“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, shaghûns, 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 the desert of fortunes of the scale Perntigan describes represents a huge financial anomaly. There is a great deal of trepidation among the bankers, though they profit. They foresee some titanic economic disaster.”
Yousif simply looked puzzled. Half of what Radetic was saying had to be couched in the tongue of Hellin Daimiel. The desert language hadn’t much of a financial vocabulary. And, though Yousif spoke some Daimiellian, he did not comprehend merchants’ cant.
“Perntigan questioned his contacts in the banking establishment. He assembled a list of names associated with the suspect deposits. Along with another list of questions. You put everything he wrote together and it implies a rather disturbing process.”
“I see that somebody is sending a hell of a lot of wealth out of the kingdom.”
Radetic nodded. Finally. About five minutes behind, but finally. “Exactly. The whos and whys are what make the news interesting.”
Yousif puzzled for a few seconds, then started to speak. Haroun tugged at his clothing. “Father? May I?”
The Wahiig grinned. “Of course. Let’s see if this old fussbudget is worth his keep. Show us what he’s taught you.”
Radetic smiled too. The boy was showing signs of overcoming his innate reserve.
Haroun proclaimed, “There are only two people who could have that much money. The King and El Murid.”
“Your reasoning?” Radetic demanded.
“The King because he accepts money instead of service. Also, he collects some rents and trade taxes. And El Murid because he has been looting people for years.”
Yousif peered at Radetic. “Well? I take it from your look that he’s wrong. Explain.”
“Not really. He just hasn’t reasoned closely enough. Tortin indicates that the Quesani family did make a big deposit. It was used to purchase properties on the Auszura Littoral. That’s a stretch of seacoast north of Dunno Scuttari. It’s a sort of elephant’s graveyard of deposed princes. The purchase makes it look like somebody at Al Rhemish is covering the Quesani bets.”
“Not Aboud. He doesn’t have the foresight.”
“Farid, perhaps? No matter. That was only a small part of the flow, and not what was bothering Tortin. What did bother him came from two other sources. The loot Haroun mentioned without carrying his reasoning to the point where he mentioned that it hasn’t been El Murid doing the pillaging. The depositors have been Kari
m, el-Kader, el Nadim and that bunch.”
“Nassef s bandits-turned-generals. That’s good news, Megelin. We could make the Scourge of God damned uncomfortable by spreading that around. In fact, the Invincibles might end his tale if he’s been slipping something over on El Murid.”
Radetic was not cheered by the opportunity. “Our side is vulnerable too.”
“Aboud’s money? It’s his. He can do what he wants with it. Besides, he isn’t looting the realm.”
“Not Aboud. The priesthood. They’ve been sending out as much bullion as Nassef’s gang. Which means they’re stripping the holy places and melting the gold and silver down. What would the faithful do if they found out that they’re being robbed by their own priests? El Murid can explain Nassef, more or less. Soldiers pillage their enemies. We can’t shed ourselves of the priesthood.
“A lot of people already damn Nassef without damning El Murid. They consider him the Disciple’s compromise with fate. They figure he’ll disappear if El Murid’s Kingdom of Peace becomes a reality.”
“Looks like Nassef is worried about it too. He and his boys are putting a little away for their old age.”
“Don’t you think the priesthood’s behavior will win El Murid a lot of converts?”
“Absolutely. I’ll write Aboud.”
“Who is under the thumbs of the priests. Who will give you the same answer he’s been giving you since this mess started. If he bothers to answer at all.”
“You’re right. Of course. We’ll just have to intimidate a few priests. Cover it up.” Yousif closed his eyes wearily. “Megelin, what do you do when your allies are more trouble than your enemies?”
“I don’t know, Wahlig. I really don’t. Stupidity and incompetence create their own special rewards. All I foresee is deterioration and more deterioration, and most of it moral. Maybe Hammad al Nakir needs the purifying flame of an El Murid.”
Haroun gripped Radetic’s elbow. “Don’t give up yet, Megelin.”
The boy’s face had assumed an expression of stubborn determination. It made him seem far older than his years.
Radetic thought it a pity that a child had to grow up in the fires of this particularly chaotic furnace.
Chapter Six
Into Strange Kingdoms
Gaunt, shivering, Bragi and Haaken paused at the crest of the last high pass.
“Already spring down there,” Bragi observed. He extended an arm to support his brother. “That green must be a hardwood forest.”
“How long?” Haaken croaked.
“Three days? Five? Not long.”
“Hah!”
There had been days when they had not made a mile. Like yesterday. After burying Soren in the hard earth, they had fought the snowy mountain till exhaustion had forced a halt.
Sigurd had passed almost a month ago. The crossing had taken two months.
“Can’t make it,” Haaken gasped. “Go on without me.”
He had suggested it before. “We’ve got it whipped now, Haaken. All downhill from here.”
“Tired, Bragi. Got to rest. Make it while you can. I’ll catch up.”
“Come on. Step. Step. Step.”
The foothills were hot compared to the high range. The boys camped there a week, regaining their strength. Game was scarce.
They had begun to encounter signs of the foothill tribes. Once they passed the ruin of a small log fortress. It had been burned within the month.
“We should be near Itaskia’s Duchy Greyfells,” Bragi said around a rabbit’s leg. “This trail should run into the highway Father called the North Road. That’s a straight run to Itaskia the City.”
Itaskia the kingdom and its capital bore the same name. This was the case with several states. Each had grown round a strong city-survivor of the Fall.
“Wish you’d stop being so damned optimistic,” Haaken grumbled. He attacked the rabbit like a starved bear. “We can’t even speak the language. And we’re Trolledyngjans. If bandits don’t get us, the Itaskians will.”
“You should ease up on the pessimism. Damned if I don’t think all you’d see is a hernia if we found a pot of gold.”
“Can’t go through life expecting everything to work out. You expect the worst, you’re ready for anything.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I stopped making plans when Father died.”
Bragi had no plan either, beyond following his father’s sketchy suggestions. What happened after they found this Yalmar?
“Haaken, all I know is what Father said.”
“Then we just have to keep on till something happens.”
It happened next morning.
Haaken paused to urinate. Bragi ambled on ahead and was alone when the hillmen leapt out of the brush.
Their stone-tipped spears turned on his mail shirt, which his father had told him to wear whenever he traveled. They pulled him down and drew knives.
Haaken arrived, axe whining. He slew two before the others realized he was there.
Bragi scrambled away, regained his feet, finally used his sword.
A survivor tried to flee. Sword and axe stopped him.
“What the hell?” Haaken gasped.
“Meant to rob me, I guess,” Bragi wheezed, shaking. “That was too close.”
“I warned you.”
“Let’s ditch them and get out of here.”
“Listen!”
Hoofbeats. Approaching.’
“Into the brush,” Bragi said.
“Up a tree,” Haaken countered. “Ragnar said people never look up.”
Within a minute they were high in an old oak. Their packs seemed weightless during the climb.
The dead still lay scattered on the trail.
Six horsemen appeared. An officer, four soldiers and one civilian.
“Itaskians,” Bragi whispered.
“What the hell?” the officer demanded, reining in. The youths did not understand Itaskian, but guessed his meaning.
The soldiers drew swords. The civilian dismounted, examining the battleground.
“Majneric’s men. They ambushed two travelers. Within the past few minutes. The travelers are in a black oak about thirty feet to your left.”
“Who’d be out here when Majneric’s loose?”
“You’ll have to ask. Use bows. They shouldn’t resist the invitation.”
“Just so. Sergeant.”
The soldiers sheathed their blades, readied bows. Bragi and Haaken exchanged looks.
“Nobody ever looks up, eh?” Bragi growled, looking down four shafts. The scout beckoned.
When Bragi reached the ground he found his foster brother with axe in hand, defiant.
“They’re just pups,” the sergeant observed.
“These were the two?” the officer asked.
“The same,” said the civilian. “Look like Trolledyngjans. They teach them young up there.” The woodsman held out his palms. “Let’s talk in peace,” he said in accented Trolledyngjan.
“What’s going to happen?” Bragi asked. Shakes threatened to shame him.
“Depends on you. What happened here? What brings you south?”
Bragi told it all. The scout translated.
The Itaskians chattered briefly, then the interpreter said, “Sir Cleve is inclined to generosity. Because of those.” He indicated the dead. “We’ve been after their band for weeks. We deliver their heads to the Duke, we’ll get off patrol for a while. But he doesn’t know about this Pretender. He wants to look in your packs.”
Haaken growled softly.
“Easy, son. We won’t rob you.”
“Do what he says, Haaken.”
A minute later, “Good. Now move back five paces.”
The leader examined their things. Bragi’s heirlooms generated questions.
“Our father gave them to us before he died. He told us to take them to a man in the City.”
“What man?”
“Someone named Yalmar.”
T
he officer asked, “You think they’re telling the truth?”
“Too scared not to. This Yalmar probably fences for the coast raiders. Their father probably saw this succession crisis coming and made arrangements.”
“What should we do with them?”
“We have no quarrel with them, sir. And they’ve done us a favor.”
“They’re Trolledyngjans,” the sergeant observed. “Ought to hang them as a warning to the next bunch.”
“A point,” the officer agreed. “But I’ve no stomach for it. Not children.”
“These children killed four men, sir.”
“Majneric’s men.”
“What’s going on?” Bragi asked nervously.
The scout chuckled. “Sergeant Weatherkind wants to hang you. Sir Cleve, on the other hand, is willing to let you go. Provided you let him have these bodies.”
“That’s fine by us.”
“Watch that sergeant,” said Haaken. “He’ll get us killed yet.” The soldier was arguing something with his commander.
“He wants Sir Cleve to confiscate your packs.”
“Friendly sort.”
“He’s from West Wapentake, where the raiders strike first every spring.”
“Look out!” Haaken dove into Bragi’s legs.
But the sergeant’s arrow was not meant for his brother. It brought a howl from down the trail.
Twenty hillmen charged from the forest.
The youths and scout braced for the charge. And Bragi marveled at the way it melted before the Itaskians’ arrows.
It was a lesson he would not forget.
A few of those hillmen bore stolen weapons, mail and shields. The first to reach Bragi was one such, and skilled with his blade. Haaken’s axe, screaming across after slashing a spearman, saved Bragi.
While Sir Cleve and his soldiers sorted themselves out, the youths and woodsman dropped three more hillmen.
The remainder scattered before the horsemen, who harried them into the forest. “Finish the wounded before they escape,” Sir Cleve called back.
“This is some day’s work,” the scout observed once the grisly business ended. “A quarter of Majneric’s men dead within an hour. Makes a week spent chasing them worthwhile.”
“Why?” Bragi asked.