powerful arms to sweep her up… Waiting for that vil ain to miss a step and fal foul of men who had hungered for his life for two generations.
She loved him hopelessly.
She hated him with a deep and abiding fervor.
The coldly calculating eyes of the imams were hungry, too, since rumor had it that the invisible pilgrim might be the King Without a Throne. Yasmid met the gaze of Ibn Adim ed-Din al-Dimishqi, her most virulent detractor. She put into her gaze her absolute wil ingness to snuff his irksome candle.
Elwas went. Other Invincibles came. They had nothing good to report. “If you could give us a better idea of what you want us to find,” one said. “That would be an immense help.”
Another suggested, “Dawn isn’t far off. We should rest until we can see what we’re doing.”
That did sound sensible. Rushing around in the dark, someone was sure to get hurt.
There had been no contact with the pilgrim since two Invincibles interviewed him during the first few minutes of excitement.
“Ah. Jirbash is here. This could be interesting.” Jirbash al-’Azariyah was a protege of Elwas bin Farout al- Souki. His background was equal y dubious. His brains and ferocity made him a terror to enemies of the Believers. He ran a contemptuous eye over the three old men and the slightly younger Ibn Adim. Only al-Dimishqi did not sway back.
Jirbash had been the architect of their humbling. He remained openly unhappy because he had been denied permission to bury them.
He stepped up to Yasmid and Habibul ah, offering each a precisely calculated bow. He did not go to his knees.
Yasmid had forbidden the practice. Only God Himself rated that level of obeisance.
“Report,” she said.
“We have been examining the effects of the criminal Farukh Barsbey al-Fadl, cal ed Barking Snake. We are solving a great many criminal mysteries. Al-Fadl did take the pilgrim’s livestock and property in pawn, at a discount violating the usury laws. He claims to know nothing about the man, who cal ed himself Aza. I believe him. Tonight’s events have shaken him. He never thought he would attract the attention of the religious authorities. He thought he was protected.”
Habibul ah asked, “This news helps us how?” Jirbash showed no impatience. “Even a void says something. It says there is nothing here. Go look somewhere else.”
A slight pinking appeared in Habibul ah’s cheeks. “I see.”
“The vil ain Farukh al-Fadl says the pilgrim asked for water bags, which al-Fadl could not provide. He asked if there had been reports of dangers along the road to el Aswad.
Al-Fadl says he advised the pilgrim not to go that way because the road is haunted by ghosts from the battle on the salt pan.”
Yasmid said, “El Aswad. The springs stil flow there.” Habibul ah said, “There were early reports of disappearing water bags.”
“Jirbash. Catch Elwas. Tel him you two wil catch the pilgrim on the road to el Aswad. Subdue him and bring him back alive.”
Behind her Habibul ah offered subtle expressions assuring Jirbash that the alive part was not critical.
It was a boys’ conspiracy, entered into because the girl was too soft.
...
Haroun found himself in a part of the tent that appeared not to have been visited in years. His weak spirit light revealed that it was storage for plunder. The leather goods were dried out and starting to crumble. There was mold al over one heap of camel saddles, despite the bone-dry air.
No one had cleaned the blood off.
The plunder “rooms” were vast and unorganized. Those who had stored the goods had not cared. Worthless stuff had been thrown everywhere. It took Haroun only minutes to create a hiding hole and disguise its entrance.
...
Elwas told Yasmid, “Lady, mentioning el Aswad was a diversion. Had he meant to run that way he would have done so straight from the criminal’s place. And he would have kept his mule.”
“You’re sure?”
“We looked. He didn’t go that way. Not even scavengers travel that road anymore.”
“Then he did what he does so wel , again.” She vacil ated between convictions. Right now she was convinced that she had passed within yards of her own Haroun before fate made it impossible for them to meet. No one had any idea where he had gone. El Aswad? Into the desert? Back across the Jebal? Some other direction? Or had he used sorcery to disguise himself as someone she saw every day?
Haroun bin Yousif. Her husband. The father of her only child.
Her beloved. The man she hated so much.
Habibul ah’s conviction of the moment was the opposite.
Each report left him more certain that they had become entangled in a popular fantasy that would never wither completely. Too many people wanted it to be true.
“I am not pleased,” Yasmid said. “This pilgrim made fools of us al .” Who but her husband had the wil and the skil ?
“Back to the beginning. The man was here for days, camped where he should be, visiting shrines and memorials like any pilgrim. Evenings, he put on puppet shows for the children. Right?”
No one disagreed.
She asked, “Why wasn’t he doing anything? Wouldn’t a man with a sinister purpose make an effort to forward it?” Jirbash suggested, “He was waiting for the right time.” Yasmid wanted to believe that moment was one where he could see her alone. “Indeed? Could he have been just some Royalist spy?”
Jirbash said, “We can’t answer that without knowing who he was.”
Always the fantasy of a revenant Haroun returned to one pair of eyes.
Yet again, Yasmid demanded, “Why was he here?” Ibn Adim suggested, “The demon came here because this is where he would find his mate.”
Deadly emotion crossed Jirbash al-’Azariyah’s face. The imam might have won a death sentence with one malicious remark.
Yasmid did not chide Jirbash.
Elwas suggested, “Why not assume that his goals are evolving? I agree that who he is would be useful in predicting what he might do, might want to do, and is capable of doing. But everything we do, perforce, shapes what he wil be able to do.”
Ibn Adim recognized the death glow in Jirbash’s eyes. His voice was tight. “We’re chasing specters. Which wil be what he wants.”
“Explain,” Yasmid said.
“He’s long gone, laughing. Whatever kind of rogue he was, he wasn’t the infernal genius you al want to make him.”
“Do go on,” Yasmid said. Honestly. The man might be making a point that had evaded everyone else.
“I propose that he was a common crook. A confidence man. He ran to al-Fadl when the Invincibles started digging.
He got money and got out. He’s halfway to Al Rhemish or back in Souk el Arba, congratulating himself for being quick and clever.”
A couple of Invincible captains muttered agreement.
Yasmid looked to Habibul ah. He shrugged. Elwas did the same. “So. We could be making mountains out of termite hil s. So. We’l search for two more days. Ask every question again. Re-turn every stone. Try to think of something that hasn’t been suggested before. If nothing new surfaces we’l bow to Ibn Adim’s wisdom and congratulate the pilgrim for being quick and clever.”
... Haroun was suffering from imposter syndrome. He could not believe his own success. He was inside the tent of the Disciple, his deadly enemy since childhood. He was within striking distance. Nobody knew. Nobody was alarmed.
