by Glen Cook
"Even our stonemasons wanted to see the old Imperial provinces. Could I force them to stay when they wanted to carry the Truth to the infidel?"
"They didn't care about the truth, Papa. They just thought stealing from foreigners was easier than working."
El Murid nodded. The Host of Illumination was fat with men whose skills could be better utilized at home. A black, rigid moment of fear enfolded him in cold tentacles. Hammad al Nakir boasted few skilled artisans. A military disaster could destroy the class and shove the nation a long step back toward barbarism. The centuries had not changed his people enough. They still preferred plundering to building.
He altered the course of the conversation. "What I need more than a respite from bickering is water. Millions of gallons of water."
"What?" Yasmid had been about to suggest that he have Nassef send captured artisans to replace native craftsmen gone to war.
"Water. That's the biggest thing we lost when the Empire fell. I don't know how... Maybe only Varthlokkur himself could bring back the rains."
Sidi showed some interest, so he forged ahead. "The soil is fertile enough some places. But there isn't any water. And because of that there's so little vegetation that what rain does fall just runs away... You see, in Imperial times they cut most of the wild trees for lumber and firewood. Then the barbarians came. Some places they plowed salt into the earth. Some places their cattle and sheep stripped the land. And then the wizard Varthlokkur stopped the rains... "
Yasmid considered him with a half-amused smile. "What have you been doing, Papa? Going to school on the sly?"
"No, reading some studies done by the foreigner, Radetic. I discovered them after we took Al Rhemish. It's curious. Yousif shared a lot of my goals."
"Haven't you always said that the minions of the Evil One sometimes do the Lord's work unwittingly?"
"And it's true. But don't breathe a word of this. I'm going to adopt the foreigner's ideas. Once the Empire is resurrected and we have the people to do the work. Radetic believed the old lushness could be restored, though it would take three or four generations to get the life-river turned into the new channel. That made him despair. But I like it. I've got to give the Chosen distant goals. Otherwise the Kingdom of Peace will lapse into its old bickering ways."
"You never mentioned this before."
El Murid leaned against the memorial's base and gazed across the valley. He tried to imagine how it had looked in old times. There had been a shallow lake. The Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines had stood on a low, man-made island. The slopes surrounding the lake had boasted rich citrus groves.
Barbarian invaders had cut the trees for firewood.
"It used to be too far away to even dream. Now there's at least a chance. One of these days... Well, it all depends on your uncle. If he wins the war... Then we can start."
He looked at the barren valley. For an instant he saw the beauty that had been, and might again be.
"We could bring the water from the Kapenrung Mountains. There're still traces of the old canals... But enough of that." He turned, knelt, prayed for Meryem's soul. Yasmid and his son joined him, Sidi reluctantly. When he rose, he said, "Let's go jump into the witch's cauldron and see what silliness they're up to today."
Yasmid wore an awed look as she followed her father. She had seen a whole new facet of a man. Her father had depths she had never suspected.
A morning of unpromising beginnings was becoming a cheerful day for the Disciple. He had revealed his most secret dream and no one had laughed. Even unimaginative Sidi had grasped the grandeur of the vision. Maybe, just maybe, he could get through the day without Esmat.
He discovered that Mowaffak Hali had rushed home from the war zone.
"I'm seeing you first because I know your business must be serious, Mowaffak. What is it?"
"Two things, Lord. The least important is that we've lost track of the pretender, Haroun bin Yousif. He's gone underground since the attack in Tamerice. He's contacted only a few rebel leaders, and he no longer haunts the courts of the Lesser Kingdoms. Our agents can't find him."
"Time will deliver him to us. What else?"
"A grave development. I got this from my man in the Scourge of God's staff, who overheard one of your brother-in-law's spies reporting. The Itaskians and their allies have decided not to wait for us to come to them. They're sending an army south. They've chosen the Duke of Greyfells to command it. He's a cousin of the Itaskian king, and reportedly a good soldier."
"That's a pity, Mowaffak. I'd hoped we could finish in the south before we had to deal with Itaskia."
"It's the strongest of our foes, Lord. And the richest. And probably has the best leaders. And they'll have Iwa Skolovda, Dvar, and Prost Kamenets supporting them. The Scourge of God will face tough going north of the Scarlotti."
"Maybe. But I know Nassef. If I were a sinful man and laid wagers, I'd bet that he planned for this before he crossed the Sahel."
"I hope so, Lord. The sheer weight of our enemies intimidates me."
The remark echoed El Murid's fears. He wished he could share them with Hali, but dared not. His absolute assurance made the Invincibles what they were. Doubt would destroy them.
"Let's hope all our friends feel the pressure, Mowaffak. The movement is stumbling over its own success. Spread the news."
"As you command, Lord." Hali's tone betrayed doubts. "Can the Invincibles do something to stem this threat, Lord?"
"Study this Duke, Mowaffak. How competent is he? Would his army survive without him? Who would replace him? How competent is that man? You understand?"
"Completely, Lord. Politics being what they are, his replacement might be a bungler."
"Exactly. Oh. While you're here. I need your advice concerning el Nadim's eastern army."
"Lord?"
"He's gone over the Scourge of God's head. Appealed to me for permission to give up trying to force the Savernake Gap. Yet Nassef told me that maintaining the breakthrough threat is vital."
"What's el Nadim's problem?"
"He claims his enemies are decimating him with sorcery. That his Throyen levies are ready to revolt. They make up most of his army and think we're getting them killed just to be rid of them."
"That's not impossible, Lord. The Scourge of God is using native auxiliaries in the west. I've seen him allow them to take a merciless beating. But I agree when he says we need the eastern threat. It forces the enemy into a static strategy that leaves us the initiative. Once Kavelin and Altea fall, it won't matter. I can muster a few companies of Invincibles and send them east. They'd give el Nadim more backbone."
"And flexibility, I'd think. He hasn't been one of our more imaginative generals."
"Perhaps not. But he's reliable. He'll carry out his orders if they kill him. And he's our only sectarian leader who is a true believer. He came to it late, after he became one of Nassef's henchmen, and I think it's why he drew the remote assignment. The Scourge of God doesn't want him watching over his shoulder anymore."
"You're politicking, Mowaffak."
"Lord!" Hali grinned. "So I am, in my way. I guess it's part of being human."
"Probably. We don't always realize what we're doing. It's the blatant, premeditated backstabbing that aggravates me. Send those companies to el Nadim."
"As you command, Lord."
"Tell Yassir he can start sending in the whiners and complainers."
The following month was a good one. The occupied territories grew more pacified. The conquest of the Lesser Kingdoms proceeded inexorably, though Nassef had given Karim a minimum of warriors with whom to accomplish the task. The Scarlotti fords and ferries, as far east as Altea's western frontier, had been closed. Nassef crossed the river above Dunno Scuttari and completed that city's encirclement. He was achieving objectives ahead of schedule. Even el Nadim's troubles were no cause for despair. His success or failure remained peripheral to Nassef's strategy. Only his presence was essential.
Then El Murid received the let
ter from his brother-in-law.
"Yasmid. Sidi. Come hear what your uncle has to say." He scanned the letter twice more. "He wants us to come accept the surrender of Dunno Scuttari. He says it won't be long."
"Papa, let's go!" Yasmid enthused. "Please? Say we can! I want to see the west. And think what it would mean to the warriors to see you there with them."
He laughed. "It would be dangerous, Yasmid."
"We could pretend we were somebody else. Somebody who isn't important."
"Salt merchants," Sidi proposed.
"Salt merchants are important," El Murid protested, going along for the fun. His father had been a salt merchant.
"Sure, Papa. Salt merchants," Yasmid said. "You know all about that. We could make your bodyguards dress like merchants and ride camels."
"They'd still look like thugs."
"But... "
"That's enough. Your uncle hasn't taken the city, and I don't think he can. He hasn't been any trouble for Hellin Daimiel, and that should be an easier nut. We'll wait and see."
"Papa, he's just saving Hellin Daimiel for later."
"We'll wait and see. Remember, there's an Itaskian army to worry about now. We don't know what they'll do."
Yasmid smiled. She had the battle halfway won.
El Murid assumed a wry smile. He knew what she was thinking. He decided he was a weak-spined fool. He had so much trouble denying his children anything.
A grave Esmat approached him eleven days later.
"What is it, Esmat? You look grey."
The physician gulped. "Lord, the courier from Ipopotam hasn't arrived. He's four days overdue."
A chill climbed El Murid's spine. "How much of the pain-killer do we have?" He could not bring himself to call the opiate anything else.
"Perhaps enough for two months, Lord. It depends on the size and frequency of the dosages."
Which depends on how much pressure I have to endure, El Murid thought. "Then the failure of one courier doesn't much matter, does it? If you're afraid your stock will be depleted, send another man. Or double the next regular purchase."
"I intend doing both, Lord. If nothing else, that will answer the critical question."
"Question? What question?"
"Whether or not our enemies have discovered our need and begun intercepting our couriers."
This time the chill grated like the progress of a glacier. "Esmat... Is that possible?"
"All things are possible, Lord. And this's a fear I've carried for several years. We've reached the point where the drug's withdrawal would leave the movement without a head for some time. It might take months to overcome the withdrawal pains."
"Is it bad, Esmat?" he asked softly.
"Extremely, Lord."
"Esmat, do whatever you have to. Secure the supply. This is a critical hour. I don't dare become ineffective. You should have mentioned our vulnerability before."
"Perhaps. I did not wish to offend... "
"It's too late to take offense. The drug comes from a plant, does it not? A poppy? Can we grow our own?"
"I'm no horticulturist, Lord. And they have a monopoly. They guard seeds and fields... "
"Can they guard themselves against the Host of Illumination?"
"Of course not. But we have treaties of friendship. Our word of honor would be destroyed... We negotiated them specifically to insure our access to the drug. They might burn the fields if they thought that was why we were invading."
"Nassef negotiated those instruments before we went to war. Does that mean he knows?"
"Many people know, Lord. It's not something that can be kept secret long."
El Murid bowed his head, half in shame, half in fear. "Do what you can. And I'll do what I have to."
"As you command, Lord.”
Chapter Nine:
THE ITASKIANS
Haroun took his leave of Mocker and Gouch in northern Cardine, just east of that kingdom's frontier with the domains of Dunno Scuttari. "The patrols are thick," he warned. "Take care."
Mocker laughed. "Self, will be so circumspect that even eye of lofty eagle will not detect same. Am valiant fighter, true, able to best whole company in combat, but am uncertain of ability against whole army. Even with stalwart Gouch at back."
Bin Yousif had observed the fat man in action the day before, when they had stumbled into one of Nassef's patrols. Sparen had taught him superbly. Mocker's quickness, deftness, and endurance with a blade were preternatural. He was a swordsman born.
"Gouch, keep him out of trouble."
"I will, Mister. He'll be so good you won't even know him."
"Don't let him con you out of the cash." He had given the big man some expense money.
"Don't you worry, Mister. I know him. I watched him when he worked for Mister Sparen. We'll do this job, then come back for the next one."
There was a simple assurance about Gouch that Haroun found both charming and disturbing. Megelin had taught him to see the world as a slippery serpent, changeable, colored in shades of untrustworthiness. Gouch's naive worldview was the antithesis of Radetic's.
"I think you will. Good luck." He turned his back on them and the donkey, strolled to his mount and companions.
"You think they'll do it?" Beloul asked.
Haroun glanced back. The two were waddling south already. The fat man walked that way because of his obesity, Gouch because of his still tender injuries.
"Who knows? If they don't, we're not out anything."
"So. Northward we ride," Beloul mused. "You're sure they'll be waiting across the river?"
He meant the Royalist army, which was supposed to have assembled in Vorhangs, the little kingdom across the Scarlotti. Haroun guessed between one and two thousand men would answer his call to arms.
He hoped, by employing them judiciously in support of the western armies, to make them a bargaining counter in his negotiations for aid in recovering the Peacock Throne.
"We'll find out, Beloul."
A few hours later, as they considered how to cross the Scarlotti, a messenger overtook them. "Lord," he gasped, "the Scourge of God has crossed the river."
"What?" Beloul demanded. "When? Where?"
"Just upriver of Dunno Scuttari. They started sending boats over four days ago. Took the Scuttarians by surprise. He has twenty thousand men on the north bank now."
"He's crazy," Beloul growled. "He's still vulnerable from the Lesser Kingdoms, and the Itaskians will be coming down behind him."
"No, he's not," Haroun countered. "Call El Murid crazy if you want, but not Nassef. He's got a reason if he sneezes."
"The risk is all on the north bank," el Senoussi remarked. "Nobody on this side can challenge him. We'd better find out what he's up to."
"Yes." Haroun told the messenger, "Go back to your company. Tell your captain to find out what Nassef is doing. Tell him to send word to me at the camp in Kendel."
"Kendel?" el Senoussi asked. "We're going that far north?"
"I asked the Itaskian general to meet me. The Kendel camp isn't far out of his way. Somebody trade horses with this man. His won't survive the return trip."
"Thank you, Lord," the messenger said. "Will you take care of her? She's a good animal."
"Of course."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Beloul asked once the messenger departed. "How long before the Harish get wind of your whereabouts now?"
"You think they'd venture that far from home?"
"To the ends of the earth, Lord, if El Murid willed it."
"I guess they would. Guard my back well, then."
They crossed the Scarlotti during the night, the hard way. Still dripping, exhausted, they joined their warriors in the morning.
Haroun was not impressed by his army. It was a ragged mob compared to that his father had commanded. These men had just one outstanding quality: they were survivors.
"Can you do anything with them?" he asked Beloul.
"Of course. Most were soldiers at home. They're stil
l soldiers. They just don't look pretty."
"They look like bandits."
Beloul shrugged. "I'll try to shape them up."
Haroun allowed a day of rest, then led his bedraggled host northward.
The warriors griped. Most had made long journeys south to the meeting place. The biggest refugee camps had attached themselves to the skirts of cities seemingly safe from the Scourge of God.
It took a week of hard riding to reach the Kendel encampment. Twice they were mistaken for Nassef's men and narrowly avoided fighting allies. Nassef had the peoples between the Scarlotti and Porthune spooked.
Haroun reached the camp only to discover that the Itaskian Duke had not responded to his request for a meeting. Yet the combined northern armies were amarch, moving south in small stages, and the main body was just forty miles from the encampment.
"He don't seem eager to make Nassef's acquaintance," Beloul observed. "Even the biggest, heaviest army can move faster than that."
"I smell the corruption of politics on this breeze, Beloul. It stinks like an old, old corpse."
"We'll have to make a showing for the men. It's a pity we came so far for nothing."
"We will. Tomorrow I'll go to him."
"Lord?"
"Let's inspect this camp, Beloul. People ought to know we care."
He had seen more than he wanted already. These people were living in the most primitive conditions imaginable. Their homes consisted of stick piles that did nothing but block the sun's rays.
"This will be a death camp come winter, Beloul. This isn't Hammad al Nakir. The winters get cold. These people will freeze. What happened to that Gamil Meguid who's supposed to be in charge?"
"He disappeared right after we got here."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"Keep an eye on him."
"I mean to. Wait. I think that's him. With the foreigner."
Meguid was a small, fussy sort from western Hammad al Nakir. He and el Senoussi were old acquaintances. His hands fluttered when he talked, and his left cheek twitched constantly. He was overawed by his king's presence.
