After a moment’s consideration, Lander nodded. “I can do it.”
They rode the rest of the way to the camp in silence. When they reached the golden grass surrounding the emerald lake, urging the camels onward became more effort than it was worth. They tethered the beasts and walked the rest of the way on foot.
Sa’ar’s camp was typical. Each family had pitched its khreima with the entrance facing the center of the circle. The women were spinning camel’s wool, repairing carpets, and tending to the dozens of other tasks required to maintain a household. The older girls were helping their mothers or watching the youngest children, who were running about between the tents or wrestling in the circle.
As the trio passed through the tent circle, the women welcomed them by whistling from beneath their veils, and the young children paused long enough to stare in openmouthed amazement at Lander’s fair, sunburned skin. Ruha suddenly felt lonely and sad, for the scene reminded her of the life she had enjoyed for only three days, a life she knew she would never have again.
Her sudden melancholy was a stark contrast to the last few days. Since leaving the desolated camps of the Mtair Dhafir, she had been too busy trying to reach Colored Waters, daydreaming about Lander’s homeland, and worrying about the Zhentarim to dwell on her own status. Even Kadumi’s reaction when he discovered her to be a witch had not been very painful. Part of the reason, she knew, was that Lander’s attitude gave her hope of finding someplace she would not be an outcast.
When the trio reached the sheikh’s audience tent, they found a large pavilion made from blond camel’s wool. It was open on all sides, and Ruha could see Sa’ar sitting beneath it next to two guests. The sheikh was a powerfully built man of forty or fifty, his face lined with furrows, his eyes hard with confidence and cunning.
Ruha recognized both of the sheikh’s guests immediately. One of them had flashing blue eyes with skin and hair as pale as white sand. He wore a purple robe and silver bracers, and had been posing as Zarud’s servant in the camp of the Mtair Dhafir. The widow was dismayed to see the pale stranger, for he did not strike her as the type of man who would be easy to provoke into an attack on Lander.
The other guest’s presence surprised Ruha as much as the first one’s presence dismayed her. He stood no more than four-feet tall, was swaddled head to toe in a white burnoose and turban, and looked like one of Lander’s companions at El Ma’ra. If it was the same individual, she could not imagine what he was doing with the Zhentarim.
The trio paused outside the pavilion and waited several seconds. When no one inside seemed to notice their presence, Lander impatiently cleared his throat, bringing the quiet conversation inside to an abrupt halt.
“Has somebody come to my khreima in need of help?” called the sheikh. His voice was deep, confident, and held mild irritation.
“Not in need of help, but bringing it,” the Harper said. “I have come to warn you of treachery.”
Before the sheikh could respond, the short guest called, “And why should the sheikh believe a liar who works fraud upon those he contracts?” He spoke in stilted, accented Bedine.
To Ruha’s surprise, the question drew a smile from Lander. “Bhadla, you’re alive!”
“Musalim did not fare so well,” Bhadla responded, his tone accusatory.
“That is the Zhentarim’s fault, not mine.”
“This business has no place in the tents of the Mahwa,” the sheikh interrupted. “Berrani, won’t you come into my khreima and drink some hot tea?”
“Your hospitality is legendary, Sheikh Sa’ar,” Lander replied, leading the way into the tent and motioning at his two companions. “I am Lander. My friends are Kadumi and Ruha of the Qahtan.”
“Apparently you know Bhadla,” Sa’ar replied, indicating that the trio should sit opposite Bhadla and the Zhentarim. “The D’tarig’s master is Yhekal, sheikh of the Zhentarim.”
Sa’ar’s servant brought a pair of tiny cups and a pot filled with hot salted tea. Sa’ar filled each tiny cup with black, rich-smelling liquid, then handed one to both Lander and Kadumi.
When he saw that the sheikh had ignored Ruha, Lander held his cup out to the young widow. Though the tea smelled delicious, she quickly shook her head to indicate that she did not want the drink. The Mahwa did not permit men and women to eat together, or the sheikh would have offered her a cup himself. Ruha suspected that allowing her to sit in his tent was the extent of the courtesy the sheikh would normally show a strange woman.
Realizing his mistake, Lander withdrew the cup and sipped from it himself.
“Tell me about your journey,” Sa’ar said, inviting Lander into conversation. “Where did you come from? What brings you into the Mother Desert?”
The Harper did not waste any time with pleasantries. Staring at Yhekal with a sneer so offensive that it could only be intentional, he said, “The treachery of the Zhentarim. I have come to warn the Bedine of their plans.”
Sa’ar lifted a brow. “Is that so?”
As Bhadla translated Lander’s statement, Ruha realized that the Zhentarim had learned from his failure with the Mtair Dhafir and was apparently foregoing the use of magic with Sa’ar.
After listening to the translation of Lander’s charge, Yhekal replied to Bhadla calmly, and the D’tarig gave the reply to the Bedine. “My master says he has presented the Zhentarim’s offer to Sheikh Sa’ar. He suggests the Harper do the same for his people.”
“That seems fair,” Sa’ar agreed. “The Zhentarim have offered me steel and gems. What will the Harpers offer?”
“Freedom,” Lander replied with quiet nonchalance. He sipped his tea and watched the Zhentarim as the D’tarig translated the response for his master.
The sheikh snorted. “That is all? We have our freedom.”
“Not after you sell it to the Zhentarim,” Lander replied. “Did Yhekal also tell you how his people treated the Qahtan and the Mtair Dhafir?”
The sheikh nodded, his face showing no other response. “What is that to me? They were not my allies.”
As Sa’ar responded, Ruha noticed a certain satisfaction creeping into Yhekal’s eyes, and she realized that he was secretly using magic to understand Bedine. Thinking of the spell that had influenced her father, Ruha wondered if the purple-robed Zhentarim had also tried it on Sa’ar and failed, or if he was saving it for later.
“Sheikh Sa’ar, the Qahtan and the Mtair Dhafir were your allies, as are all the other khowwans of the desert,” Lander said. He glared at Yhekal, then turned back to Sa’ar and said, “Whether you realize it or not, you have a common enemy. The Zhentarim wish to seize the desert from the Bedine.”
Yhekal started to respond, but caught himself and waited. After Bhadla had translated Lander’s charge and the Zhentarim made a reply in his own language, the D’tarig at last rasped, “My master says that the Harper is not speaking the truth. The Zhentarim do not want anything from the desert. They merely wish to open a trade route across it—with the cooperation of the Bedine tribes, of course.”
“The Zhentarim is a liar!” Kadumi snapped, pointing an accusing finger at Yhekal. “If the Zhentarim wish to make allies, why have they brought so many warriors?”
After patiently waiting for the translation he did not need, Yhekal gave his reply to Bhadla and the D’tarig passed it on. “The desert is a dangerous place,” he said. “One must be prepared.”
“For what?” Kadumi demanded hotly, turning to the sheikh. “They have at least three thousand warriors in their army!”
The sheikh turned to Lander. “Is the boy speaking truly?”
“We can’t be sure of the exact number, Sheikh Sa’ar,” the Harper replied. “It is only an approximate count.”
As her companions spoke, Ruha watched the Zhentarim’s concern. She decided to give him something else to think about. “If I may speak, Sheikh Sa’ar?”