In deep darkness, he woke to the sound of moaning—a chorus of moaning at a dozen pitches, as of a crowd of men laboring to move some gigantic stone far beyond their combined strength, or the same crowd lamenting the deaths of countless loved ones. None of the other men in his tent seemed to have been awakened by it, or at least they did not move in response.
Alaric stripped off his blanket and crawled out of the tent. A brisk wind had sprung up, and moonlight showed the sand eddying here and there. After a few moments, he thought the moaning seemed to rise and fall with the wind. The fires had all been banked for the night, and two men were sitting by the largest of them, keeping watch as someone did every night. One man lifted a hand toward Alaric. The minstrel skirted a pair of tents to join them.
“How does anyone sleep through that noise?” he said.
The men grinned, and one of them said, “It’s just the desert.” And then he looked past Alaric and stood up.
Alaric turned and saw a figure beside one of the tents he had passed. The headwrap was gone, and the dark hair revealed stuck out in wild spikes, but as the person approached, Alaric recognized Rudd.
“Will you sit here with us?” said the man who had stood. He held a hand out to Rudd. “We’ll pour you some tea.” His companion was already reaching for the kettle that rested on the embers.
Rudd stopped a few strides away. “They’re calling us. We must go.”
“We’ll go at first light.”
“We must go now,” said Rudd. “Load the camels.”
The man crossed the small space between them and laid his arm across Rudd’s shoulders. “The others need their rest. There’s a long journey ahead yet.”
Rudd shook his head. “Not long.”
“Still, we should all arrive refreshed.” He stretched his other hand out toward the fire, and his companion pressed a cup of tea into it. “Here,” he said, offering it to Rudd. “A few sips against the chill, and then lie down and try to sleep a little more. You’d be a poor visitor if you dozed off astride your camel and broke your head in a fall.”
“The sand is soft,” Rudd murmured. He took the cup and gulped once, twice. Then he pointed to Alaric. “You can hear the music in their call. Come with me and play your lute for them.”
“Tomorrow,” whispered the man who stood beside him.
Rudd spilled the remainder of his tea into the fire and tossed the cup into the darkness before letting himself be turned and walked back toward his tent.
Alaric looked at the man with the kettle. He was pouring another cup, and he offered it to Alaric, who accepted the warm metal gratefully.
“Was he sleepwalking?” the minstrel asked.
“Some might call it that.” The man filled a cup for himself and set the kettle down.
“He’s done this before?”
The man nodded. “It’s one of the reasons there’s a watch. Piros would have our hides if anything happened to the boy.” He drank a little of his tea.
“What if he had walked the other way, away from the fire?”
“He never does that. The fire draws him like a moth.”
“But still …”
“As I said, there’s a watch.”
Alaric stayed by the fire for a time, and eventually the other man returned. Then, yawning, the minstrel went back to his own tent.
Morning seemed to come very quickly.
The sun was high, the day’s journey near half-done, when Piros, who had ranged up and down the line of camels as usual, fell in beside Alaric.
“I see Folero continues to treat you well,” he said.
“We seem to suit each other.” Alaric leaned far forward to pat the animal’s neck. “Piros,” he said, “I woke last night and heard the desert singing.”
Piros looked at him sidelong. “I suppose a minstrel might call it that.”
“Your son heard it, too.”
“Ah,” said Piros. “It was one of those nights.”
“Who did he think was calling?”
Piros shook his head. “The boy sometimes has wild fancies. I advise you not to credit them.” He rose a little in his seat, as if looking at something ahead. “Sing of the North again tonight, minstrel. It makes a welcome change.” He kicked his mount then and swerved out of the line to trot forward. Parts of a camel’s burden had cascaded to the sand, and the whole caravan halted while it was lashed in place once more.
Later in the day, Alaric got his first glimpse of the phantom city.
At least it looked something like a city, far off on the southern horizon, blurred with distance, its towers and walls wavering shapes in the desert sunlight, with silver water all around them. As he stared, his mouth open in wonder, he could hear the men behind him laughing. The laughter stopped abruptly as a camel broke away from the line and began galloping toward them, its rider—his green headwrap unmistakable—urging it with sharp blows from a rod. He passed Alaric, shouting, “Come with me,” and then swerved southward, out into the desert. Four other riders burst from the caravan to follow him, and the pursuit moved considerably before they caught up and formed a tight cluster about him, preventing him from going farther. Alaric could make out Rudd’s wild arm movements; he appeared to be striking at the other men with the rod. The thin sounds of their voices reached Alaric, but he could not make out any words.
Piros moved out of the line, though he did not make any attempt to join the group surrounding his son. Alaric pulled up beside him as the caravan marched onward, leaving them behind.
“He told me to come with him,” said the minstrel.
“You can see what good that would have done you,” said Piros, barely glancing at him. He waved a hand toward the caravan. “Go along with the rest.”
“A minstrel is always looking for new stories to sing,” said Alaric. “I think there’s one here.”
“Not a good one,” Piros muttered.
Alaric pointed toward the southern horizon. “The city alone is worth a song.” But as he watched the riders turn back toward the caravan, the distant image wavered and smeared and flattened until it was nothing but a sheet of silver water. “Is even the water real?” he wondered.
“Not even that,” said Piros.
“It must be attractive to men less well supplied than we are.”
Piros shook his head very slightly. “No matter how far you follow, no matter how swiftly, it will always be beyond your reach. When I was young and traveled the desert with my own father, I learned that.” He leaned forward, forearms on his thighs. “There was a time when my son knew it as well.”
The riders returned, one of the pursuers gripping the reins of Rudd’s mount. As Rudd passed his father, he scowled, and said, “It’s your fault they wouldn’t wait.”
Piros made no reply. He only pointed toward the retreating caravan and turned his mount to bring up the rear as the group hurried to rejoin it. Folero did not require any command from Alaric to match pace with the other camels, and the minstrel found himself clinging to the hoops before and behind him to retain his seat.
That night, after supper was done and some of the men of the caravan had gathered to listen to Alaric sing, Rudd pushed his way to the front of the group and sat almost at the minstrel’s feet. He did not join in the raucous choruses, but he nodded his head slightly in time to the music and occasionally smiled, though Alaric was not quite sure it was at the songs. As the night deepened and the listeners gradually drifted away, he stayed until Alaric finally set the lute aside, and only then did he allow a pair of his father’s men to escort him to his tent. Afterward, Alaric settled by one of the smaller fires, where Piros was discussing their route with the men who had been in the fore of the caravan. He waited until the conversation ebbed to nothing and the other men sought their tents. The night watch was at a larger fire some distance away, and so he and Piros found themselves alone.