The Minister refused to be intimidated. His stance and gaze were those of a brave man who had undertaken a hazardous mission willingly.
"I'm not pleased with you," Haroun told him. "But you helped once. I'll let you say your piece."
"These are the facts, then. Whether you believe them or not. During the negotiations in Dunno Scuttari my cousin managed a secret understanding with El Murid. His agents then isolated my party for several days. During that time the articles of peace were implemented. The Guild came to shameful terms in return for a guarantee of their properties and livings south of the Scarlotti. My cousin then issued the orders that resulted in you becoming entrapped in Libiannin. I confess shame, sir, but I deny responsibility."
Haroun glared. The man did not respond.
Ragnarson said, "It is your fault. It's been clear since the wars started that Greyfells was dealing with El Murid. You didn't stop him."
"Who is this?" the Minister asked.
"My partner," Haroun replied. "Bragi Ragnarson. I want you to answer him."
"Ragnarson? Good. I've wanted to meet him. I'll answer him thus: He doesn't know Itaskian politics. It's impossible to control Greyfells without civil war."
Ragnarson snorted. "A dollop of poison."
"We'll let the question slide," Haroun said. "Get to the point. You want something."
"To reaffirm our private treaty."
"What treaty?"
"The one we made four years ago. I don't want it to fade away because the fighting has ended."
"Your war has ended. Not mine. Go on."
"El Murid is still El Murid. He hasn't given up. He's just backed off for a breather. He controls most everything south of the Scarlotti and has planted his ideals in fertile soil north of the river. If he tries again he may conquer us."
"So?"
"You said your war hasn't ended. I'm offering continued support. A strong Royalist movement will hamper El Murid. It might nibble away at his bastions outside the Sahel. And I still have those hidden ally needs I spoke about before. My cousin will change his strategy now. The occasional knife in the dark would be an invaluable tool."
"And, I guess, this aid wouldn't be sufficient to put me on the Peacock Throne. It'd be just enough to keep me going, to keep me a useful tool."
"We're getting bitter and cynical, aren't we?"
"You don't deny it."
"I have an operation in mind. It could net you the wealth to make you a power with which to be reckoned."
"Talk. I haven't yet decided to cut your throat."
"This is down the road a way, of course. Because the war has tied up the fleet, pirates have established themselves in the Red Isles. Their leader is a renegade wizard. We need somebody to go in and kill him. If that someone were nimble enough, he could escape with the pirate treasure before the fleet arrived to mop up."
Haroun glanced at Bragi. Ragnarson shrugged.
"You'd let this treasure get away?"
"It belonged to Hellin Daimiel."
"I see. Shadek, take the gentleman somewhere and make him comfortable."
El Senoussi took the Itaskian away.
"The man is cunning," Ragnarson observed.
"Oh?"
"He shined a pot of gold in your eyes and you forgot about Libiannin."
"Think he was telling the truth?"
"Anything is possible. Even that."
"You've got connections in Hellin Daimiel. Find out if they lost any treasure ships."
"Now?"
"You had something else to do?"
"I guess not." Creaking, Bragi rose. "Watch out for him, Haroun."
"I'm done with him. He won't see me again. I'm leaving too. Beloul! Sentry, find Beloul."
"Where you heading?"
"Nowhere important. Personal business. Take care."
Beloul pushed into the tent.
"I'm going away for a while, Beloul. You and Shadek take over. Move back to the camps. Do whatever seems appropriate. Try not to attract too much attention. The next few years will be hard. It'll be a struggle to keep the movement from falling apart."
"Where will you be, Lord?"
"Out of touch, Beloul. Use your own judgment."
"How long, Lord?"
"I don't know. It all depends."
"I see." Beloul's tone made it clear he did nothing of the sort.
"Have a horse readied. And send someone to help with my things."
Haroun climbed the mountain gingerly, feeling both anticipation and guilty reluctance. He made a poor father and husband.
The old woman and her nephew were out gathering firewood. They fled to the cabin when they spied him. He made his approach openly and slowly, not wanting to be taken for one of the Harish. He reached the cabin. Its door stood open, presenting a dark and uncertain rectangle.
"Yasmid?" he called. "Are you here?"
Minutes later he was seated with his woman beside him and his son in his lap. He was free for a few hours, days, or weeks. For the moment he was a husband, not a king without a throne.
He would be happy here in his sanctuary. For a while. Till his thoughts turned to the outer world once more. He would try to stay, to be a simple husband, but the Peacock Throne never ceased its night-whispered calling. One day he would sally forth to battle again.
They knew, did Yasmid and little Megelin, but they pretended his stay would last. They always pretended.
They always would, and would live each minute as if it might be their last.
"He's a sturdy little rascal, isn't he?" Haroun asked. Little Megelin gripped his forefingers and stared up with wise infant's eyes. A smile teased the child's soft, moist little lips.
Haroun wept. For all the children, he wept.