Glen Cook: The Fire In His Hands

“Fuad, see if you can find some refreshments while I start to educate our educator. Megelin, you’re wrong because you’re too convinced of the correctness of your own viewpoint. When you look around here you don’t see a culture. You see barbarians. You hear our religious arguments and can’t believe we take them seriously because you can’t. I grant you, a lot of my people don’t either. But the majority do.

“As for El Murid and his henchman, you see only a deranged boy and a bandit. I see a huge problem. The boy is saying things everyone wants to hear. And believe. And Nassef just might have the genius to carve out El Murid’s new Empire. The two together might have an overpowering attraction for our children. Our children, otherwise, have no other hope than to relive our yesterdays.

“You see Nassef as a bandit because he has raided caravans. What makes him remarkable and dangerous isn’t the fact of his crimes, but the skill with which he committed them. If he ever rises above theft in God’s name to making war in God’s name, then God help us. Because he’ll probably destroy us.

“Megelin, nobody is going to laugh if El Murid speaks. Nobody. And as a speaker he is as dangerous as Nassef is as a fighter. His speeches are creating the weapons Nassef needs to rise above banditry.

“The boy’s movement is at a crossroads. And he knows it. That’s why he came to Al Rhemish this year. After Disharhun he’ll either be discredited and fade away, or he’ll begin sweeping the desert like a sandstorm. If we have to trump up charges to stop that, we will.”

Fuad returned with a lemonade-like drink. Megelin and Yousif accepted their portions. Fuad seated himself quietly, out of the way.

Radetic, squatting on a scarlet pillow, took a sip, then said, “And Fuad wonders why I think you a barbarous people.”

“My brother has never visited Hellin Daimiel. I have. I can believe that your people would laugh a messiah out of business. You’re all cynics. And you don’t need that kind of leader.

“We do, Megelin. The heart of me craves an El Murid. He’s telling me exactly what my heart wants to hear. I want to believe that we’re the Chosen People. I want to believe that it’s our destiny to master the world. I want something, anything, to make the centuries since the Fall worthwhile.

“I want to believe that the Fall itself was the work of an Evil One. Fuad wants to believe. My cousin the King would like to believe. Unfortunately, we’re old enough to recognize gossamer on the wind. A deadly gossamer.

“Megelin, that boy is a death merchant. He’s put it in pretty packages, but he’s selling another Fall. If we turn to him, if we break out of Hammad al Nakir in order to convert the pagan and resurrect the Empire, we’ll be destroyed. Those of us who have been across the Sahel realize that the world out there isn’t the one conquered by Ilkazar.

“We don’t have the numbers, the resources, the arms, or the discipline of the western kingdoms.”

Radetic nodded. These people would be hopelessly overmatched in any war with the west. Warfare, like everything else, evolved. The style of the Children of Hammad al Nakir had evolved in a direction suited only to the desert.

“But his jihad doesn’t terrify me yet. That’s a long way off,” Yousif continued. “The struggle here is what frightens me. He has to win his homeland first. And to do that he will have to tear the belly out of Hammad al Nakir. So. I want to draw his fangs now. By fair means or foul.”

“You live by different rules,” Radetic observed. It was becoming a favorite saying. “I have to go think about what you’ve said.” He finished his drink, rose, nodded to Fuad, and departed. He seated himself outside the tent flap, in the position for meditation. He listened while Yousif instructed Fuad how to approach King Aboud with news of this opportunity. Embittered by the foolishness of it, the injustice of it, he sealed them out, contemplated his surroundings.

The Royal Compound occupied five acres bordering the southwest flank of the Mrazkim Shrines, which were the religious heart of Hammad al Nakir. Today, because it was Disharhun, the compound was infested with royal relatives, favor seekers and sycophants. Most of the captains, sheiyeks and wahligs had brought their entire households. Traders and artisans, hoping to achieve some small advantage over their competitors, virtually besieged the Compound’s boundaries. Ambassadors and foreign mercantile factors roamed everywhere. The smells were overwhelming. Men, animals, machines, and insects made noises which melded into an overpowering din.

And beyond the mad anthill of the Compound lay vast encampments of ordinary pilgrims. Their tents swept up the sides of the bowl-shaped valley containing the capital and Shrines. Thousands upon thousands more than customary had made the journey this year — because El Murid’s visit had been rumored for months. They had come because they did not want to miss the inevitable collision between dissidence and authority.

Yousif was playing with fire, Radetic reflected as he watched Fuad stride toward Aboud’s palatial tent. This monarchy, unlike its predecessor in Ilkazar, did not have the power to rule by decree. Today even the most obnoxious rabble-rouser could not be denied his hour in court, his opportunity to speak in his own defense.

A shy Haroun came to sit with his teacher. He put his hand into Radetic’s.

“Sometimes, Haroun, you’re too crafty for your own good.” There was no rancor in Radetic’s voice, though. The gesture touched him, genuine or not.

“I did wrong, Megelin?”

“There’s some disagreement.” Radetic surveyed the human panorama briefly. “You should think, Haroun. You can’t simply act. That is your people’s biggest handicap. They yield to impulse without ever considering the consequences.”

“I’m sorry, Megelin.”

“The hell you are. You’re sorry you got caught. You don’t care a whit how much you hurt that man.”

“He’s our enemy.”

“How do you know? You never saw him before. You’ve never talked to him. He’s never hurt you.”

“Ali said —”

“Ali is like your uncle Fuad. He says a lot. His mouth is always open. And because of that, someday somebody else who doesn’t think is going to shove his fist down Ali’s throat. How often is he right? How often does pure foolishness come out of that open mouth?”

Radetic was letting his frustrations run wild. He had never encountered a student more unyieldingly unteachable than Ali bin Yousif.

“Then he isn’t our enemy?”

“I didn’t say that. Of course he is. He’s your bitterest enemy. But not because Ali says he is. El Murid is an enemy in his ideals. I don’t think he’d harm you physically if he had the chance. He’d just rob you of everything that’s important to you. Someday, I hope, you’ll understand just how gross a mistake your prank was.”

“Fuad’s coming.”

“So he is. And he looks like an old cat licking cream off her whiskers. It went well, Fuad?”

“Beautifully, teacher. Old Aboud isn’t as stupid as I thought. He saw the chance right away.” Fuad’s grin vanished. “You may be called to testify.”

“Then, perhaps, we may be friends no more. I am of the Rebsamen, Fuad. I cannot lie.”

“Were we ever friends?” Fuad demanded as he entered the tent.

A chill stalked down Radetic’s spine. He was not a brave man.

He was disgusted with himself. He knew that he would lie if Yousif pressed him hard enough.

The court was convened as the traditional Disharhun Court of Nine, the supreme court of Hammad al Nakir. Three jurists were provided by the Royal Household, and another three by the Shrine priests. A final three were common pilgrims selected at random from among the hosts come for the High Holy Days.