Surrender to the Will of the Night - By Glen Cook Page 0,127

have suited yon blackguard just fine, Nassim having failed to consider the full range of possibilities.

As soon as Nassim began to feign taking the bait, he found a drunk settling at the low table, crossing his legs. He came armed with a bottle of wine, mugs, and an aggressive personal aroma. He mumbled an unintelligible self-introduction as he flung a hand into the air and beckoned someone the Mountain could not see. Nassim was in no mood to squabble about sharing space. Sharing was expected in a crowded public house.

He watched the newcomer pour wine, studiously creating identical portions. His desert clothing was filthy. It boasted fresh dust over the filth. His headwear suggested generations of insects had nested and feasted there. The man had lost his right eye and, apparently, could not afford a patch to conceal the resulting scar. He grinned at Nassim.

Fate had not been kind to his teeth, either.

A brace of rogues as tasty as the first sat down. The one-eyed man offered Nassim a cup, grunting as though unfamiliar with the local dialect.

The flirt, who had started toward Nassim, decided to turn his attention elsewhere. He changed course.

The one-eyed villain tossed his hand up, as though to another acquaintance. And, in a cultured whisper absent any influence of wine, said, “You should be more cautious, Nassim Alizarin. We can’t always watch over you.”

The flirt headed for the exit. The one-eyed man muttered, “Tears will be shed in al-Qarn.” He poured more wine. After a while, he said, “The lord Indala will see you tonight.”

* * *

The Mountain was surprised. The famous Indala al-Sul Halaladin was as short as rumor claimed. And as old, though he bore his years with grace.

He looked every inch the lord and champion he was said to be.

He was, reputedly, fiercely insistent on his dignity, yet would set status aside entirely once convinced you accepted that dignity. In the Mountain’s instance he dispensed with formalities immediately.

“Sit, General. Make me understand the circumstances in which Rashid and his brothers found you.”

Indala’s dignity must be honored absolutely, here. Nothing but honest, straightforward truth would do. So Nassim told it, without embellishment, analyzing himself, sparing himself nothing.

“So, after the fact, you see yourself the same as the man by whose order your son was murdered.”

Nassim bowed his head.

“Despite all the obvious differences between the situations.”

“Acknowledging those seems like self-justification.”

“I understand.” Indala contemplated his folded hands. “Often the choices that affect the least number of people are the ones that trouble us most.”

“Exactly. Which makes acceptance all the more difficult. How many men have fallen since I took charge of Tel Moussa on your behalf? It must be more than three dozen.”

“Fifty-three dead or missing,” Indala told him. Revealing another facet of the character that made him the most honored chieftain of Qasr al-Zed. He would know most of their names, tribes, cities, and how they had died, too. If the stories were not greatly inflated.

“It was his idea,” Indala said. “He volunteered.”

“Yes. But I knew what he was giving up. And I let him do it anyway.”

Indala again contemplated his hands. When his gaze rose it was piercing. “Tell me, have you been damaged permanently? Can you go on? Can you send other mothers’ sons into the fire between Heaven and Hell? Will you hesitate in the critical instant when hesitation could be fatal?”

Nassim understood. His future depended on his answer. And Indala would be unerring in tasting his sincerity, or lack thereof.

“I am Sha-lug.” And, though he suspected Indala understood perfectly, he clarified. “I’ll come through this. It won’t fog my mind nor stay my hand when the arrows are in the air.”

“Well said.” Then, “Just a moment.” A man had appeared. He looked like young Az with three decades added. Indala gestured, giving him permission to approach. He came, whispered into the sheikh’s ear. Indala nodded. Nassim thought he was unhappy behind his aplomb.

Indala said, “I’ll send instructions before I retire.”

The message bearer bowed his way out. Nassim thought he lacked enthusiasm.

Indala said, “That was interesting. Gherig has a new castellan, Anselin of Menand, younger brother of Regard, King of Arnhand. He arrived at the head of a great troop of westerners, most of them Brotherhood of War.”

Nassim had nothing to say, other than an unhappy grunt.

“It would seem you worry them, General.”

“I doubt they think that much of me.”

Indala said, “Perhaps. So. Tell me about the boy, Azir.”

Surprised, Nassim did so.

“He has potential, then?”

“A great deal. So long as he receives