The fugitive entered his homeland. He did not relax. He was a stranger even here. The people of Hammad al Nakir, of whatever political or religious persuasion, distrusted strangers.
He moved slowly, avoiding tribal camps, til he reached the oasis cal ed al-Habor. It was more developed than when he had visited as a boy. More permanent structures had been added and new orchards had been planted, but then disaster had found the town. Most of it had fal en apart since. Today it was dying.
And provided proof that some men did not care about issues that had tormented their people for two generations.
Al-Habor had become a haven for rootless men. The forgotten King Without a Throne could begin gathering the strings of his life here.
Haroun was not there when the sun set. When it rose he was seated against an adobe wal , snoring, one of a half-dozen probable miscreants. ...
Yasmid, with Habibul ah behind her, an intimidating shade, considered the foreigners Elwas al-Souki had invited to Sebil el Selib. The tal , fat one was a Matayangan swami eager to put distance between himself and his blasted homeland. He was the color of pale mahogany.
His companion, a smal er man of low caste, was darker and less healthy. Nervously, he translated for the bigger man.
Elwas repeated himself. “Swami Phogedatvitsu specializes in overcoming addictions.” He wilted under Yasmid’s disapproval.
She was angry down to her toenails. The presumption of the man! But she could not just run him off. Not with Habibul ah watching. Not after the miracle he had wrought at the salt lake.
Al-Souki’s success irked Yasmid. The history of the Faith was speckled with military geniuses who became liabilities after they won their reputations. That started with her uncle Nassef, who had been with her father from the beginning.
Nassef, as the Scourge of God, helped build a wide, wild religious empire. And had been a thorough-going bandit when the Disciple was not looking. He had been ambitious, too, systematical y eliminating anyone who stood between him and succession to the Peacock Throne. He had wanted Yasmid as his child bride so he could unite Royalists and Faithful under his rule.
Fate had delivered Yasmid to Haroun bin Yousif instead.
The Faithful never lacked bril iant commanders but few were moved more by faith than by ambition and greed.
Yasmid was not ready to believe that Elwas bin Farout al-Souki was something new.
She made a “Get on with it!” gesture.
Al-Souki said, “Phogedatvitsu can conquer an addiction as deep as your father’s. I beg you, al ow him to try.” She had mixed feelings. And a sense of shame.
She was not sure she wanted her father freed. If he recovered, his daughter would become a simple ornament to his glory. A saint at best.
How shameful. How dare she put herself ahead of God’s Chosen Disciple?
Despite al , including her long love for the King Without a Throne, she believed in her father’s message. He had a unique relationship with God. Much as she reveled in being God’s stand-in hand and voice, directing the Faithful, she did not have that direct relationship herself.
She was a custodian, nothing more.
“Elwas, I wil give you the chance you want. The foreigner can try to rescue my father. I wil make him wealthy if he succeeds.”
“You won’t be disappointed, Shining One,” the prostitute’s son promised. “It may take a year but the world wil gain its soul back. El Murid wil be a golden beacon once more.” After al-Souki left, Yasmid asked Habibul ah, “Is he for real?”
“Total y. And he’s not unique. He just doesn’t mind letting the world know.”
Yasmid looked like she had bitten into something sour.
Habibul ah began to frown. Did he wonder what her problem was? Elwas bin Farout al-Souki had offered her a chance to spark new life into the flames of the Faith.
Habibul ah was her slave emotional y but he was, as wel , one of the oldest of the Believers. He coughed gently to remind her that the One was watching. This might be His mercy at work.
“Cal him back.”
Habibul ah was not gone long.
Yasmid looked al-Souki in the eyes, hard. He was not accustomed to that from a woman. His gaze dropped. She said, “You have one hundred days to show me real progress. If Phogedatvitsu is a con artist his corpse wil join the hundred thousand already fertilizing Sebil el Selib. No more talk. Habibul ah, arrange to house and feed those men.”
Giving Habibul ah that task was meant to put both men in their place. She felt petty doing so.
...
Al-Habor was the wel to which social gravity drew the lost souls of the desert. Even the flies and parasites had yielded to despair. Soul-shattered veterans of decades of war haunted al-Habor, shaking, muttering, afraid, or just staring at something only one man could see. They did not talk much. They survived on the charity of Sheyik Hanba al-Medi al-Habor, the local tribal chief. Hanba bore the marks of the wars himself. They had cost him a hand, an eye, and three sons. He could not afford the charity he provided. The wars had seen to that, too.
Stil , he did provide.
Al-Habor once was a major crossroads. It was of minor importance stil . Trade remained limited because fighting could return any time. The oasis was sweet and reliable and strategical y valuable.
Half the mud-brick buildings were abandoned. The best preserved were infested by squatters.
Haroun settled in unremarked. Few would have cared had he announced himself. Al-Habor was the end of the road.
No roads led to a future elsewhere. Al-Habor clung to the souls it col ected. Haroun found it bleak enough to dampen a bril iant spring day at high noon.
Nobody cared about one more bum fal en into the cauldron.
He did not learn much. Lack of care meant a lack of information. Only travelers had any real news. Few of those would waste time on a soul-shattered tramp whose real goal must be to mooch or steal something.
Insidious tendrils of despair shadowed Haroun’s own heart.
He should move on before he became lost himself.
There were those who preyed on the lost. The most virulent was a big, stupid man cal ed the Bul . The Bul ran with a timid kil er known as the Beetle.
It was unusual y cold. Haroun had formed an unspoken al iance with two others. Between them they had found enough fuel for a smal fire. They sat round that, no man meeting another’s gaze.
The Beetle and the Bul appeared. The Bul rumbled, “The Bul is hungry.”
Nobody responded. Only Haroun had anything edible. He did not intend to share.
The Bul kicked the little fire apart. “I said…” Haroun slipped a knife into the back of the Bul ’s right calf.
He sliced down, then sideways. At first the Bul did not feel pain enough to understand. He tried to turn. His leg did not cooperate. Haroun leaned out of the path of his col apse.
The Bul roared, tried to get up. Haroun’s blade entered his right eye. “Breathe without leave and I’l take the other, too.
Your old friends wil have great sport with a blind Bul .” The Beetle tried something stupid. Haroun disarmed him.
He settled beside the Bul , nursing partial y severed fingers.
“Would you like to spend your remaining days dependent on the good wil of the Beetle?” The Bul abused his partner with only slightly less vigor than he did everyone else. “No?
You’re less stupid than I thought. I’l leave you one eye, then.
I’l take it first time you do something to offend me, though.” The Bul looked into Haroun’s eyes. He saw no mercy there.
He did see a dark future for those who angered the man.
He eased back, rose slowly, let the Beetle help him limp away.
