color of bleached bones. The dunes changed orientation so that they ran east-west and towered as high as five hundred feet. Lander was glad their path ran parallel to the great dunes rather than across them. The Sembian felt sure that scaling one of the steep, shifting slopes would have been as hard on the camels as trotting for an entire day.
The dunes' great size did not make them any less barren. The only sign of vegetation was an occasional parched bush that had been reduced to a bundle of sticks by an untold number of drought years. Even the camels, which usually tried to eat every stray plant they happened upon, showed no interest in the desiccated shrubs.
The storm crept closer, obscuring the sky with a haze that did nothing to lessen the day's heat. The blistering wind, blowing harder with each passing hour, felt as though it had been born in a swordsmith's forge. On its breath, it carried a fine silt that coated the trio's robes with gray dust and filled Lander's mouth with a gritty thirst that he found unbearable. Soon he was glad his guides had insisted upon filling extra skins, for he found himself sipping water nearly constantly.
Bhadla slowed his camel and guided it to Lander's side, leaving Musalim fifty yards ahead in the lead position. The D'tarig always insisted upon riding a short distance ahead to scout. Lander did not argue, for it spared him their constant, inane chatter.
'This is going to be a very bad storm, Lord,' Bhadla said. 'I fear that, when it grows dark, we will have to stop or lose our way. There will be no stars to guide us.'
'Don't worry. I will always know which direction we are traveling.' He purposely did not tell his guide about the compass he carried, for he suspected the D'tarig would steal such a useful device at the first opportunity.
Bhadla shook his head at his employer's stubbornness. 'It may not be as important to beat the Zhentarim to the next oasis as you think,' he said. 'Bedine scouts range far. They probably know of the Black Robes already.'
'If what you say is true,' Lander countered, 'why did the tribe at the last oasis perish?'
The D'tarig frowned, then shrugged. 'Who can say? But we will do no one any good if we lose our way and die.'
'You really don't understand what's at stake here, do you?'
'What is there to understand?' Bhadla asked. 'The Zhentarim are trying to cross the desert, and the Bedine are in their way.'
'There's more to it than that,' Lander replied. 'The Zhentarim need the Bedine to open their trade route. Merchants can't survive in the desert alone, and the Black Robes know that. They need the Bedine for guides and caravan drivers. What the Zhentarim want is to enslave the Bedine.'
Bhadla laughed. 'Enslave the Bedine? They would find it easier to cage the wind.'
'The Zhentarim have caged things more powerful than the wind,' Lander noted flatly, then took a sip of water. 'If they approach the desert tribes in the same way they have approached villages all over Faerun, this is how the Bedine will fall: The Black Robes will approach the sheikh in the guise of friendship and offer him a treaty. Once he agrees, they'll find a pretext to invite his family or other important tribe members into their camp. The Zhentarim will not permit these guests to leave and will use them as hostages to guarantee the tribe's submission. They will send agents, whose job it is to report murmurs of rebellion, to watch over the tribe. Before they know it, the Bedine will be subdued.'
'If the Black Robes want slaves, why did they massacre the Bedine at El Ma'ra?'
'I'm not sure,' Lander said, shaking his head. 'Perhaps the sheikh wouldn't cooperate, or perhaps they wanted an example to use in intimidating other tribes.' He closed his waterskin. 'The Zhentarim are usually more subtle than they've been in Anauroch-probably because it's so empty that they think brazen actions won't be noticed. In any case, the change of style makes it more difficult for me to guess their reasoning.'
Bhadla furrowed his brow, then shrugged. 'If you say so,' he sighed. 'But what concern of yours is it? What does it matter to you if the Black Robes conquer the Bedine?'
'I've come here to help the Bedine retain their freedom,' Lander answered, looking at his saddle and pretending to adjust a strap. Even though he wasn't lying, he was intentionally dodging the D'tarig's question; he had often been told that his face was too honest when he was trying to hide something.
'So I have gathered,' the D'tarig replied. 'What I want to know is why?'
Lander opened his waterskin again and lifted it to his lips, more to hide his face than to wash the grime from his mouth. Between sips, he said, 'Someone had to.'
The little guide shook his head. 'Not so. Only a fool strays from his path to search out another man's trouble. You may be gullible, but. you do not strike me as a fool. What is your reason for coming to the desert?'
Realizing it was useless to dodge Bhadla's inquiries, Lander tried an honest reply. 'I can't tell you why I'm here.'
The D'tarig's eyes sparkled, and Lander guessed that Bhadla was smiling beneath his mask of white cloth. 'I think I know the reason for your discretion,' the guide said.
'Oh?' Lander asked, confident that the D'tarig could not guess his secret.
Black eyes locked on Lander's, Bhadla said, 'The Harpers sent you.'
Lander's jaw dropped.
Bhadla's eyes shone with triumph. 'You see, nothing escapes my notice.'
From the guide's manner, Lander realized there was no use in denial. 'How do you know?'
Bhadla pointed at Lander's left breast. 'The harp and the moon.'
Lander looked down and saw what had given him away. Beneath his burnoose, he wore a light tunic of cotton. On the left breast of that tunic was pinned the emblem of the Harpers, a silver harp sitting within the crescent of a silver moon. On the exterior of his burnoose, there was a vague, dirty outline of the symbol he wore over his heart.
'Very observant,' Lander noted. 'I'm surprised you recognized it.'
'The Black Robes have told us how to identify a Harper. If I had seen your symbol before we entered the desert, it would have meant five hundred gold pieces.'
'I'm glad my robe was not as dirty in your village,' Lander answered, rubbing his palm over the patch of cloth that had given him away. 'What else have the Zhentarim told you about the Harpers?'
'That you are a tribe of meddling fools who stand in the path of free commerce and the growth of kingdoms.'
'That's wrong,' Lander objected, shaking his head sternly. 'We're a confederation of individuals dedicated to preserving the tales of those who have passed before us, to maintaining the balance between the wild and the civilized, and to protecting peaceful and free people everywhere in Faerun.
'The Harpers oppose the Zhentarim because they trade in slaves and because they hope to subvert the free nations of Faerun. We have nothing against peaceful commerce-as long as it doesn't involve treachery and slavery.'
'Meddlers,' Bhadla concluded gruffly, studying the sky with a manner of preoccupation.
'Perhaps,' Lander conceded, also glancing heavenward. He was glad to see that the dusty haze had disappeared overhead, though the sky was but a turquoise imitation of its usual sapphire blue. 'But we are meddlers with a purpose. Without us, all of Faerun would be slaves to the Zhentarim.'
'So you say,' Bhadla replied, returning his gaze to Lander's face. After a pause, he asked, 'If the Harpers truly oppose the Black Robes, why didn't they send an army?'
'The Harpers don't have armies. We prefer more subtle methods.'
'You mean you get others to do your work for you,' Bhadla laughed.
Lander frowned. 'We use our influence to guide events along the best course.'
'The best course for the Harpers,' the D'tarig insisted, pointing at the pin beneath the Sembian's robes with a leathery finger. 'If you ask me, this time they've made a mistake. Sending one man to oppose an army is madness. No one would blame you if you deserted. They've ordered you to your death.'
'I wasn't ordered to come here,' Lander replied, adjusting his robe in a vain effort to cover the emblem's outline.
Looking confused, Bhadla withdrew his gaunt hand. 'Did they send you or not?'
'I volunteered,' Lander replied, remembering the informal meeting in which he had decided he would spy on the Zhentarim in Anauroch. It had been in Shadowdale, a wooded hamlet as different from this dismal wasteland as he could imagine. He had been sitting on the fringes of a comfortable gathering in the Old Skull Inn, staring at a
