Phogedatvitsu said something. His interpreter then said,
“Very wel . Please fol ow.”
The swami set a brisk pace for a short distance, along what would have been a hal way in a normal house, then entered an empty, clothwal ed room six feet by ten.
The interpreter said, “These conditions must be met: you wil say nothing and do nothing. You wil not reveal your presence. Is this clear?”
Yasmid agreed because her father had been engaged in physical exercise.
Phogedatvitsu pul ed a cloth wal aside. That exposed three men in loincloths lying face down on padded tables. Al three were old and wrinkled and scarred and had not been eating wel . Men of Phogedatvitsu’s race massaged and stretched the old bodies, asked soft questions, used a smal brush to make ink dots on skin.
The swami again made signs abjuring speech, then joined the others. Yasmid drew breath to ask why foreigners were here in her father’s tent.
Habibul ah grasped her left arm. Elwas moved in front of her. He wore a ferocious “What do you think you’re doing?” look.
She could shout and carry on later. Right now she had to stand stil and keep quiet.
She shook her left arm. Habibul ah’s grip was too tight.
She opened her mouth again.
Elwas was in front of her again, this time so close their noses bumped. He turned her around. He made her march.
Habibul ah did not interfere.
Back down the cloth corridor, voice low but intensely angry, al-Souki demanded, “What is the matter with you? Lady.” As an afterthought. “You swore you would…”
“That was before I saw…”
“You had to know you were going to see something unusual. Why would he take so much trouble to strive for silence, otherwise?”
“He was sticking needles into him, Elwas! What did you expect me to do?”
“To be silent and observe. As you promised.”
“But he was sticking needles in…”
Al-Souki told Habibul ah, “She was right when she chose to stay away. We should not have risked that. She isn’t ready.” Habibul ah nodded, said, “Perhaps,” and stared at the earthen floor.
Yasmid demanded, “Does this mean you’re part of some…”
Elwas made an obvious effort to control serious exasperation. “Lady, the swami is using eastern methods to free your father from his opium addiction. Do you know more about that specialized work than you do about building construction? I note that you never inject yourself into the work of carpenters or masons. You wil , on occasion, ask why something is being done in a certain way.”
Each word arrived under rigid control, reeking of truth. She hated him for that.
Then she started. She might have had an epiphany. A sudden grasp of the mind of the man whose special madness had led to generations of warfare and despair.
“Elwas, take us to where we wil sit down with my father. We wil wait there. And you wil regale me with tales of sticking old men with needles.”
...
The meal with the Disciple was not exciting. Yasmid’s father went through the motions in a lugubrious, mechanical fashion, like a mildly autistic child. He did not make eye contact. He did not speak. He brightened some at mentions of his wife and daughter but failed to recognize Yasmid as the latter.
Yasmid conceded that Phogedatvitsu had worked a miracle by reclaiming El Murid this much. Perhaps now the Disciple would learn to navigate the quotidian world and begin interacting with people.
But this man was not Papa.
What Yasmid wanted desperately was the man she had known when she was little.
Earthly, practical Yasmid bint Micah knew that the Papa she remembered never real y existed outside her head.
The swami thanked her repeatedly for being interested in his efforts but, otherwise, said only, “There is much work to be done yet.”
...
Varthlokkur, with a comet tail of youngsters, entered his restored workroom. He was careful to conceal the unlocking gestures. Scalza might be tempted to sneak in.
Lately, the boy had shown an inordinate interest in the room. He fol owed Varthlokkur al over, hoping to learn by watching. Ekaterina tagged along because she was interested in everything that interested Little Brother.
Then Ethrian began fol owing his grandfather. Why?
Something had changed. Ethrian was intrigued by the world outside Ethrian now. And his mother was thril ed.
“What are we going to do today, Uncle?” Scalza asked.
“Spy on our mother again?”
“That part of ‘we’ constituted by you wil remain out of the way and quiet while the part that is me performs some excruciatingly dul maintenance on the Winterstorm.”
“Oh, good! When are you going to start teaching us?”
“Never, and a day.”
Scalza primed himself for an argument. Before he started Nepanthe arrived. Smyrena was awake and cooing. The youngsters lost interest in anything but her.
That left Ethrian as a puzzled human island. After brief indecision he drifted toward his mother.
Varthlokkur watched in amazement. Nepanthe had a bottomless store of warmth and love for the children. He never got over that. How did she do it?
The children did not bother him again. Nepanthe was that good a kid wrangler.
It did not hurt that the baby seemed interested in learning to crawl. Everyone found that immensely entertaining.
In time, Nepanthe left Smyrena to the youngsters and came to look over Varthlokkur’s shoulder.
He said, “I’ve been looking for Haroun. I can’t find a trace.
He must be somewhere on the foreshore east of the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers.”
“What does he want to do? His whole life changed when he kil ed Magden Norath. I’m sure he didn’t plan to go round stabbing famous sorcerers.”
“I hope not. I don’t want him headed our way.” He grinned.
“If he is on the coast he’s not interested in what’s going on in Al Rhemish.”
“Exactly. Before al-Habor he was heading that way by stages. After al-Habor he headed southeast, for as long as I was able to track him.”
“So he has a new interest. What could that possibly be, Mr.
Wizard?”
He chuckled. “You’re probably right. If he isn’t after his throne he must be after the woman he loves.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t poison himself.”
“Haroun bin Yousif won’t let old love drag him into mortal peril.”
“You take the romance out.”
“I try.”
“I never liked him much. He was always drama and trouble.
But he was one of Mocker’s best friends.” That name brought on the silence. Varthlokkur refocused on finding bin Yousif. Nepanthe returned to the children. That nerve was stil tender.
Varthlokkur gave up looking. Bin Yousif would surface eventual y. He shifted his attention to the west.
It was the time of year for armies to march.
The Lesser Kingdoms were a-simmer with vigorous political disinterest. The weather was the best in a generation. People whose lives revolved round agriculture were taking advantage. Even in chaotic Kavelin most every til able acre had gotten plowed. The retired soldiers were al at work in forest or field.
