“A pity. The Harish again?”
“Yes.”
Hefni had been the last of Aboud’s sons, excepting Crown Prince Ahmed. He had been much like his brother Farid. There were rumors that Aboud wished Hefni were Crown Prince instead of Ahmed, and that Ahmed was being pressured to abdicate in his favor.
“The Quesani are going to become extinct.”
“Wahlig...”
Yousif turned slowly. “Don’t tell me any more bad news, Megelin. I don’t think I could stand what I think you’re going to say.”
“I don’t want to. But I have to. Now or later.”
Yousif peered at the fire. In time, he murmured, “Out with it, then. I don’t want to break down in front of everybody.”
“Your sons, Rafih and Yousif. They were killed in the attack on Hefni. They acquitted themselves well.”
The two had been in Al Rhemish for several years, serving in the royal court. It was a common practice for nobles to send junior sons to court.
“So. Now I have only Ali and Haroun.” He stared. For a moment it seemed the cloud of smoke was a response to his baleful glare. “Look away from me, teacher.”
Radetic turned his back. The man had a right to solitude while he shed his tears.
After a time, Yousif remarked, “Aboud won’t be able to handle this. He’ll do something stupid.” He sounded like a man begging for help. He was not talking about Aboud.
Radetic shrugged. “The behavior of others has always been beyond my control. Unfortunately.”
“I’d better go tell their mother. It’s not a task I savor.”
Megelin moved nervously, came to a decision. “Would you look at this first?” He offered Yousif a chart on which he had penned names, titles and connecting lines in a tiny, tight hand. It constituted a who’s who of Hammad al Nakir.
“A chart of succession?” Over a period of ten years Yousif had sneakily picked up enough reading ability to puzzle his way through simple texts. He was good at names.
“Yes.”
“So?” Every nobleman kept one. The chart was critical in determining precedence and protocol.
“Permit me.” Radetic laid the chart out on a merlon. He produced a stick of drawing charcoal. “Let’s scratch out the names of people who aren’t with us anymore.”
His hand moved like the swift-stabbing hand of Death.
Dolefully, Yousif remarked, “That many? I hadn’t realized. It’s bad, isn’t it?”
“Anything apparent?”
“The better classes are being slaughtered.”
“Yes. But that’s not what I wanted you to see.”
Yousif leaned closer to the chart, then backed away. His eyes were weakening.
“I see,” he said. His voice was sadder than ever. “All of a sudden I’m third in the succession. If anything happens to Ahmed...”
“Some of our most devoted allies might expedite his meeting with the angels.”
The Crown Prince had all of his father’s faults, and none of the virtues that had made Aboud a respected king earlier in his reign. He was thoroughly disliked. Some of his enemies even accused him of being a secret adherent of El Murid.
His life would become worthless the moment Aboud’s health started to fail. The behind-the-scenes manipulators at Al Rhemish would hold an “abdication by dagger.”
“And,” Radetic added, “going by the way you people figure these things, Ali is fourth in line, Haroun fifth, Fuad sixth, and his sons in line after him.”
“Megelin, I know how you think. You’ve got a double-level puzzle here. You’re getting at something more. Out with it. I’m not in the mood for intellectual gymnastics.”
“All right. If by some ill fortune your family is destroyed — say during a successful siege — the succession would shift to the western cousins of the Quesani. Specifically, to a certain Mustaf el Habib, who must be pretty old by now.”
“So?”
“This particular gentleman is the father of a rebel named Nassef.”
Yousif seized the chart. He stared and stared. “By damn! You’re right. How come nobody ever saw it before?”
“Because it’s not exactly obvious. Mustaf el Habib is a damned obscure royal relative. And Nassef is as cunning as El Murid’s Evil One. His moves remain strictly explicable within the context of his service to the Disciple. Why should anyone expect a threat from this direction? Would you like to bet that El Murid hasn’t the vaguest notion that the Scourge of God could become King?”
“No. Hell no. Megelin, somebody has got to kill that man. He’s more dangerous than El Murid.”
