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 shaghûns 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 horses flank.

She reared and screamed. El Murid fell at Harouns feet. They locked gazes. El Murid looked puzzled. When he tried to stand, he fell. He had broken an ankle.

Harouns 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 Harouns right eye. The boy would have died but for Radetics quick action.

Royalist partisans roared. Weapons materialized. Its 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 employers 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. Id better talk to Yousif. He tried hiding the bleeding. Fuad had less self-control than the usual volatile native.

Hes 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 Royal Household descended on the trouble spot.