"No. Not enough." Radetic studied the smoke from the brush fire. "Is Haroun out there?"
"Yes. Fuad says he's doing well. Is there more news? You looked grim when you arrived."
Radetic kept his own counsel for a few minutes. Then, "Prince Hefni was killed."
"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."
"Possibly. He does think on his feet. El Murid was ready to set the Harish on him before Wadi el Kuf. Six months later he took over the Invincibles."
"Well, I've got a surprise for both of them. It'll so amaze them that they'll waste six months trying to figure it out. It might even panic Nassef into abandoning his eastern wars." Yousif laughed a little madly. "How soon will Hawkwind arrive?"
"I couldn't guess. They should be coming by now, but it's a long haul from High Crag."
"I hope it's soon. I do hope it's soon."
Chapter Nine
Ripening Soldiers
H igh Crag was an ancient, draughty stone pile surmounting a wind- and sea-battered headland.
"The Gates of Hell," Bragi gasped as his training company double-timed uphill, toward the fortress. For three months he and his brother had been in the hands of merciless veterans. Seldom had they had a moment to call their own.
They had found themselves a new friend. He was the only other Trolledyngjan in their Itaskian-speaking company. He called himself Reskird Kildragon. "It was just a small dragon," he was wont to say. "And thereby hangs a tale." But, though Reskird almost never shut up, he never told that tale. He hailed from Jandrfyre, a town on the Trolledyngjan coast opposite the Tongues of Fire. He was as loquacious as Haaken was reticent.
"No," Kildragon replied to Bragi's remark. "Hell would look good from here."
"Knock off the chatter up there," Sergeant Sanguinet thundered. "You barbarians got breath to waste, I'll send you round the course again."
Kildragon had come south with a raiding fleet the previous summer. It had been one of the few to sail during the succession troubles. An Itaskian warship had rammed it off Libiannin. He had managed to swim to shore, the only survivor. Of necessity, he had learned southern ways fast.
"Still a scroungy-looking lot you've got there, Tore," the gatekeeper called as they double-timed into the Guild stronghold.
"I'll get them weeded out yet, Andy."
The three months had been a pitiless weeding through exhaustion of body and will.
"Wichard's about had it," Reskird murmured as the Itaskian ahead of him stumbled.
Bragi grunted. He and Haaken had weathered the grind well. Trolledyngja had schooled them for it. Haaken seemed right at home. The structured military life suited him perfectly. Bragi was less comfortable. He just did not like a Yes sir, No sir, Do it by the numbers approach to life.
"We'll get him through. He's got guts," Bragi whispered. Despite his reservations, Ragnarson had been designated recruit corporal in charge of his squad. He had a sneaking suspicion that the assignment was more of Sanguinet's torment, though the sergeant claimed he had been given the position because he could yell louder than anyone else.
After bathing and shaving they mustered for Recruits' Mess. Their mealtimes were one of the few occasions when they could relax and talk.