into the desert. Haroun told some folks he meant to stay at Sebil el Selib. Others he told he would move on after he visited the holy places.
He hoped for confusion—or that no one would care.
There was no reason anyone should. He was just another traveler.
Muma accepted the balance of his pay. “What wil you do now, Aza?” Aza being the name Haroun had worn while crossing the mountains.
“I don’t know. Al I ever thought about, til now, was how to get here. This is the place where things begin. This is God’s home. This is the goal. I never thought about what to do next.”
The boy was surprised. “I always thought you knew exactly what you were doing. You seem like you’re more than just you.”
“That makes me a good actor, I guess. What about you?”
“I’l stay with the caravan. Pig liked how I handled animals and stuff.”
“Good luck, then. I need to find a place to camp. I have some money, now. I can lay around a few days.” Tel ing fortunes and sel ing charms might not work here. Hardliners took literal y El Murid’s declaration that such things were the handiwork of the Evil One.
Muma said, “The field below the New Castle is where pilgrims camp. Just ask for directions. And good luck, Aza.” The boy left with a parting wave.
They had been close for weeks but Haroun had learned nothing about Muma, other than that he was dishonest about himself, too.
No matter. He was no threat.
Haroun found the ground reserved for pilgrims. The field was vast. Thousands had camped there in the past. Today there were only a few hundred. There was grazing for animals, water, and little of the stench common when too many people crowded into too smal an area.
He got his tent up, used sticks from his cart to make a pen for his animals, then got busy making himself into a new man.
Travel had left him looking too much like the fel ow who had murdered a wizard in al-Habor.
He discovered that he lacked sufficient firewood to build a cook fire.
Then the Invincibles arrived.
There were two. They were old. One lacked part of his right hand. The other had had the left side of his face ruined by a sword or ax. He was absent an ear and an eye. An island of bone shone where his left cheek ought to be. No doubt he and pain were long time brothers.
There was a specific form of address due these veterans but Haroun could not remember it. When they asked what he was doing here, he tapped his ears and shook his head.
He pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth and did not move it when he said, “I am a children entertainer. I came here hoping to see the Disciple for his blessing.
Maybe God wil see me here and restore my hearing.” The Invincibles had him repeat himself several times. His story sparked neither commentary nor sympathy. They heard its like too often. They were going through the motions, bothering at al only because they were bored.
One of them probed Haroun’s possessions with little interest. The cards did not trouble him, nor did the dicing paraphernalia. He was apologetic. This was the only work he was fit for anymore. Haroun found nothing to offend him.
The Invincible shrugged and turned away. The other man gestured at the empty fire pit.
“The wood sel er is down where the banners are. He’s reasonable. If you want to col ect your own he’l tel you where that’s permitted.”
Haroun bowed and slurred, “A thousand thanks, Gracious One.”
The man frowned, then. “You look familiar. From a long time ago. Were you at Wadi el Kuf?”
Haroun could honestly answer, “No. But my father was.”
“Maybe that’s it.”
“Possibly. He’s gone now.” Thinking the man must have been a boy at the time if he was a survivor of that disaster.
The Invincible was inclined to visit further. His companion was not, though. He waved the ruined hand and strode away.
There was daylight left when Haroun got back from seeing the wood sel er. His situation intimidated him. He would have to deal with a lot of people here. His time on the eastern littoral had not been preparation enough. He had spent too much of his life alone.
He would meet the chal enge.
He would befriend other pilgrims, visit the shrines and the former monasteries now housing religious offices, and even go see the Malachite Throne.
His father had seen the Malachite Throne once. He had come within moments of kil ing the Disciple in front of it.
He would ask questions, as a pilgrim might, hoping to run into people who could not help showing off how much they knew.
He took a last look round in the twilight.
The only woman he ever loved was just half a mile away.
He wrestled the temptation to use the Power to spy. He knew better. Someone would be watching for a wakening of the Power where it was curst and condemned.
He had no need to hurry. He was safe. He was in the last place where anyone would expect to find the King Without a Throne.
Chapter Twelve:
Nathan Wolf and two Wesson men-at-arms awaited Babeltausque. Wolf introduced the soldiers as Erik and Purlef. Neither appeared to be especial y bright. They would execute their assignments without wasted soul- searching.
Any man smart enough to look ahead had left the soldiering trade already.
They pushed into the Twisted Wrench. The place was moribund. It boasted three customers where sixty could crowd in. One had passed out at a table in back, amidst a copse of pitchers. The other two occupied a table for six between the bar and the doorway. They were awake but beyond being understood by one another or anyone sober.
There was no wait staff. The publican, a man about fifty, who had no outstanding physical characteristics, eyed the newcomers with both hunger and trepidation. He was desperate for business but recognized Nathan Wolf.
“What can I get you gents?”
“On me tonight,” Babeltausque told his companions. “Order up.”
Erik and Purlef were not slow to respond. Wolf was scarcely a beat behind.
“And for you, sir?”
“Tel me my choices while you draw for them.” The others had asked for dark ale.
“We’re not so fancy here as you’re probably accustomed to, sir. Especial y in these times. We have the dark ale, smal beer for the kiddies, and a piss pale barley beer mostly drunk by the women. We don’t get many of them or the kiddies. They mostly cal theirs out.” As though to underscore his statement a girl, maybe a young fourteen, shoved through the street door carrying a tin pail.
She frowned as she looked around.
Babeltausque laid a crown on the bar. “I’l try the barley beer.” He was not much of a drinker, which he found
