Sandstorm

The Desert is a source of mystery and awe, an uncontrollable land which only the savages who live there can endure. Stories are told of the wild Tribes who control the untamable Desert, the bloody battles that are waged in a place where alliances are as shifting as the sands. Amongst the Tribes of the Desert, one of the most feared is Ghost, led by the bloodthirsty Sheik Hashim and his son Sahayl, called the Sandstorm. Yet Sahayl is not his father. He longs for peace rather than power, and is bitterly disappointed when a chance for peace fails, promising that only more violence will be forthcoming. Then the violence in the Desert reaches all new levels, and Tribes believed long dead reappear with deadly intent, and Sahayl realizes that there is a new enemy in the Desert, and it is not one the Tribes are prepared to fight. To save his Tribe and the Desert, Sahayl must take drastic measures – measures that will reshape the Desert in a way that only a Sandstorm can…

P 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 E

Everything You Need | Knight To Rook

The King's Harem

Nandakumar | Beynum | Aikhadour | Witcher | Rakiah | Epilogue

The Jewel Of Tavamara

Prologue

 

"Saa, what a disappointment. I thought you said you needed my help, Ikram. These men were not much of a challenge at all." Sahayl grimaced at the men in question, a group of roughly fifty soldiers in the red and gold uniform of one of the Western countries. He did not bother to recall which one. Sometimes it seemed they took turns making war on the East- ostensibly for trade, but Sahayl half-wondered if they were merely bored. Why could they not simply fight each other as the Tribes did?

Ikram, a man of nearly fifty years who did not look anywhere close to that even with the gray in his beard and hair, chuckled softly. "I think it more likely they are not used to Ghosts. Certainly they have given us plenty of trouble before. Their commander is no fool, he knows how to fight us." His eyes flicked to a man who had been separated from the rest, bound and secured to a dark gray horse.

"He was a challenge, I will give you that." Sahayl eyed the man in question, reluctantly fascinated by the sheer whiteness of his skin. Even compared to pale-skinned Westerners, who always looked either like old cream or red meat, this one was remarkable. Like bleached bone. He might have been handsome, but for that skin. Eyes the color of the sky, they had briefly distracted him, which had nearly cost him his arm. Sahayl grunted at the memory. "You shall have to tell me what your King does with that one."

"I do not share the King's business with rowdy desert tribes," Ikram replied with a taunting smirk.

Sahayl let out a sharp bark of laughter. "But you will beg us for favors when your problems grow too big for you to manage?" He grinned, all teeth, at the man beside him. "It is fortunate for you and your King that our Tribe is willing to indulge him and lend our assistance."

"It is fortunate for your purse that our King is more than willing to pay for your assistance," Ikram responded dryly. "And that he indulges you in your desire for independence."

"Tavamara has tried before to take the Lady into its fold before. Never has it succeeded. Your current King is the wiser for never trying, and that is why Ghost, at least, is willing to help." Sahayl laughed again, a soft, rolling sound like that of distant thunder.

Ikram rolled his eyes. "As you like it, son of Hashim. You have changed little from the boy who went around causing chaos."

"And you are still the stuffy know-it-all who tried to make me behave. I do not pity the King who has taken you for an advisor. Does he send you out here to get some peace and quiet?"

"I am not the one he complains about." Ikram chortled at some private amusement. He gathered his horse's reigns. "On that note, have you taken up all these duties so that your father might find peace in camp?"

Sahayl shrugged. "My father hunts for more blood, not for peace."

Ikram quirked a brow. "How do the winds blow these days? Once out of the Lady's sight, it is hard to keep track of who is killing who for what."

"Not that you ever kept track anyway."

"Do you want me to demonstrate just how much I used to know?"

Sahayl rolled his eyes. "No, thank you. You are no longer my tutor; I don't have to listen to you."

"Not that you ever did."

Laughing, Sahayl motioned to himself. His dark robes looked no different than those of the men behind him, but the glinting red jewel in his sword matched the one on his ring, and he had a bearing about him the others lacked, marking him out as a leader. "Do I look as though I suffered for it?"

"A question I should put to those who live with you," Ikram murmured. "Do they still call you Sandstorm?"

"Perhaps," Sahayl said, still grinning. "But I warn you to watch your tongue, for it was the Sandstorm who captured your prisoners."

Ikram rolled his eyes. "A job for which you were amply paid, as I have already stated. As you clearly have nothing of interest left to say, I believe we will be on our way. Prisoners - even exhausted ones - will only be quiet for so long. His Majesty thanks you, Sahayl, son of Hashim, son of Ghost, son of the Lady of the Sands." He pressed the fingers of his right hand to his left shoulder and bowed from the waist.

Sahayl threw his head back and laughed. "His Majesty is most welcome, Ikram, son of Sabbar, former son of Cobra, former son of the Lady of the Sands." Smiling, Sahayl touched two fingers of his right hand to his forehead, then to his lips, then to the space over his heart. "Mind, body, soul."

"In all find strength," Ikram said, miming the gesture.

Holding his right hand to his left shoulder, Sahayl bowed. "To the Lady and your King. Safe travel and peaceful night. Farewell."

"Until next time," Ikram said, and then urged his horse forward to rejoin his own men.

Tugging up the covering for his mouth and nose, Sahayl turned his horse around and immediately raced off, his men falling in easily around and behind him. Across the white sand of the desert they raced, chased by the setting sun. Twenty-five men dressed all in black, riding horses that barely seemed to touch the sands they raced across.

In seconds, both groups had vanished - one farther into the desert, the other away from it. In the lengthening shadows of evening, it almost looked as though no one had ever been there.

 

One

Six years later

"Your father is going to kill us."

Sahayl sighed. "He's already busy trying to kill everyone else. We'll be so far down on his agenda that he'll forget we're even on it." He flicked the air with his fingers, as if knocking away an annoying insect. "Saa, but I am his blood. That tends to move me to the top of the list."

"Some days I think the Lady favors you; other days I think She merely laughs."

"I think She laughs every day. What do you suppo-" His words were cut off by a cry of warning from Wafai, and he drew his sword without thought, swinging around to meet the blade of his attacker, realizing they must have come from the dune behind him - lying in wait?. Throwing the man off, Sahayl struck, long crescent sword flashing, slicing open the man's throat. He spun sharply around and met the next one, just able to see that there were at least six more. Every last one of them Falcon. Bastards. So much for negotiations. With renewed fervor, Sahayl cut down the next man and moved on to a third, dodging the swing of his sword, bringing his own crashing down, using his free hand to pull the man from his horse. Nearby Wafai had already killed two of his own and was fighting a third, his head covering lost somewhere in the fight. Sahayl swung his horse around as another man attacked him, and threw himself once more into the fighting, fast and brutal, not giving the enemy a chance to reconvene, change strategies.

Another quick movement as someone else joined the fray, and Sahayl realized after a moment that the man was helping them.

When the fighting ceased, leaving only the stench of blood to mingle with the smell of wind and sand, Sahayl shared a brief, puzzled look with his friend, then looked at the man who had assisted them. His clothing bore no distinctive markings. They were stark black - no embroidery, no jewels, nothing. Nor did his horse give any indication of his tribe. Strangely, his eyes were covered by a thin veil - no doubt he could see them quite clearly, but they could see nothing of him. "Who are you?"

"My identity is of no matter to you," the man replied. Sahayl was surprised by his accent - it was perfectly native to the Desert. He had expected a foreigner of some sort, likely someone from Tavamara exploring what they called 'the Wild Desert'. "And you're welcome, Ghost." He lifted his right hand, gloved in black leather, and pressed two fingers to his forehead, the space over his mouth, the space over his heart. "Mind, body, soul. Lady guard you on your journey." With that, the man turned around and raced off.

"Leave it, Wafai," Sahayl said when his friend made to give chase. "Was that who I think it was?"

Wafai grunted. "The shadow skulking about the Desert? You should have let me either kill him or follow him. We could rid this place of at least one problem."

"Saa, there are so many problems, what is one more?" Sahayl glanced distastefully at the bodies on the ground. "I guess we don't need to worry about being late now." He narrowed his eyes. "Lady of the Sands…" Dismounting Sahayl cleaned his sword on the robe of the nearest dead man and sheathed it. "Wafai, take a look. These men are not Falcon."

"Do you have sand in your eyes, Sahayl?" Wafai dismounted and moved to kneel beside him, yanking away the cloth covering his mouth and nose. "Lady of the Sands! What game is this?"

Sahayl tugged down his own mouth cover, revealing full lips pulled into a grim frown. "A good imitation, right down to the feathers even. But those aren't falcon feathers. At least, not any falcon I've ever seen. Nor is the silver quite right. Perfect for a glance…"

"I wonder what the game is this time," Wafai said with a long sigh. Covering his mouth and nose again, he began yanking feathers and small, silver medallions from the robes of the dead men. "They carry no identifying marks, either. These men could literally be anyone."

"Not anyone," Sahayl said pensively as he pulled off the head covering of one. His skin was dusky, but too light and smooth for the dead man to have been in the Desert long. "They're not native."

Wafai shrugged. "More likely from Tavamara, though I couldn't begin to tell you why they're out here playing desert savage."

Sahayl snorted. "I would like to know how they came to know so much about Falcon they managed a fair imitation of their markings. Saa, I sense more trouble than ever on the winds. The Lady tests us."

"I wonder more about the shadow." Wafai glared at Sahayl. "Lady keep me from ever scouting with you again."

Snickering, Sahayl mounted his horse and turned around. "You would be bored out of your mind, brother of my soul, if you scouted with anyone else."

"Lady grant me the gift of being bored," Wafai muttered. "Let us hurry. We are already late, and this delay will not help any cause, but grief's. Ketcha!"

"Ketcha!" Sahayl repeated, and they raced off back across the sands, following a path that was not there.

They arrived at camp an hour later. The camp in question was simple, with just enough space for a group of fifty men to be reasonably comfortable as they traveled to talk peace with old enemies. The tents were all the color of the sand around them, dyed irregularly to better blend. Along one end the horses were tethered, and spread out from there were the various tents of the soldiers, in no particular pattern, no special ornamentation to denote the ranks of the men inside - only size and their location near the center indicated the tents of the Sheik and Amir. Around the camp men tended to various chores, some tending the horses, others readying the gifts to be presented at the meeting that night, still others on guard duty, preparing meals, or attending to various small duties to help keep the camp running smoothly.

Dismounting, Sahayl handed his horse off to waiting hands, and headed for the tent at the back of the camp, followed quickly by Wafai. The only indications that tent was important was its larger size and the guards stationed on either side of the entrance.

"Do not even enter," a voice like shattered glass barked from the depths of the tent. "You have thirty minutes, my son, to get ready, or I will carry your head to the meeting and offer it as a gift of peace. I think it would go over well."

Sahayl hid a wince and swooped into a low bow. "As you command, honored father." Turning sharply around, he shared a look with Wafai before they went their separate ways to prepare for the pending meeting.

In his own tent, Sahayl quickly stripped down and climbed into a tub of water which had probably been hot at some point - but the cooled water felt good after an afternoon of riding beneath the hot son, and the unexpected fight at the end. He scrubbed quickly, washing away sweat and sand, smiling faintly at the faint scent of cloves in the soap. Climbing out of the tub, he combed fingers through his hair, working out the worst of the tangles in the thick, short curls. "Saa, what an evening this will be."

Moving to the bed, Sahayl looked over the clothes set out and then began to dress, slipping first into thin, lightweight pants went on first, followed by a much sturdier pair dyed black. Next was a lightweight, sleeveless white shirt over which went a thick, black vest. The front and back were stitched heavily with white and silver thread, forming a pattern that gave the impression of whirling sands. Next he shrugged into a black robe, and the servant pulled it loosely shut, leaving it gaping just enough to show the white and silver stitching of the vest beneath, tying it with a sash with markings to match the vest.

On his right hand was a large silver ring set with a fat, red gem. It matched the stone gleaming in the pommel of his large, curving sword, which Sahayl belted on once the servant was finished dressing him.

He combed fingers through his hair once more, managing to bring some order to the thick tangle, but after a moment gave up with a sigh. There was no time to fix his hair, and it would be covered anyway. Grabbing his head and face coverings, Sahayl left his tent and strode back toward his father's.

Wafai appeared at his side halfway there. His skin was the same dark, dusky gold as Sahayl's, but slightly more weathered. Where Sahayl had dark gold eyes, Wafai's were like wet sand. His hair was long and straight, still damp from a bath and neatly braided, falling just past his neck. He was dressed exactly as Sahayl, the only differences the patterning on his vest and the ring on his finger - a thick silver band set with a large amber. "Lady spare us the wrath of your father."

"She never has before," Sahayl muttered. "Why should today be special? Saa, I will be content if the night goes well."

"May the Lady will it so," Wafai said, then both fell silent as they were admitted to the tent of the Ghost Sheik.

Sheik Hashim glared at them. "Sahayl, just once could you be bothered to do exactly as you're told? We have enough problems without the Ghost being unable to rely upon their Amir."

Sahayl bowed low. "I beg forgiveness of the Lady and my honored father. Events unexpected slowed our return. I offer my most humble apologies."

Hashim grunted. "Your mother taught you pretty words, my son, but that is about all she taught you. What delayed you?"

Quickly Sahayl related all that had occurred, presenting the feathers and medallions that Wafai handed to him.

"Heathens playing desert savage," Hashim said with a grunt. "Hardly worth my time."

"But how-"

Hashim cut him off with a short motion of his hand. "People travel to and from the Desert more than any of us like. If a man leaves the Sands, he will speak more of them than he should to the first pretty face that asks. I do not care. They are dead; that is what matters. No doubt they wish they had stayed safely curled against their mothers' breasts. Heathens and shadows are not our concern; our concern should be for real Falcons and you have very nearly succeeded in making us late! I do not have time to punish either of you now," he looked briefly at Wafai, the only acknowledgement he had noticed the man at all, "but you can be sure you will be dealt with later. Tetcha." He stormed from the tent, barking orders once he was outside.

"Saa…" Sahayl said, making a face at his father's back.

"All will be well eventually, Sandstorm Amir." Wafai gripped his shoulder briefly, then began to pull his head wrap into place, hiding all but his light brown eyes.

Sahayl sighed. "Eventually, I sense, will not come soon enough. Lady prove me wrong." With another sigh he led the way from the tent, accepting the reigns of his horse and swinging smoothly up into the saddle.

They were riding out to meet with enemies. Lady willing, they would return with news of new allies. Sahayl watched his father as Hashim barked orders to his men. Seven other men would accompany them to the appointed meeting place, a small Oasis two hours ride from their camp, making for ten in their group altogether. Absently Sahayl pulled up and arranged his headdress, hiding his thick curls from sight, tugging up the fabric that would protect his face. Only his gold eyes were visible when he finished, still locked on his father, dark with worries so familiar he could not remember not having them.

Gold eyes and a height of just over six feet were the only obvious features he and his father had in common. His father tended toward large and wide; Sahayl had just enough bulk that he was not sneered at for being skinny. His curly hair had come from his mother, as had his long, slender hands and less severe, handsome features. There was nothing of the intimidating Crusher in him - but plenty of the Sandstorm.

With that his father had always been content, even pleased. Though lately nothing pleased, and more frequently, everything displeased. Sliding his eyes away from his father, Sahayl shared a look with Wafai, who gave a minute shrug.

Saa, it would have to be dealt with later. First they must attempt to avoid more fighting.

Lady keep his father from ruining everything.

Ten men, dressed in varying combinations of brown and black, waited for them at the small oasis, their horses drinking from the small pool. As they approached, the few who had been sitting stood, hands moving automatically to swords before relaxing.

At the head of a group was a man who looked nearly the size of the horse he rode, swathed in a pattern of light and dark browns that no doubt meant a great deal to his tribe. More distinctive than the patterned robe was the array of feathers and silver medallions. Feathers of gold, brown, white and black were bundled together in seeming haphazard fashion, secured with string and silver medallions with strange patterns. To most, the feathers and medallions only meant the wearer was of the Falcon Tribe. Their true meanings were known only to Falcon. This man, Sheik Jabbar, wore finer feathers and medallions than the rest. Some things were obvious even to outsiders.

But the feathers and robes paled in comparison to the creatures that gave the Falcon their name. This group had brought five, all with the familiar brown, gold and black patterning of Desert Falcons. No other tribe in the Desert was able to train the birds as this Tribe could. This talent had made the Falcon tribe one of the most powerful in the desert, at least among those tribes with whom they dealt.

Sahayl dismounted smoothly and moved to stand alongside his father. Where the Falcon had their feathers and medallions, Cobra their scales tattoos, Horse their carefully carved charms, and all the other Tribes each their precious signatures….Ghost wore only the rings on their hands. To outsiders they would be a dizzying array of metals and jewels. If they ever saw them. But Ghosts wore gloves at all times when outside of camp. The utter lack of distinction was what made them distinct.

"Talasa," Hashim said, nodding his head in a slight bow.

Jabbar returned the gesture. "Salata. Sheik Hashim, it is good to greet you on clean sands."

"It gladdens me to greet you beneath clear skies," Hashim returned. "May the Lady keep it so and lead us to peace and harmony."

"Mind, body, soul," Jabbar responded, completing the formal greetings. "Why have you suddenly decided to shift toward peace?" His eyes were the color of the rich brown feathers decorating his robes, and as sharp as the bird on his shoulder. Sheik Jabbar was no small part of the reason Falcon was Ghost's greatest rival.

Should the reconciliation begun here tonight hold, the power of both Tribes would be enough no other Tribe could even begin to compete. Over time, Sahayl knew, his father would want to use that power to gain control over as many Tribes as could be located and made to obey. Sahayl was still hoping to prevent that, somehow, but for now he would focus only on obtaining peace with Falcon.

Sheik Hashim gave another small bow. "We go in circles with our fighting, Sheik Jabbar. I see no point in continuing the struggle. An alliance would be more beneficial than hostilities."

"Hostility is the way of the Sands," Jabbar said, unmoved. "It is also the way of the Crusher." He slid his eyes to Sahayl. "Nor do I trust that the Sandstorm seeks peace."

It was only the thought of what would happen to him if he did that kept Sahayl from rolling his eyes. His nickname had spread out across the Sands, but the reason for it had been lost to them. Only those who had raised him and grown up beside him knew that he had been called thus as a child because he was forever causing messes and losing things.

Everyone else seemed to think it had more to do with his fighting style. It helped the Tribe, and had once made his father happy. Otherwise he would be glad if no one but Wafai ever said it again. He stared back at Jabbar for several seconds, then respectfully dropped his eyes, head dipping politely. When Jabbar shifted attention back to his father, Sahayl allowed his gaze to wander.

Some of the men he recognized; familiar faces from skirmishes that had not ended as bloodily as most encounters. Others he did not.

His gaze landed on a man to the far right, standing just behind the rest of the men on Jabbar's right side. That one he did not recognize, but he knew him on sight anyway from the descriptions of his men.

Slight build, obvious even under the disfiguring robes, an array of feathers and medallions that seemed completely random, though a few Sahayl had started to pick out as possibly marks of battle. This man had few of those, but that did not really matter. It was his eyes. Eyes that his men were always describing. They had not exaggerated.

As blue as the sky, startling and bright in a place where shades of brown were prevalent. Western eyes, set against skin that was definitely not Western. That dusky gold color, only hints of it visible above the mouth-covering, was something no Westerner would ever achieve.

They were beautiful eyes.

He was snapped to attention by the too-familiar sound of growing tension in his father's voice. Until the blue eyes, he'd been listening to the negotiations just enough to keep apace. He wondered what crucial bit he had missed and cursed himself .

His father's anger built quietly, so quietly that only those who knew him well could anticipate when he would finally lose his temper. Sahayl stifled a sigh and twitched his fingers at his side. The movement was slight, little more than a show of restlessness in having to stand for so long. But Wafai would know the signal immediately, and would sign to the others. The men would be on guard.

Sahayl curled his fingers back into a loose fist and sent up a silent prayer that his father would not ruin everything. It had taken every ounce of strength he had to wear his father down, convince him that the idea to reconcile had been Hashim's idea, get him to believe that reconciling with the Falcon would get him more power faster than simply trying to kill them.

What tipped the scale, he didn't know, but suddenly his father exploded into action, sword drawn even as he hurled epithets in retaliation of a slight that was probably all in his head.

He should have paid closer attention! Though he knew he could have paid all the attention in the world, and it would have done nothing except to show just how unstable the Sheik of the Ghost Tribe truly was.

The sound of a sword being drawn filled the oasis, and Sahayl shoved his father aside as steel flashed, catching the blade against his own barely in time. Someone - he though the Falcon Sheik - barked out a command for no one to move, for his opponent to cease, but his opponent ignored the order.

He stared into blue eyes, and for a heartbeat the world seemed to still. Then Sahayl forced himself to think. Here was a chance for distraction, to draw attention away from his father, give everyone a chance to break it up, get away. There would be no chance for peace now, but perhaps he could avoid bloodshed this time. With a savage cry, Sahayl pressed an attack, his movements fast and brutal. He knew to most combatants and onlookers he looked as though he fought wildly, with barely any control. A Sandstorm sweeping through the oasis. It was just enough that no one else would interfere - especially as the blue-eyed man had been the first to attack.

Hashim would not thank his son for stealing the fight, but Sahayl had resigned himself to that before he'd drawn his sword.

The blue-eyed man was good. Very good. It was no wonder his men had encountered him again and again. But he wasn't used to Sahayl's wild style, and Sahayl pressed that advantage ruthlessly, finally knocking the man off balance, knocking him down with enough force that as he struggled to sit up, the blue-eyed man lost his head and face coverings.

Sahayl blinked, then threw his head back and laughed. "What's this?" he asked loudly. "The Falcon is so desperate for soldiers they've begun enlisting women?" He sneered at the man crouched in the sand. Those blue eyes, blazing with rage, were set in a fine-boned, elegantly sculpted face. There were further hints of his western blood in the lines of that face, more still in hair that was true black, almost blue where the sun hit it. Sweat beaded on his upper lips, blood staining them where the man's teeth had scraped them at some point in the fight. The man was beautiful.

Silence had fallen as Sahayl spoke, and he continued speaking, striving to bury his father's behavior beneath his own. "What sort of brutes would bring such a flower into the world of men?" He leered. "Were you a peace offering, my desert rose?"

With a snarl of rage the man threw himself up and forward, and Sahayl felt the sting as steel whispered along his cheek, could feel the blood beginning to seep. Still laughing, he returned the favor and watched smugly as blood blossomed on the man's right cheek.

"Setcha!" Sheik Jabbar's voice thundered out across the oasis, forceful enough that even Sahayl stopped moving. Jabbar motioned to his men, to the blue-eyed man. "We are going. Tetcha. Now."

Obediently the blue-eyed man relaxed his fighting stance, watching Sahayl cautiously as he retrieved his head wrap and then stalked to a horse the color of smoke, throwing hostile glances over his shoulder, clearly displeased that the fight had ended. Sahayl watched as Falcon mounted and gathered together, then with a sharp order from their Sheik, rode off into the Desert, vanishing quickly from sight.

Sahayl steeled himself as his father stormed toward him. He dropped his sword, lest he react without thinking and do something he and the rest of Ghost would regret.

"How dare you!" Hashim bellowed, fist flying, crashing into Sahayl's jaw. If he had not learned long ago how to take his father's blows, Sahayl would not be alive. He weathered the hits and let his father rage, biting back cries of pain and stifling the urge to fight back, knowing that to do so would do more harm than good. At last the storm of anger abated, leaving them both panting heavily, Sahayl on his knees in the sand. "Be certain I do not see your face anytime soon," Hashim said, then turned away and mounted his horse, curtly ordering the men to follow.

Laughing bitterly, Sahayl wiped blood from his lip with the back of his fist and allowed Wafai to help him up. "Saa, that could have been much worse."

"Yes," Wafai said quietly, "and one day it will be, if he is not stopped."

"But who would stop him? I think half the Tribes in the Desert must hate us, yet none of them can manage to kill him…and I do not like the options left to us." He laughed again, and for a moment it sounded more like a sob. "I do not know how much more of this I can take, brother of my soul."

Wafai embraced him tightly. "We will find a way, my Sandstorm Amir. Until then…"

"We continue to improvise." Sahayl grimaced as they reached his horse, groaning in pain as he mounted. "It makes me tired, Wafai. Saa, so very tired indeed."

Two

It never failed. When he wanted to find something it was nowhere to be found. The very moment all he wanted was his bed and a warm companion to make everything better, he found that which had cost him six weeks of aggravating work.

Grumbling softly enough the words were absorbed by the cloth over his mouth, he slid from his horse and quietly ordered her to stay. The job would go much faster if he could ride her all the way into the camp, but the very last thing he wanted or needed was for the Viper to realize they had an intruder.

Such discoveries tended to be bad for the intruder's health, and as he was the intruder he was hoping to keep his health intact.

And it would be all too like the Lady to confound his efforts after four hard years of work.

Continuing to grumble he slunk in the direction of the camp, heart beating rapidly in his chest .As many times as he had done this, it never failed to make him nervous. He loved and hated it. He would not be sorry when his task was at last completed. But Lady only knew how many more Tribes there were to go…

Six weeks it had taken him to figure out where in the camp it was. Six weeks! Usually simply finding the camps was the hard part. After that it was relatively easy. Sneak into enemy territory, take a look at their most valuable possession, then slip right out again. Easy as anything. The Lady laughed at him, he knew it.

He paused alongside a rough rock wall in a twisting, winding canyon that - he could not help it - snaked its way toward the primary camp of the Viper Tribe. He wondered idly, or maybe not so idly, how many people who were not Viper had traveled this way and lived to tell about it.

Probably not many. Viper was one of the most vicious tribes in the Desert. Just like their namesake, they were fond of hiding in wait and springing upon their prey in surprise.

So he had better watch himself. He always did, but still.

His lips twisted in a smile beneath the fabric covering his mouth, and he laughed softly at himself. Too much sand in his head, clearly.

He grew more serious as he finished wending his way through the mazelike canyon. Crouching in a dark corner, he waited. The patrol should pass by shortly, after which he would have exactly three minutes to reach the tent that was his destination.

Thank the Lady it was not the Sheik's tent this time. He hated when it was. Of course, that also usually meant he did not spend six weeks of frustrated searching. Lady will his job be nearly done. He loved the Sands, sensed his heart belonged to them as much as his father's had not, but he would like to enjoy them, be a part of them, not skulk about in the chilly night looking for the quickest way to be a scavenger's next meal. He snorted. Meal. Che. More like snack. All his weight came off with the clothes.

Stifling an urge to laugh at himself, reassured that even in the middle of the desert he was his own worst enemy, he tensed as the patrol passed by. They moved with near-perfect soundlessness, no doubt the result of years and years of training. No one heard a Viper until too late.

Unless he was good at not being seen.

Grinning behind his face cover, he waited until the patrol vanished around the corner and then bolted. His steps were soundless. One didn't survive four years sneaking around the desert unless he had a talent for it.

He stilled as he reached the second largest tent in the camp, certain everyone could hear his heart as it tried to hammer out of his chest. Steady…steady…near-soundless steps reached his ears, and then two men strode by on patrol in the inner ring. They passed out of his vision a moment later. He didn't move. Two minute later another pair of men passed by. He snorted in disgust as he heard them nearly a minute ahead of time. Sloppy, this pair. He stilled as they passed by, not really worried.

Sneaking into camps had been hard at first. Then he'd realized how arrogant most of them had gotten. So used to being cloaked, to not being found, very few of them took security as seriously as they should. Two men where there should have been four, the way others had kept patrolling close to camp instead of sending out scouts to keep an eye farther out. Some had even taken to staying in their home camps longer than was wise, resting when they should be moving…truly the Tribes were not as sharp as they should be.

Not once in four years had anyone noticed that he'd been methodically sneaking into each and every Tribe in the desert. Into every last primary camp. Into their homes.

Well, each and every Tribe except the ones he hadn't gotten to yet. And Ghost.

He'd long ago determined that his chances of ever finding Ghost were nonexistent. There was a reason the aggravating, frustrating, half-wild, vexing, arrogant, stupid Tribe was nowhere to be found anywhere in the Desert. Exactly as their name implied, they gave the impression of being specters, phantoms that could appear and vanish at will.

Stupid Ghost.

The men on patrol vanished and he bolted, sneaking into one of the tents on the far side of the wide canyon. This was not actually Viper's home; that was deeper into the canyon. Thankfully he didn't have to trek that far - but it had taken him two weeks to figure that out. Then another four weeks to determine where amongst the myriad guard camps the object of his desire was hidden.

So protective, the Tribes, of their precious treasures.

Not protective enough.

Soundlessly he glided between tents, weaving his way until he reached the one he sought, farthest from where he had entered. There had been other way to get here, all of them shorter, none of them even remotely worth the risk. Even now he could be caught any second. The Tribes had grown comfortable with the arrangement of the dunes, but that did not mean they had forgotten the winds would change them. Or that a sandstorm could rearrange the entire desert in a single night.

Shaking off the worries that never left him for more than a handful of minutes or a rare night of complete rest, he slid into the tent he sought and stalked to the bed. From a pouch at his waist he drew a small vial and pulled out the stopper, then held it under the nose of the man snoring softly in the bed. Seconds passed, and the snores faded as the man sank into a sleep from which he would not wake unless forcibly roused - hopefully the man didn't have the next patrol shift.

Returning the vial to its pouch, he turned sharply around and stalked to the table in the corner. He knew it was here, now it was just a matter of where. Hopefully not somewhere in the near vicinity of the bed, because he hated moving all-but-dead men out of a bed so he could rifle through it.

There were some things he just did not need to know about strangers.

Shuddering, he set aside several books after examining them carefully for odd pages or strangely thick covers. Next were the long, leather tubes that held rolls of paper - none of them what he sought. An hour passed as he carefully examined the contents of the table and the shelves arranged neatly on top of it. Finally he shifted his attention to the table itself, examining the legs, the underside, the top…still nothing.

Sighing softly, not quite yet frustrated, he spread his search to other sections of the tent. It was on the large side of small, perfect for a man who spent all his time either on duty or snatching what sleep he could before going back on duty. Vipers, it seemed, never relaxed.

Nor, as his presence indicated, did they pay enough attention.

A shelf near the bed gave him nothing, neither did the chest alongside it. Holding back a curse, he finally turned to the bed. If he had ever needed proof that the Lady despised him, here it was. Yet another bed search. Lady willing, this one would not be as disgusting as the last one had been.

The bed was nothing spectacular, little more than a thick mat with more pillows than a soldier was strictly allotted and a blanket sufficient for keeping back the chilly desert night. Why did they always hide it underneath their beds? Certainly he didn't want to resort to a bed search, but that didn't mean he'd just give up.

He leaned in close to get a better look at what he would have to do. There was very little light, only what was provided by the fires set up methodically through the camp. It was just enough for his well-trained eyes to see by without someone else noticing.

This one would be hard to move. He frowned in thought, considering the vial in his pouch. Another dose of valtyanar would ensure the man would not wake for a very long, if at all.

But that would make it quite clear that someone had been there, and it would not take them long after that to figure out what in this minor soldier's tent had been worth killing for.

Stifling another sigh, he gingerly began to move the soldier, grunting with the effort of moving a man who seemed to weigh at least three times more than he should. Grimacing once the deed was done, he stepped over the unconscious man and knelt on the bed mat, slowly feeling his way along it, examining every last bit of it, then moved to the pillows and did the same.

Finally he rolled his eyes, crawled off the mat, and lifted it up. Sure enough.

He should just start checking here first. This was the fourth time someone had thought himself so very clever in hiding it in the sand beneath his bed. Honestly, if Viper knew they thought exactly as Horse there would be yet another fight in the Desert. Taking the leather-wrapped metal tube to the desk, he opened the tube and drew out a long, stiff sheet of paper. Spreading it out on the table, he secured it with whatever heavy objects were closest to hand. Then he drew up his cape, using it to cover him and as much of the table as he could. Safe within the folds, he struck a match and lit the small lamp on the table.

As light flared, he began to memorize what it revealed. Setting to stone in his mind every line, every curve, every last notation and careless blob of ink. Minutes passed slowly by as he worked to commit every bit of it to memory.

Finally he closed his eyes and summoned the image to his mind. When he opened his eyes a minute later, the image in his mind matched the image before him.

Which meant it was time to go.

Working swiftly but with all the caution he'd used to that point, he doused the light, restored his cape, and set about returning the tube and setting the room to rights. When everything was as it had been before he started, and the sleeping soldier was back in his bed - Lady's mercy it had been a relatively clean one - he took one last look around, then left the tent, sneaking back the way he'd come.

Several tense minutes later, he was successfully away from the camp, out of the canyon, and nearly falling down the dune to where he had left his horse. He pet her nose as she came forward, as eager as he to leave. "Hello, my Angel," he murmured softly. "I'll spoil you rotten when we finally get home…well, home away from home, anyway. You know the way, my Angel. Take us where we'll be safe for the night." He mounted smoothly and spurred her to movement.

In minutes they were well away from the canyons at the far south-east edge of the Desert, Angel taking them across the sands and toward safety, though he would not truly be safe until his mission was finished, and he was finally home.

Home.

If he were honest, which he always tried to be with himself, as he had to lie to everyone else, all that he really missed were his parents. He loved the Desert. A little more each day. The only pang was in not quite belonging. His entire life here was a charade, a pretense behind which he could work. What would it be like to belong? To wear the badges of a Tribe? Have people greet him as if he belonged and not merely as if he were being tolerated?

So depressing to never quite fit anywhere.

He wondered if his father was awake. Probably. Idiot never slept when he was worried, and he'd railed and railed against his son's being the one to go into the Desert. He snorted. Like anyone else was half as good as he?

Hardly. Still, he'd hated to put that look on his father's face. And his mother's. Was mother all right? Were the other women taking care of her? Of course they were, but she would still have that look in her eyes, the one that made them look dim, like a candle behind a curtain. She would start to fret the moment anyone left her alone - which he knew his father would not let happen, but for going on five years now…

Maybe they had gotten tired of worrying and were all right. Oh, this was why he didn't let himself think about it.

Ignoring the sharp bite of homesickness that hit him like a chill wind, he held tighter to his horse's reigns and forcefully turned his mind back to business. Calling up the images he'd memorized less than an hour ago, he compared it with other remembered pictures, sliding them together, seeing how they looked overlaid.

He was the only one who could have done this. No one else had his memory, the ability to perfectly remember something after seeing it just once. That memory was crucial, because to put to paper what he was memorizing would endanger every last Tribe in the desert.

Frowning in thought as images moved and shifted in his head, concentrating hard on picking out inconsistencies, errors, he barely noticed when his horse began to slow down and the trees of an oasis came into view, black and gray and white beneath the moonlight. "That's my Angel," he murmured softly. Sliding from the saddle, he led her to the water and let her drink while he unfastened his bedroll and the saddles bags. When she'd had enough, he led her into a nearby copse of trees.

One of the smaller oases in the enormous Desert; if the Viper Tribe was so close it was probably used with fair frequency. Hopefully no one would come this way before he could catch a few hours rest.

In a few days time, he'd be back in his own tent, safe amongst the Tribe he was staying with, and could enjoy some real rest before he came back south to locate the next Tribe. Comparing what he'd gleaned from the Vipers with what he already knew, it would seem the Jackals were his next target.

He set out his bedroll and drew his robes and cloak tightly around his body, crooning softly when Angel dipped her head to nuzzle him goodnight. Closing his eyes, he pretended that the smell of trees and water and sand were incense and flowers, old books and rich, dark tea.

Soon, he told himself. Soon his mother would be fussing over him and his father lecturing up a storm about how stupid he'd been to do this. Then they'd settle down and listen to his stories and his father would constantly interrupt to ask about a dozen things that had or hadn't changed since he'd left the Desert to live in Tavamara. His mother would shake her head at both of them and press him for the details he would be trying to leave out so as not to worry her.

Then, after he had settled down, and they began to leave him in peace, he could begin to work on finding a way back to the Desert. He would find a Tribe that would have a real place for him, maybe…

Snorting at the absurdity of his thoughts, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the stars, ticking them off in his head from sheer habit. Maiden Fetching Water. Night Sheik. First Horse. Dozens of others, spreading out across the sky, blending into one another.

They never looked this pretty back home.

Rolling over onto his side, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, sleep. If he was lucky he would get four hours of sleep before he had to get moving again. More than likely he would only get three. Staying in one place for too long would get him killed almost as fast as sneaking into camps.

Even when he helped the idiots, they never liked him. He frowned, suddenly recalling what he had to tell Isra and his uncle.

The fake Falcon. So close that another tribe would not have known the difference. He wondered if the two he'd assisted had. Any Falcon would have laughed in contempt and cut the imposters' heads off. The Ghosts probably hadn't bothered to notice, all too happy to kill any Falcon that crossed their path.

He wished he had gotten a closer look at them; he was fairly certain the one who fought like a wild man had been the notorious Sandstorm he had heard so much about. The one everyone had heard about, even those Tribes who thought Ghost a mere legend.

Just as Cobra did not think Viper existed. Just as Owl did not think Falcon still lived. Just as a dozen more Tribes considered another dozen to be entirely rumor or long dead.

Because the Desert Tribes had a great many strengths, but communication was not one of them. He wasn't entirely certain they knew the meaning of the word. The Tribes all agreed every other Tribe was wrong about something; at best they were wrong, but not so wrong that an alliance was out of the question.

Most alliances did not last long.

Those few who had tried to unite the Tribes had either been Tavamara Kings who had run scurrying back to their palace after mere months, or Sheiks within the Desert who either were killed in battle or realized how stupid they were being.

The Tribes were united only in that they were meant to be divided, and everyone outside the Desert needed to mind their own business.

Heaving a sigh, he sat up and dug into one of his saddlebags, pulling out a pouch of dried meat. Getting up, he moved to the edge of the water and knelt, scooping it up in one hand to drink. His hands made it taste like dirt and sweat, but beneath that it was cool and crisp.

Almost as refreshing as the sleep he wasn't getting. Nights like this he missed being a child, when he could pester his mother into singing him to sleep, or his father into telling him a story. Of course being an adult had its benefits - none of which he was enjoying. But if he dwelt on that he really would never get any sleep.

Chewing almost absently on the tough, faintly-sweet, smoky meat, he stared at the reflection of the moon in the rippling water and let his thoughts jump as they wanted, never lingering long on any of them, until his overactive mind finally wore itself down. Crawling back to his bedroll, he curled up and fell into light doze.

Ingrained habit forced him awake two hours later, the sky just beginning to take on a faint haze that would turn eventually into sunrise. "That time already?" Sighing, he gathered his things and fastened them in place on his saddle, then mounted and turned Angel west. "Take us back, Angel. To our home away from home."

 

Three

"Good morning, oh beautiful desert rose."

Isra's head shot up from the book he'd been reading, and he moved without thought, lobbing the nearest heavy object - another book - at the speaker's head. "Shut up. Get out of my tent."

"Why, Isra! What's wrong with your face? Is that a scar? Who dared to mark my beautiful desert rose?"

"OUT!" Isra roared, standing and leaping over the small, low table at which he had been studying, lunging for the speaker and tackling him hard, sending them both to the floor of his tent. "Do you want to die, Simon?"

Simon grinned. "If my death will bring happiness to the face of my beautiful desert rose, then gladly I will give my life."

"Shut up," Isra said sourly, and slapped him hard on the chest before rolling off Simon and standing up. His fingers went automatically to the thin scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. "I see you've already caught up on Tribal gossip." He picked up the book he had thrown at Simon and resumed his seat at the table. "Despite the fact I hear you've been popping in and out like a man sleeping with the Sheik's wife."

Simon shuddered. "Thank you, no. That woman terrifies me. I think she should be Sheik. I've been busy. Very. Is that tea?"

"Yes, and you can't have any because you're an insufferable ass."

"Oh, insufferable. You're such a fine student." Simon sat down across from him and stole the cup Isra had said he could not have.

Isra glared, sky-blue eyes flashing with warning. "That is mine. Put it down, or I'll dump it on you."

"So violent," Simon with a grin. "It's kind of sexy on you, my beautiful desert rose." He ducked the punch swung his way, falling on his back and laughing until tears streamed down his face.

"I hate you," Isra said. "Mind, body, soul all fall into disharmony when you're around."

Simon laughed harder, tanned skin flushing red from the exertion of it. Eventually he sat up. "You have to tell me your version of the story, Isra. Did you really try to kill the Crusher?"

"That man needs killing," Isra said venomously. "His temper is-"

"Worse than yours?" Simon asked with a grin.

Isra hefted a book in warning. "Didn't I tell you to shut up? What do you want that you're disturbing my peace so?"

Simon smiled and held his hands up in surrender. "Peace, brother of my soul, I only came to tease you and hear the tale from your lips."

"There isn't much to tell," Isra said with a grunt and set the book down. He combed hands through his short, ink-black hair, smoothing it out where tackling Simon had disheveled it. "Uncle and the Ghost Sheik were speaking; the Ghost lost his temper after Uncle refused to agree to certain terms - namely a definite location of where to find Falcon - and when it was obvious Sheik Hashim was going to attack, I moved first. His stupid son blocked my attack and engaged me. No doubt you've heard the rest."

"Well you are rather pretty, Isra. Everyone says so. It's that western blood, it gives such odd lines to your face." Simon grinned. "The scar is a nice touch, actually." He leaned across the table and pressed a quick, soft kiss to Isra's frown. "Did he really call you a woman? Desert rose? And live?"

"Only because Uncle made me stop," Isra grumbled, looking somewhat mollified by the kiss. "Stupid bastard." He closed the book he'd been reading with a snap and shoved it sullenly away. "Uncle won't let me out of my tent."

Simon patted his hand. "You did break protocol by trying to kill a Sheik and Amir during peace talks."

"They started it."

"All the same."

"Have I mentioned I hate you? Simon."

Simon grimaced. "I hate that name, really and truly I do."

Isra smirked. He lifted his arms up and tilted his head back, stretching with a soft moan, rolling his head to help ease the tension brought on by hours bent over books. Inside his cool tent, he'd discarded all but a pair of loose, black pants. The muscles of his chest and belly rippled as he stretched and moved, hinting at how much strength was in his lean, slender body. His hair was short, cut close to his head, a rich blue-black. Skin bronzed by the sun was the final touch to his exotic looks, mostly eastern, but with strong marks of his western father. "Simon, Simon, Simon," he sang, rolling away as Simon lunged at him, laughing in delight now that the tables were turned.

Simon at last grabbed him, pinning him to one of the many soft, brown and gold carpets lining the floor of Isra's tent, just barely avoiding knocking them into a small, wooden chest beside the bed - a large, deep settee piled with colorful pillows. "I wonder what the Sandstorm would say if he saw his pretty desert rose spread out like this."

"Dead!" Isra roared, bucking and kicking, forcing Simon off, back, and in seconds their positions were reversed. "What is your problem today?"

"I'm a little giddy about being back among people. Well, people whom I like."

"Giddy? More like just plain stupid," Isra murmured, but bent down and licked Simon's lips, biting down on his lower lip. "Brat."

Simon hummed, pleased, and took a proper kiss.

Isra pulled back, staring down at his oldest friend.

Sheer stubbornness, no doubt, was the only reason that Simon's skin was a rich, dusky gold. All his years of studying in the west, Isra had never seen anyone with Simon's coloring do anything but turn as red as sweetberries. As in everything else, Simon was a stunning exception. He was even more slender than Isra, his muscles developed but not giving him much weight. Hair the color of dark rubies fanned out across the carpet, still damp from a recent bath. A small birthmark, like a smudge of dirt, rested right where his nose blended into his right cheek. His eyes were a blazing green, further brightened against his sun-bronzed skin.

Simon was a fine one to make fun of him for being pretty. "Brat," Isra muttered again before kissing him hard, tongue sweeping inside his mouth, dueling for dominance while his hands began to map Simon's body.

"Hate being alone for that long," Simon said when he broke away, his own hands exploring, sliding under Isra's pants, pulling them together, making them both groan at the contact.

"Then stop disappearing, idiot. Lady save you from your own stupidity."

"Doubt it," Simon said, and abruptly moved, sending the world spinning, pinning Isra to the rug and leaning down to kiss him hard before moving to lap and nip at his throat, down his chest. "As you often like to say, I deserve every bit of it." He paused suddenly, earning him a glare, nails digging painfully into his skin, and grinned. "So, should I call you 'my desert rose' while we do this, and you can call me 'Sandstorm'?"

Isra snarled in rage and threw him off, passion turning into a desire to kill.

Simon laughed.

"So I guess this means that your chances at ending hostilities with Ghost have vanished completely," Simon said pensively, one hand stroking lazily up and down Isra's arm.

Isra stirred where he was curled up against Simon's side. "Not that we ever really had a chance of ending things. Falcon and Ghost have hated each other too long for that. I guess Uncle thought it couldn't hurt to try…I wish he'd let me kill the Sheik." He glared at the memory of the meeting in the oasis. "And his stupid son."

"Don't get riled up again, I'm too tired," Simon said, laughing softly.

"Stop aggravating me then," Isra replied, pinching him.

Simon chuckled softly. "Isra, dearest friend, it aggravates you that you have to breathe like the rest of us."

"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" Isra asked, pinching him again and tugging the blankets up more firmly around them. "Honored Uncle is going to wonder what you're doing if you disappear for that long again," he said softly, allowing the worry to slip into his voice now that the tent was dark, and he was too lethargic to do anything more than pinch and threaten.

Scoffing, Simon shifted until he was more comfortably settled in Isra's bed. "Like he noticed? You only got back the day before yesterday. So long as I'm not showing people the way back to camp, he can't complain."

"All the same," Isra cautioned. "Be careful." He sighed. "There are days I am dying to know what you are doing out here, but most days I am relieved the Lady keeps such knowledge from me."

"As you should be," Simon said. "But never doubt that without your help I would be completely at the mercy of the Lady. It is only because you've given me a place here that I can do what I must."

Isra shrugged, the movement awkward in his position. "We understand each other, and you're not bad company when you're not being insufferable."

Simon smiled and pressed a warm kiss to his temple. "But I'm cute when I'm insufferable."

"Go to sleep, Simon."

"I hate that name," Simon complained, and beneath the playfully whining tone there was genuine pain.

Shifting, stretching up, Isra kissed him softly and murmured something almost soundlessly against his mouth.

Smiling, Simon held him tightly in thanks and settled down.

"Isra," Sheik Jabbar regarded his nephew pensively.

"I offer the Lady and my most honored Uncle my deepest and most humble apologies for dishonoring the Falcon with my impetuous behavior."

Jabbar's lips twitched. "Impetuous? Did that tutor of yours compose this apology for you?"

Isra bit back a snarl. "Of course not, honored Uncle. My words are my own and offered with utmost sincerity."

"Pretty words, my nephew. I doubt you mean them, of course, but the effort is appreciated, and I'm sure you are very sorry you've been confined to your tent for several days." He motioned for Isra to take a seat, stroking his beard, eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Eight," Isra said. "Eight long, miserable days. You should have let me kill him."

Jabbar rolled his eyes. "I did not stop you until it was obvious the Sandstorm was winning."

A snarl slipped out, and Isra glared at the food spread across the table. "He was not winning. I would have obtained the upper hand in another moment."

"He certainly figured out quickly how best to send you into a blinding rage," Jabbar said dryly. "I have told you time and again, nephew, to watch that temper of yours. It will get you into serious trouble one day. You are most lucky that the Sandstorm did nothing more than slice your cheek."

Isra grinned smugly. "After I sliced his."

"That is true," Jabbar murmured. "Oddly sloppy of the Sandstorm, from what I have seen and heard. I wonder what distracted him so…" He stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Saa, but that is neither here nor there. We have more pressing matters to attend. The alliance with Ghost has fallen through, and so we must ponder carefully where to cast for allies next."

"Falcon does not need allies," Isra said sourly. "We have enough."

Jabbar sighed. "You are worse than your mother ever was when you are in a snit."

Isra curled his fingers around his cup, fighting the urge to throw it. "At least I won't run off and bed the first pretty face I see when I'm in one."

"Only because it would be hard to find a face prettier than yours," Jabbar said dryly, unimpressed by the nasty glare Isra shot him. "If you are going to be petulant about this, then I will gladly send you back to your tent."

Instead of snapping like he wanted, Isra sipped at his tea until the urge to throw it had passed, determined to show his Uncle he wasn't always controlled by his temper. He could wait thirty seconds before lobbing something at someone's head, see? "I'm not being petulant," he said at last. "I told you talking with Ghost would be a waste of time, and it seems I was right. Not only is the Sheik too thick headed to listen to anyone but himself, the Amir is exactly like his name and about as trustworthy."

"His name is not Sandstorm," Jabbar said slowly. "Just as his father is not named Crusher. The name by which a man is known is not necessarily reflective of his true nature." Jabbar paused. "Desert rose."

Isra set his cup down with a hard clack. "Why does everyone see fit to bring that up?" he snapped, barely keeping from shouting. "Was it not humiliating enough to be taunted and mocked by the Sandstorm that everyone must keep throwing it in my face? " He glared at his Uncle. "Why are you defending them? We were reasonable; our demands were fair - they ruined any chance of peace long before I drew my sword."

"Did they?" Jabbar asked thoughtfully. "I am not defending them. Sheik Hashim's behavior was unbecoming his status. His son should not have fought you - but you attacked first, nephew. There were errors on all sides. It is a pity, because Falcon and Ghost alike would have flourished under the alliance."

"Until they stole our horses in the night and left us stranded," Isra grumbled.

"If you have so little faith in others, Isra, how little faith must you have in yourself?" The words were a gentle reprimand.

"I trust you, Uncle, and those who have fought beside me, those who wait for our safe return. My faith lies with Falcon, as it always has and will." Isra's fingers curled around his cup, hiding the intricate green and gold feather pattern. "I do not think it is wrong of me not to trust Ghost. Why should we? Why should anyone trust a Tribe called after a creature of death? A creature that does not exist?" He stared at the coils of steam wafting up from his cup and the rich, dark liquid inside it. "If I had not attacked, worse things would have happened. You are good, Uncle, but the injury to your leg makes you slow. Crusher or Sandstorm would have gotten the better of you."

Jabbar grunted. "Perhaps. That does not change your wrong."

"I didn't say that," Isra said sourly. "Is there anything else, Uncle? I'm tired of being berated for the same thing."

"We could move on to the manners you have already forgotten," Jabbar said dryly, "but I think that would be a waste of time. Your tutor mentioned that he ran across something rather interesting while he was out doing whatever it is he does."

"He likes wandering the desert. Leave him to the Lady and sands, Uncle. Upon my life, I swear he will bring us no harm."

"I know that," Jabbar said with a grunt, sitting back against the cushions behind him. "If I was concerned, I would have sent him back home to the West. I was more concerned with what he told me."

Isra poured more coffee for them both. "The imposters, you mean? I find it hard to believe anyone in the Desert would dare to impersonate another Tribe."

"Unless they are trying to create more problems. That far west, it is possible other Tribes would not know them as impostors, which would give us brand new enemies."

The words fell heavy around them. If someone was impersonating Tribes to attack others, the disharmony created would turn small skirmishes into blood baths. The last time the entire Desert had fallen to all-out war, Tribes had vanished forever.

"It might not be that bad," Isra said at last. "Lady knows people from Tavamara are always out here trying to play desert warrior. Probably they saw a Falcon once and thought that was how all of the Tribes dressed."

Jabbar grunted again. "I hope you are right, nephew, because if you are wrong and someone is attempting to cause more strife than the Desert can contain, then your actions helped to prevent an alliance that Falcon needed."

"They started it," Isra said fiercely.

"Enough," Jabbar said. "I will leave the matter in peace. Tell me your impressions of the meeting and the fight."

Isra shrugged. "It went about as I expected. Ghost has precious few allies, or so it is said across the Sands. Sheik Hashim was unreasonable, and his son was far too eager to engage me in a fight. You say I was wrong to act as I did, but it seems to me even more peculiar that the Amir would shove his Sheik aside and steal his fight. If I had done such a thing to you," Isra's lips twitched, "I would still be in my tent."

"To say the least," Jabbar said, smiling briefly. It quickly returned to a frown, and he crossed his arms across his wide chest. "Something about the fight bothers me, but I cannot say what." He sighed. "The council meets tomorrow night, I expect you to attend - and to behave yourself."

"Yes, Uncle," Isra said and stood.

"Where are you going now?"

"Simon and I are on night patrol," Isra replied. "We will ride with the winds."

Jabbar nodded and grunted. "See that you do. Though if anyone could find trouble in an empty desert in the middle of the night, it would be the two of you. Body, mind, soul."

"In all find strength," Isra replied, and touched fingers to his forehead, lips and chest before bowing and striding from the tent.

Outside he pulled up the scraps of fabric lying around his shoulders, quickly arranging the head wrap, ensuring the myriad feathers and medallions were properly arranged, then strode through camp to where the horses were kept.

As he approached, a man motioned to him and then came forward with two horses. In the moonlight, it was impossible to tell their color, but Isra knew that one was unrelenting black, the other as soft and gray as smoke. "Simon," he greeted as he accepted his horse's reins and smoothly mounted.

"Make your apologies? Finally in the Sheik's good graces again?"

Isra made a face. "Until I shift the sands again." He tugged up the black fabric that would protect his mouth and nose from the elements. "Where are we patrolling?"

"Eastern sector, and we are due to relieve the first watch in ten minute." Simon covered his own mouth and turned his horse east. With the head wrap to cover his hair and the dark to hide the brilliant green of his eyes, there was no way to tell that Simon was anything but another man of the Desert. Fastened to the front of his robes and head wrap were two bundles of feathers - three brown, two white, with a plain silver medallion holding them all together at the tips. They marked him as a guest of the Falcon Tribe; so long as he wore the feathers, to harm him was to harm a Falcon and make them an enemy.

The feathers and medallions Isra wore were greater in number and complexity - a dizzying combination of brown, black, white and gray, each of the half-dozen bundles secured with medallions that indicated his place in the Tribe - nephew to the Sheik, a skilled warrior, a teacher, and one of those rare members who was familiar with the customs and language of foreign countries.

"Then I suggest we hurry," Isra said, a grin in his voice. "Ketcha!" he cried, and raced off into the sands, Simon close on his heels.

 

Four

"Sahayl."

"Yes, honored father?" Sahayl shook himself from his thoughts on the raid and looked at his father, trying to obliterate the hope that wanted to flare up. Sweat and blood were soaked into his robes, as well as the robes of his soldiers, giving the air a bitter, unpleasant taste. His entire body begged to be allowed to rest.

"Were my orders unclear?"

The hope he'd tried to kill died a painful death at the simple question, leaving his chest aching. "No, father. But we took the encampment-"

"I said to kill everyone," Hashim snapped. "Why did I see you ordering some be left alive? Are you Sheik?"

Sahayl was grateful most of his face was covered. "No, honored father, merely your humble Amir."

"Only because I have no other sons," Hashim snapped. "There is too much of your weak mother in you, to not only disobey me but to do so to be soft. Every person left alive is one who will someday be another enemy."

"They were mere boys," Sahayl protested before he could stop himself. "They could barely hold the swords that had been thrust into their hands. There was no reason to kill them; they had not even tried to attack. I thought perhaps-" He rocked hard as his father backhanded him, the familiar taste of copper filling his mouth. Bloodmoon stilled under him, uncertain of Sahayl's balance.

Hashim looked as though he thought one hit insufficient, but lowered his hand. "You are not the one who is meant to think, Sahayl. I gave you orders, your sole job was to obey them. If you cannot obey, how are you supposed to be fit to lead?" He turned from his son and focused his attention on the desert. "Would that I had more sons, instead of a Sandstorm that has become a breeze."

It shouldn't hurt, not after so many years, but Sahayl couldn't help the searing pain deep in his chest that came at his father's words. The only mercy was that they were separate enough from the rest of the men that no one would know why the Sheik had hit his son.

What had happened to the father that always seemed proud of his son? The father who had taught him to ride and fight? To find his way through the sands no matter where he was. The man who had smiled every time someone bellowed in outrage of the last mayhem the young Sandstorm Amir had caused?

But he knew what had happened. The son had proven to be soft, despite what his nickname and skills with a sword implied. His father would never forgive him that, and with every day that passed Hashim grew more and more violent. He licked blood from his lips. "They'll carry word back to the rest that crossing us was a mistake. It will carry the message faster than simply leaving the encampment to be found later." He sighed softly, wanting nothing more than to be in bed and blissfully unconscious. "Why did we attack the Cat? We had no quarrel with them." 'Yet' hung unsaid in the air. In the Desert, there was always a 'yet'.

"They attacked one of our encampments and you have to ask why we annihilated one of theirs?" Hashim's voice was full of contempt.

Sahayl bit back his frustration. "No one just attacks Ghost, honored father. By the grace of the Lady we are as phantoms in the Desert. How did Cat find us? Why did they attack? We had no quarrel with them, and would have left them in peace had they granted us the same favor."

"I don't know how they found us, but we'll figure it out. We'll have to change our patters now. Head for encampments three and five, spread word of the pattern change. Tell them to shift from Drought to Rainfall. Select two other men to inform two and four. I want word spread and patterns changed by sundown tomorrow."

"Yes, honored father." Bowing his head, touching two fingers to forehead, mouth and chest, Sahayl raised his left hand, fingers flicking quickly through motions that brought forward three men. Pulling aside as the rest of the tired men rode past, nodding to them in reassurance, thanks, Sahayl then turned to the men he'd pulled away. "Noor, Kahlil," he said to two of his most trusted soldiers. "Our Sheik bids you journey to encampments two and four, inform them we will be switching our patterns. Tell them the Sheik commands we change our pattern from Drought to Rainfall."

Noor let out a hiss. "We are to move that often?" he exclaimed. "The women and children cannot maintain such a pace."

"I know," Sahayl said quietly. "I am merely telling you my father's orders." He took a deep breath. "Tell two and four to continue moving according to Drought. We will tell three and five to move to Rainfall at double frequency. That will keep them close enough to two and four to offer additional protection. Keep everyone alert." He hesitated, sharing a quick glance with Wafai, who nodded. "Tell everyone to pay close attention if they're attacked again. Cat had no reason to attack us. Nor should they have been able to find us. Several weeks ago Wafai and I encountered men pretending to be Falcon. I suspect the Cat that attacked six were imposters."

"These Cat had the paw markings," the man named Kahlil said, his voice rough, as if dry and sore. "On their cheeks and hands just like Cats do."

"The bodies are all destroyed?"

"Yes, Amir."

Sahayl nodded. "A pity. My guess is that a longer look would have revealed a flaw, perhaps in the ink or the details. We will never know."

"Why did you never mention this before, Amir?" Noor asked. If he had dared pose such a question to the Sheik, he would have been left bruised and bleeding.

Wafai answered. "We thought it an isolated incident. The men impersonating Falcon were obviously not native to the Desert. We killed them easily. When we brought the matter to the Sheik, he dismissed them as foreigners. Until now, we had no reason to suspect otherwise. Even now, I am not certain." He cursed softly and looked at Sahayl. "I wish we had been present when the attack occurred. We might've…"

"Been able to prevent my father from ordering the slaughter of an entire encampment?" Sahayl finished bitterly. "It doesn't matter now. The dunes shift constantly, we can only shift with them. Go to two and four, Wafai and I will travel to three and five. Carry my orders, but inform those who need to know of my father's."

Noor and Kahlil bowed their heads in a bow. "As you command, Sandstorm Amir. Mind, body, soul."

"In all find strength," Sahayl said, gesturing. "Go with the wind. Lady guard you."

"Lady guard you, Sandstorm Amir," Noor said softly. Without another he and Kahlil wheeled their horses around and took off across the sands, only the confidence of their movements offering assurance that they weren't racing off blindly into the Desert.

Sahayl sighed. "Saa, I had been looking forward to sleeping tonight."

"Obviously you got knocked on the head then," Wafai said.

"Not that hard," Sahayl replied with a grimace, gingerly touching his bruising cheek, his split lip.

Wafai made a face. "What did you say this time?"

"Does it matter?" Sahayl asked wearily. "All that I do angers him. Saa, I think he resents that I was ever born." He tried to keep his tone flippant, but knew that some of the pain slipped out. "Come," he said before Wafai could speak. "Three is some hours from here, and five further than that. Saa, it makes a man wish he would lose a battle simply to get a break."

Wafai did not look amused. "If you lose a battle, my Sandstorm Amir, then all of Ghost loses."

"I know," Sahayl said quietly, feeling every ache and pain in his body. He forced gloomy thoughts aside, tired of them. "If we hurry, we can perhaps sneak in a few hours rest. Hmm? What do you say?"

"I say that sounds a fine plan, my Sandstorm Amir." Wafai smiled at him. "Let us go."

The cry of a falcon broke the quiet of the desert, immediately followed by the sound of a battle cry. Sahayl spurred Bloodmoon, who reared up and spun around, her cry blending with the hiss of steel against leather as he and Wafai drew their swords.

"Falcon!" Wafai exclaimed. "What are they doing here?"

"We'll figure it out later!" Sahayl said, then charged, meeting the attack of the man racing straight toward him, steel clashing against steel as they fought. Grunting at the force of the blow, Sahayl wheeled his horse around and braced for the next, this time dodging aside at the last moment and then lashing out, using the hilt of his sword to knock the man out, sending him tumbling from his horse.

Nearby Wafai held the other man to the ground, their horses nearby. "What would you have me do with him, Amir?" His voice was hard, cold, nothing at all like his usual jovial tone and manner.

Sahayl dismounted and went to examine the man he'd knocked unconscious. "Scouts?"

"Comrades," the conscious man spat. "We received word the Cat were under attack. It figures we would find the Ghost responsible."

Wafai hissed. "How many more Falcon are about?"

"Enough to take care of filthy Ghost!" The man howled, then suddenly kicked out, sending Wafai stumbling back, then drew a dagger and lunged.

Sahayl moved, catching the man about the waist as Wafai dodged, sending them both the ground, then scrambled back and punched the man hard in the stomach. He climbed to his feet and rounded on Wafai. "What was that! How did you let him slip under your guard! Do you have sand in your head?"

"Peace, brother of my soul," Wafai said, looking thoroughly disgusted with himself. "I underestimated him. It's no wonder he held his own against you so well, all those weeks ago."

"What are you talking about?" Sahayl said, then whirled around to take another look at the man he'd just knocked out. Just above his face covering was a line of white skin, the end of what was probably a long scar. Sahayl hissed in surprise and dropped to one knee, tugging down the mouth cover to reveal a familiar, beautiful face. "Lady grant me peace. I had not thought to come across this one again. Though I suppose I should not be surprised."

"He's a nasty one," Wafai said sourly, "Much like that precious bird that is no doubt signaling for help somehow, if I know Falcon and their tricks. Light, slender, but quick and strong. If you had not been here, I would be hosting a banquet for vultures."

Sahayl grinned. "And I would be short a very fine horse, as they would have taken it."

"You wound me, brother of my soul." Wafai made a face. "We need to move, before more arrive than we can easily handle. I was not aware Cat had allied with Falcon. That spells trouble for us."

"Not with Cobra so close," Sahayl said. "Nor is Scorpion too far away, and they have no love for either Cat or Falcon, even if they do not call us friend."

Wafai only grunted and swung up onto his horse. "Why are you still playing in the sand? Let's go."

Sahayl didn't move, but continued to stare at the unconscious man, thinking it a pity he could not see the blue, blue eyes. He shook off the idle thought and ran a finger along the scar on the man's cheek, then reached up to touch the one on his own. "A pity," he said.

"What's a pity?" Wafai asked irritably, watching Sahayl as he finally mounted Bloodmoon.

"I'm not sure," Sahayl said with a pensive frown. "I just…" He shrugged. "I don't know." Turning his horse, he spurred her into a gallop and the two men raced off across the sand, hiding themselves in the Desert before more Falcon arrived.

They reached camp three well after dark, when the air was cold enough their breath clouded in the air.

"Who goes?" A guard demanded.

"Amir Sahayl and Protector Wafai," Wafai answered.

"Sandstorm Amir," the guard greeted, relaxing, genuine pleasure in his voice. "Lady finds you well, this evening?"

"The Lady has permitted me to survive the day," Sahayl said. "I cannot ask more than that. How does the wind blow?"

"A quiet breeze," the guard said. "Eerily quiet, after all that we have heard of the attack on six." His voice lost what happiness had been in it.

Sahayl dismounted and crossed over to the man, resting a hand on his shoulder. "The Lady will take care of them. Ghost will avenge them."

"Yes, Amir," the soldier said quietly. Then he laughed, a weak but genuine sound. "Speaking of Ladies, Sandstorm Amir, your lady wife has come to visit. Apparently she heard you would not be journeying to assure her you were safe, and came to see for herself."

"What!" Sahayl exclaimed. "Rafiqa is here? What is that woman doing in a war camp? I will kill her myself!" Storming off, Wafai on his heels, Sahayl blazed through the camp, headed for the tent set up on the chance that the Sheik or Amir might visit. "Rafiqa!" he snapped as he flew into the tent. "You had better not be here." He glared at the woman watching him tolerantly from the left side of the tent, where she sat a table set with a late - very late - dinner.

"Very well, honored husband, I am not here. Your sand-addled brain must be imagining things."

Sahayl muttered underneath his breath and motioned for Wafai to close the tent, ensuring the three of them would not be disturbed.

Rafiqa poured them each a cup of Desert wine, which was dark, spicy, and strong. She was the very picture of what a woman of the Desert should be, especially as the Amira. Her hair was brown, so dark it looked black, pulled up high on her head and then tumbling down her back in thick, soft curls, with a few smaller strands brushing softly against her cheeks. Her lashes were long, thick, framing pale brown eyes. Her lips were pale, full, curved in a fond smile. Gold and jewels glimmered in her ears, at her throat, in the bands on her upper and lower arms. She wore a gown of pale green, the fabric winding around her throat before flowing down to mold to her body, spilling into a close skirt.

Setting the skin of wine aside, she leaned up and over to give Sahayl a soft, chaste kiss. "I am glad you're all right."

Sahayl grinned against her mouth. "You're just relieved you're cover is still alive, brat princess."

Rafiqa gouged him lightly with her gold-painted nails. "Do not speak so, honored husband. I would be sick at heart to hear of your death."

"I know, Rafi," Sahayl said, settling back and taking a deep swallow of his wine, motioning for her to pour more. "I was just trying to tease."

"Hmph," Rafiqa said, not mollified in the slightest. She poured him more wine and then settled back to lean against Wafai, who wrapped an arm around her waist and tugged her close for a kiss. "So why have you come here and not to see me?" she asked when he finally let her go.

Sahayl sipped his wine more slowly, snatching up bits of food and eating between sentences. "To pass orders to change the patterns. Which I would have already done, except a certain wife cannot learn that her place is in the camp designated to her, in my tent, and obeying my orders."

Rafiqa rolled her eyes. "Did I not warn you, honorable husband, that you should have taken my sister as wife?"

"You imagine I had any say in the matter," Sahayl said, swallowing a bit of meat, licking a pale yellow sauce from his fingers. "If it had been left up to me, oh former daughter of the Cobra, I would gladly have left you to the fool who seems to be quite happily caught in your spell."

"Quite," Wafai said, pressing a kiss to the pulse at Rafiqa's wrist.

Sahayl smiled at them. "One day, my brother and sister, things will be as they should be."

Rafiqa smiled fondly at him, and leaned across the table to give him another chaste kiss. "Thank you, as always, my Sandstorm Amir."

Sahayl waved the word aside and resumed eating, rapidly decimating a tray of pastries stuffed with soft cheese. "I will come up with suitable repayment, never fear, my dear, dear Amira." He yawned. "I need a bath and to not wake up for several days." He sighed. "Saa, it seems I will not even get the bath."

"Surely you do not mean to charge off again without properly resting?" Rafiqa said with a frown. She glared at them both. "What is it with you men that you must try to kill yourselves with work? Is it not enough you try to kill each other every single day? You will finish eating, then you will bathe, and then you will sleep. When you wake up, you will eat again and then perhaps I will permit you to go about your duties. No one is going anywhere until I say so, is that understood? I did not come here simply to see you immediately run off again." She folded her arms across her chest and waited in stony silence.

"Lady save me from her daughters," Sahayl muttered. "I cannot wait until you are out of my tent, Rafiqa. We must spread word of the change in pattern as quickly as possible. That means we have not time to relax."

Rafiqa sniffed, unimpressed. "Your horses, at the very least, will need time to recover from the abuse you inflict upon them. Wafai will go inform the camp of the pattern change, I will order a bath and then you will relax for the remainder of the night. Is that understood?"

"Yes, beloved wife," Sahayl said.

"Good," Rafiqa said, rising to her feet. "Wafai, I will have them draw a bath in your tent as well."

"Thank you, Rafi." Wafai stood and stole a quick kiss before bowing to Sahayl and striding from the tent.

Rafiqa eyed Sahayl. "You reek. Honestly, has the sand killed your sense of smell, honored husband?"

Sahayl laughed and continued to eat while a bath was prepared, listening with half an ear while his wife ordered the men about.

"Come, husband. Out of those clothes and let us get you clean and not smelling like a battlefield." She moved to help him, nose wrinkling as she tossed his filthy robes aside. "It's a wonder you could eat covered in all this filth. I do wish you could learn the proper order of things."

"I didn't think I'd be stopping long enough to enjoy anything more than the food, beloved wife, else I would have bathed first."

Rafiqa sniffed and shoved him toward the bath, fingers combing through his thick hair for a moment once she was settled in. "You need a real wife," she said. "Not a farce."

"I am happiest on my own," Sahayl said, not bothering to open his eyes as he replied. He heard her sigh softly before she moved away and began to rifle through trunks of clothes, pulling out thing for him to wear and laying them out on his bed. "Truly. My only regret is that you must waste so much time with me when you should be with Wafai."

"My life is hardly one to regret, honored husband," Rafiqa said with dry amusement. "I think I shall endure being your Amira until I am free to marry the man of my heart. That you would permit such a thing is a great blessing."

Sahayl waved her words away. "Saa, I want everyone to be happy."

"What would make you happy, honored husband?" Rafiqa asked softly, coming back to the tub and once more stroking his hair, urging him to sit up that so she could scrub his shoulders and back, wash his hair with a soap that smelled faintly of cloves.

"Peace and quiet," Sahayl said. "Which just goes to show how much sand has gotten into my head, that I think such a thing is possible." With a sigh he climbed from the tub and shrugged into the loose robe she had laid out, belting it with a black and silver sash. Instead of his bed, he fell into a long seat, reclining against the curving back. "What news have you to tell me of the other camps?"

Rafiqa fetched a comb from a small chest and began the laborious task of unknotting his thick curls, ignoring his question in favor of humming a slow, soft tune. She pressed a finger to her lips when Wafai returned several minutes later, his own hair still damp from a bath, and motioned to Sahayl, who had fallen asleep. She motioned him to the table, where they quietly ate the sweets that had been brought for the Amir to enjoy after his bath, talking quietly and enjoying the little time they had together, all the while watching over their Sandstorm Amir.

Five

"Ah, Ikram. I hope you come with good news."

"Majesty," Ikram said dryly, "if my job included giving you good news, someone else might actually want it, which would allow me to retire."

The King chuckled. "We certainly cannot have that. I would be lost without you, Ikram." He flicked his fingers, dismissing the servants and guards in the room. In seconds, no one remained in the courtroom save Ikram, the King and a man sitting motionlessly on a pillow beside the throne. "Give me the bad news then."

Ikram sighed. "My reports are that things progress, but not quickly. Shihab," he could not help the way his voice tightened as he said the name. "Shihab works diligently. To date he remains free. A few more months, he says, and he will return highly successful. But, of course, the danger grows."

"Well that is not bad news, per se, though of course I wish Shihab was already home," the King said. His eyes were darker than was usual, and he reached out to sink one hand into the hair of the man beside him, as if seeking comfort. "I did not want to send him out there."

The man on the pillow gave a soft, indelicate snort.

Ikram could not help a chuckle. "You are right of course," he said to the man on the pillow. "He would have gone anyway. The father leaves the desert and of course his son runs straight back to it…." He shook his head.

The King laughed. "Some days, Ikram, it is hard to tell you did not sire him. If I did not know better, it would be hard to tell - skin or no. Certainly he gets his stubbornness from you."

Ikram rolled his eyes. "Stubbornness is required when dealing with Kings who are fond of stirring up as much trouble as can be fit into a day. It is only natural he would acquire that trait. But if he got his stubbornness from me, Majesty, he got his penchant for mischief from trailing after a certain troublesome prince."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," the King said lazily. "All my time was spent studying."

"Yes," Ikram responded dryly, "but one wonders what you were studying."

The King threw his head back and laughed, and even the quiet man beside him could not resist chuckling. "All the right things, obviously."

"Indeed," Ikram said. He sobered suddenly. "I hope what has worked for you works for my son."

The King's face tightened. "I regard Shihab as dearly as my own children, Ikram. If there had been anyone else to send…"

"I know, Majesty," Ikram said quietly. "As previously stated, he would have gone anyway. Shihab knows better than to die on me. I will have to trust that the Lady knows better than to let him die."

"Even I will not cross you, Ikram. I doubt your Lady will." The King motioned. "What else have you to tell me? Have we narrowed our enemy to one country? Gollen? Lavarre?" His voice hardened. "Hadge?"

Ikram frowned. "Hadge is definitely on the move. Their Ambassador…I would sooner trust a Scorpion." He did not need to explain that it was not the insect to which he referred. He waved impatiently in the air. "I would not discount Lavarre, but in my opinion Hadge is our primary threat. They have not liked us since you forced negotiations…and keeping one of their finest commanders did not help matters. It is simply that we lack proof." He eyed the King pensively. "Even your witch can discern nothing in their actions."

The King's mouth tightened. He stroked his close-cropped beard in thought, his other hand unconsciously tightening in the hair of the man sitting on the floor beside him. In response, the man gently tugged the hand from his hair and kissed the palm. "Majesty," he said softly, "all will be well. You will make it so."

At his words, the lines of frustration on the King's face eased slightly. "I hope you are right," he said softly. Gently he cupped the man's chin, stroking the soft skin of his face, smiling faintly.

Ikram regarded them with fond amusement. "In regards to your plan to drive the traitors to sloppiness with anger…"

The King sighed and shook his head, faintly amused. "Do I even want to know what he did?"

"I'm sure I couldn't say, Majesty. What your men discuss amongst themselves is none of my business. But it is my humble opinion that your Majesty might want to curb the antics of certain members of your harem, and perhaps enjoy a quiet meal tonight so that certain members of the council will simmer down to plotting and not boil over to mindless slaughter."

Quirking a brow, the King cast a brief look at the man beside him. "Members? As in more than one? I distinctly remember telling only one of them to go about discreetly aggravating certain members of the council."

The man beside him rolled his eyes. "Yes, but recall who you set to curb his behavior."

"Ah," the King said, shaking his head ruefully. "Whatever was I thinking to put those two together? Why did you let me?"

Lips curved in a whisper soft smile. "I suppose we were distracted."

Ikram coughed to smother a laugh. "Majesty?"

The King laughed. "Yes, yes. I will keep them from doing further damage today. I still think it the best plan. Between you, I and those two, someone will get angry enough to make a mistake and then we will have our traitors. It is not a great plan…" he sighed, "but until we can come up with a better one, I see no other recourse."

"Unfortunately, I do not see one either," Ikram said, voice thick with frustration. "We can find nothing! No indication of anything save that at least one country in the west moves against the desert. " He rubbed his eyes and forehead tiredly. "I still cannot believe Ghost has ignored my every letter. I do not understand it!" His shoulders sagged, and suddenly Ikram looked every bit of his fifty-four years. "And the one man who can get some answers for us may die doing it, and that man is my son." He drew a ragged breath. "Lady will that all goes well. If your Majesty will pardon me, now that I've given my report there are other duties requiring my attention."

"Of course. Thank you, Ikram," the King said softly, waving the man out. When a Guard looked inside in question, he flicked his fingers briefly in negation. The door shut, leaving him alone with the man beside him. "There are days I feel like the worst sort of criminal," he said tiredly. "What sort of man tortures his closest friend by sending his son right into the middle of danger? If Shihab dies, grief will kill Ikram and his wife."

"No one else can do what Shihab can. He volunteered." The man stood slowly, his movements graceful, elegant. As he rose to his full height, his hair straightened out, the end of it stopping just short of the floor. It was bound intermittently with thick gold bands, keeping the mass of hair neatly in place. Unlike the King, who was dressed in simple but elegant robes, he wore nothing more than soft black pants overlaid with a floor-length black skirt slit up the sides. His chest was narrow but well-toned, and he wore no adornment but cuffs at wrist and throat to match the bands in his hair. With utter casualness he moved to sit in the King's lap, twining his arms around the King's neck. "Doubts ill suit you, Majesty."

The King smiled faintly. "We are alone, Nanda."

Nanda's mouth curved in a whisper-soft smile. "Doubt ill suits you, Shah." He kissed Shah softly. "If you want to be driven crazy, then summon those two idiots trying to bring the palace crashing down. They excel at mayhem; there is no need for you to drive yourself mad."

Laughing, shaking with the force of it, Shah tugged Nanda closer for a deeper kiss. "As always, my Nanda, you know precisely what to say." He gently traced the fine line of Nanda's cheekbone with the tips of his fingers. "You have been here all morning, my beauty. Find Bey and Aik, tell them to come and attend me for the rest of the day. That should keep them out of trouble for a bit. Go find food, then enjoy a nap for me."

"I do not enjoy them unless you are with me," Nanda replied, and with a last kiss slid from Shah's lap. "Perhaps I'll coerce Kiah into dozing with me." He smiled faintly. "And we'll tell you all about it later."

"That would make good hearing," Shah murmured. He motioned toward the door. "Go before I decide I have the time for a nap of my own. Pass word that I'll be dining in private tonight."

"Yes, Majesty." Nanda bowed gracefully. "I will also send in food for you, so you can relax a bit before resuming court."

"Thank you, Nanda."

With another faint smile, Nanda gave another bow and then left the courtroom, the door closing on his soft words as he spoke to the guards.

"Nanda says we are in trouble."

Shah looked up from a report he'd been skimming, smiling at the men approaching him. "You and Bey need to be locked in my quarters, my monk." He tilted his head back as the man swooped down to kiss him. "I told you to restrain him, Aik."

Aik rolled his eyes and sat down on a pillow to the left of Shah's chair. Like Nanda, he was bare-chested, dressed in the pants and skirt outfit that immediately marked the members of the King's harem. His hair, shoulder-length and ink dark, was bound neatly in a tail at the nape of his neck, and he wore thick, heavy bands of gold at his wrists and throat, bringing out the gold in his dusky skin. "I did restrain him, that's the frightening part."

"I was afraid of that," Shah murmured as he tugged the second man close, kissing him deeply. "Perhaps I should set you, my beautiful witch, to watch them both."

"Witcher? Make us behave?" Aik threw his head back and laughed. "I would like to see that happen."

"Be quiet, monk," Witched said, making a face. He hummed as Shah's hands stroked softly across his unusually pale skin, sky blue eyes bright with pleasure. His hair was bright blonde, just long enough for fingers to sink into, grab hold of. Gold hoops gleamed at his nipples, the only decoration he wore. "If my King orders me to make you behave, I will do so."

Aik's dark eyes flashed with challenge and desire. "Shah, tell him to make me behave."

Shah chuckled and released Witcher. "Perhaps tonight, as Ikram has instructed I dine with my harem in private lest the council descend upon us in murderous rage. What did you let Bey do, my monk? And where is my pirate? I remember saying he was to be here for the afternoon."

"Your Queen stole him for the afternoon. They were bringing word to you when Nanda found us, and we said we would relay the message. As to what Bey did," Aik shrugged, "his mere presence in the palace, and in your bed, is enough to ensure the council acts like men driven mad by too much sun."

Witcher rolled his eyes from where he sat at Shah's right. "Aik, you and Kiah are the only two of whom they approve."

"Yes, but at least you and Nanda behave. More or less. Bey goes out of his way to keep them in that frenzy." Aik shook his head, laughing softly. "It doesn't help that now he is doing it on his King's orders."

Shah sighed, but it was obvious he was fighting a smile. "Perhaps our private meal tonight will wear the lot of you out enough I do not get more reports concerning your behavior." He motioned to the door. "I suppose I have put off work long enough. Witcher, let them know court will resume?"

"Of course, Shah," Witcher murmured, and crossed to the door to speak with the guard outside, then immediately returned to his place at Shah's side. A minute later the doors opened wide and slowly the room began to fill with people, most ordered to allotted seats along either side of the room, others made to form a line before the throne. One by one the supplicants approached, presenting problems or propositions, presenting sons, daughters, seeking permission for visitors, dozens upon dozens of matters there were for Shah to decide upon. Most issues were left to his council, but there were still many that he must handle personally. Throughout it all Aik and Witcher never moved. They sat patiently, tirelessly, lending quiet support and subtle weight to the King's authority.

The afternoon passed with relative quiet, few of the problems brought to him complicated or troublesome, and only one man having to be dragged away by the guards.

Shah forced himself to relax, hating to look anything other than completely at ease when he was anywhere but his private chambers. Court was exhausting, however, and the small midday meal sent to him did not last long. He wanted only to be where he could truly relax, away from the stress and the ever-present threats of treachery and assassination.

Because if he had councilmen plotting against him, working with the west to grab hold of the Wild Desert - which would bring the west uncomfortably close to Tavamara - then he had no doubt that getting rid of him would at some point become necessary.

He motioned the next supplicant forward, warmly greeting the son being presented, making him an official part of society now that he'd come of age, then waved the family away and motioned for a pause in the proceedings. "Something to drink?" he requested of a guard, and wine was immediately brought, light and sweet, pale pink in color.

For the first time in two hours his harem men moved, Aik carefully pouring wine into a shallow drinking dish and passing it to Witcher, who held it to Shah's lips, face expressionless but eyes smiling. "Better, my King?" he murmured, words only for Shah to hear.

"By your presence, my witch," Shah said just as quietly, wishing he could touch but ever aware of his station. "Thank you," he said more loudly. "Let us resume." He motioned the next supplicant forward as the wine was taken away.

Six

Jackal rested on the edge of the Desert, right where it began to shift into the hills that eventually joined the mountain range that divided the Desert from the West, and eventually wrapped around to form Tavamara's northwest border. It was no wonder most thought the Tribe long dead.

Who could really be bothered to come all the way out here just to shed blood?

Though, it probably didn't hurt that people in this region feared Jackal the way the southern region feared Ghost. In Jackal's case, however, it was not an ability to be everywhere and nowhere, but their utter ruthlessness in protecting their territory and disposing of enemies.

Jackals bore marking on their face to indicate rank, achievements, and the distinctive jackal head, inked into different places depending on the person and their place.

Security around the camp was light. Not because Jackal was lazy or careless, but simply because they were confident they could kill whatever was stupid enough to wander too close.

He had yet to see evidence that they couldn't.

Snorting, longing for cold water and a soft bed, he checked that his face covering was in place, that his equipment was easily accessible, then ran through his plans one last time.

A horn sounded in the dark, high and long, spreading across the surrounding area just as the cold did once the sun vanished. Near as he'd been able to tell, that meant no one was to enter or leave camp - or their tents.

Shadows, of course, were exempt. Hopefully they were aware of that. Laughing softly at himself, he gave Angel one last pat and then slid down a dune, weaving his way slowly through the thinning sands, snaking into the grasses and around to the back of the camp.

Getting in was easy. If he did everything right, as he probably would, getting out would be just as easy. If he messed up…

Better to think positive. All would go as the Lady willed. Assuming her will matched his. If not, then there would be problems.

The problem with invading camps on flat land was the general lack of places to hide. He had nothing but the absolute dark of a moonless night and his memories. If someone had neglected to put something away, that would be another problem.

Problems, problems, never any real solutions.

Stifling a sigh, keeping positive thoughts in the back of his mind to spur him on, he followed the trail he'd planned, wending his way toward the camp. Paused, knelt in the grass, froze in place as guards passed by, walking the wide, open perimeter of the camp. Slunk by once they were well out of range. Unlike rock in an echoing canyon, dry grass would mark him all too readily.

Heart knocking against his ribs, fighting an urge to make some sort of noise simply to release tension, he finally reached the edge of the tents and released a soundless sigh of relief. Fingers brushed briefly across his pouches, touched his knife, assuring him that all he needed was there and ready for use.

Even Viper hadn't been as nerve-wracking as this venture, and the close call he'd had there still woke him up in a cold sweat.

Rolling his eyes, giving himself a stern reprimand, he finally moved forward, calling up the image of the layout of the camp in his mind and turning left as he passed by the first one.

A hand snagged his wrist, dragged him roughly inside and up against a wide chest.

"It's about time," his captor said, voice as dark and rough as desert wine, sending helpless shivers down his spine. Fingers brushed over the fabric on his face, and the voice laughed, causing new shivers, before rough fingers tore the fabric away and a mouth closed over his, immediately aggressive, hungry, consuming, tasting like honeyed nuts and something familiar…something he should know…

He couldn't help kissing back, bewildered and enthralled, wishing for a moment that he was the lover this man had mistaken him for. But it lasted only a moment, and in the next his captor realized something was wrong.

"You're a fine kisser," that rough voice said, "but not the one I was expecting."

"I'm better," he replied, then lashed out with his foot, kicking hard, breaking free when the hold weakened briefly, giving himself space to launch a high kick - crying out briefly in dismay when his foot was grabbed, the neat counter knocking him hard to the ground, darkness spinning dizzily around him. Then a flash of pain, and the darkness thickened.

Then nothing.

He woke to laughter and an aching head - a head that he realized lacked a cover.

"The prisoner wakes."

He closed his eyes, fear settling hard in his gut as he remembered what had transpired. This probably wouldn't end well. At least his father would never find out he'd failed because of a kiss.

The world spun dizzily, pain exploding in his already aching head, as he was backhanded by a nearby soldier.

"Who are you?" When the world finally stopped spinning, and the figure before him became one and not three, he saw that the speaker was a thick, heavyset man with a beard that looked like somewhere a black sheep was missing a chunk of fur. He didn't need to know the marks on the man's face to know he was the Sheik.

"No one of importance," he said slowly, pain making his words somewhat slurred.

"How doe a western bastard know our language so well?"

He glared. "I'm a good soldier."

"You were," the Sheik replied. "Until you attempted to invade Jackal. What was your goal?"

He refrained from pointing out that he'd only been caught because he'd interrupted one of the Sheik's men in a tryst. But that would imply the Sheik's men had trysts, which implied disobeying orders, which implied they had no respect for their Sheik's authority, which was not the best thing to bring up when you were not only a prisoner but one they thought was western. Ma