Part 19 (2/2)
”Oh?”
Ragnarson hoped Oryon's response would betray something about Guild thinking. He related the tale Valther had told. ”Will you want Captain Jokai's body?”
”I'd have to ask High Crag. What the h.e.l.l was Balfour doing in Uhlmansiek? His log says he was taking the week to go hunting around Lake Berberich. Something's going on here. And I don't like it.”
”I've been saying that for a long time. Any idea why he'd kidnap my friend?”
”No. This Rico creature.... The whole thing baffles me. I'll ask High Crag, of course.”
”I still won't renew the commission.”
Oryon's thick lips stretched in a grin. ”I noticed the guards at the Treasury.”
”I get some strange ideas sometimes.”
Oryon shook his head. ”Wish I could understand why you're scared of us. Maybe I could change your mind.”
”Wish / understood it. Just an intuition, I guess. Victory Day is coming up, by the way.”
”My staff is planning the evacuation. We'll move out come sunrise Victory Day. We expect to be out of Kavelin within five days. Because of the confinement to barracks, I haven't informed High Crag or made transit arrangements. I doubt there'll be any problems.”
”Good enough. We'll put on a going-away party for your boys.”
”Can't b.i.t.c.h about that.”
”Don't want any hard feelings.”
”Keep me posted about Balfour. Or our agent after I leave.””Will do. Thanks for coming.” He followed Oryon to the door. ”Derel, want to find that woman for me? The one who wants to see me?”
”All right.”
Ragnarson selected one of the mountain of requests that already had appeared on his desk. Everything held in abeyance during the Queen's indisposition was breaking loose.
Every special interest was trying to get his attention first. ”Hey, Derel. Get me a big box.”
”Sir?”
”So I can file the stuff I want to 'put aside for further consideration.' Like this one. Guy wants me to come to the opening of his alehouse.”
”Sir? If I might? Act on ones like that if you have time. Chuck the ones where some Nordmen insists on his right to collect ford tolls. Giving breaks to important people and cronies is a deathtrap. It's Wessons like that soldier-turned-innkeeper who are your power base. Keep them on your side. I'll get that woman. Half an hour?”
He took ten minutes. The word had reached her. He encountered her downstairs.
”Marshall? The lady.”
”Thank you, Derel.” He rose, considered her. She wore traditional desert costume.
Dark almond eyes peered over her veil. There were crow's feet at their corners, though cunningly hidden. She was older than she liked.
”Madam. Please be seated. Kaf? I'm sure Derel could scare some up.”
”No. Nothing is necessary.” She spoke a heavily accented Itaskian of the Lower Silverbind.
”What can I do for you? My secretary says you hinted it has to do with Haroun bin Yousif.”
A sad little laugh stirred her veil. ”Excuse me for staring. It has been so long.... Yes. Haroun. He is my husband.”
Ragnarson settled into his chair. ”I never heard of any wife.”
”It is one of the unhappy secrets of our lives. But it is true. Twenty-three years.... It seems an eternity. Most of that I was wife in name only. I did not see him for years at a time.”
Ragnarson's skepticism was obvious. She responded by dropping her veil. It was an act which, in her culture, was considered incredibly daring. Women of Hammad al Nakir, once married, would rather have paraded nude than reveal their naked faces.
Ragnarson was impressed. He didn't have Derel throw her out.
”You do not recognize me still?”
”Should I? I never met a woman with a claim on Haroun.”
”Time changes us. I forget that I'm no longer the child you met. She was fourteen. Life has not been easy. Always his men run-when they do not ride the desert to murder my father's men.”
Ragnarson still didn't understand.”But you must remember! The day the fat man brought me to your camp in Altea?
When I was so much trouble you pulled up my skirts and paddled me in front of your men?
And then Haroun came. He scared me so much I never said another word.”
Why couldn't women just say things straight out? He tried to remember Mocker dragging a tart into some wartime camp....
”G.o.ds! You're Yasmid? El Murid's daughter? Married to Haroun?” He strangled a laugh. ”You think I'll swallow that?”
”So! You call me a liar? You had my skirts up. You saw.” She bent and raised her skirts.
Ragnarson remembered the winestain birthmark shaped like a six-fingered baby hand.
”And this!” Angrily, she bared small, weary b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Over her heart lay the Harish tattoo worn by El Murid's chosen.
”All right. You're Yasmid.”
Incredible. The daughter of El Murid, missing twenty years, appearing here. As Haroun's wife.
The marriage was the sort of thing Haroun would do to drive little knives into his enemy's heart. Why hadn't he ballyhooed it over half the continent?
”I did not expect you to be easily convinced. I made that my first task. I brought these.” She showed him jewelry only Haroun could have given her and letters he couldn't read because they were in the script of Hammad al Nakir, but which bore Haroun's King Without a Throne seal.
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