"You'd be surprised, soldier."
"Better put a choker on him, Karl," the other Guildsman suggested. "So he don't do a fast fade into the woods."
Thus it was that Mocker entered the camp of his ally led like a hound on a leash. The ignomity of it! His captive entered walking tall and proud and free, imperious as a queen, while he entered like a slave.
The Guildsmen took them inside a log stockade and across a compound to where Guildsmen and Royalists were involved in a complicated game of chance.
"Captain, Sergeant Kildragon sent some prisoners."
A big, shaggy youth looked them over. One of the older Royalists said something, then rushed toward one of the shabby barracks. The shaggy youth shrugged. "Hang on to them, Uthe. Beloul wants Haroun to look at them." He returned to his game.
Yasmid flinched, turned pale. She spoke no Itaskian, but had recognized the names. Beloul! The most dangerous of the Royalists. The one most driven by hatred and vengeance. The last vestige of her hope died. Fear replaced it. There would be no peace. Beloul! How could she have been such a fool?
A youth rushed across the compound, dark robes flying. Yasmid remembered his face. That night on the hill overlooking Al Rhemish... He had aged, matured, hardened...
"Why didn't you cut him loose, Beloul?" Haroun demanded. He applied a knife to the fiber binding the fat man's wrists. Shifting to Itaskian, he told Ragnarson, "The man is an agent of mine. I sent him to the far south. Was there a big man with him?"
"Just the split-tail, sir," one of the escorts replied. "We didn't know who he was. He didn't explain. Not so's anybody could understand, anyway."
"All right. All right. Get that gag off of him."
Mocker could hardly stand. He gripped the expanse of his belly, teetered, and dry-throatedly moaned, "Woe! That self should come to this after fighting way across thousand miles, hazarding life and limb at every step, constantly beset by hordes of desert madmen... "
"You did a good job in Ipopotam," Haroun told him. He used the desert tongue because Mocker had. "Ended up pulling a whole army away from the main action. More than I dreamed. What happened to your man-mountain friend?"
"Do not mention same again. Same met one Invincible too many. Lies buried far from home, not even knowing why. Poor, stupid Gouch. Was good friend. Sparen will rest easy, knowing same has avenged self."
"I'm sorry. He was likeable—in his primitive way."
Yasmid exploded. "Entertainer! You know this... This... You're working for him?"
Mocker grinned. "Truth told, Lady. Self, am tricksey rogue, more than with fingers. Sometimes do pretty good with girls, too, maybeso."
"What's she talking about?" Haroun asked.
Mocker bowed, still grinning. "Hail, mighty king. Self, am pleased to present same to genuine princess, same being firstborn daughter of archfoe El Murid, Yasmid, captivated by self, at great peril, and brought forth from very heart of Desert of Death. As small token of appreciation, self would suggestion mighty king bestow upon same huge cash reward. Line up gold pieces, one for every wound, one for every insult suffered... "
Haroun's eyes grew larger and larger. He really looked at Yasmid for the first time. "It's you. You've grown."
Their eyes locked for a long moment, as they had on that faraway night at Al Rhemish.
Yasmid launched a magnificent, almost artful tantrum. Her shrieks emptied the barracks. In moments she stood at the heart of a circle of two hundred men.
Haroun turned to Ragnarson. "The fat man has brought us the Disciple's daughter. I don't know how... Can you believe it? It's incredible."
Bragi did not share his awe. But he saw the possibilities. "The Fates have taken a dislike to the man. He was riding high a month ago. Now he's lost most of his family."
Yasmid kept it up. Her anger gave way to hysteria. A sea of evil gloating faces surrounded her. The legions of the Evil One had fallen upon her. What would Haroun do? Throw her to his men?
"Whew!" said Ragnarson. "She does go on, doesn't she?"
"Is in mortal terror," Mocker opined.
"Shut up, girl!" Ragnarson thundered.
She did not. Of course. He had spoken in Itaskian. She would not have had he used a tongue she did comprehend.
The Guildsman was not in the most tolerant of moods. He had been losing badly in the game he had been playing. But it was not anger alone that impelled him to do what he did. Her hysteria had to be cracked.
He grabbed Yasmid, dragged her down, rolled her across his lap, hiked her skirts, and began whacking her bare bottom with his hand. She squirmed and squealed for a moment, then refused to respond.
Ragnarson would never comprehend the indignity he had done her, nor those she had suffered already. In his culture women did not wear veils and girls usually got excited when a guy bared their bottoms.
The fat man had forced her into native dress, and had burned her veils. She had travelled in shame for days. Now another barbarian had exposed her womanhood to the whole camp. His followers laughed and jeered and made crude observations about the hand-shaped birthmark on her behind.
Tears rolled from her eyes, but she refused to pleasure them by begging or crying out.
Haroun was of the desert. He became livid. He slapped Ragnarson's hand aside, yanked the girl to her feet, shoved her behind him. He poised on the balls of his feet, ready for anything. Yasmid crouched behind him, shaking, overcome by shame.
The laughter died. Guild eyes hardened. Ragnarson rose slowly, fists doubling.
"Hai!" Mocker cried. He whirled between the men, his robe flying. As he spun, he yelled, "Self, am wondering when celebration begins. Have made hero of self. Should receive great jubilee in honor, singing, drinking, unfortunately no wenching, but good time for all." He tried to turn a cartwheel, crashed to the dusty earth.
His antics broke the tension.
"Maybe he's right," Ragnarson said, after puzzling out the fat man's fractured Daimiellian.
"Beloul," Haroun said, "take the Lady Yasmid to my quarters."
Beloul's eyebrows rose. But he said only, "As you command, Lord."
Shifting languages, Haroun told Ragnarson, "You should be more careful of the sensibilities of other peoples. You subjected her to unforgivable humiliation. I'll probably have to guard against her taking her own life."
"What?" Bragi asked incredulously.
"That's ridiculous," his brother said.
"Perhaps. To you. You are the children of another land. You do things differently there. My people sometimes find your ways ridiculous."
"You mean she's the real thing?" Bragi asked. "She's not just some tramp your friend picked up on the road?"
"It's her."
"Then we've got some thinking to do. She's trouble."
"Such as?"
"You figure we've had El Murid's men in our hair before? You ain't seen nothing. If we keep her alive—and what good is she dead?—people are going to come looking for her. All of them with hook noses and wearing white. And your friend left a trail good enough for one mob to follow. There'll be more. Which means we've got to disappear. Fast."
"You're probably right. Let me think about it." Haroun strode after Beloul. He met his captain outside his hut. "How is she?"
"Mortified, Lord."
"Uhm. Beloul, find some cloth. Anything, so long as it's something she can use to make a veil and decent clothing."
"Lord?"
"You heard me." Haroun stepped into the shack that served him as home and headquarters.