into the fog. He did a careful circuit to make sure no watcher had taken station while he was inside.
He believed in being careful.
* * *
Bel-Sidek stood staring out at the fog that covered most of Qushmarrah. He could not see much. On a night with a moon, that fog would have stretched like a sprawl of silvery carpet from which parts of buildings grew. To his right, on a slightly higher elevation, the blot of the citadel of Nakar the Abomination masked the stars. Funny. Six years and still a black odor leaked out of the place.
The Witch and her crew were still in there, still holding out, untouchable behind the barrier only Ala-eh-din Beyh had been able to penetrate. How the hell did they survive in there?
One popular theory held that they hadn’t. It contended that the Witch and all of Nakar’s people had killed themselves after their master’s fall.
Bel-Sidek did not believe that, though he had no evidence to the contrary.
From behind him Meryel asked, “Is it the old man?”
Without turning, he replied, “How did you know?”
“You only brood when you’re troubled by someone you love. I think you’ve made your peace with yourself about your son and your wife.”
Bel-Sidek’s son, Hastra, was another of those who had not come home from Dak-es-Souetta. As Meryel’s husband had not. Hastra, his only child, the star of his heart. For years he had brooded the what-ifs. What if there had been no Dartar treachery at Dak-es-Souetta? Win or lose, would the poisonous hatred still blacken his blood? Was he, like so many men he knew, hanging everything on the horns of the Dartar demon, so to evade taking any responsibility that was his own? He’d never worked that out, only come to realize that the brooding was as pathetic and pointless as the howling of a dog over the still form of a fallen master.
The wife was another story. The wife had nothing to do with win or lose or Dartar treachery. The woman, whose very name he strove to drive from his mind, had deserted him almost before his wounds had healed. With the connivance and blessing of her family. Almost unheard-of in Qushmarrah, a dowry abandoned.
But they’d had an eye for the main chance. And who wanted a cripple in the family? Political or physical?
“There’s you,” bel-Sidek said.
“I never give you cause to brood.”
True. Quite true.
The wife had run to one of the new breed of Qushmarrahans, that the Herodians were making over in their own image. The man had adopted all the approved dress and manners and had taken the conquering god for his own. And he had prospered, collaborating with the army of occupation. And then he had died of an inability to breathe, for which bel-Sidek had had no responsibility at all. He suspected the General had given the order. He had not asked, and never would.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
“I don’t think so.” Out there, beneath that fog, men were moving. Some were villains and some were soldiers of the Living. There would be bodies in the morning. And who would know which had been slain by whom? The General, perhaps.
Let Fa’tad play his transparent games and take away the day. The night belonged to the old order, and would come out of the shadows someday soon.
“Maybe I do want to talk,” he said. He closed the filigreed doors to the balcony, turned to face his companion.
Meryel was seven years older than he. Her skin was too dark and her features too coarse for her ever to have been thought beautiful. Or even pretty. A generous dowry had helped her marry well.
She was too short and too fat and dressed with the eye for style of a goatherd. She drank rivers of date wine, proscribed by both Aram and the Herodians’ tempestuous god. She was, invariably, inevitably, an embarrassment in public. She said the wrong things at the wrong times and burst into giggles in the wrong places.
She was his best friend.
“He’s shutting me out. More and more, he’s hiding things from
He believed in being careful.
* * *
Bel-Sidek stood staring out at the fog that covered most of Qushmarrah. He could not see much. On a night with a moon, that fog would have stretched like a sprawl of silvery carpet from which parts of buildings grew. To his right, on a slightly higher elevation, the blot of the citadel of Nakar the Abomination masked the stars. Funny. Six years and still a black odor leaked out of the place.
The Witch and her crew were still in there, still holding out, untouchable behind the barrier only Ala-eh-din Beyh had been able to penetrate. How the hell did they survive in there?
One popular theory held that they hadn’t. It contended that the Witch and all of Nakar’s people had killed themselves after their master’s fall.
Bel-Sidek did not believe that, though he had no evidence to the contrary.
From behind him Meryel asked, “Is it the old man?”
Without turning, he replied, “How did you know?”
“You only brood when you’re troubled by someone you love. I think you’ve made your peace with yourself about your son and your wife.”
Bel-Sidek’s son, Hastra, was another of those who had not come home from Dak-es-Souetta. As Meryel’s husband had not. Hastra, his only child, the star of his heart. For years he had brooded the what-ifs. What if there had been no Dartar treachery at Dak-es-Souetta? Win or lose, would the poisonous hatred still blacken his blood? Was he, like so many men he knew, hanging everything on the horns of the Dartar demon, so to evade taking any responsibility that was his own? He’d never worked that out, only come to realize that the brooding was as pathetic and pointless as the howling of a dog over the still form of a fallen master.
The wife was another story. The wife had nothing to do with win or lose or Dartar treachery. The woman, whose very name he strove to drive from his mind, had deserted him almost before his wounds had healed. With the connivance and blessing of her family. Almost unheard-of in Qushmarrah, a dowry abandoned.
But they’d had an eye for the main chance. And who wanted a cripple in the family? Political or physical?
“There’s you,” bel-Sidek said.
“I never give you cause to brood.”
True. Quite true.
The wife had run to one of the new breed of Qushmarrahans, that the Herodians were making over in their own image. The man had adopted all the approved dress and manners and had taken the conquering god for his own. And he had prospered, collaborating with the army of occupation. And then he had died of an inability to breathe, for which bel-Sidek had had no responsibility at all. He suspected the General had given the order. He had not asked, and never would.
“Is it something you want to talk about?”
“I don’t think so.” Out there, beneath that fog, men were moving. Some were villains and some were soldiers of the Living. There would be bodies in the morning. And who would know which had been slain by whom? The General, perhaps.
Let Fa’tad play his transparent games and take away the day. The night belonged to the old order, and would come out of the shadows someday soon.
“Maybe I do want to talk,” he said. He closed the filigreed doors to the balcony, turned to face his companion.
Meryel was seven years older than he. Her skin was too dark and her features too coarse for her ever to have been thought beautiful. Or even pretty. A generous dowry had helped her marry well.
She was too short and too fat and dressed with the eye for style of a goatherd. She drank rivers of date wine, proscribed by both Aram and the Herodians’ tempestuous god. She was, invariably, inevitably, an embarrassment in public. She said the wrong things at the wrong times and burst into giggles in the wrong places.
She was his best friend.
“He’s shutting me out. More and more, he’s hiding things from
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