Elwas had more to say. He did not get the chance. Swami Phogedatvitsu finished and sent his patients on to whatever they would do next. He donned a wrap of orange that concealed his flab, approached the observers wearing an agile, gleaming, sweat-shiny smile.
He appeared to be pleased with himself.
That was fine with Yasmid. “I am impressed. You have my father more active than I can ever remember.”
Phogedatvitsu’s smile turned condescending. “Thank you, Lady.” He was making excellent progress with the language. He inclined his head just enough.
Elwas said, “The meal isn’t ready. Swami, can you show the lady how you help our lord cope with pain?”
Phogedatvitsu turned to his interpreter. The small man rattled something in a language with odd rhythms. Yasmid believed the swami was buying time to think.
Phogedatvitsu said something. His interpreter then said, “Very well. Please follow.”
The swami set a brisk pace for a short distance, along what would have been a hallway in a normal house, then entered an empty, clothwalled room six feet by ten.
The interpreter said, “These conditions must be met: you will say nothing and do nothing. You will not reveal your presence. Is this clear?”
Yasmid agreed because her father had been engaged in physical exercise.
Phogedatvitsu pulled a cloth wall aside. That exposed three men in loincloths lying face down on padded tables. All three were old and wrinkled and scarred and had not been eating well. Men of Phogedatvitsu’s race massaged and stretched the old bodies, asked soft questions, used a small brush to make ink dots on skin.
The swami again made signs abjuring speech, then joined the others. Yasmid drew breath to ask why foreigners were here in her father’s tent.
Habibullah grasped her left arm. Elwas moved in front of her. He wore a ferocious “What do you think you’re doing?” look.
She could shout and carry on later. Right now she had to stand still and keep quiet.
She shook her left arm. Habibullah’s grip was too tight.
She opened her mouth again.
Elwas was in front of her again, this time so close their noses bumped. He turned her around. He made her march. Habibullah did not interfere.
Back down the cloth corridor, voice low but intensely angry, al-Souki demanded, “What is the matter with you? Lady.” As an afterthought. “You swore you would…”
“That was before I saw…”
“You had to know you were going to see something unusual. Why would he take so much trouble to strive for silence, otherwise?”
“He was sticking needles into him, Elwas! What did you expect me to do?”
“To be silent and observe. As you promised.”
“But he was sticking needles in…”
Al-Souki told Habibullah, “She was right when she chose to stay away. We should not have risked that. She isn’t ready.”
Habibullah nodded, said, “Perhaps,” and stared at the earthen floor.
Yasmid demanded, “Does this mean you’re part of some…”
Elwas made an obvious effort to control serious exasperation. “Lady, the swami is using eastern methods to free your father from his opium addiction. Do you know more about that specialized work than you do about building construction? I note that you never inject yourself into the work of carpenters or masons. You will, on occasion, ask why something is being done in a certain way.”
Each word arrived under rigid control, reeking of truth. She hated him for that.
Then she started. She might have had an epiphany. A sudden grasp of the mind of the man whose special madness had led to generations of warfare and despair.
“Elwas, take us to where we will sit down with my father. We will wait there. And you will regale me with tales of sticking old men with needles.”
…
The meal with the Disciple was not exciting. Yasmid’s father went through the motions in a lugubrious, mechanical fashion, like a mildly autistic child. He did not make eye contact. He did not speak. He brightened some at mentions of his wife and daughter but failed to recognize Yasmid as the latter.
Yasmid conceded that Phogedatvitsu had worked a miracle by reclaiming El Murid this much. Perhaps now the Disciple would learn to navigate the quotidian world and begin interacting with people.
But this man was not Papa.
What Yasmid wanted desperately was the man she had known when she was little.
Earthly, practical Yasmid bint Micah knew that the Papa she remembered never really existed outside her head.
The swami thanked her repeatedly for being interested in his efforts but, otherwise, said only, “There is much work to be done yet.”
…
Varthlokkur, with a comet tail of youngsters, entered his restored workroom. He was careful to conceal the unlocking gestures. Scalza might be tempted to sneak in. Lately, the boy had shown an inordinate interest in the room. He followed Varthlokkur all over, hoping to learn by watching. Ekaterina tagged along because she was interested in everything that interested Little Brother.
Then Ethrian began following his grandfather. Why? Something had changed. Ethrian was intrigued by the world outside Ethrian now. And his mother was thrilled.
“What are we going to do today, Uncle?” Scalza asked. “Spy on our mother again?”
“That part of ‘we’ constituted by you will remain out of the way and quiet while the part that is me performs some excruciatingly dull maintenance on the Winterstorm.”
“Oh, good! When are you going to start teaching us?”
“Never, and a day.”
Scalza primed himself for an argument. Before he started Nepanthe arrived. Smyrena was awake and cooing. The youngsters lost interest in anything but her.
That left Ethrian as a puzzled human island. After brief indecision he drifted toward his mother.
Varthlokkur watched in amazement. Nepanthe had a bottomless store of warmth and love for the children. He never got over that. How did she do it?
The children did not bother him again. Nepanthe was that good a kid wrangler.
It did not hurt that the baby seemed interested in learning to crawl. Everyone found that immensely entertaining.
In time, Nepanthe left Smyrena to the youngsters and came to look over Varthlokkur’s shoulder.
He said, “I’ve been looking for Haroun. I can’t find a trace. He must be somewhere on the foreshore east of the Mountains of the Thousand Sorcerers.”
“What does he want to do? His whole life changed when he killed Magden Norath. I’m sure he didn’t plan to go round stabbing famous sorcerers.”
“I hope not. I don’t want him headed our way.” He grinned.
“If he is on the coast he’s not interested in what’s going on in Al Rhemish.”
“Exactly. Before al-Habor he was heading that way by stages. After al-Habor he headed southeast, for as long as I was able to track him.”
“So he has a new interest. What could that possibly be, Mr. Wizard?”
He chuckled. “You’re probably right. If he isn’t after his throne he must be after the woman he loves.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t poison himself.”
“Haroun bin Yousif won’t let old love drag him into mortal peril.”
“You take the romance out.”
“I try.”
“I never liked him much. He was always drama and trouble. But he was one of Mocker’s best friends.”
That name brought on the silence. Varthlokkur refocused on finding bin Yousif. Nepanthe returned to the children. That nerve was still tender.
Varthlokkur gave up looking. Bin Yousif would surface eventually. He shifted his attention to the west.
It was the time of year for armies to march.
The Lesser Kingdoms were a-simmer with vigorous political disinterest. The weather was the best in a generation. People whose lives revolved round agriculture were taking advantage. Even in chaotic Kavelin most every tillable acre had gotten plowed. The retired soldiers were all at work in forest or field.
The Crown spent no money because it had none and lacked any means of collecting revenue. The Nordmen barons were in little better shape. But commoner Wesson entrepreneurs were digging into their secret caches. They were building things. Varthlokkur discovered new grinding mills and granaries, new sawmills and stone cutting mills. Small caravans moved through the Savernake Gap, both directions. The Marena Dimura, though disinclined to participate in the broader community, had missions out looking for engineers to help reopen mines hidden in the deeps of the Kapenrungs.