as one of the Wahlig’s spies.
“These are El Murid’s men,” he said. “This one is Shehab el-Medi, a captain of the Invincibles. He was almost as crazy as the Disciple.”
“So,” said Yousif. “The mystery deepens. They’re El Murid’s special bullies. Nobody gives them orders but the man himself. And yet it’s only been six months since he outlawed any kind of sorcery. Curious.”
The Disciple had, in fact, declared a death sentence upon all witches, warlocks, shamans, shaghuns, diviners and anyone who practiced any kind of occultism. He had charged Nassef with the eradication of sorcery wherever his troops found it.
“He’s insane,” Beloul observed. “He doesn’t have to be logically consistent.”
Radetic had thought at the time that the Disciple’s declaration made a grim kind of sense. The Kingdom of Peace had won no converts among the wise. Men with the Power were almost universally his enemies. They aided the Royal cause where they could. That they were generally ineffectual reflected the level of competence of the sorcerers of Hammad al Nakir. The talent had been very nearly eradicated during the fury of the Fall.
Radetic again thought of the Hidden Ones. Would El Murid be fool enough to try expelling them from Jebal al Alf Dhulquarneni?
That was too much to hope. Like most of the Children of Hammad al Nakir, he probably did not think of them at all.
El Aswad buried its dead and went on, as it had done for years. A month later a spy brought news which illuminated the assassination attempt.
El Murid had instructed his Invincibles to found a secret order within the bodyguard. The available details convinced Radetic that it was a mystery cult. It called itself the Harish, and was extreme in its secrecy. Members were organized in pyramided “brotherhoods” of three men, only one of whom knew any cultist above the three in the hierarchy. The tattoo was El Murid’s personal seal. It was formed from the initial letters of “Beloved of God,” and meant that the bearer was guaranteed a place in Paradise. It supposedly faded when the cultist’s soul ascended.
“That’s spooky,” Fuad observed, and seemed perfectly willing to write the idea off as another example of El Murid’s insanity.
“It is,” Yousif agreed. “It’s also damned dangerous if they’re all as willing to die as our three were.”
They were. Dredging the dark corners of his mind, El Murid had created a dread new instrument for the furthering of his mission.
Nine weeks later Radetic received a long letter from an old schoolmate, Tortin Perntigan, who had become a professor of mercantile theory. Meaning he was a glorified accounting instructor.
He mulled it for days before taking it to Yousif.
“You look strange,” the Wahlig told him. “Like a man who’s just seen his best friend and worst enemy murder each other.”
“Maybe I have. I’ve received a letter from home.”
“An emergency? You don’t have to leave?” Yousif seemed alarmed by the prospect. Megelin’s pride responded warmly.
“No. I’m not going anywhere. The letter... It’ll take some explanation.” Quickly, Megelin explained that Perntigan was a long-time friend, that they had been close since entering the Rebsamen together nearly three decades ago.
“He’s the one costing you so much when I send my fat packets of mail.” Yousif was a tight man with a copper, like all his desert brethren, and repeatedly protested the expense of Megelin’s communications with his distant colleagues. “I’ve been sending him fragments of my monograph as I write it, along with my natural observations, notes, thoughts, speculations and what have you. To ensure that not everything will be lost if tragedy strikes. Knowledge is too precious.”
“I seem to recall having heard that argument.”
“Yes. Well. Perntigan, old gossip that he is, responds by keeping me informed of the latest from Hellin Daimiel.”
Sourly, Yousif observed, “It gratifies me no end that you’re able to stay in touch. Though it beggars me. Now, what piece of foul gossip has this expensive excuse for scholarly chitchat brought me?”
“As you are aware, Hellin Daimiel is the financial axis of the west — though the standing is being challenged by Itaskian consortiums —”
“Get on with it, Megelin. Bad news is like a dead camel. It gets no pleasanter for being let lie.”
“Yes, Wahlig. Perntigan is obsessed with a phenomenon the bankers have begun calling ‘the Kasr Helal Gold Seam.’ Kasr Helal is a fortified Daimiellian trading village on the edge of the Sahel. The same one where, I believe, the Disciple’s father traded for salt —”
“Megelin! You’re still dancing around it.”
“Very well. Of late large amounts of new specie have been reaching Hellin Daimiel, channeled through Kasr Helal. Thus the name Kasr Helal Gold Seam. According to Perntigan, the House of Bastanos — the largest of the Daimiellian international banks — has accepted deposits equalling a million Daimiellian ducats. And that’s just one bank. He sent a long list of queries about what is happening inside Hammad al Nakir. His excuse is that he is a student of finance. His motive, of course, is that he hopes somehow to profit.”
“Can’t we somehow get to the point of all this? What’re you getting at? The fact that this money is coming out of the desert?”
“Exactly. Which is the root of the mystery. There is a trader’s axiom that says specie is as scarce as frog fur in the desert. In this land debts are almost always paid in service or kind. Are they not? What silver and gold there is has a tendency to remain motionless.” Radetic indicated the rings and bracelets Yousif wore. They formed a considerable portion of the Wahlig’s personal fortune. The men of Hammad al Nakir customarily wore or hid whatever valuable metals they possessed. They yielded them up only in the direst extremity. “The movement out of
