As they left the last of the herds behind, the prince turned his full attention to the vast tent city spread out before him. Older women and mothers in dark robes were already stirring, coaxing the cook-fires back to life and making preparations for the morning meal. Young children were dashing among the narrow lanes, fetching wood or water. Dogs raised their heads and barked wildly, warning their masters of the bani-al-Hashim’s arrival.
“Ah, curse the luck,” Faisr muttered as he surveyed the vast assembly of tents. Like Alcadizzar and the rest of the warriors, the lean desert raider was swathed in heavy robes of black and dark blue to keep out the morning chill. His headscarf hung loosely about his shoulders, leaving his bearded face bare. Cold or no, one did not approach a gathering of tents with one’s face covered, unless one meant to spill blood.
Faisr winced. “We’re the last to arrive. That’s a dozen pieces of gold I owe Muktil, the old thief.”
Alcadizzar chuckled. “Give him two dozen, then, for pity’s sake. When was the last time he rode against the caravans? We’re late because we were busy filling our bags with Lahmian gold.”
Faisr threw back his head and laughed, his dark eyes sparkling. “True enough! And maybe I’ll have you give him the coin, just to watch him squirm.”
Every one of Faisr’s warriors sported clinking bags of coin and rich ornaments, from jewelled daggers to gold earrings, worn to catch the eye of prospective mates and to show the gathered tribes how the bani-al-Hashim had prospered since they’d last met. Over the last twenty-five years, the tribe had gone from near-extinction to one of the wealthiest and most famous of the desert clans. Though the al-Hashim bloodline was an ancient and venerated one, it had fallen on ill luck over the last few generations. Faisr al-Hashim, the only son of the last chieftain, had a reputation of recklessness and impetuosity—both counted as virtues among the desert clans, but not exactly the best qualities one wanted in a leader of men. His time as chieftain might have been brilliant and altogether brief had it not been for his chance meeting with Alcadizzar. The prince could counsel the hotheaded bandit leader in ways that a tribesman would have never dared to do, and his knowledge of Lahmian military tactics was worth its weight in gold. With a relatively small number of fighting men, the bani-al-Hashim had gone on to perform a string of brilliant raids that were the envy of the rest of the tribes.
“Where do we fit into all this?” Alcadizzar asked, waving his hand at the tents.
Faisr nodded proudly towards the centre of the sprawling settlement. “A space will have been left for us, close to the chieftain’s tent. We’ll rest and take our breakfast while the women and children make camp, then there will be horse races and games of dice until the gathering this evening.” He winked at the prince. “And drinking. Lots of drinking.”
Alcadizzar’s nose wrinkled. “Not chanouri, I hope. I’d rather drink salt water.” The desert raiders’ favourite libation was a mix of fermented mare’s milk and sour date wine. He had tried it once, on a dare, and was sick for hours afterwards.
“Effete city dweller,” Faisr waved a hand disdainfully. “I suppose we can persuade a child to part with his wineskin so you don’t go thirsty.” The chieftain turned and regarded Alcadizzar thoughtfully. “Are you certain you want to go through with this?”
The question surprised Alcadizzar. “Me? All I’m risking is my life. You’ve got much more to lose than I.”
“Hmph,” Faisr replied, but didn’t deny the prince’s assertion. If Alcadizzar failed the trials to come, Faisr would lose face among his fellow chieftains. That was a fate much worse than death.
The long procession of riders edged their way slowly into the sprawling settlement. Mothers watched the mounted warriors with wary interest, while the children gawped and pointed at the glittering trophies the riders wore. Faisr nodded respectfully to the elders he met along the way, guiding the procession unerringly down the close-set lanes. Each tribe’s place in the settlement was determined by its status and relative strength, with the most prominent tribes closest to the gathering tent at the centre of the camp.
There had been many gatherings since Alcadizzar had joined Faisr’s band, but this was the first that he had ever been permitted to attend. The prince studied every detail of the great camp, trying to gauge the power and prosperity of the tribes. He knew from Faisr that there were nearly two-score tribes of varying size living on the great plain, moving constantly to confuse would-be enemies of their size and strength. Here, Alcadizzar counted tents, jugs of water and loaves of bread being laid out for the morning meal. He then weighed that against the number of horses grazing the fields below to separate the women and children from the fighting men. Even by a conservative estimate, the numbers surprised him. There weren’t hundreds, but thousands of them—a force to be reckoned with, in the right hands.
There was still much about the tribes that he did not know. Though he was Faisr’s most valued lieutenant, the chieftain was careful to keep tribal business and tradition to himself. For all of his contributions to the welfare of the tribe, Alcadizzar had remained an outsider.
Not that the past decades had been a total loss. The tribesmen were wary about their own politics, but made free with news about the Lahmians. The atmosphere within the city grew more nightmarish and oppressive with each passing year. More and more citizens were disappearing in the night and all manner of outlandish stories were being told in the wine houses. It wasn’t enough to stay off the streets after sunset; now people were being taken right from their very homes, never to be seen again. Only the aristocracy seemed to be safe, which naturally fomented all sorts of suspicious rumours in the poorer quarters of the city.
The plague of disappearances had grown so severe that it was even having repercussions on Lahmia’s economy. Fewer and fewer caravans made the journey to the city each year, and those that did rarely stayed for long. The slums were emptying out as well, depriving the docks of their labour force. The exodus had grown so severe that the government was now imposing a substantial “departure tax” on citizens attempting to leave the city for any reason. Once the greatest city in Nehekhara, now Lahmia’s citizens lived as virtual prisoners within its walls.
The reign of terror that gripped Lahmia hadn’t gone unnoticed by the other great cities, of course, but a few chilling stories and the misery of the common folk weren’t enough to provoke the other kings to war. Neferata’s puppet rulers managed the dance of trade and diplomacy as well as ever, playing the other cities against one another and keeping them too off-balance to risk an open confrontation with Lahmia. Alcadizzar kept in regular contact with his brother, apprising King Asar of everything he learned about the goings-on inside the city, but the word from Rasetra was always the same: give me evidence.
Slipping inside the city now would be dangerous in the extreme; escaping Lahmia with damning evidence of Neferata’s crimes would be nearly impossible. Alcadizzar knew that the desert tribes had ways of getting word to and from their kinfolk within the city walls, but such secrets were not shared with outsiders.
That would change tonight, Alcadizzar vowed to himself.
True to Faisr’s word, the tribe had a spot reserved for them: a great square of sunlit hill-slope just north and east of a vast meeting tent of dark blue linen. In keeping with tradition, Faisr and his warriors ringed the open space and remained in their saddles while the tribe’s women and children dismounted and unpacked the tents. In less than an hour, the first tent poles were going up, and the thudding of wooden mallets filled the air. Faisr’s tent went up first, followed by those of his lieutenants, and then the rest of the tribe. Finally, the ani mukta, the oldest mother of the tribe, called out that the camp was ready and the desert warriors eagerly dismounted.
By that point, a crowd of men from the other tribes had gathered around the bani-al-Hashim, standing a polite distance outside the perimeter of horsemen and shouting greetings and friendly jibes to Faisr’s men. When the old mother dismissed the menfolk a cheer
went up from the crowd; the tribesmen came forwards to embrace Faisr and his kinfolk, and the celebrations began in earnest.
The tribesmen spent the rest of the day outside the sprawling camp, lounging on ancient rugs down by the grazing herds. Faisr and the other tribal chiefs shared bulging skins of date wine and chanouri, and boasted of the daring raids they’d made against the city dwellers over the last few months. Boys and girls were sent down to the herds to fetch horses for the men to admire and haggle over, while young maidens came and went bearing platters of flatbread, cheese and olives. Laughter and rude jokes filled the air. Men had their best horses brought up from the herds and soon the ground shook with the pounding of hooves as they raced back and forth across the slope. Cups of dice were produced and bags of finger bones, and fortunes were gained and lost. Alcadizzar kept to a corner of the vast rug laid out for Faisr and his personal guests and sipped sparingly from a small skin of wine. He pretended to admire the new horses born to the tribal chiefs and offered a cheer or two when one of the bani-al-Hashim took part in a race, but mostly he sat back and observed the people around him.
Alcadizzar noted that most of the chiefs drank little and gambled not at all. Though they talked and joked as raucously as their warriors, their dark eyes were keen and wary. They studied the herds of their peers, gauging their strengths and weaknesses. Alliances were made over the purchase of colts, or the arrangement of breeding rights. Lesser chiefs came and went, kneeling and kissing the rough hem of the ancient rugs before they sat beside their betters. Perhaps half a dozen younger chieftains sat around the edge of Faisr’s rug, enjoying his hospitality and offering him gifts of friendship. By comparison, the rug next to Faisr’s belonged to Bashir al-Rukhba, currently the richest and most powerful of the desert chiefs. There were more than a dozen men crowding one another upon the great rug, each one vying for the great chieftain’s attention. Bashir sat in the centre of it all with a look of mild agitation on his bearded face. When he tired of someone’s presence he waved a hand at one of his three lieutenants, who shooed the lesser chieftain away like a mother would chase off an especially stubborn crow.
By the end of the day, Alcadizzar knew several important things. Firstly, that Faisr al-Hashim, while admired by the younger chiefs, had little in the way of political influence among the tribes. Bashir, whom Alcadizzar knew by reputation to have once been a formidable raider, held sway over the others by virtue of the size of his retinue and the wealth he’d painstakingly acquired. Also, judging by the way Bashir studiously ignored Faisr during the afternoon, it was apparent that there was little love lost between the two men. If the state of affairs troubled Faisr at all, he was careful not to show it.
Finally, as the sun began to settle to the west, a stir went through the assembled warriors. Alcadizzar straightened, just as the lesser chiefs all rose in a great flock and took their leave of Bashir, Faisr and the rest of the great chieftains. The prince looked about, frowning in bemusement—and then saw the dark-robed figure approaching the rug of Bashir al-Rukhba.
The man was tall, and moved with strength and purpose. He was clad in black desert robes, shot through with golden thread that shimmered in the mellowing sunlight. He carried no weapons, which surprised Alcadizzar, for that was a badge of manhood among the tribes. What was more, his face was covered, but not in a conventional fashion. His headscarf had been wrapped loosely about his head to form a kind of hood, and a thin veil of black silk covered his entire face. In his hands, he carried a large, ornate goblet made of gold. The sight of it stirred memories that made the prince’s hair stand on end. He caught himself just before his hand closed on the hilt of his sword and forced himself to relax.
Alcadizzar glanced over at Faisr. When he’d caught the young chieftain’s eye, he whispered, “Who is that?”
The lesser chieftains stared at Alcadizzar as though he were a fool. Faisr scowled. “The chosen of Khsar, the Hungry God. He serves the Daughter of the Sands.”
“Who?”
Faisr waved his hand in agitation. “Hush!” he warned, and said no more.
The chosen man made no obeisance to Bashir; rather, he stood at the edge of the chieftain’s rug and the great chief came to him, edging his way across the ancient mat. He bowed deeply, touching his forehead to the hem of the rug and the hooded man bent, offering his cup. Bashir straightened, accepting the goblet and taking a small sip of its contents. As he did, the chosen one murmured something and the great chief nodded in return.
Then it was Faisr’s turn. The hooded man approached and Alcadizzar’s chieftain edged forwards. He bowed and accepted the goblet, and the priest spoke softly to him. The words were in the tongue of the desert people, too soft for the prince to make out. Faisr nodded, and murmured a short reply. For a moment, Alcadizzar felt the weight of the chosen one’s stare, and then he moved on to the next chieftain in line.
Faisr rose without a word and his lieutenants followed suit. Alcadizzar’s head swam with questions, but he knew that this was neither the time nor the place to ask them. Bashir and his retinue were already heading back up the slope towards the settlement; the day’s festivities were clearly at an end.
Alcadizzar fell in beside Faisr. After they’d walked for a bit, the prince turned to the chieftain. “What happens now?” he asked quietly.
Faisr grinned. Despite having drunk his weight in spirits, his steps were swift and sure. “We prepare for the gathering. Then the fun really begins.”
Alcadizzar nodded. He jerked his chin at Bashir, who was striding among his retinue some way ahead. “He doesn’t like you very much.”
“You noticed?”
“He wasn’t exactly subtle,” Alcadizzar replied. “Will he be a problem?”
Faisr chuckled grimly. “Oh, yes,” he said. “You may count upon it. Don’t take it too personally, though; he just wants to try and keep me in my place.”
“He’s going to try to have me killed. How do I not take that personally?”
Faisr laughed and clapped the prince on the shoulder. “This is a world of suffering and strife, my friend. Death surrounds us every day. Would you rather be known as a man who died choking on a olive pit, or one who perished at the hand of an assassin, struck down by the order of Bashir al-Rukhba?”
Alcadizzar frowned. “I would rather be known as a man who lived a long and happy life, surrounded by his wife and children in a richly-furnished mansion.”
The desert chieftain sighed. “You city dwellers,” he said, shaking his head bemusedly, “have some strange notions about life.”
They dressed in their finest robes for the gathering of chiefs. Faisr gifted Alcadizzar with new garments of fine, white linen, and an over-robe of midnight-blue silk plundered during a raid a few months earlier. Outside, darkness settled over the tents, and in the distance, groups of young girls paced the perimeter of the camp on horseback, shaking silver bells and singing to the face of the rising moon to keep the evils of the night at bay.
Faisr raised a warning hand as Alcadizzar reached for his sword. “We carry no weapons,” he said solemnly. “You may wear a dagger, to cut meat or settle the odd quarrel, but nothing more. If you need a blade later, we’ll send for it.”
Alcadizzar swallowed his misgivings and nodded, tucking his jewelled knife into his belt. He straightened, and Faisr studied him intently for a moment, making certain that nothing was amiss. The chieftain nodded. “It will serve,” he declared, then his expression turned grave. “I must ask, are you certain you wish to proceed? There is no shame in withdrawing at this point. You can stay here in the tent until the end of the gathering, and tomorrow things will be no different between us.”
The prince sighed. He wanted to tell Faisr that there was nothing the chiefs could do to him that was any worse than what he’d endured in the gardens of the Temple of Blood. Instead, he waved impatiently at the tent flap. “Lead on.”
Faisr bowed, favouring Alcadizzar with a dazzling smile. “As you wish, my friend.”
It felt more like home to him than any palace or mansion ever had.
The gathering tent loomed large in the darkness. Two smaller tents had been pitched to either side of its single entrance, flaps drawn back on all four sides and lashed down in “caravan fashion”, so those within had a clear field of view in every direction. Rugs had been laid down in each, and small braziers had been lit to keep the night’s chill at bay. Nearly a score of tribesmen took their ease beneath the tents, sampling platters of food and drinking wine offered to them by demure maidens. More desert warriors milled about in small groups outside, speaking to one another in low tones. They all turned and bowed their heads in respect as Faisr went by.
“Wait here for a time,” the desert chieftain said, indicating the caravan tent to his right. “Eat and drink, or don’t, as it suits you. Once the business of the night is done, I’ll send for you.” Without waiting for a reply, Faisr ducked his head and stepped inside the gathering tent.
Alcadizzar watched Faisr disappear from sight and suppressed a sigh of irritation. The desert gatherings apparently shared one thing in common with the courts of Nehekhara; both involved a lot of sitting around and waiting. Scowling, he found a clear patch of rug inside the tent and settled upon it. A young girl edged towards him at once, holding out a bowl of sour-smelling chanouri. The prince held up a hand so the girl wouldn’t see him wince. “Perhaps a bit of watered wine?” he asked.
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