His always inimical fate must have dozed off. He ran head on into one of his rare strokes of fortune. He reached the city the morning the easterners departed. He ensconced himself on a rooftop for four long hours, reviewing the Host.
Nowhere did he see a blind old man.
The thing that drove him was not satisfied. It wanted the where, the why, and the how of the old man's separation from the Host. Cursing himself for a fool, he stalked the easterners down their road toward home.
On three different occasions he isolated a soldier and put him to the question. Two had not known Sajac. The third remembered the astrologer but had no idea what had become of him.
Mocker squealed in exasperation. He cursed the gods, one and all, with a fine impartiality. They were toying with him. They were playing a cruel game. He demanded that they cease their torment, and that they let him know.
He became so frustrated that, in one of the Lesser Kingdoms, after failing in a fourth attempt to isolate a soldier, he went to a priest for advice.
The priest was no help. Mocker refused to reveal enough of the story for the man to hazard offering advice. He simply told the fat man, "Nothing is certain in this life, my son. We live with mystery. We share a world shrouded in uncertainty. For those without faith, life becomes an interminable journey fraught with the perils of being unsure. Come. Let us pray together. Put your trust in the Lord."
Salvation was not what Mocker had in mind. He stamped out of the rectory snarling about not getting caught in the world's oldest scam, about the effrontery of a priest who tried to con a master con artist.
He trailed the eastern army all the way to the Sahel.
He stood on a low swale staring at the barren hills, recalling what it had been like passing through them, going into the desert with Yasmid and the Invincibles. He could not penetrate those badlands without attracting the attention of the savage Sahel tribesmen.
"Woe!" he cried, after debating with himself for half a day. "Self, am accursed. Am doomed to remain wanderer in fear, ever watching backtrail lest doom steal upon self unnoticed." He again cursed all the gods and devils he knew, then turned westward, shambling shoulders slumped. Bragi and Haroun would be somewhere along the coast, he supposed.
Two days later he entered a village unscathed by war. The dogs did not growl and attack. They just barked out his arrival. The villagers did not rush out with hammers and knives and threaten to make pet food of him if he did not make himself scarce.
The townspeople were adherents of El Murid's Faith. He arrived during an hour of worship, while the muzzain was singing a prayer from the steeple of a church that once served another god. When prayers were over the villagers received Mocker with charity, offering him food and drink and asking only that he repay their kindness with a few hours of labor.
Work? Mocker? That was as implausible as asking the sun to stand still. Yet work he did, and marvelled at himself as he helped clean a stable. He tried entertaining with a few tricks but was admonished because they smacked of sorcery. The townsfolk were conservatives who hadn't warmed to the Disciple's shift in attitude toward the dark arts. In any case, the old man who lived in the temple had shown them all those tricks already.
Mocker's eyes grew huge. Old man? Tricks? Temple?
But... Could it be... ? No. Impossible. Not a chance. Things did not happen that way. The gods did not torment you mercilessly, dangling your heart's desire just out of reach only to throw it into the dust at your feet, contemptuously, when you abandoned all hope. Did they?
He was so nervous and eager that he went to the extreme of taking a bath before attending the next service. He had learned that the old man in question was blind and on his last legs. The temple had taken him in out of charity. He had helped the priest where he could, which was very little, and in return received a place to lay his head, two meals a day and someone to bury him when he died.
A strong emotion hit Mocker when he heard this. He could not identify it immediately. Then he realized he was sad for this unknown old man, crippled and dying alone and unloved, nurtured only by the charity of strangers.
That feeling grew stronger as the hour of worship approached. It baffled him when he tried to probe it in an attempt to unearth its genesis and meaning. He became confused and, in an odd way, frightened. And he wondered constantly if this really could be Sajac.
He joined the worshippers as they drifted toward the temple. Several remarked on how clean and shiny he looked. He grinned idiotically and responded to a few feeble jests.
The nearer he approached the temple the more difficult it became to keep going. More and more of the villagers passed him. In the end, he stood a pace outside the temple door, alone, motionless, wondering what he would see when he stepped through. A feeble Sajac helping the priest? Or some complete stranger?
Three times he tried to take that last step. Three times something held him back. Then he turned and walked away.
In the final summation, he did not need to know. He could walk away and let the pathetic creature in the temple be whomever he wanted.
The need had left him. Empathy had banished hatred.
He resumed his westward journey.
Chapter Twenty-Five:
FINALE, WITH KING
T here's an Itaskian wants to see you, Lord," Shadek announced from the entrance to Haroun's tent.
"Itaskian?" Haroun exchanged glances with Ragnarson. "What's he want?"
"An audience, Lord. He didn't say why."
"Who is he?"
Shadek shrugged. "A gentleman of quality. An older man."
"Uh-huh. Bring him here, then." Haroun's voice betrayed a great weariness.
"Now what?" Ragnarson wondered aloud.
"Who knows."
Their encampment was a hundred miles northeast of Libiannin. It lay a far ride from anywhere for anyone. The nearest known Itaskians were at Dunno Scuttari, not yet having returned north after their negotiations with the Disciple. The reports suggested that, despite the terms of the peace, they were trying to shake the hold the Faithful had on the kingdoms south of the Scarlotti.
Haroun was drifting toward the Kapenrungs, having nowhere to go but the old camps. Ragnarson had joined him because he, too, had nowhere to go. He had disbanded his little army. His men had been anxious to return home, to resume interrupted lives. Fewer than twenty-five had remained with him. None knew what they would do with their tomorrows.
Shadek returned. "The Itaskian, Lord." He held the flap for a thin old man.
Haroun rose, face reddening. "My Lord Minister," he growled, restraining himself with difficulty. "I am... shall we say I'm boggled by your audacity. Or stupidity. Only a bold rogue or an idiot would come here after what you did to us." Shifting to his own tongue, he identified the man for Ragnarson.
"I?" the Minister asked. "Bold? Hardly. I'm in the grip of an immense trepidation. My advisers are astonished that we lived long enough to reach you. They don't believe you're sophisticated enough to distinguish between this Itaskian and that."
"Why make distinctions?" Ragnarson growled. "One father of lies is like another. The gods have blessed you, Haroun. They've given you a peace offering. I know the perfect way to dispose of this worm."
Haroun eyed the Minister. "I'm open to suggestions."
"In Trolledyngja we carry traitors from town to town in a cart, hanging them gently. Just enough to make them dance a little. When the traitor reaches Tonderhofn, we draw and quarter him and send the quarters out to the four winds as a warning."
"An interesting custom. I'd be tempted had I villages through which to parade and a capital to call my own. Had a snippet of treachery not arisen, I'd have the villages and capital. But nobody to slay. It's a problem. I fear we'll have to settle for something less flashy."