"No doubt. Is that why he watches you?"
The youth shrugged, started packing. "Has strange moments, Damo Sparen. Self, cannot understand same. Is like father sometimes, maybeso, and sometimes like jailor."
"All fathers are that way. What's your name? I can't call you Tubby forever."
"Is all same. Am Magellin the Magician here, sometimes."
Haroun started slightly. "I had a good friend named Megelin. They're too much alike. Try something else."
"Am known to self as Mocker. Same being from inconsequential incident long time passing, in nethermost east, before circumstance brought self on quest to west."
"Quest? And you ended up in a sideshow?"
Mocker chuckled weakly. "Self, must remember conversant is aspirant king. Must select words more precisionly, same being subject to interpretation by noble standard. Not knight's quest. Not holy quest. Simple search for place where enemy blades could not reach."
"Oh?" Haroun thumbed the edge of his knife. "Then you have a habit of making stupid mistakes."
Mocker caught the lilt of danger dancing along the edges of Haroun's words. "Not so! Have turned over new leaf. Have finally learned lesson. Present trap being otherwise impossible to escape, have seen light illuminating great truth heretofore eluding humble, foolish self. Truth is: is nothing free. When same seems in reach, then duck head. Fates are laying trap."
"I hope you learned. But you look too old to teach. How long does it take to stuff that junk in a bag?"
Mocker was stalling while trying to decide if he should yell for help. They both knew it. "Junk?" Mocker wailed. "Lord... "
He looked at Haroun. The thin, leathery-skinned youth did not appear nervous. His self-confidence was too much for Mocker. He jerked his bag shut. "Is enough to get by. Sparen will care for rest. Now, must leave note for same, in explanation, or same will set hound Gouch on trail. Woe be unto man with Gouch for enemy."
"You read and write?"
Mocker held up fingers in a little bit sign. "Same skill being courtesy of cruel taskmaster, senior partner. Teaching, teaching. Always is teaching. Everythings."
"Do it quick. Make it good. And honest. You won't be back in a half hour to tear it up." Haroun could commiserate with the fat youth. How Radetic had driven him in his reading, writing, and language lessons!
Mocker was cunning enough not to assume that his captor was illiterate. He wrote a simple parting note saying that he would return in a few days. He had chanced on an opportunity to profit from the confusion along the border. He wrote in the language of Hellin Daimiel, which was the lingua franca of the Lesser Kingdoms, and Haroun's best foreign language.
"Is there anything else?" Haroun demanded.
"Donkey, that is oldest friend of self. Is in corral."
"You lead. I'll be a step behind you." He shook his head, muttering. "Might have known. Best friends with a jackass." He let Mocker leave before sheathing his dagger.
Two men were waiting outside. Mocker stood there with his mouth open, speechless. He seemed caught in the gap between relief and fear.
"What's this?" Haroun demanded.
Mocker found his tongue. "Sparen. Gouch."
Haroun had no trouble guessing which was which. Gouch would be the mountain of beef blocking their way past the performance booth. "Move this creature," he told the smaller man, who was seated on a crate.
"Where're you going, Mocker?" Sparen asked. He ignored Haroun. "Would you be taking anything with you?"
"Donkey... "
Haroun pushed past the fat youth. "Move it," he told Gouch.
Gouch seemed to be deaf. Sparen said, "I wasn't talking to you, boy."
"I have spoken twice. I won't speak again."
Sparen's irritation showed. "You've got a mouth, boy. Gouch, shut him up."
Gouch moved quicker than a snake striking
Haroun moved faster. He cut the big man three times, not too badly.
Mocker tried to run. Haroun tripped him, wheeled on Sparen. "I'd guess Gouch is a valuable property. Move him or lose him."
"You have a point. Gouch, step back. I'll handle this myself."
Haroun took Mocker's elbow, started forward.
"I didn't say you could go, boy," Sparen said. "I just decided to kill you myself."
"Take care, Damo," Mocker said. "Is trained in Power."
"Isn't everybody in this business?"
"Is slight and arrogant, but is one known as King Without Throne."
Sparen spat to one side. "Right. And I'm the Lost Prince of Libiannin."
Haroun took advantage of the diversion of the exchange to palm a blow-tube. He raised his hand, coughed.
Sparen saw it coming, but too late. He made one violent thrust, then collapsed. An expression of incredulity contorted his features.
Gouch and Mocker crowded Sparen. "What did you do?" Gouch demanded. He shook Sparen. "Mr. Sparen, wake up." The giant seemed unaware of his own wounds. "Tell me what to do, Mr. Sparen. Should I break them?"
"Come on," Haroun snarled, grabbing Mocker's shoulder. "The big guy's got this figured as your fault." He was thinking he would have to get a lot of use out of this Mocker to repay himself for all this trouble.
A little later, Mocker remarked, "Sparen was friend of self. Not very trusting friend, but best friend even so."
Haroun heard the gentle threat. He saw the promise of murder in his companion's eyes. "I didn't kill him. The dart was coated with a nerve poison that causes temporary paralysis. It comes from the jungles south of Hammad al Nakir. He'll be all right in a couple of hours, except for a headache and a bad temper."
He hoped. The drug was fatal about a quarter of the time.
The more Haroun observed his companion, the more he became sure Mocker would make a dangerous enemy. The fat and incurable optimism hid a lean, conscienceless killer.
They were halfway to el Senoussi's encampment, several days later, when they encountered the refugees. These were not desert-born fugitives from the wrath of the Disciple. They were natives fleeing El Murid's minions.
The El Murid Wars had begun, and troops of desert riders were in Tamerice already.
They gave Haroun a hold on the fat man.
There was no point continuing southward. He turned back, heading for a camp in Altea. Invincible patrols forced them into hiding several times.
North of Feagenbruch they came across the burned wagons of the Sparen carnival. Sparen himself was among the dead, but Gouch had survived. They found him, wounded, lying beneath a mound of desert warriors.
Mocker studied Sparen for a long time. "Was paranoid fool, sometimes, maybeso, this man. But was friend. In some way, even, was like father. There is blood now, Haroun bin Yousif. Same must be cleansed in blood. Self, am now interested in politics." He moved to Gouch. "Gouch. You. Big fellow. Get up. Is work to do."
Incredibly, Gouch rose out of his pile of victims.
"They slew both my fathers," Haroun whispered.
It would be a long time before Mocker understood that remark.
He soothed Gouch's tears and wounds and fears and listened while the King Without A Throne explained the part he could play in bringing about the downfall of the Disciple.
Chapter Eight:
THE LONELY CITY
A l Rhemish was a lonely city that first summer of the wars. All the Disciple's intimates had abandoned him for the excitement and loot of the west.
He often strolled the dusty streets with his children, having trouble accepting his fortune. He ached continuously in the vacuum left by Meryem's passing.