“This is depressing. We’re talking ourselves into accepting a defeat before the event.”
“Drop it, then. Megelin?”
“Yes?”
“You can do one thing to brighten my life.”
“Wahlig?”
“Stay here when your contract is up. I may need the outsider’s viewpoint desperately before this is over.”
Radetic was surprised. This was the first time ever that Yousif had treated him with more than minimal respect. “I’ll consider it, Wahlig. I’d better go. I left Ali in charge of my class.”
Yousif chuckled. “Yes, you’d better.”
“I’m a political historian, Haroun,” Megelin explained. “That’s why I’m going to stay. Why I have to stay. I can’t leave during the political storm of the century, can I?”
The boy seemed slightly disappointed. Radetic understood, but did not have it in him to lay out the true, emotional bases for lengthening his stay. He did not understand all his motives himself.
“You see, I’m the only one here at the heart of it. History is written by prejudiced parties, Haroun. By winners, usually. This is a unique opportunity to capture the truth.”
Haroun looked at him sideways, wearing an amused little smile. After a moment, Megelin chuckled. “You devil. You see right through me, don’t you?”
He had his excuse, though. It would be good enough to prolong his stay as grim weeks piled into months and years.
Haroun whipped into Megelin’s room, almost falling as he swung through the door, almost overturning the little table where the scholar was pouring over his notes, inscribing one of his regular missives to a friend in Hellin Daimiel. “What is it, child?”
“Uncle Fuad is coming.”
Radetic asked his next question by raising an eyebrow. Haroun understood. “No.”
Radetic sighed, pushed his papers back. “I didn’t think so. There would have been messengers carrying his brags. Let’s go down to the gate.”
The troops were dragging in when Radetic arrived. Megelin located Fuad. The Wahlig’s brother was tired, deflated and had exhausted his stock of contrariness. He answered questions dully, frankly, apparently not caring how bad the answers might make him look. “Just get it down the way it happened, teacher,” he muttered at one point. “Just write it up the way it happened. We came up one company short. One stinking company. One fresh company, in reserve, and we would have had them.” Stalking toward his brother’s quarters, he added, “One company from any one of those whoreson sheiyeks who didn’t show at muster. There’s going to be some new chieftains in el Aswad.”
Three months later Yousif issued his own call to arms. It took Megelin by surprise. “Why?” he demanded. “And why didn’t you tell me?” He was severely piqued because the Wahlig had not consulted him.
“Because,” Yousif replied, donning a teasing grin. “Because I wanted to deal with your protests at one sitting, instead of endlessly.”
Hardly mollified, Radetic demanded, “Why this hosting? That’s the important question.”
“Because I need to assert my primacy over the tribes. They need to be shown that I’m still strong, that I remain in command. We children of the desert are a lot like your forest wolves, Megelin. I’m the leader of the pack. If I stumble, if I reveal any weakness, if I hesitate, I’m lost. I have no desire to attack El Murid. The time isn’t right, as you no doubt would have told me endlessly had you been informed earlier. But the eyes of a hundred chieftains are on el Aswad, waiting to see my response to my wounding and Fuad’s defeat. Not to mention the turnout for Fuad’s hosting.”
Megelin now recalled the busy comings and goings of recent weeks, movements he hadn’t thought significant at the time. Messengers, of course. But, too, he had seen several of Yousif’s most devoted captains leading sizable patrols into the waste. Not one of those had as yet returned. “I presume your representatives will be in place when the call reaches certain sheiyeks of questionable devotion.”
Yousif chuckled. “Gently put, teacher. And true.”
“I suppose my wisest course is to keep my mouth shut, then. It’s an ancient truism: what is logical and practical isn’t always politic. And vice versa.”
“Truer in this land than anywhere else, Megelin. Truer here than anywhere. How have my son’s lessons been progressing?” He did not clarify which son. They understood one another plainly on that score.
Radetic searched for the right words. He decided he could do no better nor worse than to be straightforward. There were no witnesses. The Wahlig was tolerant in private. “I say it’s a pity he wasn’t born in a civilized land. He’s brilliant, Wahlig. Positively brilliant. The sorrow is, he has been shaped by this savage kingdom. Already. He could become a great man. Or a great villain. He has it in him. Let us direct that thrust to greatness.”
Yousif harumphed, stared into the distance, finally remarked, “Were it not for the situation, I would consider sending him to your Rebsamen. Perhaps that can be accomplished later. After this wicked little devil is put down.”
Radetic studied Yousif from the corner of his eye. There was a halo of destiny about the Wahlig at the moment, an aura, a smell, and Yousif sensed it himself. His stance said he knew the future he faced was not the one he had described.
Yousif’s expedition against the usurpers of Sebil el Selib, though stronger than Fuad’s, suffered the fate of his brother’s. Once again the loyalists came up that one fresh company short of strength enough to recover the Malachite Throne. In his determination to retain an image as strong and hard, Yousif pressed his attack far longer than was reasonable, well beyond the point when it became obvious that he would fail.
The bitter fighting brutalized both loyalist and rebel. Its outcome generated repercussions which only injured the loyalist stance. As the news swept the desert ever more opportunists gravitated to El Murid’s standard. Nassef
