They could have ridden winged demons. In fact, that seemed likely. But those things made a lot of noise.
The weather that night had been terrible… Previously dissociated elements clicked into place. Of course. That weather had not been natural.
Nepanthe’s brothers must have been involved.
Knowing what to look for let him probe the past and discover that the Storm Kings, and Mist herself, had affected events that night.
Insanity. Mist, and many others, had known that the Princes Thaumaturge would be engaged. Everyone had an interest and each thumbed the situation somewhere, trying to shape the outcome subtly. But there was nothing anywhere to clarify the essential question: How had the brothers gotten into the Wind Tower without receiving portals in place?
There was no choice but to believe either the winged demon hypothesis or that portals, since removed, had been placed for them, in secret, beforehand.
It could be that Old Meddler had made it al happen.
And Varthlokkur was no more comfortable about some other questions Mist had raised.
He had to do something with the dead sorcerers. There was no choice about that.
Nepanthe brought tea. She sat with him, her back to the site of the worst night of a life where most every major memory was a bad one. “Ethrian is having a good day. You should spend more time with him. I think that would help.”
“Yes. Certainly. It would be time better spent than sitting here, despairing of yesterday and tomorrow.” Nepanthe leaned forward. She rested a hand on his. “Let’s just concern ourselves with what we can do today.” There was a tear in the corner of his left eye when he said,
“That should be the way we live.” They rose. He slipped an arm around her waist as they walked toward the doorway.
He glanced back at the dead, just once, as he waited for her to step out.
That once gave him an idea.
Chapter Eleven:
Hammad al Nakir simmered with rumors. Everyone wanted to believe that the King Without a Throne had returned.
His very first action had been to kil Magden Norath, ending the terror underpinning bad king Megelin’s throne!
The desert awaited anxiously what would happen next.
The man who had caused the ferment had no idea what that should be. Taking Norath down, alerting the world to his survival, had not figured in the fantasies he had indulged during his long trek west.
People would start looking for him. Some would just want to know if it was real y him. Others would be frightened. Old Meddler would be upset because his intrigue had been aborted before it could be hatched.
Yasmid and Megelin would want to capture him. The Dread Empire and Varthlokkur had to be considered, too.
He could not hide Haroun bin Yousif from those powers. He had to become someone distinctly not Haroun.
He began immediately. He sold his horses. He bought strange clothing. He acquired a donkey and three goats.
He left the desert for the east coast. There he bought a cart for his goats to pul . This and that went into the cart, including al his obvious weapons.
The shore of the Sea of Kotsum was a region where the people fol owed the Disciple. Bandits and robbers were few.
He came to al-Asadra wearing gaudy apparel and shaved.
He had a red demon tattoo on his left cheek and a big blue teardrop fal ing from the outside corner of his right eye. His own family would not have recognized him.
He had trouble recognizing him, so thoroughly had he dropped into this new character.
He had no long-term plan.
He was an entertainer, now, a role so alien that no one ought ever to look his way with Haroun bin Yousif in mind.
He did puppet shows. He used sleight of hand tricks which, due to his lack of skil , compel ed him to employ some true sorcery. Careful y. Everyone enjoyed a magic show—so long as they could be sure they were just seeing conjure tricks. And, final y, he told fortunes using a greasy, worn deck found in pawn in the souk where he put on his first show. Their shabbiness lent them credibility.
Divination in any form was il egal but the authorities turned a blind eye so long as the fortunetel er claimed to be an entertainer only.
Cynics would observe that fortunetel ers had been around for mil ennia before El Murid and they would exist stil long after El Murid had been forgotten by even the most esoteric historians. People wanted a glimpse of the future, often desperately.
God had written their fates on their foreheads at birth but that was hard to read in a mirror. It was easy to delude oneself into believing that a mummer might, indeed, reveal the divine plan. And the more so when the future one saw oneself was entirely ugly.
“Hai, peoples. Come see.” He performed a conjuring trick that attracted a few urchins. He did the one where he found a dirty green coin behind a six-year-old’s ear. The kid sprinted off to turn his riches into food. The news brought a raucous crowd of children.
His confidence did not improve. He was not accustomed to children. He was not social at al . He wrestled ferocious doubts as he strove to hide from the world by borrowing a persona from a man long dead.
...
“Al this ferment because of one unreliable witness,” Yasmid said. “I don’t understand.”
“They want it to be true,” Habibul ah replied. “They’re sick of Megelin. He’s a weakling tyrant who spawns disasters. But they’re equal y sick of being preached at.
They’re hungry for a savior. They are making themselves one out of wishful thinking. The King Without a Throne. The strongman who wil bring peace and unity. They forget the facts of the man that was.”
Yasmid knew that. She did not like it.
She disliked its religious implications. She disliked its social implications. Selfishly, she disliked it because it suggested that she could lose her privileged life.
“I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to do anything about it. I don’t want to be seen as concerned about it. Let the fever run its course.”
Habibul ah was astonished. “But…”
“We’re going to try a new strategy, old friend. This time, instead of roaring around kil ing people and screaming about God, we’re just going to ignore it. We’l leave the world alone so long as the world extends us the same courtesy.”
She watched the old soldier begin to marshal his arguments, then lay them down again before he spoke.
He was tired of the struggle, too.
She asked, “Is it time to go see my father?”
“Yes. Elwas wants us to dine with him and the foreigner.” His disapproval of that Unbeliever never relented.
“Then let us tend to our garden.”
Habibul ah frowned, puzzled.
