face. Ragnarson could not stifle a bark of laughter.
He felt good, not being recognized. For these few minutes he could be just another man. The old-timer didn't expect anything of him.
„You wouldn't lie just to see an old man squirm, now would you?"
„I don't want to ruin your evening. But you did ask. It was five to three. Guards."
„That's impossible."
„You know how it goes. The Panthers got too cocky."
„The King played, didn't he? I should have known. King's luck. He could fall in a cesspool and come up wearing gold chains."
Ragnarson faked a coughing spasm to keep a whooping laugh from busting loose. He? Lucky? With everything that had happened to him?
He rode toward his home in Lieneke Lane, thinking he should have brought presents. Some little guilt offering for his kids.
He was passing the park when the man in white stepped into his path. He yanked his sword from its scabbard, looked round for the other two. The Harish always worked in threes.
The man held a lantern to his own features. „Peace, Sire." He had a gentle, priestlike voice. „No dagger has been consecrated with your name." The Harish were assassin devotees of the fanatic religion El Murid had brought forth from the barren womb of the deserts of Hammad al Nakir. In its youth the sect had spread across east and west with the wild violence of a summer storm. It had declined as the charisma of its Disciple faded. Today it had few adherents outside Hammad al Nakir, and even there its followers were dwindling.
„Habibullah? Is that you?"
„It is, Sire. I was sent by the Lady Yasmid."
Ragnarson had not seen the man since before the wars. In Fiana's time he had been Hammad al Nakir's ambassador to Kavelin. In those days El Murid had ruled the desert kingdom. Haroun had been alive. His son Megelin had not yet donned the crown and led Royalist armies victorious into Al Rhemish. Haroun's wife, El Murid's daughter Yasmid, had come slipping into Vorgreberg, hoping he would help her end the bitter strife between her men. He had sent her to her father with this same Habibullah, then had heard nothing more.
Ragnarson scanned the gloaming again. El Murid's fanat ics had tried to kill him before. He saw no sign of treachery. He swung down. His pains seemed to have deserted him. „Into the park, then." He did not sheath his blade.
Habibullah settled cross-legged in the shadow of a bush, his hands palms up on his knees. He waited patiently while Bragi rambled around prodding bushes. He seemed to accept this as perfectly rational behavior.
Satisfied of his safety, Bragi sat down facing the man in white. „You might have to help me up if I get stiff."
Habibullah smiled. „It was a vigorous contest?"
„That's putting it mildly. What's on your mind?" He knew Habibullah wouldn't mind a blunt approach. Too damned many ambassadors danced around things and euphemized. One couldn't be sure what the hell they wanted. Habibullah was more direct.
He reckoned the man had something worth saying. A man didn't sneak through so much unfriendly territory, and make a contact carefully calculated to go unnoticed, just to be sociable.
„The Lady Yasmid sends greetings."
Bragi nodded. He had known El Murid's daughter, though not well, since her childhood.
„Then, she's bid me explain the present situation in Hammad al Nakir. She wants you to understand how and why things have changed since Megelin's victory." Habibullah went way back, to the day when Yasmid had come to Bragi begging for help. He picked the tale up there. It was a long one. He bore down on the fact that the followers of the Disciple, defeated, now holding on only in the holy places of Sebil el Selib and along Hammad al Nakir's rich eastern seacoast, had begun to despair. He said, „The Disciple himself has given up. He just sits and dreams opium dreams about days gone by. He doesn't know where or when he is anymore. He talks to people who have been dead for twenty years. Especially to the
He felt good, not being recognized. For these few minutes he could be just another man. The old-timer didn't expect anything of him.
„You wouldn't lie just to see an old man squirm, now would you?"
„I don't want to ruin your evening. But you did ask. It was five to three. Guards."
„That's impossible."
„You know how it goes. The Panthers got too cocky."
„The King played, didn't he? I should have known. King's luck. He could fall in a cesspool and come up wearing gold chains."
Ragnarson faked a coughing spasm to keep a whooping laugh from busting loose. He? Lucky? With everything that had happened to him?
He rode toward his home in Lieneke Lane, thinking he should have brought presents. Some little guilt offering for his kids.
He was passing the park when the man in white stepped into his path. He yanked his sword from its scabbard, looked round for the other two. The Harish always worked in threes.
The man held a lantern to his own features. „Peace, Sire." He had a gentle, priestlike voice. „No dagger has been consecrated with your name." The Harish were assassin devotees of the fanatic religion El Murid had brought forth from the barren womb of the deserts of Hammad al Nakir. In its youth the sect had spread across east and west with the wild violence of a summer storm. It had declined as the charisma of its Disciple faded. Today it had few adherents outside Hammad al Nakir, and even there its followers were dwindling.
„Habibullah? Is that you?"
„It is, Sire. I was sent by the Lady Yasmid."
Ragnarson had not seen the man since before the wars. In Fiana's time he had been Hammad al Nakir's ambassador to Kavelin. In those days El Murid had ruled the desert kingdom. Haroun had been alive. His son Megelin had not yet donned the crown and led Royalist armies victorious into Al Rhemish. Haroun's wife, El Murid's daughter Yasmid, had come slipping into Vorgreberg, hoping he would help her end the bitter strife between her men. He had sent her to her father with this same Habibullah, then had heard nothing more.
Ragnarson scanned the gloaming again. El Murid's fanat ics had tried to kill him before. He saw no sign of treachery. He swung down. His pains seemed to have deserted him. „Into the park, then." He did not sheath his blade.
Habibullah settled cross-legged in the shadow of a bush, his hands palms up on his knees. He waited patiently while Bragi rambled around prodding bushes. He seemed to accept this as perfectly rational behavior.
Satisfied of his safety, Bragi sat down facing the man in white. „You might have to help me up if I get stiff."
Habibullah smiled. „It was a vigorous contest?"
„That's putting it mildly. What's on your mind?" He knew Habibullah wouldn't mind a blunt approach. Too damned many ambassadors danced around things and euphemized. One couldn't be sure what the hell they wanted. Habibullah was more direct.
He reckoned the man had something worth saying. A man didn't sneak through so much unfriendly territory, and make a contact carefully calculated to go unnoticed, just to be sociable.
„The Lady Yasmid sends greetings."
Bragi nodded. He had known El Murid's daughter, though not well, since her childhood.
„Then, she's bid me explain the present situation in Hammad al Nakir. She wants you to understand how and why things have changed since Megelin's victory." Habibullah went way back, to the day when Yasmid had come to Bragi begging for help. He picked the tale up there. It was a long one. He bore down on the fact that the followers of the Disciple, defeated, now holding on only in the holy places of Sebil el Selib and along Hammad al Nakir's rich eastern seacoast, had begun to despair. He said, „The Disciple himself has given up. He just sits and dreams opium dreams about days gone by. He doesn't know where or when he is anymore. He talks to people who have been dead for twenty years. Especially to the
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