"We'll have to make a showing for the men. It's a pity we came so far for nothing."
"We will. Tomorrow I'll go to him."
"Lord?"
"Let's inspect this camp, Beloul. People ought to know we care."
He had seen more than he wanted already. These people were living in the most primitive conditions imaginable. Their homes consisted of stick piles that did nothing but block the sun's rays.
"This will be a death camp come winter, Beloul. This isn't Hammad al Nakir. The winters get cold. These people will freeze. What happened to that Gamil Meguid who's supposed to be in charge?"
"He disappeared right after we got here."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"Keep an eye on him."
"I mean to. Wait. I think that's him. With the foreigner."
Meguid was a small, fussy sort from western Hammad al Nakir. He and el Senoussi were old acquaintances. His hands fluttered when he talked, and his left cheek twitched constantly. He was overawed by his king's presence.
"My Lord King," he gurgled. "May I present Count Diekes Ronstadt. Our neighbor and benefactor. Count, His Most Serene Majesty... "
"Enough, Meguid. Ronstadt? I've heard that name before."
The Count was a big man. He had muscles everywhere and an impressive mane of silver hair. Haroun had the feeling that his powerful dark eyes were probing the soft white underbelly of his soul. A quick, warm smile fluttered across the Count's pale lips. It was a smile that proclaimed its bearer an amused observer of the human condition.
"That could be, lad. We had a friend in common. Megelin Radetic."
"Of course! His roommate at the Rebsamen... You're the one who was always getting him in trouble."
"In and out again. He was the most naive kid... But brilliant. A genius. He could do anything. I wouldn't have survived without him. We exchanged the occasional letter. I was crushed when I heard what happened."
"The world is poorer for his absence. I'm impoverished. I would have made him my vizier. My marshal."
"A new departure, Megelin as warrior. But there wasn't anything he couldn't do when he put his mind to it. Come with me. Gamil wants to show off our new camp."
"Megelin managed both jobs for my father, in fact if not in name. What new camp?"
"Gamil supposed you'd be put off by this mess. He was scared you'd fire him. So he rushed over and asked me if we couldn't show you what all we've been doing."
"All right. Show me. He's right. This place appalls me."
"Follow me, then. We're building in the valley on the other side of that ridge. The water supply is better, the bottom ground more level, and there's good clay for building."
Haroun went along. Beloul, el Senoussi, and the others crowded around him, their hands near their weapons. "What is your part in this?" Haroun asked Ronstadt.
"This is my county. My fief. It's primitive and sparsely peopled. I'm combining a favor to an old friend with a favor to myself. Megelin wrote a few years back and suggested it. I liked the idea."
Count Ronstadt led them to a man-made clearing in the bottom of a wide, heavily forested valley, on the banks of a small, slow river. The clearing contained dozens of buildings in various stages of construction.
"Getting ready for winter is our main concern this year. Your people are living mostly by hunting. Next spring, though, they should be ready to try farming."
Haroun examined several of the incomplete houses. They were constructed of bricks of sun-baked clay. The refugees were making no use of the plentiful logs. Those they sawed into lengths and rolled into the river.
"I'm pleased, friend of my friend," Haroun said. "I see you have your own people helping. That's really too much."
"They're only teaching. They'll be back to their own work soon."
"How many people can you take here?" The refugees were unpopular everywhere, yet the migration from the desert had not peaked.
"How many here now, Gamil?" Ronstadt asked.
"Nearly five thousand, Count. But the official census lists about eight."
"My arms are open," Ronstadt told Haroun. "My fief is virgin. It could support thousands more. But the King is nervous. He ordered me to make a head count, then freeze it there. He doesn't want me getting too strong. We fudged a little. I want to tame this whole valley. I can't without Gamil's cheap labor."
"That's your deal with Meguid?"
"And a generous one by most standards. Since I'm not bellicose, the feudal burden is light."
"Ah. And their responsibilities to myself as their King?"
Ronstadt became less animated. "They no longer live in Hammad al Nakir. This is Kendel."
Haroun stifled a surge of anger.
Beloul took his elbow gently. "The logic is unassailable. Lord. We can't expect to get something for nothing. And this gentleman seems willing to give more for less."
"I'll let them help you where they can," Ronstadt said. "As long as it's not done at my expense."
Haroun remained angry. This being king without a throne was more frustrating than he had anticipated. Too much depended on the good will of people who owed him nothing.
He had to create a political currency before these westerners would take him seriously. He had to have something they wanted to exchange for what they could give.
His absolute imperative would have to be to retain the loyalties of the refugees. He could not permit them to become assimilated, nor to forget their grievances. They had to remain politically viable as contestants for power in Hammad al Nakir.
"Gamil says you want to meet the Duke of Greyfells," Ronstadt said. "Can I give you some advice?"
"What?"
"Don't waste your time."
"What?"
"He's not your man. He's a political animal, a political creation, a political opportunist. He got command only because the Itaskian Crown had to cut a deal with its opposition. You can't help him with his ambitions. He won't give you a place to squat."
"You know him?"
"He's a distant relative. By marriage. So is the man you should see. Everybody in the north is related to everybody else."
"Who should we see?" Beloul asked. "If the Duke is no good, who is?"
"Itaskia's Minister of War. He's the Duke's superior, and his enemy. And he has the ear of the Itaskian King. I'll give you a letter of introduction."
Next morning, while riding to meet Greyfells, Haroun asked, "What do you think of our benefactor?"
Beloul shrugged. "Time will tell."
"A not unenlightened man," el Senoussi opined. "Meguid thinks well of him. And trusts him."
The others agreed with Beloul.
"How Greyfells treats us will tell us a lot about him."
The Duke was easy to find. His army had not moved twenty miles in the past three days.
Ronstadt was right. Greyfells would have nothing to do with Haroun. Bin Yousif made it only as far as the entrance to the ducal pavillion, where he waited while an aide tried to get him in.
Radetic had taught him some Itaskian. Enough for him to follow the drift of the abuse Greyfells heaped on the aide for bothering him with the requests of "bandylegged, camel-thieving rabble."
The aide returned red-faced and apologetic. Haroun said only, "Tell him that he'll regret his arrogance."
"Well?" Beloul asked when he rejoined his captains.
"The Count was right. He wouldn't talk to me."
"Then let's follow up on Ronstadt's suggestion. Itaskia isn't that far."
"I guess a few days more won't matter."
They crossed the Great Bridge three days later, guided by an impatient native sergeant.