“Really, Yousif,” Aboud admonished softly. “Not while Lalla is dancing.”
Yousif’s glance flicked from the King to his heir. Ahmed wore a wicked smile. A moment later he slipped quietly away.
Yousif wondered no more than a moment. Ringing zils and shimmering veils and flashes of satiny skin at last captured his undivided attention. Lalla was dancing just for him.
“Would you quit that?” Reskird snapped. “You’re driving me crazy.”
“Quit what?” Bragi asked, halting.
“Pacing. Back and forth, back and forth. Think you were ready to have a kid.”
Haaken grunted agreement. “What’s the matter?”
Bragi hadn’t been conscious of his pacing. “I don’t know. Nervous energy. This place gives me the creeps.”
The mercenaries had pitched camp on the western wall of the bowl, separate from the rest of Al Rhemish, but not separate enough to suit the men. There were strong tensions between native and outsider. The Guildsmen mainly stayed to themselves and radiated contempt for the barbarism of Al Rhemish and its people.
Reskird said, “I heard we won’t be here much longer. That they’re going to pay us off and let us go.”
“Can’t be too soon for me,” Haaken said.
Bragi sat down, but didn’t stay seated long. In moments he was circling the fire again.
“There you go again,” Reskird snarled.
“You’re making
Bragi paused. “Yeah. Maybe I will. Maybe I can find Haroun, see how he’s doing. Haven’t seen him since we got here.”
“Good idea. Look out you don’t have to save his ass again.” Reskird and Haaken laughed.
Bragi scanned the star-limned hills, uncertain what he was seeking. The air had an odd feel, as though a storm were in the offing. “Yeah. That’s what I’ll do.”
“Don’t take too long,” Haaken admonished. “We’ve got midnight guard.”
Bragi hitched his pants and walked away, his pace brisk. He was out of camp in minutes, passing among the tents of pilgrims here for Disharhun. By the time he reached the permanent part of town his nervousness had dwindled. He became preoccupied with the problem of locating Haroun among people whose language he did not speak. He had no idea where the Wahlig had pitched camp.
His wanderings took him to the wall enclosing the Most Holy Mrazkim Shrines. He forgot his quest and became a simple sightseer. He hadn’t been into town before. Even by night the alien architecture was bemusing.
Haroun could not sleep. Nor was he alone. All Al Rhemish was restless. Fuad had been sharpening his sword since sundown. Megelin paced constantly. Haroun was tired of the old man’s nattering. Radetic’s customary verbal precision was absent. He rambled through vast, unrelated territories. Nervous energy was building up, and could not discharge itself in any special direction.
The first startled cries gave purpose, provided relief at last. They burst from their tents into the moonlight. The compound was a-crawl with white-robed Invincibles.
“Where the hell did they come from?” Fuad demanded. “Altaf! Beloul! To me!”
“Megelin, what’s happening?”
“El Murid is here, Haroun. Back for Disharhun, it would seem.”
In minutes the fighting was general, and chaotic. Royalists and Invincibles fought where they found one another, the majority on both sides acting with no goal greater than surviving the attack of the foe. “The King is dead!”
Ten thousand throats took up that demoralizing cry. Some Royalist partisans shed their arms and fled. The rot Yousif had sensed now betrayed how deeply it had gnawed the fiber of Royalist courage.
“Ahmed betrayed his father!”
That declaration of filial treachery was more demoralizing than news of the King’s demise. How could a man fight when the heir of his sovereign was one of the enemy?
“Father is it, then,” Haroun told Radetic.
“Absolutely.” Megelin seemed bemused. “But he’s...”
“I’ll find him,” Fuad growled. “He’ll need me. He’s got nobody but Ali to guard his back.” He hit the nearest Invincibles like a windmill of razor steel.
“Fuad!” Radetic shouted. “Come back here! You can’t do anything.”
Fuad could hear nothing.
Haroun started after him. Radetic seized his arm. “Don’t you be a fool too.”
“Megelin —”
“No. That’s stupid. Think. You’re just heartbeats from the throne. After your father and Ali, who else? Nobody. Not Ahmed. Never Ahmed. Ahmed is a dead man no matter who wins. Nassef will want him living less than we do.”
Haroun tried to break away. Radetic’s grip held. “Guards,” he called. “Stay with us.” Several of the Wahlig’s men obeyed. They had overheard Radetic. “There has to be a pretender, Haroun. Otherwise the Royalist cause is
