sent out a call. Recruits drifted to him. He began teaching them his own devilish style of warfare.
Yousif adopted more reactionary tactics, screening the trails from Sebil el Selib, using his household warriors to pursue enemy bands moving in and out.
Spies sent disturbing reports about new fortifications.
“We can abandon any hope of ever rooting them out,” Radetic prophesied one day three years after the loss of the pass. Intelligence had just been received concerning the rapid growth of the fortress-palace guarding the Malachite Throne. The report also claimed that El Murid now had a full-time following of a thousand warriors, half of whom belonged to the fanatic Invincibles.
Nassef and his henchman Karim had begun slipping in and out to advise and occasionally direct the marauders plundering the desert in El Murid’s name.
“They’re like ghosts,” Fuad murmured one day. “Yousif, you should have let me kill Nassef when I had the chance. He’s everywhere and nowhere, and I can’t get him to fight.”
“Do I detect a case of the guerrilla warfare blues?” Radetic asked. “Of course Nassef won’t stand still. He’d get whipped if he did. Give him a target he can’t resist. Have a surprise waiting.”
“His spies would warn him two days before we decided to do it,” Yousif replied.
“I know. The real hope is that you can get him or El Murid with a knife in the kidneys.”
“We’ve tried,” Fuad growled.
“Keep trying. We’re losing a little ground every day. They’re wearing us down. As long as Aboud looks at it as a scuffle between Yousif and El Murid, and won’t see how it spills over into the rest of the kingdom, our best bet is to hang on and pray that they do something fatally stupid before we do.”
“How’s your monograph coming, Megelin?” Yousif asked.
The monograph’s incompleteness was Radetic’s stated excuse for staying on. He reddened. Gripping Haroun’s shoulder, he replied, “Damned slow. The war keeps getting in the way. I hardly have time to teach, let alone get any writing done.”
Time had made of Radetic much more than a tutor. In some ways he had become the power behind the Wahlig. Yousif sought his advice ever more often, and followed it with increasing frequency.
El Murid had recognized Radetic’s new importance in a recent sermon, naming him as one of the thirteen Barons of Hell on Earth, minions the Evil One had sent up to abuse the faithful. Megelin had been surprised to discover his noble standing. He thought Yousif more deserving.
Radetic was guiding Yousif’s policy into a Fabian mode, getting the Wahlig to husband his strength and buy time. He hoped the Crown would recover its senses, or that Nassef would do something to defeat himself.
He composed countless admonitory letters, over Yousif’s seal, to virtually everyone close to Aboud. He found a few sympathizers, but Crown Prince Farid was the only one in any position to influence Royal policy.
Young Haroun was growing, though more in mind than in stature. His father had begun to fear that he would become the family runt. Megelin soothed him with remarks about late bloomers. He had abandoned any pretense of educating anyone else. He no longer had time to coax and coddle Yousif’s stubborner sons and nephews.
His concentration on the one child won him no friends. Not when he took the boy away from his regular shaghunry studies and chores to accompany him on botanical and geological field trips. Not when he answered questions about the other children’s talents honestly.
Other than Yousif and Haroun, Megelin had just one real friend in el Aswad, his bodyguard, Muamar.
Muamar enjoyed the field trips and studies more than did Haroun. For him they were play. The old warrior had reached that stage in life where mental challenges were more easily negotiated than physical. He responded to them with a heart never seen in the young.
In the fourth year the rebels made a small mistake. Fuad emerged triumphant, having trapped and slain nearly three hundred marauders. The victory guaranteed a respite from guerrilla activity. Yousif declared a holiday in his brother’s honor.
Women were summoned from their quarters to dance. Yousif, Fuad and most of the captains brought out their favorite wives. The voices of kanoons, ouds, derbeckis and zils filled the hall with music. Radetic found it strident, harsh and discordant.
Laughter abounded. Even Radetic hazarded a few jokes, but his efforts were too esoteric for his audience. They preferred long-winded, intimately detailed tales about rogues who cuckolded pompous husbands and about nitwits who believed anything their wives and daughters told them.
There was no wine to modulate the merriment, but the air was sour with a mildly narcotic smoke produced in special braziers.
Haroun sat beside Radetic, taking it all in with wide, neutral eyes. Radetic wondered if the boy was becoming one of life’s perpetual observers.
“Ho! Megelin! You old woman,” Fuad called. “Get up and show us one of your infidel jigs.”
Radetic was in a daring mood. He liberated a flute from a musician and danced a clumsy flamenco to his own abominable accompaniment. He laughed with the rest when he finished.
“Now you, Fuad. Put on the zils and show the ladies how it’s done.”
Fuad took the dare, without zils. He performed a wild sword dance which won a roar of applause.
The hall was packed with victorious warriors. With the women dancing, then the teacher and the Wahlig’s brother doing their stunts, no one had any attention left over. Nobody noticed the slow drift of three men toward the leaders...
Till they sprang, one each at Yousif, Fuad and Radetic.
Each lifted a silver dagger overhead. Fuad stopped his with his dancing sword. Yousif evaded his by throwing himself into the screaming mob.
