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riding the big black stallion.
    That would be Nassef, wouldn’t it? Radetic thought. The brawler who led El Murid’s
    dramatically named bodyguard, the Invincibles, and who was the brother of the Disciple’s wife.
    “El Murid. You’re a bold bandit, son,” Radetic murmured. He found himself admiring the
    youth’s arrogance. Anyone who thumbed his nose at priesthoods rated with Megelin Radetic.
    “Boys. Get down. Go find your fathers. Do you want a whipping?”
    Such was the punishment for gazing on a woman’s naked face. His pupils fled.
    All but Haroun. “Is that really El Murid? The one Father calls Little Devil?”
    Radetic nodded. “That’s him.”
    Haroun scampered after his brothers and cousins. “Ali! Wait. Remember when Sabbah came
    to el Aswad?”
    Megelin suspected imminent deviltry. Nothing but bad blood had come of that ill-starred
    peace conference with Sabbah i Hassan. He stalked his pupils.
    He had warned Yousif. He had cast horoscope after horoscope, and each had been blacker
    than the last. But Yousif had rejected the scientific approach in his own life.
    There was a natural yet innocent cruelty in the Children of Hammad al Nakir. Their very
    language lacked a means of expressing the concept “cruelty to an enemy.”
    Haroun looked back. He paused when he noticed Radetic watching him. But the urge to
    impress his brothers overcame good sense. He seized his rudimentary shaghûn’s kit and joined
    their rush into the street.
    Radetic followed. He would not be able to prevent their prank, but might finally penetrate
    the veil of mystery that surrounded the collapse of the negotiations with Sabbah i Hassan.
    Its simplicity was frightening.
    A shaghûn was as much stage magician as true sorcerer. Haroun spent an hour a day
    practicing sleight of hand that would awe the credulous one day. Among his simple tools was a peashooter. He could conceal it within a fist and, with a faked cough, blow a pellet into a
    campfire or a dart at an unsuspecting enemy.
    Haroun chose a dart, and put it into the white horse’s flank.
    She reared and screamed. El Murid fell at Haroun’s feet. They locked gazes. El Murid looked
    puzzled. When he tried to stand, he fell. He had broken an ankle.
    Haroun’s brothers and cousins began mocking the injured youth.
    A quick-witted priest shouted, “An omen! False prophets inevitably fall.”
    Others took it up. They had been lying in wait, hoping for a chance to embarrass El Murid.
    Pushing and shoving started between factions.
    Haroun and El Murid still stared at one another, as if seeing the future, and seeing it grim.
    Nassef spied the peashooter. His sword rang as it cleared his scabbard. Its tip cut a shallow slice an inch above Haroun’s right eye. The boy would have died but for Radetic’s quick action.
    Royalist partisans roared. Weapons materialized. “It’s going to get ugly. You little fool.
    Come up here.” Radetic yanked Haroun off the ground and threw him over his shoulder, then
    hurried toward his employer’s tent. During Disharhun everyone, whether making the pilgrimage
    to Al Rhemish or not, lived the week in tents.
    Fuad met them in the street. He had heard a swift-winged rumor of murder. He was angry.
    A huge man with a savage reputation, Fuad in a rage was a ferocious spectacle. He had his war blade in hand. It looked big enough to behead an ox with a single blow.
    “What happened, teacher? Is he all right?”
    “Mostly scared. I’d better talk to Yousif.” He tried hiding the bleeding. Fuad had less self-
    control than the usual volatile native.
    “He’s waiting.”
    “I should find an injured child every time I want to talk to him.”
    Fuad gave him a poisonous look.
    The shouting and blade waving around El Murid had turned ugly. Fighting was forbidden
    during Disharhun, but the Children of Hammad al Nakir were not ones to let laws restrict their emotions.
    Horsemen bearing round black shields emblazoned with the crude red eagle of the