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r father's mixture to help him rest。
She woke the other man gently； with the attendants on either side of his pallet。 Sometimes they were violent when awakened。 These were fighting men。 The Batiaran knew her； though； which was good。 She had them hold up a torch for her and she looked at his eyes： cloudy still； but better than before and he followed her finger when she moved it before his face。 She put a hand behind his head and helped him drink： cloves； myrrh and aloes； for what had to be a brutal headache。
She changed the dressing on his wound； then withdrew to the other side of the room while the attendants helped him pass water into a beaker for her。 She poured the urine into her father's flask and studied it against the candlelight。 The top layer； which told of the head； was mostly clear now。 He was going to be all right。 She told him as much； speaking in his own language。 He sank back into slumber。
She decided to snatch a short rest in the infirmary after all。 They made up one of the beds for her and drew a screen in front of it for privacy。 She removed her boots and lay down in her clothing。 She had done this many times。 A doctor had to learn to sleep anywhere； in whatever brief snatches of time were allowed。
Just before she dropped off； a thought came to her： she had； it seemed； just agreed to leave the forts of city and court to go out on a winter campaign…wherever that expedition turned out to be going。 She hadn't even asked them。 Nobody went on winter campaigns。
〃You idiot；〃 she murmured aloud； aware that she was smiling in the darkness。
In the morning the Batiaran remembered his mother； knew where he was； the day of the week and the sub…manders of his pany。 When she asked； a trifle unwisely； about his father's name； he flushed a vivid crimson。
Jehane took pains to show no reaction at all； of course。 She swore a silent oath to herself； on the spot； in the name of Galinus； father of all physicians； that she would die before telling Ammar ibn Khairan or Rodrigo Belmonte about this。
That oath； at least； she kept。
Nine
The wind was north。 Yazir could taste salt in the air； though they were half a day's ride across the Majriti sands from the sea。 It was cold。
Behind him he could hear the flapping of the tents as the wind caught and tugged at them。 They had e this far north and set up a camp to meet with their visitor。
On the coast； out of sight beyond the high； shifting dunes； lay the new port of Abeneven； whose walls offered shelter from the wind。 Yazir ibn Q'arif would rather be dead and with Ashar among the stars than winter in a city。 He shrugged deeper into his cloak。 He looked up at the sky。 The sun； no menace now at the brink of winter so far to the north； was a pale disk in a sky of racing clouds。 There was a little time yet before the third summons to prayer。 They could continue this discussion。
No one had said a word； however； for some time。 Their visitor was clearly unsettled by that。 This was good； on the whole； unsettled men； in Yazir's experience； revealed more of themselves。
Yazir looked over and saw that his brother had pulled down the veil that covered the lower half of his face。 He was breaking beetle shells and sucking at the juices inside。 An old habit。 His teeth were badly stained by it。 Their guest had already declined the offered dish。 This； of course； was an insult； but Yazir had gained some insight into the manners of their brethren across the straits in Al…Rassan； and was not unduly perturbed。 Ghalib； his brother； was a more impetuous man； and Yazir could see him dealing with anger。 The visitor would not be aware of this； of course。 Their guest； miserably cold； and obviously unhappy with the smell and feel of the camel hair cloak they had presented him as a gift； sat unfortably on Yazir's meeting blanket and sniffled。
He was ill； he had told them。 He talked a great deal； their visitor。 The long journey to Abirab and then along the coast to this wintering place of the Muwardi leaders had afflicted him with an ailment of the head and chest； he had explained。 He was shivering like a girl。 Ghalib's contempt was obvious to Yazir； but this man from across the straits would not see that either； even with Ghalib's veil lowered。
Yazir had long ago realized…and had tried to make his brother understand…that the softness of life in Al…Rassan had not only turned the men there into infidels； it had also made them very nearly women。 Less than women； in fact。 Not one of Yazir's wives would have been half so pathetic as this Prince Hazem of Cartada； his nose dripping like a child's in the face of a little wind。
And this young man； lamentably； was one of the devout ones。 One of the true； pious followers of Ashar in Al…Rassan。 Yazir was forced to keep reminding himself of that。 The man had been corresponding with them for some time。 Now he had e himself to the Majriti； a long way in a difficult season； to speak his plea to the two leaders of the Muwardis； here on a blanket before flapping tents in the vast and empty desert。 He had probably expected to meet them in Abirab； or Abeneven at worst； Yazir thought。 Cities and houses were what the soft men of Al…Rassan knew。 Beds with scented pillows； cushions to recline upon。 Flowers and trees and green grass； with more water than any man could use in his lifetime。 Forbidden wine and naked dancers and painted Jaddite women。 Arrogant Kindath merchants exploiting the faithful and worshipping their female moons instead of Ashar's holy stars。 A world where the bells summoning to prayer were occasion for a cursory nod in the direction of a temple； if that much。
Yazir dreamed at night of fire。 A great burning in Al…Rassan and north of it； among the kingdoms of Esperana； where they worshipped the killing sun in mockery of the Star…born children of the desert。 He dreamed of a purging inferno that would leave the green； seductive land scorched back towards sand but pure again； ready for rebirth。 A place where the holy stars might shine cleanly down and not avert their light in horror from what men did below in the cesspools of their cities。
He was a cautious man； though； Yazir ibn Q'arif of the Zuhrite tribe。 Even before the foul murder of the last khalif in Silvenes wadjis had been ing across the straits to him and his brother； year after year； beseeching that the tribes sweep north across the water to a burning of infidels。
Yazir didn't like boats； he didn't like water。 He and Ghalib had more than enough on their hands controlling the desert tribes。 He had elected to roll small dice only behind his veil…akin to a cautious play in the ancient bone game of the desert…and had allowed some of his soldiers to go north as mercenaries。 Not to serve the wadjis either； but the very kings they opposed。 The petty…kings of Al…Rassan had money； and paid it for good soldiers。 Money was useful； it bought food from north and east in hard seasons； it hired masons and shipbuilders…men Yazir had reluctantly e to realize he needed； if the Muwardis were to have any more permanence than the drifting sands。
Information was useful； too。 His soldiers sent home all their wages； and with these sums came tidings of affairs in Al…Rassan。 Yazir and Ghalib knew a great deal。 Some of it was prehensible； some was not。 They learned that there were courtyards within the palaces of the kings； and even in the public squares of cities； where water was permitted to burst freely from pipes through the mouths of sculpted animals…and then to run away again； unused。 This was almost impossible to credit； but the tale had been reported too many times not to be true。
One report…this one a fable； obviously…even had it that in Ragosa； where a Kindath sorcerer had bewitched the feeble king； a river ran through the palace。 It was said that there was a waterfall in the sorcerer's bedchamber； where the Kindath fiend bedded helpless Asharite women； ripping their maidenheads and laughing at his power over the Star…born。
Yazir stirred restlessly within his cloak； the image filled him with a heavy rage。 Ghalib finished cracking beetles； pushed the earthenware dish away； pulled up his veil and mumbled something under his breath。
〃I'm sorry？〃 the Cartadan prince said； leaping at the sound。 He sniffled。 〃My ears。 I'm sorry。 I failed to hear。 Excellence？〃
Ghalib looked at Yazir。 It was increasingly evident that he wanted to kill this man。 That was understandable； but it remained a bad idea； in Yazir's view。 He was the older brother。 Ghalib would follow him； in most things。 He narrowed his eyes in warning。 Their visitor missed this of course； he missed everything。
On the other hand； Yazir abruptly reminded himself； Ashar had taught that charity towards the devout was the highest deed of earthly piety； short of dying in a holy war； and this man…this Hazem ibn Almalik…was as close to being truly devout as any prince of Al…Rassan had been in a long time。 He was here； after all。 He had e to them。 They had to take note of that。 If only he wasn't such a sorry； emasculated excuse for a man。
〃Nothing；〃 Yazir grunted。
〃What？ I beg…〃
〃My brother said nothing。 Do not trouble yourself so。〃 He tried to say it kin