Yasmid had seated herself on the dirt floor. Her head was down. She was crying silently, her whole body shaking. She did not look up.
"I apologize for my friends. They hail from faraway lands. They have different customs. They weren't trying to humiliate you."
Yasmid did not respond.
"I've told Beloul to find something you can make decent clothing from."
She did not look up, but in a small voice asked, "What are you going to do with me?"
"I? Nothing. Except keep you out of sight. So your father will worry."
"Aren't you going to kill me? Throw me to your men, or those barbarians, then cut my throat?"
"Why would I do that?"
"I'm your enemy. My uncle and my father killed your whole family."
"Your uncle was my enemy. Your father is my enemy. But you're not. I don't make war on women. You didn't... "
"You killed my mother."
Haroun shrugged. "There was a battle on. I wasn't keeping track."
Yasmid pulled her knees up under her chin, hugged them in her arms. "He tricked me, didn't he?"
"Who?"
"The fat man." She knew, of course, but wanted to be told again. That would, somehow, make her feel less like an accomplice in the deceit. "He got me to come... I thought I could make peace between you and my father."
"That would be difficult. Yes. He tricked you. That's his profession. And he's better than I suspected." Haroun sat on the earth facing her, wondering what made her seem unique.
It was nothing physical. She was an average looking girl, not at all striking. An active, outdoor life had weathered her more than the men of Hammad al Nakir liked. And she was much too assertive.
Yasmid stared into infinity. After a time, she murmured, "It's an interesting dilemma."
"What's that?"
"Whether I should slay myself and thus free the movement of concern and uncertainty, or preserve myself against its need."
The nature of his culture denied Haroun much knowledge of women. He knew them only through tradition and hand-me-down gossip from equally ignorant companions. The last thing he expected of a female was an ability to reason, to sacrifice, to be concerned about tomorrrow. He remained silent, awed.
"I guess I should wait for a sign. Suicide is extreme. And if I'm alive there's always a chance of escape or rescue."
"As my fat friend might say, all things are possible." But some are unlikely, he thought. "Ask Beloul for whatever you need for sewing." He left the hut looking for Ragnarson.
"No, no, no," Bragi was telling an Altean who had just sped an arrow into a butt. "You're not remembering what I said about your elbow."
"I hit it, didn't I? Sir."
"Yeah. That time. But you're more likely to hit it every time... "
"Excuse me," Haroun interrupted. "It's occurred to me that our best course might be to move into the Kapenrungs."
"What?"
"We should move to the mountains. They're more suited to the kind of war we'll have to fight now. More room to move around and stay ahead of the hunters. And close enough to Hammad al Nakir to give us the option of striking south. It's only a few days ride from the mountains to Al Rhemish."
"We were assigned to Altea."
"Specifically? Without any flexibility for the commander on the scene?"
"I don't know. They just said we were going to Altea. Maybe they told Sanguinet more. But he's not here to let me know."
"Sent you here and forgot you. Haven't you noticed? They haven't been in any hurry to replace your captain. They haven't even sent any orders. You're on your own."
"How do you figure to get from here to there without getting wiped out? They've got men everywhere."
"Consider our prisoner. They'll know who has her, and where we were last. Anyway, moving was your idea."
"Yeah."
Ragnarson did not debate long. He knew there would be no more miracles like Alperin. The first bands left that evening.
Haroun talked him into sending their men in parties of four, by as many routes as possible, travelling at night, so they would attract minimal attention. Haroun assigned one of his people to each group of Guildsmen, to guide them to Beloul's old refugee camp. Bragi sent his brother with the first night's travellers, and Kildragon with the second's. Bin Yousif, Mocker, and Yasmid vanished sometime during that night. Haroun left no word of his intentions or destination.
Ragnarson left the Bergwold on the last night, riding with Beloul and two young Royalists. None of the three spoke a dialect he understood, and Beloul had wanted to be the last of his.
He looked back once. The Bergwold leaned toward him like a dark tidal wave frozen in mid rush. He felt a twinge of regret. The forest had become home.
There had been few moments of happiness since fleeing Draukenbring. But he and Haaken were still together, and healthy, and he had never asked the gods for more than that.
Beloul was a crafty traveller. He led them across the nights and miles without once bringing them face to face with another human being. He seemed to sense the approach of other travellers. Always, they were under cover when another night rider passed. Most of those were people of their own persuasion.
It was a skill his own men should learn. How could El Murid find them if even their friends never saw them moving?
These desert men were naturally cunning. Sneakery and deceit were their patrimony.
He wished he could communicate with Beloul better. The captain was one cunning old man.
Bragi had been trying to learn the desert tongue for ages. He had not made much headway. Its rules were different from any he knew, and there were countless dialects.
Thus it was that, when Beloul broke his own rule and stopped a dispatch rider, Ragnarson was bewildered by his companions' behavior. They went into a frenzy of angry excitement. It took half an hour for them to make him understand. El-Kader had destroyed the northern army.
That explained Beloul's sudden haste. This end of the world would fill with warriors hunting the daughter of their prophet. It was time to find a hole and pull it in after. He was glad Haroun had talked him into fleeing the Bergwold.
Four days later he threw his arms around Haaken and said, "Damn, it's good to see you. Good to see anybody who doesn't talk like a coop full of hens clucking."
"You hear? About the battle?"
"Yeah. But you have to fill me in. I missed most of the details."
"El Senoussi and I have been plotting. We figure we ought to recruit survivors. So we can build our own army."
"Tell me in the morning. Right now all I want to do is sleep. Face down. How do you figure to get guys to join when we can't pay? When we can't even guarantee them anything to eat?"
Haaken had no answer for that one.
Eventually, Ragnarson and Beloul did send their boldest followers, in ones and twos, to recruit not only survivors of the battle but anyone who wanted to enlist in the hidden army. That army grew as autumn progressed into winter. The recruits learned Guild ways on the march, while dodging and ambushing el-Kader's hunters.
Those hunters never realized whom they were skirmishing. The search for Yasmid was centered farther north, closer to the Bergwold.
They were turning Altea over.
Mocker turned up after a month, but Haroun remained invisible even to his best friends. He was gone so long that Beloul began worrying about having to find a new king.
It was then that Beloul realized that El Murid's offspring were now closest to the throne, through their mother.
Grinning evilly, he prepared special message packets meant to fall into enemy hands. They contained faked plans for an effort to alleviate Sidi's burden of life lest he be put forward as a Pretender by his father.