„What were they?"
„Obelisks. Graven with the names of people who died for El Murid's movement. They surround the graves of his wife and son. They say there's another stand at Sebil el Selib called the Stellae of the Martyrs."
„Uhm." Michael urged his mount forward. He knew most of this already, of course, but hearing or reading about the wrack of history was not the same as actually seeing it. He remained beside the caravan master down the long slope to the causeway. „Any suggestions?" he asked.
„Not many, son. I don't know what you're up to. I'll tell you this. Keep your head down. And watch what you say. These people aren't very tolerant. Megelin is running scared. He doesn't have much popular support anymore, so he comes down hard on critics. Try to mind the law. They don't accept ignorance as an excuse. Guess that's a holdover from El Murid's time. That old boy was a tough nut."
Michael had heard his King reminisce about the El Murid Wars. He admired the idealistic El Murid of twenty-five years ago. He was himself too young for clear memories of those days. „It's a pity the man went mad," he said.
The caravaneer's eyebrows rose. „El Murid? He was always batty. What you mean is, it's a pity he got hooked on opium. That's what ruined him. Yeah. He wasn't all bad.
Not for the desert. Too bad he wanted to convert the rest of the world."
They reached the causeway. Michael saw fish in the water below. On the island side, some of the landscaped inlets still survived, with their patches of water lilies and the tiny, colorful gardens surrounding them. Many of those gardens had become weed patches. Stately homes, in a unique blend of western, desert, and Imperial architectures, spotted the waterfront. Michael supposed they had belonged to the Disciple's more influential followers, and had fallen into the hands of Megelin's when El Murid had been driven from the holy city.
„You're in here pretty regular. What's your estimate of Megelin's survivability? Where will he be going the next few years?"
The master smiled thinly. „Son, you've asked me that question six different ways the last couple days. Why don't you just back off, make up your mind to ask what you want to know, then come at me with that? Ain't no guarantee I could answer, or that I would if I could, but this beating around the bush ain't getting you nowhere. Be cautious with them. I'm on your side."
Michael considered that while the caravan cleared the causeway and began wending through snaketrack streets. „All right. I came to find out a couple things. Most of it I can get by observation. One thing I need to know for sure is if a mysterious wizard, maybe named Lord Norath, has at tached himself to Megelin."
The caravan master turned slowly. He studied Michael through narrowed eyes. „Lord North."
„I heard one brief mention from a friend. A panicky mention, maybe three months back. Then nothing. Just a protestation about having a too active imagination."
„I see."
A sudden chill ran down Michael's spine. The master had changed. He had become cold and remote.
Had he made a fatal mistake?
After a time, the caravaneer said, „Son, don't ever say that name. I've never seen any such person. Neither has anybody else. Like you say, a few months ago there were rumors. They stopped. Bam! People who said that name tended to disappear. Maybe no such man exists. But if he does, it's safer to pretend he don't."
„I see." Trebilcock relaxed a little. His hand drew an inch farther from the hilt of his sword. „Back when there were rumors, did anybody say where the creature does his non-existing?"
The caravaneer smiled. „You're getting the knack. Best not to talk about it at all, though. And now you've named the name, best you don't show your face on the street at night. That's when the talkers disappear."
„Then there's no night life here?"
„I didn't say that. There's plenty for them as haven't said a certain name, or don't care who sits the Peacock Throne. Those as stands against Megelin also have a way of disap pearing."
„Nice trick. Would you say there's a hint of wizardry in the air?"
„Me? No. I wouldn't say anything that foolish. If there was, it might come down on me."
Michael smiled. He now had most of what he wanted. And he could have learned it in Tamerice. If only he had thought to ask his questions there!
What he wanted to know now, though, he could learn nowhere but here. What was the connection with Liakopulos? The learning process looked more dangerous than he had expected.
„Does Sam's place here have a room with doors and locks? I assume the men sleep in a barracks."
„They do. You'll have to ask Mister Chordine's brother if you want locks. He runs the show here." The master guided the caravan into a side street, and soon into a staging compound of vast size. It was structured as a small fortress, with only one gate penetrating its twelve foot adobe walls. Stables lined the walls inside, and in the center of the compound stood several three-story buildings, back to back, like a group of men facing out toward their enemies. Michael went and presented his letter of introduction to Sam Chordine's brother.
Three days passed. Michael learned almost nothing. The people of Al Rhemish were tight-lipped and grim. They spoke to one another less than they did to foreigners. Most vigorously pretended that their King did not exist.
Michael saw little evidence of Megelin's presence, other than the ubiquitous fear. Few Royalist soldiers patrolled the city. They seemed unnecessary. Then, too, Megelin's army was still scouring the wastes for El Murid's followers. The little Michael heard indicated the King was having no luck. Hammad al Nakir was vast. There were too many places where guerrillas could hide. The Scourge of God had proven that a generation ago, during El Murid's sweep to power.
Night had fallen. Michael lay on his pallet, staring at the ceiling, wondering how he could penetrate the veil sur rounding Norath. One candle wanly lighted his room. He thought he heard a creak from the tower stair. He rose quietly, made sure his door was secure. It was a massive thing of thick oak planks. Only a battering ram could break it down.
The door was fine. He turned to the window, which was sealed by heavy shutters. He had rigged them so he could fling them open if he had to make a hurried exit. They, too, were secure. He returned to his pallet.
The stair creaked again. He took hold of his sword, rested it across his chest.
Michael Trebilcock continuously amazed his friends with his lack of fear. The emotion was alien to him. He only vaguely understood what others felt because his sole touch stone with terror was stagefright. When asked to speak before a group, he choked. That was the deep-down essence of his secretiveness. He avoided uncomfortable moments by keeping his secrets and remaining unavailable.
He just plain hated explaining.
His door creaked. He lay still, waiting. Something fum bled at the outside latch. Michael smiled. That would do his visitor no good. The door had to be opened from within.
The fumbling stopped. The door creaked under tremen dous pressure. Michael's eyes widened slightly. „What the hell?" The timbers crackled. Bits of adobe fell from around the door frame. The whole thing seemed ready to go. Michael rose and opened the shutters, studied the darkness outside.
Something had disturbed the animals stabled along the south wall. Caravaneers with lamps and torches were calm ing them. Elsewhere, the compound was as peaceful as a graveyard.
He had a grim suspicion. He went to the door. The pressure had withdrawn. He sniffed, caught a hint of animal odor. A thin smile crossed his pale lips.
He had put it together right. There was a Lord North and his true name was Magden Norath. The Escalonian rene gade had survived Palmisano.