Again, the doctor said nothing. Her brow was knitted in thought.
"It would be the wadjis, first," said Husari ibn Musa softly. "They would begin it. Not the kings."
Rodrigo nodded agreement. "I imagine that is so."
"What would they begin?" Alvar asked.
"The process of summoning the tribes from the Majriti," said the Captain. He looked gravely at Jehane. "What happens to the Kindath if the city-kings of Al-Rassan are mastered? If Yazir and Ghalib come north across the straits with twenty thousand men? Will the desert warriors fight us and then go quietly home?"
For a long time she didn't answer, sitting motionless in thought, and the men around the fire kept silent, waiting for her. Behind her, to the west, Alvar saw the white moon low in the sky, as if resting above the long sweep of the plain. It was a strange moment for him; looking back, after, he would say that he grew older during the course of that long night by Fezana, that the doors and windows of an uncomplicated life were opened and the shadowed complexity of things was first made known to him. Not the answers, of course, just the difficulty of the questions.
"These are the options, then?" Jehane the physician asked, breaking the stillness. "The Veiled Ones or the Horsemen of Jad? This is what the world holds in store?"
"We will not see the glory of the Khalifate again," Husari ibn Musa said softly, a shadow against the sky. "The days of Rahman the Golden and his sons or even ibn Zair amid the fountains of the Al-Fontina are gone."
Alvar de Pellino could not have said why this saddened him so much. He had spent his childhood playing games of imagined conquest among the evil Asharites, dreaming of the sack of Silvenes, dreading the swords and short bows of Al-Rassan. Rashid ibn Zair, last of the great khalifs, had put the Esperanan provinces of Valledo and Ruenda to fire and sword in campaign after campaign when Alvar's father was a boy and then a soldier. But here under the moons and the late night stars the sad, sweet voice of the silk merchant seemed to conjure forth resonances of unimaginable loss.
"Could Almalik in Cartada be strong enough?" The doctor was looking at the merchant, and even Alvar, who knew nothing of the background to this, could see how hard this particular question was for her.
Ibn Musa shook his head. "He will not be allowed to be." He gestured to the chests of gold and the mules that had brought them into the camp. "Even with his mercenaries, which he can scarcely afford, he cannot avoid the payment of the parias. He is no lion, in truth. Only the strongest of the petty-kings. And he already needs the Muwardis to keep him that way."
"So what you intend to do, what I hope to do ... are simply things that will hasten the end of Al-Rassan?"
Husari ibn Musa crouched down beside them. He smiled gently. "Ashar taught that the deeds of men are as footprints in the desert. You know that."
She tried, but failed, to return the smile. "And the Kindath say that nothing under the circling moons is fated to last. That we who call ourselves the Wanderers are the symbol of the life of all mankind." She turned then, after a moment, to the Captain. "And you?" she asked.
And softly Rodrigo Belmonte said, "Even the sun goes down, my lady." And then, "Will you not come with us?"
With a queer, unexpected sadness, Alvar watched her slowly shake her head. He saw that some strands of her brown hair had come free of the covering stole. He wanted to push them back, as gently as he could.
"I cannot truly tell you why," she said, "but it feels important that I go east. I would see King Badir's court, and speak with Mazur ben Avren, and walk under the arches of the palace of Ragosa. Before those arches fall like those of Silvenes."
"And that is why you left Fezana?" Ser Rodrigo asked.
She shook her head again. "If so, I didn't know it. I am here because of an oath I swore to myself, and to no one else, when I learned what Almalik had done today." Her expression changed. "And I will make a wager with my old friend Husari—that I will deal with Almalik of Cartada before he does."
"If someone doesn't do it before either of us," ibn Musa said soberly.
"Who?" Ser Rodrigo asked. A soldier's question, pulling them back from a mood shaped of sorrow and starlight. But the merchant only shook his head and made no reply.
"I must sleep," the doctor said then, "if only to let Velaz do so." She gestured and Alvar saw her old servant standing wearily a discreet distance away, where the firelight died in darkness.
All around them the camp had grown quiet as soldiers settled in for the night. The doctor looked at Rodrigo. "You said you are sending men to attend to the dead of Orvilla in the morning. I will ride with them, to do what I can for the living, then Velaz and I will be on our way."
Alvar saw Velaz gesture to Jehane, and then noticed where the servant had made up a pallet for her. She walked over towards it. Alvar, after a moment, sketched an awkward bow she did not see, and went the other way, to where he usually slept near Martin and Ludus, the outriders. They were wrapped in their blankets, asleep.
He unfolded his own saddle blanket and lay down. Sleep eluded him. He had far too many things chasing and tumbling through his mind. He remembered the pride in his mother's voice the day she recounted the details of her first pilgrimage to seek Blessed Vasca's intercession for her brave son as he left home for the world of warring men. He remembered her telling how she had gone the last part of the journey on her hands and knees over the stones to kiss the feet of the statue of the queen before her tomb.
Animals, to be hunted down and burned from the face of the earth.
He had killed his first man tonight. A good sword blow from horseback, slicing down through the collarbone of a running man. A motion he had practised so many times, with friends or alone as a child under his father's eye, then drilled by the king's foul-tongued sergeants in the tiltyard at Esteren. Exactly the same motion, no different at all. And a man had fallen to the summer earth, bleeding his life away.
The deeds of men, as footprints in the desert.
He had won himself a splendid horse tonight, and armor better by far than his own, with more to come. The beginnings of wealth, a soldier's honor, perhaps an enduring place among the company of Rodrigo Belmonte. He had drawn laughter and approval from the man who might truly become his Captain now.
Nothing under the circling moons is fated to last.
He had crouched by a fire on this dark plain and heard an Asharite and a Kindath woman of beauty and intelligence far beyond his experience, and Ser Rodrigo himself, as they spoke in Alvar's presence of the past and future of the peninsula.
Alvar de Pellino made his decision then, more easily than he would ever have imagined. And he also knew, awake under the stars and a more perceptive man than he had been this same morning, that he would be permitted to do this thing. Only then, as if this resolution had been the key to the doorway of sleep, did Alvar's mind slow its whirlwind of thought enough to allow him rest. Even then he dreamed: a dream of Silvenes, which he had never seen, of the Al-Fontina in the glorious days of the Khalifate, which were over before he was born.
Alvar saw himself walking in that palace; he saw towers and domes of burnished gold, marble columns and arches, gleaming in the light. He saw gardens with flower beds and splashing fountains and statues in the shade, heard a distant, otherworldly music, was aware of the tall green trees rustling in the breeze, offering shelter from the sun. He smelled lemons and almonds and an elusive eastern perfume he could not have named.