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〃Nothing；〃 Yazir grunted。
〃What？ I beg…〃
〃My brother said nothing。 Do not trouble yourself so。〃 He tried to say it kindly。 Kindness did not e naturally to him。 Neither did patience； though that he had been at pains to teach himself over the years。
His world was different now from when he and Ghalib had led the Zuhrites out of the west and swept all the other tribes before them； leaving the sands blood…red where they passed。 More than twenty years ago that was。 They had been young men。 The khalif in Silvenes had sent them gifts。 Then the next khalif； and the next； until the last one was slain。
There was still blood on the sands； most years。 The tribes of the desert had never taken easily to authority。 Twenty years was a very long time to have held sway。 Long enough even to build two cities on the coast； with shipyards now and warehouses； and three more cities inland； with markets； where the gold of the south could be assembled and dispersed in the long caravans。 Yazir hated settlements； but they mattered。 They were marks of endurance on the shifting face of the desert。 They were a beginning to something larger。
The next stage of permanence for the Muwardis； though； lay beyond the sands。 That much was being more and more clear to Yazir as the seasons and the stars turned。
Ghalib flatly rejected the very thought of leaving the desert life he knew； but not the idea of a holy war across the straits。 That idea he liked。 Ghalib was good at killing people。 He was not a man well…suited to leading the tribes in peacetime； or to building things that might remain after him； for his sons and his sons' sons。 Yazir； who had e out of the west those long years ago with a string of camels and a sword； with five thousand warriors and a bright； hard vision of Ashar； was trying to bee such a man。
Ibn Rashid； the ascetic； the wadji who had e to the westernmost Zuhrite tribes bearing the teachings of Ashar from the so…called homelands none of the Muwardis had ever seen； would have approved； Yazir knew that much。
The wadji； gaunt and tall； with his unkempt white beard and hair and his black eyes that read souls； had settled with six disciples in a cluster of tents among the wildest people of the desert。 Yazir and his brother； the sons of the Zuhrite chieftain； had e one day to laugh at this new； harmless madman in his settlement； where he preached the visions of another madman in another desert in a far land named Soriyya。
Their lives had changed。 The life of the Majriti had changed。
Ashar's truths had been moving through the desert for some time before ibn Rashid came west； but none of the other tribes had accepted those truths and pursued them as resolutely as the Zuhrites were to do when Yazir and Ghalib led them east…all of them veiled now like ibn Rashid…in holy； cleansing war。
Yazir had spent almost half of his life trying to earn his wadji's approval； even after ibn Rashid had died and only his rattling bones and skull acpanied Yazir and Ghalib in their journeys。 He still tried to measure his deeds by what the wadji's eyes would have seen in them。 It was difficult； trying to change from a simple warrior； a son of the desert and stars； to a leader in a slippery world of cities and money； of diplomats and emissaries from across the straits or far to the east。 It was very difficult。
He needed scribes now； men who could decipher the messages brought him from those other lands。 In scratchings on parchment lay the deaths of men and the fulfillment or rejection of Ashar's starry visions。 That was a hard thing to accept。
Yazir often envied his brother his clear approach to all things。 Ghalib had not changed； saw no reason to change。 He was a Zuhrite war leader still； direct and unblunted as a wind。 This man sitting before them； for example。 For Ghalib he was less than a man； and he sniffled； and insulted them by refusing to eat food they offered。 He ought； therefore； to be slain。 He would provide some amusement then； at least。 Ghalib had a number of ways of killing men。 This one； Yazir thought； would probably be castrated then given to the soldiers…or even the women…to be used。 Ghalib would see such a death as an obvious one。
Yazir； a son of the hard desert himself； half…inclined to agree； continued his long struggle towards a different view of things。 Hazem ibn Almalik was a prince from across the water。 He could rule Cartada if circumstances changed only slightly。 He was here to ask Yazir and Ghalib to change those circumstances。 That would mean； he had told them； a true believer on the dais of the most powerful kingdom in Al…Rassan。 He would even don the half…veil of the Muwardis； he told them。
Yazir didn't know what a dais was； but he did understand what was being asked of him。 He was fairly certain his brother understood as well； but Ghalib would have a different attitude。 Ghalib would hardly care who ruled Cartada in Al…Rassan。 Whether this man adopted the veil ibn Rashid had ordained for the tribes…to screen and hold back impieties…would be a matter of uttermost indifference to Ghalib。 He would simply want the chance to go to war again in the name of Ashar and the god。 War was good； a holy war was the best thing in the world。
Sometimes； though； a man striving to shape a divided； tribal people into a nation； a force in the world； something more than drifts of sand； had to try to hold back his desires； or rise above them。
Yazir； on his blanket in the north wind； with winter ing； felt a deep uncertainty gnawing at his vitals。 No one had ever warned him that leadership； this kind of leadership； was bad for the stomach。
He had begun losing his hair years ago。 His scalp； though usually covered； had burned the same hue as the rest of his face over the years。 Ghalib； with no concerns save how to keep his warriors killing enemies and not each other； still had his long dark mane。 He wore it tied back； to keep it from his eyes and he still wore his thong about his neck。 Men sometimes asked about that。 Ghalib would smile and decline to answer； inviting speculation。 Yazir knew what the thong was。 He was far from a squeamish man； but he didn't like thinking about it。
He looked up at the wan sun again。 There remained only a little time before prayers。 There was information their visitor lacked。 He had been a long time journeying here； others had left after him and e before。 Yazir was still unsure how to make use of this。
〃What about the Jaddites？〃 he asked； by way of a beginning。
Hazem ibn Almalik jerked liked a snared creature at the words。 He flashed Yazir a startled； revealing glance。 It was the first concrete question either of the brothers had put to him。 The wind whistled； sand blew。
〃The Jaddites？〃 the man repeated blankly。 He was； Yazir； concluded； very nearly simple…minded。 It was a pity。
〃The Jaddites；〃 Yazir repeated； as if to a child。 Ghalib glanced at him briefly and then away； saying nothing。 〃How strong are they？ We are told Cartada allows payment of tribute to the Horsemen。 This is forbidden by the Laws。 If such tribute is paid there must be a reason。 What is the reason？〃
Hazem wiped at his dripping nose。 He used his right hand； which was offensive。 He cleared his throat。 〃That tribute is one reason I am here； Excellence。 Of course it is forbidden。 It is a blasphemy； among so many others。 The arrogant Horsemen see no danger in the weak kings of Al…Rassan。 Even my father cringes before the Jaddites； though he calls himself a Lion。〃 He laughed bitterly。 Yazir said nothing； listening； observing through hooded eyes。 The sand blew past them； tent cloths flapped in the camp。 A dog barked。
Their visitor babbled on。 〃The Jaddites make their demands； and are given all they ask； despite the clear word of Ashar。 They take our gold； they take our women； they ride laughing through our streets looking down upon the faithful； mocking our feeble leaders。 Little do they know that their danger es not from godless rulers； but from the true heirs of Ashar； the pure sons of the desert。 Will you not e？ Will you not cleanse Al…Rassan？〃
Ghalib grunted； pulled down his veil； and spat。
〃Why？〃 he said。
Yazir was surprised。 His brother w