Страница 41 из 68
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.
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 cu
He wished he could communicate with Beloul better. The captain was one cu