A chill climbed El Murid's spine. "How much of the pain-killer do we have?" He could not bring himself to call the opiate anything else.
"Perhaps enough for two months, Lord. It depends on the size and frequency of the dosages."
Which depends on how much pressure I have to endure, El Murid thought. "Then the failure of one courier doesn't much matter, does it? If you're afraid your stock will be depleted, send another man. Or double the next regular purchase."
"I intend doing both, Lord. If nothing else, that will answer the critical question."
"Question? What question?"
"Whether or not our enemies have discovered our need and begun intercepting our couriers."
This time the chill grated like the progress of a glacier. "Esmat... Is that possible?"
"All things are possible, Lord. And this's a fear I've carried for several years. We've reached the point where the drug's withdrawal would leave the movement without a head for some time. It might take months to overcome the withdrawal pains."
"Is it bad, Esmat?" he asked softly.
"Extremely, Lord."
"Esmat, do whatever you have to. Secure the supply. This is a critical hour. I don't dare become ineffective. You should have mentioned our vulnerability before."
"Perhaps. I did not wish to offend... "
"It's too late to take offense. The drug comes from a plant, does it not? A poppy? Can we grow our own?"
"I'm no horticulturist, Lord. And they have a monopoly. They guard seeds and fields... "
"Can they guard themselves against the Host of Illumination?"
"Of course not. But we have treaties of friendship. Our word of honor would be destroyed... We negotiated them specifically to insure our access to the drug. They might burn the fields if they thought that was why we were invading."
"Nassef negotiated those instruments before we went to war. Does that mean he knows?"
"Many people know, Lord. It's not something that can be kept secret long."
El Murid bowed his head, half in shame, half in fear. "Do what you can. And I'll do what I have to."
"As you command, Lord."
Chapter Nine:
THE ITASKIANS
H aroun took his leave of Mocker and Gouch in northern Cardine, just east of that kingdom's frontier with the domains of Dunno Scuttari. "The patrols are thick," he warned. "Take care."
Mocker laughed. "Self, will be so circumspect that even eye of lofty eagle will not detect same. Am valiant fighter, true, able to best whole company in combat, but am uncertain of ability against whole army. Even with stalwart Gouch at back."
Bin Yousif had observed the fat man in action the day before, when they had stumbled into one of Nassef's patrols. Sparen had taught him superbly. Mocker's quickness, deftness, and endurance with a blade were preternatural. He was a swordsman born.
"Gouch, keep him out of trouble."
"I will, Mister. He'll be so good you won't even know him."
"Don't let him con you out of the cash." He had given the big man some expense money.
"Don't you worry, Mister. I know him. I watched him when he worked for Mister Sparen. We'll do this job, then come back for the next one."
There was a simple assurance about Gouch that Haroun found both charming and disturbing. Megelin had taught him to see the world as a slippery serpent, changeable, colored in shades of untrustworthiness. Gouch's naive worldview was the antithesis of Radetic's.
"I think you will. Good luck." He turned his back on them and the donkey, strolled to his mount and companions.
"You think they'll do it?" Beloul asked.
Haroun glanced back. The two were waddling south already. The fat man walked that way because of his obesity, Gouch because of his still tender injuries.
"Who knows? If they don't, we're not out anything."
"So. Northward we ride," Beloul mused. "You're sure they'll be waiting across the river?"
He meant the Royalist army, which was supposed to have assembled in Vorhangs, the little kingdom across the Scarlotti. Haroun guessed between one and two thousand men would answer his call to arms.
He hoped, by employing them judiciously in support of the western armies, to make them a bargaining counter in his negotiations for aid in recovering the Peacock Throne.
"We'll find out, Beloul."
A few hours later, as they considered how to cross the Scarlotti, a messenger overtook them. "Lord," he gasped, "the Scourge of God has crossed the river."
"What?" Beloul demanded. "When? Where?"
"Just upriver of Dunno Scuttari. They started sending boats over four days ago. Took the Scuttarians by surprise. He has twenty thousand men on the north bank now."
"He's crazy," Beloul growled. "He's still vulnerable from the Lesser Kingdoms, and the Itaskians will be coming down behind him."
"No, he's not," Haroun countered. "Call El Murid crazy if you want, but not Nassef. He's got a reason if he sneezes."
"The risk is all on the north bank," el Senoussi remarked. "Nobody on this side can challenge him. We'd better find out what he's up to."
"Yes." Haroun told the messenger, "Go back to your company. Tell your captain to find out what Nassef is doing. Tell him to send word to me at the camp in Kendel."
"Kendel?" el Senoussi asked. "We're going that far north?"
"I asked the Itaskian general to meet me. The Kendel camp isn't far out of his way. Somebody trade horses with this man. His won't survive the return trip."
"Thank you, Lord," the messenger said. "Will you take care of her? She's a good animal."
"Of course."
"Isn't that dangerous?" Beloul asked once the messenger departed. "How long before the Harish get wind of your whereabouts now?"
"You think they'd venture that far from home?"
"To the ends of the earth, Lord, if El Murid willed it."
"I guess they would. Guard my back well, then."
They crossed the Scarlotti during the night, the hard way. Still dripping, exhausted, they joined their warriors in the morning.
Haroun was not impressed by his army. It was a ragged mob compared to that his father had commanded. These men had just one outstanding quality: they were survivors.
"Can you do anything with them?" he asked Beloul.
"Of course. Most were soldiers at home. They're still soldiers. They just don't look pretty."
"They look like bandits."
Beloul shrugged. "I'll try to shape them up."
Haroun allowed a day of rest, then led his bedraggled host northward.
The warriors griped. Most had made long journeys south to the meeting place. The biggest refugee camps had attached themselves to the skirts of cities seemingly safe from the Scourge of God.
It took a week of hard riding to reach the Kendel encampment. Twice they were mistaken for Nassef's men and narrowly avoided fighting allies. Nassef had the peoples between the Scarlotti and Porthune spooked.
Haroun reached the camp only to discover that the Itaskian Duke had not responded to his request for a meeting. Yet the combined northern armies were amarch, moving south in small stages, and the main body was just forty miles from the encampment.
"He don't seem eager to make Nassef's acquaintance," Beloul observed. "Even the biggest, heaviest army can move faster than that."
"I smell the corruption of politics on this breeze, Beloul. It stinks like an old, old corpse."