If they did react, though, they would make independent witnesses to an agression. Tamerice and its neighbors might assume a more bellicose stance toward El Murid.
That chance was worth the risk. El Senoussi's was only an interim encampment. Its loss would not constitute a significant defeat.
The Invincibles wanted to destroy him, not the camp, anyway. The big, important camps they would like to raid were all in the far north.
Haroun was known in Feagenbruch, and not well liked. He had aggravated the lords of that city with his importunities before.
He used his wounds, youth, and title to obtain entree. He spoke well while explaining to the king's seneschal. He spoke even better once shown into the presence of the king himself.
"It's an outrage, Majesty," the seneschal opined. "We can't let such arrogance go unchallenged."
"Then gather what knights you can muster. Lead them yourself. Cousin," the king told Haroun, "accept my hospitality while this temerity is being rewarded."
"I thank you, Cousin," Haroun replied. He smiled softly. Indirectly, the man had recognized his claim to the Peacock Throne.
At week's end news came that the Invincibles had been defeated and harried back into the Kapenrung Mountains. El Senoussi's people had survived.
The shock waves of the incursion would, in time, course throughout the Lesser Kingdoms, stimulating the growth of animosity toward El Murid.
The Lesser Kingdoms were small and often impotent, but each was jealous of its independence and sovereignty.
Nationalism was stronger there than in the larger kingdoms.
Haroun met a man while he was waiting for the news.
It was an inconsequential thing then, but in time would shape the destinies of kingdoms.
Bored with Tamerice's squalid palace, which was a hovel compared even to Haroun's own boyhood home, he began sampling the excitements of the spring fair set up in the meadow north of town.
One afternoon he was watching the swordswallower when he sensed the approach of a wrongness. He could identify no positive threat. That puzzled him. Usually his intuition was more precise. He looked around.
He had come without guards. If ever there was a time for the Harish to strike, this was it. He damned himself for taking an unnecessary risk.
He reached with his shaghûn's senses.
That godawful palace... Tamerice's rulers were a barbarous lot. Unlettered thick-wits disguising themselves in the trappings of noblemen. Feh! The only conversationalist there was a treasury clerk hired out of Hellin Daimiel...
Only one individual stood out of the crowd of lean farmers and ginger-haired city folk. Short, fat, brown, apparently of Haroun's own age, he was an obvious alien. There was a hint of the desert about him, yet Haroun could not recall ever having seen a fat poor man there.
He let his senses dwell on the fat youth.
He was the source of the wrongness.
He's insane if he thinks he can get away with murder here, Haroun thought. He grabbed that notion, turned it over to look at its belly side.
The fat youth was no Harish crazy. Haroun sensed that quickly. He was up to something else.
Haroun's curiosity rose. He allowed himself to be stalked.
He had seen the fat man earlier. He was one of the carnival performers. He did a good, if sometimes confusing, job of entertaining.
The fat youth was quick and deft. Haroun did not miss his purse for half a minute.
An instant's distraction was all it took, that one brief moment when the sword swallower breathed fire and Haroun was trying to puzzle out the mechanics of the trick.
He whirled when the realization hit him.
The fat youth was gone.
Bin Yousif smiled grimly. This thief was good, but he was a fool.
Haroun loosened his weapons and strolled toward the tent behind the booth where the fat youth had performed earlier.
Coins clinked inside the tent.
Haroun peeped through a tear. The youth was counting and grinning. His back was to the entrance.
Doubly a fool, Haroun thought. He entered the tent with the stealth of a ferret. He waited with his dagger bare.
The youth suddenly sensed his presence. He whirled, trying to rise.
Haroun's dagger pricked his throat. "Down!"
He plopped. Haroun thrust out a palm. His eyes were cold and hard and merciless. The fat youth's were frightened and calculating. "My money." Haroun's voice was soft and dangerous.
The thief started to say something, thought better of it. He handed Haroun his purse.
"The rest." He had seen the gold piece disappear. The youth was good, but he knew the tricks too. "Good. Now tell me why I shouldn't have you hung."
The youth began twitching.
So did Haroun's hand. His dagger pricked a dark throat again. "I was trained in the Power. You can't move fast enough to surprise me."
The youth stared at him.
"Do you know who I am?"
"No."
"Haroun bin Yousif."
The thief frowned, puzzled. Then, "Same being called King Without Throne?"
"Yes."
"So?"
"So you picked the wrong man. Lard Bottom. I could have you dangling from a royal gallows. But it's just occurred to me that that might be a waste. In my country we learn not to waste anything. I've just gotten the notion that you might be useful. If we could control your thievery."
"Same old song. Am foolishest of fools. Will never learn." The fat youth crossed his legs and folded his arms. "Self, am utterly indifferent to politics."
"The dagger rests in my hand, Tubby. That should make you a little concerned. Your choice is to work or hang. I'll pay you for the work if you do any good." He had been sculpting an odd-shaped little intrigue in the back of his mind for several months. This fat man with the unusual skills might be the character to execute it.
If he failed, so what? The world would be rid of a bandit.
Calculation flickered across the thief's face. He seemed to be thinking of agreeing for the moment so he could run later. Haroun smiled gently.
"Ten seconds. Then I'm leaving. With you, or to call the law."
"Woe!" the fat man cried. "Is infamous riddle of rock and hard place. Am bestruckt by horny dilemma. Am in narrow passage, between devil and deep. Am beset by quandary of epical dimension. Am driven to deepest depths of desperate, despairing desperation... "
"Huh?" Haroun became confused by the verbal pyrotechnics. "Time's running out, Tubby."
"So much for tactic of bogglement and bewilderment. Only one course remaining: last refuge of mentally disadvantaged. Reason. Hai! Lord! Is impossible for self to leave carnival. Am partner in same. Junior partner, very, under closest scrutiny of baleful eye of paranoid senior partner, Damo Sparen, and incorruptible, house-size thug name of Gouch."
"Can't say I blame him. You travelling or hanging?"
"Hai! Lord! Have mercy. Am but humble fool... "
"Pull that knife and you'll be a humble fool with a hole in his windpipe."
"Woe," the youth muttered. "Stars promised evil day. Should have paid attention." He got to his feet slowly. Haroun offered no help. "Will need several minutes to collect accoutrements."
"I'm not buying a baggage train."
"Self, am accustomed to company of certain tools. Am professional, not so? Carpenterses, same need hammers, saws... "
"Hurry it up."
The fat man was gaining confidence. He saw that Haroun was reluctant to strike. "Show some manners, sand rat. Self, am in tight place, maybeso, but can yell and have whole carnival here in minute."
"Including your redoubtable senior partner? How excited would he be about your thieving?"
"Same taught self gentle art." He did not put enough conviction into it to daunt Haroun.