A Path to Coldness of Heart (25 page)

Deadly emotion crossed Jirbash al-’Azariyah’s face. The imam might have won a death sentence with one malicious remark.

Yasmid did not chide Jirbash.

Elwas suggested, “Why not assume that his goals are evolving? I agree that who he is would be useful in predicting what he might do, might want to do, and is capable of doing. But everything we do, perforce, shapes what he will be able to do.”

Ibn Adim recognized the death glow in Jirbash’s eyes. His voice was tight. “We’re chasing specters. Which will be what he wants.”

“Explain,” Yasmid said.

“He’s long gone, laughing. Whatever kind of rogue he was, he wasn’t the infernal genius you all want to make him.”

“Do go on,” Yasmid said. Honestly. The man might be making a point that had evaded everyone else.

“I propose that he was a common crook. A confidence man. He ran to al-Fadl when the Invincibles started digging. He got money and got out. He’s halfway to Al Rhemish or back in Souk el Arba, congratulating himself for being quick and clever.”

A couple of Invincible captains muttered agreement.

Yasmid looked to Habibullah. He shrugged. Elwas did the same. “So. We could be making mountains out of termite hills. So. We’ll search for two more days. Ask every question again. Re-turn every stone. Try to think of something that hasn’t been suggested before. If nothing new surfaces we’ll bow to Ibn Adim’s wisdom and congratulate the pilgrim for being quick and clever.”

...

Haroun was suffering from imposter syndrome. He could not believe his own success. He was inside the tent of the Disciple, his deadly enemy since childhood. He was within striking distance. Nobody knew. Nobody was alarmed.

He studied the geography of the tent and the routines of life inside the fraction that saw use. He learned that most staff lived outside. They did almost nothing when out of sight of their supervisors, who did not themselves much care if the staff kept busy.

Much of the complex was in worse shape than the trash space where Haroun hid. Several vixens had denned up in one eastern area. They and their kits squabbled constantly. The staff knew about them all. They knew about the rats and mice and camel spiders, too, and ignored them. All they did was keep the rouge on the old woman’s cheeks by maintaining what could be seen from outside.

These people had abandoned El Murid’s dream.

They stole from him, too. Mostly food, now. Traffic in salable trinkets had dried up because there was so little worthwhile plunder left. Haroun suspected that the staff payrolls included some family ghosts, too.

The court of the Disciple was swamped in corruption.

Come nightfall Haroun was free to do as he willed. He ran into no one even when he pilfered food. He eavesdropped when he could. He had nothing else to do but wait.

In time he would feel safe going out again, as someone new.

He could kill the Disciple. That would be easy. But it would put him on the run again, with nowhere to hide. And the result might not be positive. El Murid’s religion had become locked into an inward-facing stasis. His latest genius war captains defeated all external threats but no longer insisted on converting the world.

The movement was old and tired and befuddled, like its founder.

Kill him and someone competent might step in.

Assassination could wait until God Himself could be framed for it.

He wished he could slip the old madman some opium. One fat dose would undo all the good so many had achieved.

Even by day the people who worked in the tent never left the small occupied stain behind the entrance.

Haroun enjoyed himself the first week. During the second he grew more active because he felt more driven. During the third he began crafting schemes.

...

Yasmid greeted Elwas unhappily. “You have brought me nothing again.”

“True. The ghost has not returned from the spirit world. And we did agree that we would leave him there, some time ago.”

“Yet you kept looking.”

“I did. For your sake.”

“And?”

“No one has seen him since that night. People remember him on the coast. People remember him coming through the pass. He came here, then he vanished.”

“I really do have to let go.” Talking to herself, not Elwas.

“I want to talk about al-Fadl. He has given up the names of the people who sold him some of the more unusual properties we found at his place.”

“You’re about to tell me something I’d rather not hear?”

“I am. About bad people in places where we want only the best to abide. Barking Snake was rich. He got that way selling stolen goods. Most of those came from your father’s tent or from the shrines. Barking Snake’s business has been bad lately. Your father had been robbed of everything small enough to smuggle out of his tent. I talked to the guards. They check everyone going in but no one coming out. The need never occurred to them. I don’t think they were involved.”

“My father’s servants stole from him?”

“It wasn’t organized. It was individuals seizing opportunities.”

“Elwas, I despair of humankind. The best man in our world, chosen by God Himself, has been surrounded by rogues and thieves, like flies around dung, since the first day he preached. I wish God would put patience aside and destroy the evildoers.”

“That wouldn’t leave many of us to deal with the corpses, Lady.”

“No doubt. Any suggestions about how to deal with the thieves?”

“Let them know that they’ve been found out. Punish the most egregious. Let the rest be, but with a never another chance warning.”

“Accept their villainy?”

“Your father doesn’t tolerate change well. The swami worked a miracle, getting accepted as quickly as he did.”

True. Meals with her father were a regular event, now. He did not recognize her or speak to her yet but the Matayangan insisted they would get there soon.

She saw some improvement herself.

Phogedatvitsu said most of the indifference was stubbornness donned for the occasion.

“Can we recover any of the stolen goods?”

“Some, but, unfortunately, what the criminal still had is of little value.”

“Find out who was the most flagrant villain. Have his right hand cut off. Then have someone who knows how look at their accounts.”

“Very well. Will you cancel the next dinner?”

“No. Where is Habibullah? It is a beautiful morning. I’d like to go walking.”

“It is a fine day, indeed. Unfortunately, Habibullah is sick. He has whatever has been going around among the old men. He’ll be back in a few days.”

It was a fierce sickness—if it was not poison. One ancient imam and several elderly Invincibles had expired. Several other imams were not expected to recover.

Could someone be eliminating them?

Two more imams and another Invincible died. Habibullah recovered. Still so weak he needed help walking, he took his place opposite Yasmid next time she dined with her father.

Just they two were there. Elwas was outside removing a thief’s stealing hand.

It said much about El Murid’s attendants that none had fled despite al-Fadl’s arrest.

Elwas came late to his seat beside Habibullah but the Disciple was later still. Phogedatvitsu showed up long enough to say, “There will be a delay. This is the anniversary of an encounter from which he barely escaped death at the hand of a Wahlig of el Aswad. He thinks he saw the man’s ghost this morning.” He did not use his interpreter.

Habibullah told Elwas, “There was a raid soon after Nassef captured Sebil el-Selib. Yousif and his brother Fuad caught the Disciple near the Malachite Throne. Only Nassef’s timely arrival saved him.”

“That was a long time ago.”

Yasmid asked, “Is this a good sign? That he can get excited about something? Or is it bad?”

Elwas said, “It’s a step forward. He has engaged the external world.”

Yasmid said, “An imaginary world.”

Habibullah said, “He could start seeing real people next.”

And Elwas, “Lady, when I brought the swami here your father saw legions of imaginary beings, mostly ghosts. And not the ones you would expect. Not your mother. Never your brother. He doesn’t remember that you had a brother anymore. He did see Nassef a lot. Nassef was always here. They engaged in spirited debates about everything imaginable. I heard only your father’s side and I’m too young to have seen the Scourge of God himself but I think I know him pretty well, now. He was a remarkable man.”

“Yes. And a bizarre mix.” Yasmid did not want to talk about the dead. Hammad al Nakir was inhabited more by ghosts than live actors. The people were tired of war but all looked back to the glory days of war, when captains like Nassef, Karim, el-Kader, and el Nadim had made the earth shake.

Yasmid had seen those days from the inside. She knew that the golden age was a delusion. The look-backers had forgotten the cost: women without husbands and sons, children without fathers, works public and private destroyed and, even now, not restored, and all the fertile lands laid waste. All in the Name of God the Compassionate.

Recollections of evil were fading. They would go extinct once the last folk who had survived those times went to their rewards. Then the Believers would grow infatuated with tales of glory till some young Nassef or el-Kader, some half-bandit, half-charismatic holy warrior, began the cycle anew.

“Lady?” Habibullah sounded concerned. “Is something wrong?”

“Yes. But we can’t do anything about it. We must be what God wills.”

Silence came. No one wanted a religious discussion. Habibullah did say, “Submission is God’s Law. You think about it too much.”

Yasmid lowered her gaze. “I do, don’t I? I always admired my father’s conviction. He never knew doubt.” She looked up. “How much longer…? Ah!”

She screamed and collapsed.

“Lady? What is it?” Elwas demanded.

Habibullah asked the air, “Did she faint?” He looked around frantically. “Why did she scream? Look for a snake. Maybe it was a viper.”

Yasmid had fallen onto her right side, then had curled into a ball. She seemed to be suffering severe stomach pain. No snake Habibullah knew could cause that.

“Maybe a spider.”

Yasmid mumbled something about ghosts.

The men were on their knees around her when Phogedatvitsu arrived with her father.

†

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

SUMMER, YEAR 1017 AFE:

SEDLMAYR

D
ahl Haas and Aral Dantice rode ahead to make the arrangements.

Kristen slipped into Sedlmayr soon afterward. Her party followed, a few people at a time. They all vanished into the home of Cham Mundwiller and his brothers.

Cham was a long time dead but his kin shared his vision. They would support the lost king’s grandson while the younger Bragi continued policies parented by Queen Fiana and the first King Bragi.

Kristen was a believer. Her father had been a Wesson soldier who had risen to become King’s Champion.

Kristen’s party assembled in a banquet room in the Mundwiller compound, which was a minor fortress. From without the public saw a square, three-story structure a hundred forty feet to the side, without windows at ground level. Light entered the second level through archers’ slits. There were regular, shuttered windows on the third floor. Stepping back, the outsider would see the stone tower that stood in the yard inside. That final refuge could be entered only by climbing a ladder.

All important Sedlmayrese families lived in some sort of urban fortress. Business and political disputes could become quite animated.

The Mundwiller compound stood out because its architecture had been adopted from cities farther west.

During the reigns of Fiana and Bragi, Sedlmayr had become a semi-autonomous city-state acknowledging the Crown while disdaining the nobility and any feudal obligations.

There were other, similar charter towns. All were rich. Sedlmayr was weathering the current chaos with less hardship than any Nordmen demesne.

There was jealousy and resentment. Naturally. But prevailing economic conditions made it impossible for the Nordmen to impose themselves.

All of which Kristen learned within minutes of her arrival.

She and hers were in a room so crowded with Sedlmayrese that the heat was becoming intolerable. Many of those bodies had gone too long unwashed, as well.

Body odor was not something most people noticed. Kristen did so because the Sedlmayrese diet was heavy on pork. Sedlmayrese smelled different.

Bight Mundwiller was the youngest of the surviving Mundwiller brothers. His family had assigned him to Kristen. He stuck like a jealous lover, left hand always on the hilt of a long knife. Kristen suspected that he had not been pleased with the assignment before he met her. Now she feared she would not be able to get shut of him.

Dahl and Aral Dantice were amused.

Bight was seventeen.

The grand dame of the clan, Ozora Mundwiller, called for silence.

Silence rained down immediately.

A raised eyebrow from Ozora Mundwiller could alter the destiny of the clan.

The old woman said nothing after the silence fell.

Aral stepped up to address the crowd. He told everyone that Queen Inger’s writ no longer had any force outside Vorgreberg’s wall. Kristen whispered to Dahl, “What is he doing?”

“I’m not sure. How about we listen and find out?” He slipped an arm around her waist.

Dantice went into detail about the situation in Vorgreberg. Kristen found his report depressing.

Inger had a staff sorcerer. He appeared to be competent. His main assignment was to find the missing treasury money.

Those who thought young Bragi should be king had little more influence in the countryside. The Nordmen nobility were content to operate without any strong central authority. Kristen thought they were being short-sighted. In time they would realize that life was better when there was a strong king in Vorgreberg.

She whispered her thoughts to Dahl. He said, “Tell these people.”

She understood. They wanted to know if she could think. So she spoke up.

Ozora Mundwiller nodded. “That’s true, child. But I think you see the flaw in your argument as well. Periods of prosperity and peace were few and brief because we were so often at war, if not with El Murid or Shinsan, then with one of our neighbors. And if not with any of those, then with ourselves for whatever reason seemed fashionable. Those who ponder such things believe Old Meddler caused most of the turmoil.”