but, otherwise, said only, “There is much work to be done yet.”
...
Varthlokkur, with a comet tail of youngsters, entered his restored workroom. He was careful to conceal the unlocking gestures. Scalza might be tempted to sneak in. Lately, the boy had shown an inordinate interest in the room. He followed Varthlokkur all over, hoping to learn by watching. Ekaterina tagged along because she was interested in everything that interested Little Brother.
Then Ethrian began following his grandfather. Why? Something had changed. Ethrian was intrigued by the world outside Ethrian now. And his mother was thrilled.
“What are we going to do today, Uncle?” Scalza asked. “Spy on our mother again?”
“That part of ‘we’ constituted by you will remain out of the way and quiet while the part that is me performs some excruciatingly dull maintenance on the Winterstorm.”
“Oh, good! When are you going to start teaching us?”
“Never, and a day.”
Scalza primed himself for an argument. Before he started Nepanthe arrived. Smyrena was awake and cooing. The youngsters lost interest in anything but her.
That left Ethrian as a puzzled human island. After brief indecision he drifted toward his mother.
Varthlokkur watched in amazement. Nepanthe had a bottomless store of warmth and love for the children. He never got over that. How did she do it?
The children did not bother him again. Nepanthe was that good a kid wrangler.
It did not hurt that the baby seemed interested in learning to crawl. Everyone found that immensely entertaining.
In time, Nepanthe left Smyrena to the youngsters and came to look over Varthlokkur’s shoulder.
He said, “I’ve been looking for Haroun. I can’t find a trace. He must be somewhere on the foreshore east of the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers.”
“What does he want to do? His whole life changed when he killed Magden Norath. I’m sure he didn’t plan to go round stabbing famous sorcerers.”
“I hope not. I don’t want him headed our way.” He grinned.
“If he is on the coast he’s not interested in what’s going on in Al Rhemish.”
“Exactly. Before al-Habor he was heading that way by stages. After al-Habor he headed southeast, for as long as I was able to track him.”
“So he has a new interest. What could that possibly be, Mr. Wizard?”
He chuckled. “You’re probably right. If he isn’t after his throne he must be after the woman he loves.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t poison himself.”
“Haroun bin Yousif won’t let old love drag him into mortal peril.”
“You take the romance out.”
“I try.”
“I never liked him much. He was always drama and trouble. But he was one of Mocker’s best friends.”
That name brought on the silence. Varthlokkur refocused on finding bin Yousif. Nepanthe returned to the children. That nerve was still tender.
Varthlokkur gave up looking. Bin Yousif would surface eventually. He shifted his attention to the west.
It was the time of year for armies to march.
The Lesser Kingdoms were a-simmer with vigorous political disinterest. The weather was the best in a generation. People whose lives revolved round agriculture were taking advantage. Even in chaotic Kavelin most every tillable acre had gotten plowed. The retired soldiers were all at work in forest or field.
The Crown spent no money because it had none and lacked any means of collecting revenue. The Nordmen barons were in little better shape. But commoner Wesson entrepreneurs were digging into their secret caches. They were building things. Varthlokkur discovered new grinding mills and granaries, new sawmills and stone cutting mills. Small caravans moved through the Savernake Gap, both directions. The Marena Dimura, though disinclined to participate in the broader community, had missions out looking for engineers to help reopen mines hidden in the deeps of the Kapenrungs.
“So,” the wizard mused. “People inside Kavelin will be too close to this and not understand that things are getting better. But there it is. If the political situation doesn’t explode.”
As ever, what Kavelin needed most was freedom from the ambitions of those convinced that they ought to be in charge.
“Varth?”
He did not acknowledge her. Nepanthe touched his shoulder lightly. He started. “What?”
“You’ve been staring into that for two hours. It’s time to eat.”
“Oh.”
“You didn’t find Haroun?”
“I gave up. I went looking at Kavelin.” He needed help getting up. He had remained seated too long. “Good things are starting to happen in the Lesser Kingdoms. How good will depend on Inger and Kristen. They could ruin everything with a civil war.”
There was another potential source of despair. Michael Trebilcock.
Varthlokkur had had no success finding Michael, either.
Most people thought Trebilcock was dead. Varthlokkur was not convinced. He thought Michael had pulled his hole in on himself but was out there somewhere, watching and waiting.
Trebilcock was no sorcerer but had a personal magic unique to himself. He might be the most important man in the Lesser Kingdoms now. If he was alive.
Varthlokkur wished he knew how to get in touch.
He could find Michael. He could find Haroun. By a means as subtle as a thunderstorm. By sending Radeachar to look. The Unborn could be stealthy when the target was fixed and known but in a search it tended to attract attention.
Varthlokkur wanted to remain forgotten.
Nepanthe asked, “Why is that? Have Radeachar tow a banner across the sky warning Michael.” She had a soft spot for Trebilcock. He had spent months of his life, risking a cruel death, in order to effect her rescue, once upon a time. “Or whoever took over for Michael if he’s dead.”
“Aral Dantice.” The response was instantaneous. “Dantice is protecting Kristen and her children. That’s worth a closer look.” Then he asked, “What do you think about my putting risers under the legs of my chairs so I don’t have to work so hard to get up?”
...
The conjure man moved to Souk el Arba but did not stay there long. He established his existence in a few hundred memories. He did not render himself notorious. He seemed too honest to succeed.
Soon he began to drift westward, spending a few days in each foothill town, moving ever deeper into the mountains. He came to al-Khafra. That village marked the limit where the law prevailed. It would not be reasonable to proceed into the higher mountains alone.
Rootless men waited around al-Khafra, hoping for work as drovers or guards on caravans crossing the mountains. Master caravaneers did their hiring there so they did not have to pay men not needed in the peaceful country farther east.
Haroun found the youngest fellow he could, one Muma al-Iki, hired him to look out for his goats and donkey. Then he shed his tattoos and got himself work as a caravan guard. The master was happy to acquire what looked to be a skilled sword arm. He was escorting someone or something of high value. Haroun made a point of showing no curiosity.
He made hi
mself accepted amongst the guards and drovers through his entertainment value instead of his skills with sharp steel. He had no opportunity to demonstrate those. No wickedness rolled down out of a shadowed side canyon intent on taking plunder and slaves.
The caravan master bemoaned his wasted protection expenses.
An Invincible called al-Souki had been teaching harsh lessons to the little tribes scrabbling for survival in the high range.
The traveler recalled having seen a few high-range people when he was a boy. They were small and wiry and darker than the peoples of the desert and the coast. Their languages, related to one another, were linked to none outside the mountains—unless, remotely, to those of the Marena Dimura in the Kapenrung Mountains.
The conjurer’s first view of Sebil el Selib, from a crotch between tall, round-backed foothills still a day away, struck him dumb.
A camel drover asked, “First time here?”
“No. I came once when I was a boy,” he lied. “It was different then.” There had been no sprawl of farmland, no eye-searing green miles of pasture. No flocks so vast they looked like gulls on their nesting islands. In those days there had been little more than a couple of ugly stone fortresses that he had not seen with his own eyes. He had been too young to join in the raids.
“It’s changed a lot in my lifetime. And I’m way younger than you.”
“I’m not older than you, I’m just married.”
Which made the drover laugh so hard his comrades came to investigate.
“He said it so deadpan!” The others were amused but nothing more. “I guess you had to be there.”
“It’s all about the timing,” the traveler said. “And the unexpected. I caught Isak by surprise. You all came to find out what was so funny. You had expectations.”
Isak was impressed. “Man, you got some kind of brain in your head.”
“When you have a wife like mine you get a lot of time to think.”
Someone asked, “If you’re married what’re you doing out here?”
“Taking time off to do some thinking.”
That amused the drovers. One observed, “I know. You married your cousin. Now you can’t get out.” A reasonable explanation. The desert peoples typically married closely. But none of these men really believed that. They knew about his sketchy career before he joined the caravan. Muma liked to talk.
