The boy stepped inside, then sat very close to Ruha’s side. “One of Nata’s sons sits in the shadows twenty yards from your tent,” he whispered.
Ruha nodded. “That does not surprise me. My father knows I have no wish to be a hostage.”
“He is wrong to ask you,” Kadumi said. “You are of the Qahtan now, not the Mtair Dhafir.”
“Yes.”
The boy nodded at the kuerabiche. “That is why you are leaving.”
Ruha thought to deny it, then she realized that if Kadumi had not come as her friend, he would not have told her about the warrior watching her tent. “The Mtair have no right to ask anything of me.”
“If it comes to you escaping this night, I will go with you.”
“No. You should stay with my father’s tribe.” Ruha put a hand on the boy’s arm. “We are a long way from your home sands, and it will be hard to find another of the Qahtan’s allies for you to join.”
Kadumi shrugged. “That doesn’t matter. If you go, I must go as well. Yet that may not be necessary. Al’Aif thinks your father will change his mind.”
Ruha frowned skeptically. “Al’Aif should know my father better than that.”
“He seemed very sure of himself, and he thought you should know.”
“Why?”
The boy shook his head. “He didn’t say, but he is a man who can be trusted. Just wait until tomorrow. If your father has not changed his mind, then I will get you before you reach the Zhentarim.”
The youth returned to his feet, saying, “I should leave before the guard thinks I am taking liberties with my brother’s wife.”
Beneath her veil, Ruha smiled at the boy’s swagger. “We wouldn’t want that.”
“Until tomorrow, then,” he said as he left.
Without unpacking her kuerabiche, Ruha returned to studying her spells. Whatever Al’Aif was doing, she didn’t see how it affected her decision. Since her return, the warrior had treated her with a certain amount of respect, but she doubted that he or anyone else had changed their views on having a witch in the tribe.
Ruha continued studying her spells until an uncanny quiet crept over the camp and the night chill wafted into her tent on silent puffs of wind. Judging the time to be prime for sneaking away, Ruha went to the door of her khreima and peered outside. The moon cast a weak silvery light over the camp, but there were plenty of murky shadows to hide in beneath the ghaf trees and behind the tents. The sentry Kadumi had mentioned was nowhere in sight, but Ruha did not doubt that he was wrapped in a dark cloak and lying beneath one of the bushes or trees she watched.
Ruha backed away from the exit, then took her kuerabiche and went to the back side of the tent. She lifted a wall and pushed the bag outside, then started to squirm out herself.
A pair of dogs started barking on the far side of camp. Cursing the beasts, Ruha left the bag outside and crawled back into the tent. The dogs would awaken every other animal in camp, which would make it much more difficult for her to take a camel without causing a general tumult. Even with the animals alert, the widow could use her magic to move about undetected. Unfortunately, any camel she tried to take would be startled by her silent appearance from the shadows and bellow an alarm. It would be better to wait for the dogs to quiet down, then try again.
The dogs did not quiet. More joined the chorus, and then the camels began to bray. Soon the voices of sleepy men joined the uproar. Vexed by her bad luck, Ruha wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and waited for the men to put to rest whatever problem it was that had awakened the whole camp. When the tumult only grew worse, Ruha went outside to see the cause.
The first thing she saw was a stern-faced Nata striding purposefully toward her khreima. Behind him, in the center of the camp, her father and two dozen warriors stood gathered in a circle. They were all shouting at each other in puzzled, shocked voices.
As Nata approached, he said, “You’d better come with me, witch.”
Ruha frowned in concern. “What’s wrong? Is Kadumi hurt?”
The burly warrior shook his head, but before he could answer, a youthful warrior appeared from the other side of her tent. He was carrying the kuerabiche Ruha had packed earlier that night. “I found this behind the witch’s tent, Father.”
Nata took the shoulder bag from his son, then threw it back inside her khreima. “You won’t be going anywhere tonight, Ruha. Come with me.”
Frowning in confusion, Ruha followed the burly warrior back to the camp. Nata pushed through the jabbering men and moon-eyed children, keeping the widow close behind him. When they stopped moving, what Ruha saw made her gasp.
Al’Aif and her father stood in center of the crowd, holding torches. Al’Aif was watching her, but her father was staring at the lifeless and naked body of Zarud. The Zhentarim agent lay spread-eagled on the ground, as if someone had carried his corpse to the center of the camp and dropped him there to be inspected. The dead man had the sinewy build of a warrior, and his torso was blanketed with old scars. Ruha could scarcely believe a man could be wounded so many times and survive.
The most noticeable thing about the Zhentarim was the gaping gash below his jawline. Somebody had slit his throat from ear to ear, apparently with great relish. The wound was both deep and unnecessarily lengthy, and had left his body covered with blood from the shoulders to the hips. Ruha thought immediately of Lander, for he was clearly an enemy of the Black Robes.
She rejected the idea as quickly as it came to her. The last time she had seen the stranger, he had barely been able to walk, much less slit a healthy man’s throat. She thought of Al’Aif next, wondering if he had believed murdering Zarud would convince the sheikh to change his mind about sending hostages to the Zhentarim.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman’s curious voice. “How come he’s not dressed?”
The Bedine removed their clothes for only one purpose. Since the Zhentarim had not brought any wives with him, his nakedness seemed peculiar to the tribesmen.
“Perhaps Ruha knows,” suggested an aged warrior with a mouthful of rotten teeth. “What better way to catch a man off-guard?”
A flutter of murmurs rippled through the crowd.
“I can think of a dozen,” she retorted, glaring at the old man. “Any one of which I might use to silence your lecherous tongue.”
The crowd snickered openly at the widow’s retort, and the old man flushed with embarrassment. He rudely brushed his nose at Ruha, then pushed his way out of the assembly.
As the man left, Al’Aif spoke. “If Ruha did this, she has performed us a great service.”
Considering that she suspected Al’Aif of being the murderer, the accusation both astonished and angered Ruha. She stopped short of accusing the scarred warrior openly, however, for she knew it would work against her. Given a choice of believing her or Al’Aif, the crowd would place its faith in the warrior.
Nata spoke next. “When we went to fetch Ruha, my son found a packed kuerabiche behind her tent.”
A wave of speculation rolled through the crowd. The widow realized that, aside from herself, the only one who did not believe she had killed Zarud was the real murderer.
The sheikh shifted his gaze to Ruha and stared at her in dismay for several seconds. Finally he said, “Do you know what you have done, Daughter?”
“She has saved us,” Al’Aif interrupted. “Now there is no question of placating the Zhentarim. We must fight.”
The sheikh whirled on Al’Aif. “We’re out-manned thirty-to-one, you idiot!” he snarled. He looked back to Ruha, his ancient eyes welling with tears. “Our only hope is pay the blood price and hope the Zhentarim will accept it.”