by Glen Cook
He let his senses dwell on the fat youth.
Hewas the source of the wrongness.
He's insane if he thinks he can get away with murder here, Haroun thought. He grabbed that notion, turned it over to look at its belly side.
The fat youth was no Harish crazy. Haroun sensed that quickly. He was up to something else.
Haroun's curiosity rose. He allowed himself to be stalked.
He had seen the fat man earlier. He was one of the carnival performers. He did a good, if sometimes confusing, job of entertaining.
The fat youth was quick and deft. Haroun did not miss his purse for half a minute.
An instant's distraction was all it took, that one brief moment when the sword swallower breathed fire and Haroun was trying to puzzle out the mechanics of the trick.
He whirled when the realization hit him.
The fat youth was gone.
Bin Yousif smiled grimly. This thief was good, but he was a fool.
Haroun loosened his weapons and strolled toward the tent behind the booth where the fat youth had performed earlier.
Coins clinked inside the tent.
Haroun peeped through a tear. The youth was counting and grinning. His back was to the entrance.
Doubly a fool, Haroun thought. He entered the tent with the stealth of a ferret. He waited with his dagger bare.
The youth suddenly sensed his presence. He whirled, trying to rise.
Haroun's dagger pricked his throat. "Down!"
He plopped. Haroun thrust out a palm. His eyes were cold and hard and merciless. The fat youth's were frightened and calculating. "My money." Haroun's voice was soft and dangerous.
The thief started to say something, thought better of it. He handed Haroun his purse.
"The rest." He had seen the gold piece disappear. The youth was good, but he knew the tricks too. "Good. Now tell me why I shouldn't have you hung."
The youth began twitching.
So did Haroun's hand. His dagger pricked a dark throat again. "I was trained in the Power. You can't move fast enough to surprise me."
The youth stared at him.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No."
"Haroun bin Yousif."
The thief frowned, puzzled. Then, "Same being called King Without Throne?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"So you picked the wrong man. Lard Bottom. I could have you dangling from a royal gallows. But it's just occurred to me that that might be a waste. In my country we learn not to waste anything. I've just gotten the notion that you might be useful. If we could control your thievery."
"Same old song. Am foolishest of fools. Will never learn." The fat youth crossed his legs and folded his arms. "Self, am utterly indifferent to politics."
"The dagger rests in my hand, Tubby. That should make you a little concerned. Your choice is to work or hang. I'll pay you for the work if you do any good." He had been sculpting an odd-shaped little intrigue in the back of his mind for several months. This fat man with the unusual skills might be the character to execute it.
If he failed, so what? The world would be rid of a bandit.
Calculation flickered across the thief's face. He seemed to be thinking of agreeing for the moment so he could run later. Haroun smiled gently.
"Ten seconds. Then I'm leaving. With you, or to call the law."
"Woe!" the fat man cried. "Is infamous riddle of rock and hard place. Am bestruckt by horny dilemma. Am in narrow passage, between devil and deep. Am beset by quandary of epical dimension. Am driven to deepest depths of desperate, despairing desperation... "
"Huh?" Haroun became confused by the verbal pyrotechnics. "Time's running out, Tubby."
"So much for tactic of bogglement and bewilderment. Only one course remaining: last refuge of mentally disadvantaged. Reason. Hai! Lord! Is impossible for self to leave carnival. Am partner in same. Junior partner, very, under closest scrutiny of baleful eye of paranoid senior partner, Damo Sparen, and incorruptible, house-size thug name of Gouch."
"Can't say I blame him. You travelling or hanging?"
"Hai! Lord! Have mercy. Am but humble fool... "
"Pull that knife and you'll be a humble fool with a hole in his windpipe."
"Woe," the youth muttered. "Stars promised evil day. Should have paid attention." He got to his feet slowly. Haroun offered no help. "Will need several minutes to collect accoutrements."
"I'm not buying a baggage train."
"Self, am accustomed to company of certain tools. Am professional, not so? Carpenterses, same need hammers, saws... "
"Hurry it up."
The fat man was gaining confidence. He saw that Haroun was reluctant to strike. "Show some manners, sand rat. Self, am in tight place, maybeso, but can yell and have whole carnival here in minute."
"Including your redoubtable senior partner? How excited would he be about your thieving?"
"Same taught self gentle art." He did not put enough conviction into it to daunt Haroun.
"No doubt. Is that why he watches you?"
The youth shrugged, started packing. "Has strange moments, Damo Sparen. Self, cannot understand same. Is like father sometimes, maybeso, and sometimes like jailor."
"All fathers are that way. What's your name? I can't call you Tubby forever."
"Is all same. Am Magellin the Magician here, sometimes."
Haroun started slightly. "I had a good friend named Megelin. They're too much alike. Try something else."
"Am known to self as Mocker. Same being from inconsequential incident long time passing, in nethermost east, before circumstance brought self on quest to west."
"Quest? And you ended up in a sideshow?"
Mocker chuckled weakly. "Self, must remember conversant is aspirant king. Must select words more precisionly, same being subject to interpretation by noble standard. Not knight's quest. Not holy quest. Simple search for place where enemy blades could not reach."
"Oh?" Haroun thumbed the edge of his knife. "Then you have a habit of making stupid mistakes."
Mocker caught the lilt of danger dancing along the edges of Haroun's words. "Not so! Have turned over new leaf. Have finally learned lesson. Present trap being otherwise impossible to escape, have seen light illuminating great truth heretofore eluding humble, foolish self. Truth is: is nothing free. When same seems in reach, then duck head. Fates are laying trap."
"I hope you learned. But you look too old to teach. How long does it take to stuff that junk in a bag?"
Mocker was stalling while trying to decide if he should yell for help. They both knew it. "Junk?" Mocker wailed. "Lord... "
He looked at Haroun. The thin, leathery-skinned youth did not appear nervous. His self-confidence was too much for Mocker. He jerked his bag shut. "Is enough to get by. Sparen will care for rest. Now, must leave note for same, in explanation, or same will set hound Gouch on trail. Woe be unto man with Gouch for enemy."
"You read and write?"
Mocker held up fingers in alittle bit sign. "Same skill being courtesy of cruel taskmaster, senior partner. Teaching, teaching. Always is teaching. Everythings."
"Do it quick. Make it good. And honest. You won't be back in a half hour to tear it up." Haroun could commiserate with the fat youth. How Radetic had driven him in his reading, writing, and language lessons!
Mocker was cunning enough not to assume that his captor was illiterate. He wrote a simple parting note saying that he would return in a few days. He had chanced on an opportunity to profit from the confusion along the border. He wrote in the language of Hellin Daimiel, which was thelingua franca of the Lesser Kingdoms, and Haroun's best foreign language.
"Is there anything else?" Haroun demanded.
"Donkey, that is oldest friend of self. Is in corral."
"You lead. I'll be a step behind you." He shook his head, muttering. "Might have known. Best friends with a jackass." He let Mocker leave before sheathing his dagger.
Two men were waiting o
utside. Mocker stood there with his mouth open, speechless. He seemed caught in the gap between relief and fear.
"What's this?" Haroun demanded.
Mocker found his tongue. "Sparen. Gouch."
Haroun had no trouble guessing which was which. Gouch would be the mountain of beef blocking their way past the performance booth. "Move this creature," he told the smaller man, who was seated on a crate.
"Where're you going, Mocker?" Sparen asked. He ignored Haroun. "Would you be taking anything with you?"
"Donkey... "
Haroun pushed past the fat youth. "Move it," he told Gouch.
Gouch seemed to be deaf. Sparen said, "I wasn't talking to you, boy."
"I have spoken twice. I won't speak again."
Sparen's irritation showed. "You've got a mouth, boy. Gouch, shut him up."
Gouch moved quicker than a snake striking
Haroun moved faster. He cut the big man three times, not too badly.
Mocker tried to run. Haroun tripped him, wheeled on Sparen. "I'd guess Gouch is a valuable property. Move him or lose him."
"You have a point. Gouch, step back. I'll handle this myself."
Haroun took Mocker's elbow, started forward.
"I didn't say you could go, boy," Sparen said. "I just decided to kill you myself."
"Take care, Damo," Mocker said. "Is trained in Power."
"Isn't everybody in this business?"
"Is slight and arrogant, but is one known as King Without Throne."
Sparen spat to one side. "Right. And I'm the Lost Prince of Libiannin."
Haroun took advantage of the diversion of the exchange to palm a blow-tube. He raised his hand, coughed.
Sparen saw it coming, but too late. He made one violent thrust, then collapsed. An expression of incredulity contorted his features.
Gouch and Mocker crowded Sparen. "What did you do?" Gouch demanded. He shook Sparen. "Mr. Sparen, wake up." The giant seemed unaware of his own wounds. "Tell me what to do, Mr. Sparen. Should I break them?"
"Come on," Haroun snarled, grabbing Mocker's shoulder. "The big guy's got this figured as your fault." He was thinking he would have to get a lot of use out of this Mocker to repay himself for all this trouble.
A little later, Mocker remarked, "Sparen was friend of self. Not very trusting friend, but best friend even so."
Haroun heard the gentle threat. He saw the promise of murder in his companion's eyes. "I didn't kill him. The dart was coated with a nerve poison that causes temporary paralysis. It comes from the jungles south of Hammad al Nakir. He'll be all right in a couple of hours, except for a headache and a bad temper."
He hoped. The drug was fatal about a quarter of the time.
The more Haroun observed his companion, the more he became sure Mocker would make a dangerous enemy. The fat and incurable optimism hid a lean, conscienceless killer.
They were halfway to el Senoussi's encampment, several days later, when they encountered the refugees. These were not desert-born fugitives from the wrath of the Disciple. They were natives fleeing El Murid's minions.
The El Murid Wars had begun, and troops of desert riders were in Tamerice already.
They gave Haroun a hold on the fat man.
There was no point continuing southward. He turned back, heading for a camp in Altea. Invincible patrols forced them into hiding several times.
North of Feagenbruch they came across the burned wagons of the Sparen carnival. Sparen himself was among the dead, but Gouch had survived. They found him, wounded, lying beneath a mound of desert warriors.
Mocker studied Sparen for a long time. "Was paranoid fool, sometimes, maybeso, this man. But was friend. In some way, even, was like father. There is blood now, Haroun bin Yousif. Same must be cleansed in blood. Self, am now interested in politics." He moved to Gouch. "Gouch. You. Big fellow. Get up. Is work to do."
Incredibly, Gouch rose out of his pile of victims.
"They slew both my fathers," Haroun whispered.
It would be a long time before Mocker understood that remark.
He soothed Gouch's tears and wounds and fears and listened while the King Without A Throne explained the part he could play in bringing about the downfall of the Disciple.
Chapter Eight:
THE LONELY CITY
Al Rhemish was a lonely city that first summer of the wars. All the Disciple's intimates had abandoned him for the excitement and loot of the west.
He often strolled the dusty streets with his children, having trouble accepting his fortune. He ached continuously in the vacuum left by Meryem's passing.
His loneliness grew as the victories mounted and the euphoria of the stay-at-homes transmogrified into a worshipful awe of the man who had dreamed the dream and made the turnaround possible.
"They're trying to makeme their God," he told his children. "And I can't seem to stop them."
"They already call you The Lord in Flesh some places," Yasmid told him. She not only had the boldness her mother had shown when young; she also possessed that adult self-assurance El Murid had developed after his first encounter with his angel. She seemed anold child, an adult looking out of a half-grown body. Even he was disturbed by her excessively grownup perceptions.
Sidi, on the other hand, threatened to remain an infant forever.
"I issue edicts. They ignore them. And the men I set to police heresies become the worst offenders." He was thinking of Mowaffak Hali. Mowaffak was smitten by the man-worshipping disease.
"People want something they can touch, Father. Something they can see. That's human nature."
"What do you think, Sidi?" The Disciple took every opportunity to include his son in everything. One day Yasmid would have to depend on her brother the way he depended on Nassef.
"I don't know." Sidi was surly. He did not give a damn about the Lord's work. The Evil One was in him. He was the antithesis of his sister in everything. He afflicted his father with a desperate pain.
El Murid had trouble handling his feelings toward Sidi. The boy had done nothing blatant. Yet. But the Disciple smelled wickedness in him, the way a camel smelled water. Sidi would be trouble one day, if not for his father, then for Yasmid when she became Disciple.
El Murid felt trapped between jaws of faith and family. Rather than deal with it, he was letting everything slide during the boy's formative years.
He prayed a lot. Each night he begged the Lord to channel Sidi's wickedness in useful directions, as He had done with Nassef. And he begged foregiveness for the continuous quiet anger he bore because of Meryem's untimely passing.
Yasmid had taken Meryem's place, becoming confidant and crying shoulder.
El Murid was strong in his faith, but could never still the lonely, frightened boy within him. That boy had to have someone...
"Papa, you should find another wife."
They were climbing the side of the bowl containing Al Rhemish. Twice weekly he made a hadj to the place where Meryem had fallen. The habit had become part of his legend.
"Your mother was my only love." He had faced this argument before, from Nassef and Mowaffak Hali.
"You don't have to love her like you did Mother. Everyone knows how you felt about her."
"You've been talking to Nassef."
"No. Does he think you should get married too?"
"Then Hali."
"No."
"Somebody. Honey, I know what you're going to say. I've heard it all before. I should wed a woman from the noble class in order to cement relations with the aristocracy. I have to gain their trust so our best people stop deserting to that child-king, Haroun."
"It's true. It would help."
"Maybe. But I don't compromise with the enemies of the Lord. I don't traffic with the damned, except to punish them for their wickedness."
"Papa, that'll cause trouble someday. You've got to give to get."
"It's caused trouble since the day I met your mother. And today I sit on the Peacock Throne, never having yielded.
You sound like your uncle again. You're talking politics. And politics disgust me."
Yasmid was not repeating something she had heard, but she did not tell him so. He had grown argumentative lately. Prolonged disagreement sent him into furies. "Politics is how people work things out," she said.
"It's how they scheme and maneuver to take advantage of each other."
The Lord was the center and source of all power, and El Murid was his spokesman on earth. He saw no need for any politics but the monolith with himself at its apex, giving commands the Chosen should execute without question.
That vision was his alone. A vicious new politics entered the movement the moment it achieved its initial goal. His captains fought like starving dogs for those crumbs of power which dribbled through his fingers. They savaged one another for the spoils of the new order. Hardly a day passed when he did not have to rule on some dispute over responsibility or precedence.
"They're more interested in themselves than in the movement. Even the old faithful are falling into the trap." He paused to order his thinking. "Maybe we were too successful too suddenly. After twelve years, victory just jumped into our hands. Now things are so good they don't have to stand shoulder to shoulder against the world."
He dreaded the chance that the intrigues and machinations would become habitual. That had happened to the Royalists. During their final years they had done little but accuse one another and indulge their private vices.
He felt impotent. Evil seeds were sprouting, and he could do little to stunt their growth. All the preaching in eternity could not save the man who refused to be saved.
El Murid had grown. He had begun to see the weaknesses in his movement, the potential for evil flanking every inch of the path of righteousness. He had begun to realize that the fall for the true believer could be swift and hard and, worse, unrecognized until too late.
The knowledge did nothing to banish the depression initiated by loneliness.
When he could stand it no more he always called for Esmat.
They reached the site of Meryem's fall.
"Will they ever finish?" Sidi asked, indicating the monument El Murid had ordered raised. A quarter had been completed. Unused stone stood in piles now falling into disordered heaps.
