by Glen Cook
"And Yasmid?"
"The facts aren't clear. A rider brought the news. He was too near death to tell us much. He had ridden too hard with wounds too grave. El-Kader moved your children into Hammad al Nakir lest his confrontation with the north went wrong. Invincibles guarded them. How they failed I don't know. Someone got to your daughter. My brethren who survived the attack are in pursuit."
"That's not very clear, Mowaffak."
"I know, Lord. Yet it's the sum of my knowledge to the moment."
"Are these heathens pacified?"
Hali smiled thinly. "The survivors are behaving themselves, Lord."
"Then I'll get out of your hair. I'm returning north. I leave you and Ipopotam to one another. Decide how many men you need here. Keep as few as you can. El-Kader will need all the help he can get. Mowaffak?"
"Lord?"
"Leave me now. I need to be alone."
"As you command, Lord."
Hali paused at the door, considering the man he loved more than life itself. El Murid sat hunched as if in extreme pain, staring into the gentle glow of the amulet of his wrist. There were tears in his eyes, but his expression remained unreadable. Mowaffak guessed that he was wondering if the game were worth the candle.
He shook his head sadly. His prophet had sacrificed almost everything for the movement. What was left to give? Just himself and that brat, Sidi, who ought to be put out of his misery anyway.
Hali's heart hardened. Heads were going to roll over the Lady Yasmid's disappearance. There was no excuse for so grotesque a lapse of trust.
He ran into Esmat a moment later. "Good morning, Doctor. Give me a boon, will you? Tend our Lord. He's had a terrible shock."
Esmat watched the Invincible depart. He was astonished. Hali never had a kind word... Something was bad wrong. He rushed to the Disciple's side.
El Murid departed Ipopotam two days later. He rode northward as hard as his old injuries would permit.
Rumor said the Altean Guildsmen carried Nassef's head on a pike, as a battle standard. Elsewhere the Guild seemed to have disappeared, but that band in the outbacks kept reminding everyone that their brotherhood was fighting its own private war.
What a cruel end for Nassef... Would his niece join him in the arms of the Dark Lady? Had she done so already?
He would unleash the whole might of Hammad al Nakir if she were still alive.
But the power of the desert might have no meaning now. Its controlling genius was gone. Who could replace the Scourge of God?
El Murid snorted, deriding himself. At least he would not have to worry about treachery, betrayal or faithlessness anymore. He had no more need to worry about what he would dowith Nassef, only what he would do without him.
Who would win the impossible victories? Who would give him the Al Rhemishs and Dunno Scuttaris of tomorrow? Who would recover the provinces north of the Scarlotti?
"Lord!" one of his lieutenants shouted. "A rider from the north! My God, Lord, el-Kader's done it! He's destroyed the northern army!"
"Is it true?" El Murid demanded.
"Absolutely, Lord! The message bore the seal of el-Kader himself."
"Find bin Gamel. Tell him to halt the army. We give praise to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all victories flow."
He was astounded. El-Kader? Victorious? The man was but the shadow of Nassef, a crony, a profiteer interested only in making his relatives rich off the chaos of war. The man had no imagination... But he had won that battle at the ruins of Ilkazar... Amazing.
Cold autumn winds were blowing when El Murid joined el-Kader. Those who worried about such things predicted an early, bitter winter. The weather had changed rapidly, as if to declare that first savage summer of war over at last.
El-Kader's encampment was nearly naked of warriors. "Where are all our soldiers?" the Disciple demanded. "Was your victory that expensive?"
"Lord? Oh, no. Some are hunting for your daughter. The others went home to their families. The hunters haven't found much, but we're sure she's still alive."
"How so?"
"There's been no news otherwise. And she would be of no value to bin Yousif dead, would she? Our dearest hope is that he'll keep her alive so he can use her against us. If he does, we'll get her back."
"Hehas her?"
"We think so, Lord. We traced the route of her bodyguard, who were pursuing her, into Altea, where they were slaughtered by those Guildsmen he's tied in with."
"Guildsmen? Again? The ones who slew Karim and the Scourge of God?"
"The same, Lord. They're getting to be a damned nusiance."
"I want them a dead nuisance, General. I don't want to hear about them again until you can tell me they're all dead."
"Their chances of survival are poor, Lord. Thousands are looking for them."
"Looking? You don't know where they are?"
"No, Lord. They've vanished. They were operating out of a forest in Altea, but when we went after them there they were gone. So was bin Yousif, who is working with them. They fled about the time your daughter should have reached them."
"You will locate them."
"Of course, Lord."
One of el-Kader's orderlies approached, whispered to his commander. "You're sure?" the general asked.
"Absolutely, sir."
"Interesting." He turned to El Murid. "There's a delegation from the north asking permission to cross the Scarlotti. They want to open peace negotiations."
"Peace negotiations? What have they got to negotiate? They're beaten."
"Perhaps, Lord. But it won't cost to listen."
The thing made more sense when the delegates arrived. El Murid immediately caught the stench of back-stabbing politics.
Virtually all the northern states were represented. Only Trolledyngja, the Sharan tribes, and Freyland's kingdom, none of whom had been involved in the fighting, had failed to send someone. And the delegates fell into two obvious parties.
The conciliators represented the small states between the Scarlotti and Porthune rivers, kingdoms which had had a foretaste of Illumination. The belligerents represented Itaskia and her northern allies.
El Murid greeted the ambassadors with benevolent smiles, and western style handshakes for the conciliators. The Duke of Greyfells seemed puzzled because he drew no special reaction.
El Murid had none of his own people introduced. It was a message to the northerners. He alone spoke for the Kingdom of Peace.
He spoke with el-Kader afterward. "General, is there anything we especially want from those people? Something we can't just take?"
"Not really, Lord. We can keep them divided. Oh. They could give us a little help with a few political problems."
"For instance?"
"The Guild. They could apply pressure to get the Lady Yasmid returned if she's in Guild hands. And you might mention your displeasure about the presence of refugee camps in their domains. While those exist, beyond our reach, they'll remain seedbeds of trouble."
"I see. Wouldn't that give them the impression we don't think we'll be able to break them up ourselves?"
"We will. In time. But what we should be doing here is lulling them. Letting them think they're buying peace. If we make the camps an issue we might get our enemies to pull their teeth for us. You might also insist that they hand over bin Yousif if they get the chance. No harm in getting the Lord's enemies to do the Lord's work, is there?"
"None whatsoever." El Murid rewarded el-Kader with one of his rare smiles. "All right. Let's play their game. And beat them at it."
Next morning El Murid hosted the ambassadors at a lavish breakfast. He had had his people prepare the finest meal possible. Every ingredient came from the recovered provinces. And on the practice fields overlooked by the breakfasters, el-Kader's officers ostentatiously drilled converts from the west.
The Disciple took his meal on a makeshift throne overlooking the assembly. During its course he summoned emissaries individually, and asked each: "Why did you come here?" and
"What do you want?" Interpreters translated. Scribes recorded the responses as fast as they could scribble.
Most of the ambassadors admitted that they had come because their lieges had ordered them. In a dozen ways they claimed a desire to end the bloodshed.
"Peace? That has the simplest of solutions. Accept the Truth," the Disciple told each. Then he smiled and offered each emissary a prepared treaty. He had had every learned man in the Host up all night writing. "That, sir," he would say, "is take it or leave it. I am the Hand of the Lord on Earth. I won't dicker like a tradesman. Give me your answer at breakfast tomorrow."
A few, from remote kingdoms, tried to argue. Invincibles intimidated them into silence. Most just returned to their places, surveyed the terms offered, and sometimes seemed surprised.
El Murid was playing a game and enjoying himself immensely. Power could be so diverting... He frowned, and silently admonished himself. This was no fit behavior for the Hand of the Lord.
In most cases his terms appeared liberal, but he could afford to give away things that he could not possess and to make promises he had no intention of keeping. The Law did not extend its protection to the Unbeliever. The only clause of real weight, with him, was that which permitted missionaries to carry the Truth into the unoccupied territories.
"Did you watch?" he asked el-Kader afterward, almost laughing. "Some of them were ready to kiss my hand."
"Yes, Lord. And they'd bite it if you glanced away. Lord, there was one who approached me privately. He wants to speak with you in his own behalf. I think we might profit."
"Which one?"
"Greyfells. The Itaskian."
"Why?"
"Politics. He claims to have made an arrangement with Karim, at Nassef's request. He says that's why Karim was killed. He could be telling the truth. What we know of Greyfells' movements, and of bin Yousif's and Karim's, would appear to support him."
"Let me see him, then. This might be interesting."
He wished that he had not left Mowaffak in Ipopotam. He could use a trustworthy, discreet sounding board just now.
So. Here was the spoor of another of Nassef's schemes. Greyfells' very involvement suggested its nature. No wonder Nassef had been eager to reach Altea after Karim's death. There had been covering up to do. And bin Yousif, blocking his claim on the Peacock Throne, had been there...
"Nassef, Nassef," he murmured, "you're dead and you're still doing it to me."
Why had el-Kader brought this up? Wasn't he one of Nassef's cronies? Surely he had been tempted to assume the plot for his own.
Greyfells was a spare, hard man with shifty eyes and prematurely grey hair. There was an air of the fox about him. He seemed to be sneaking all the time. "My Lord Disciple," he said, bowing obsequiously.
El Murid told his interpreter, "Tell him to get to the point. I won't play word games. I'll throw him out if he tries that."
Greyfells listened with exaggerated innocence. He minced to the doorway when the interpreter finished, peeped out. "I have to be careful. I have enemies."
"Why shouldn't I let them have you?" El Murid demanded.
Greyfells told him the story that el-Kader had passed along earlier, in more detail. He confessed his determination to usurp the Itaskian crown and carve his own empire.
El Murid was disgusted. If ever mortal woman had borne a child to the Evil One, this man's mother had. "This is all news to me, Duke. Like yourself, my brother-in-law had his own ambitions."
The Duke went pale.
El Murid grinned. Crafty Nassef! He had not been frank with Greyfells.
"I command the allied army, Lord. I decide when and where it fights." Greyfells spoke quickly and nervously, trying to salvage something.
"Then you made a poor decision not long ago." El Murid was on the verge of laughter now.
"That choice wasn't mine. But the political climate compelled me to live with it."
"You no longer have much of an army."
"It can be replaced. A dozen such could be raised. The plans are in the works." A little bluster restored his confidence. "We Itaskians don't make the same mistake twice."
"Perhaps not." El Murid moved the hand that had concealed his amulet. The living stone burned brightly. Its fire reflected off the Duke's eyes. "But others remain to be made. I see no profit in your proposal. If I detect an advantage later, I'll contact you."
"Your profit is the men you won't lose." Greyfells was plainly irked. "You'll have peace while you digest your conquests. Time to clean up loose ends like Altea, Kavelin and Hellin Daimiel. And you'd have no more worries about those Royalists who've flown into my territories."
The man appalled El Murid.His territories! "Produce bin Yousif. Hand him over to me, alive, and I'll give you anything you ask," El Murid lied. He felt no guilt over deceiving a tool of the Great Deceiver. "Deliver me the one thing I most want and I'll talk. Till then you're wasting your time."
Greyfells stared at him, and at the famous amulet. He saw he would never win his point by persuasion. He bowed. "Then I'd better return to my quarters before I'm missed. Good evening."
El Murid allowed a minute to pass. "El-Kader. What do you think?"
The general stepped from behind a concealing tapestry. "He seemed pretty explicit, Lord."
"Will he be of any value?"
"I doubt it. He'd betray us in an instant."
"Have your spies keep an eye on him, but ignore him otherwise. For now."
"As you command, Lord."
During the ensuing week, El Murid concluded treaties which guaranteed peace with all his enemies but Itaskia, Iwa Skolovda, Dvar and Prost Kamanets. Every treaty contained a provision stating that neither signatory would allow passage to the enemies of the other. The northerners would find it difficult to get at him without attacking former allies.
He was sure that that provision, and the one guaranteeing freedom of movement to his missionaries, would be violated often enough to provide hiscasus belli when he resumed his offensive.
He had no desire for an enduring peace outside the Kingdom's domain. He was negotiating merely to lull tomorrow's conquests.
He did not delude himself. The other signatories just wanted to buy time to strengthen their defenses.
The real puzzle was the whole-hearted bellicosity of the Itaskians. Why were they so war-hungry when there was no immediate threat to their territories or people? How were they profiting?
Thus ended the bloody summer known historically as the First El Murid War. Suddenly, the restoration of the Empire looked plausible.
The Disciple returned to Hammad al Nakir, first to Al Rhemish, then to Sebil el Selib, where he shared his griefs with his memories of yesterday. He received weekly updates from el-Kader, who was designing the next offensive according to what he could reconstruct of Nassef's plans.
The general's missives never brought the news El Murid wanted. Never a word about Yasmid.
Even his spies among the Royalists could discover nothing beyond the fact that the girl had, indeed, appeared at the Guild camp in the Bergwold in Altea.
At first the Disciple coped by spending endless hours in prayer. Later, after endowing Esmat with powers rivalling those once given Nassef, he sequestered himself in Al Rhemish's Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines and set about defeating his addiction.
Chapter Fifteen:
CAPTIVES
Four Guildsmen dragged the captives to an outpost. They were none too gentle. The fat man kicked up a fuss, so they bound him, gagged him, and headbashed him several times even though he had been fleeing the Invincibles.
The female remained haughtily silent no matter what language was directed her way.
Kildragon took charge of them, but paid them little heed. He had Invincibles to dispose of. When he finished he detailed two men to escort them to the main encampment. He had listened to the fat man's story, but did not care to sort it out himself.
The fat man started the trip draped across the back of a donkey. His clothin
g and skin took a beating from the underbrush. He cursed continuously, in a dozen languages.
"Oh, shut up!" Yasmid finally snapped. "You got us into this. Take it like a man."
"Is impossible of doing same thrown across back of animal like sack of corn. Is ignominious fate for... "
"Why don't you knock him in the head again?" Yasmid asked the Guildsmen, using the tongue of Hellin Daimiel.
"She can talk," one muttered in Itaskian.
"I've got a better idea," the other told Yasmid, replying in the language she had chosen. "We'll make him walk. Fat as he is, he'll run out of wind fast."
"You'd be surprised, soldier."
"Better put a choker on him, Karl," the other Guildsman suggested. "So he don't do a fast fade into the woods."
Thus it was that Mocker entered the camp of his ally led like a hound on a leash. The ignomity of it! His captive entered walking tall and proud and free, imperious as a queen, while he entered like a slave.
The Guildsmen took them inside a log stockade and across a compound to where Guildsmen and Royalists were involved in a complicated game of chance.
"Captain, Sergeant Kildragon sent some prisoners."
A big, shaggy youth looked them over. One of the older Royalists said something, then rushed toward one of the shabby barracks. The shaggy youth shrugged. "Hang on to them, Uthe. Beloul wants Haroun to look at them." He returned to his game.
Yasmid flinched, turned pale. She spoke no Itaskian, but had recognized the names. Beloul! The most dangerous of the Royalists. The one most driven by hatred and vengeance. The last vestige of her hope died. Fear replaced it. There would be no peace. Beloul! How could she have been such a fool?
A youth rushed across the compound, dark robes flying. Yasmid remembered his face. That night on the hill overlooking Al Rhemish... He had aged, matured, hardened...
"Why didn't you cut him loose, Beloul?" Haroun demanded. He applied a knife to the fiber binding the fat man's wrists. Shifting to Itaskian, he told Ragnarson, "The man is an agent of mine. I sent him to the far south. Was there a big man with him?"
"Just the split-tail, sir," one of the escorts replied. "We didn't know who he was. He didn't explain. Not so's anybody could understand, anyway."
