Sandstorm (11 page)

"You doubt what Cat says?"

"No," Jabbar said. "I am merely curious as to what Ghost would have said."

Isra stood up. "You make no sense. Ghost is our enemy, why should we care what they think?"

Jabbar heaved another sigh. "You are confined to your tent until I say otherwise, nephew. I do not think I will let you out until you prove to me you have some sense. I will not trust a man who goes against my orders, especially one who does so to kill. Is there not enough death in the desert? I thought we raised you better than this."

"When Ghost gives me a reason not to regard them as enemies, then perhaps I will display this 'sense' you're forever going on about, honored Uncle. Body, mind, soul." He stormed from the tent, not waiting to hear the reply, but when he reached his tent he paused only long enough to gather up a few things then blew out of it again, all but running toward the horses, saddling his rapidly and fleeing camp before he could be stopped.

He'd suffer additional punishment when he returned but right now remaining in his confining tent was more than he could bear. Ghost had pushed for peace, then turned on them. Ghost has slaughtered an entire Cat encampment, and it was Ghost who had been with Cobra at the ruined Fox camp. Against his will, his fingers reached up to trace the scar running the length of his right cheek.

The sky was slowly beginning to lighten above him, shifting from the black of night to the hazy gray of morning as the sun slowly began to rise. Isra loosed the reigns, letting his horse choose their direction, not caring where he went except away.

It was an hour or so after sunrise when he reached the oasis, and Isra bit back the bitter feelings that rose as he recalled the last time he'd been this way - the day Ghost has proven they had no real interest in peace. Dismounting, exhausted to the bone, dreading his return home now that his anger had expended itself, he walked his horse through the thin copse of trees to the small pool of water near the center.

He saw the horse first, and his hand went immediately to his sword. His eyes sought for the rider of the blood-red horse, but what he saw brought him up short.

A man stared back at him, one who might have been handsome except for the wealth of bruises marring his dusky skin, the split lips that looked ready to start bleeding at the slightest movement. His hair came just to his chin, colored the dark brown-black common to Desert people - but it fell in thick, twisting curls, drawing the gaze to his deep gold eyes.

Ruby glinted on his right hand, and Isra could not believe that of all people to encounter…

"I believe you promised to kill me when next we met, my desert rose."

"It would appear you are much in need of the Lady's pity," Isra replied, and led his horse to drink. It would be so easy, so very easy indeed, to draw his sword and rid the Desert of the Ghost Amir. It would be a hard blow to the Ghost Tribe, and out here with no one else around, there would be no way to prove Falcon was responsible. He could do it. The Ghost Amir looked more exhausted then he. But Jabbar's words still echoed in his head, and Isra didn't doubt that if he went against his Uncle's orders, he would find himself without a Tribe.

"So if you will keep your sword sheathed, I will return the favor - this time."

The Ghost Amir regarded him distrustfully, but then slowly nodded. "I have no desire to hurt anyone, Falcon."

Isra snorted. "Yet to judge from your face, I would say you were recently in quite the fight."

He pulled off his head and face covering and dipped his hands into the water, washing his face, soaking his hair, sighing at the blessed cool. "Unless you just stood there and did nothing." He frowned at the way the Ghost Amir said nothing, merely stared into the rippling water - but his hand tightened into a fist before an obvious effort was made to relax it.

"Where is your protector, Ghost Amir? Am I to be stabbed in the back?"

"Wafai would never do such a thing," the Ghost Amir replied, voice hardening. "Nor would I ever permit it. I came here for peace, Falcon. Kill me or go away, I have had enough fighting for a time."

"I want to kill you," Isra said. "Badly. Yet time and again I am told not to, and if I do so here I will most likely find myself in more trouble than you are worth. Still, I am tempted." His fingers went to the scar on his cheek. "I do not appreciate that you mocked my Tribe with your farcical offer of peace, nor do I like the way your mockery has made me a laughing stock in my own Tribe." His hand fell away. "Why shouldn't I kill you?"

"That is not for me to say. If you want to kill me, do so. I'm in no condition to stop you." Gold eyes fastened on blue, and Isra drew a breath at the pain in them. More startling was that the Ghost Amir would allow an enemy to see it.

Isra shrugged. "I've no interest in killing someone who already looks like he's well on his way to death. I'll kill you when you can put up a fight, Ghost Amir."

"Sahayl," the Ghost Amir replied. "You're the only one to ever mark me in battle." Fingers dusted along the scar on Sahayl's right cheek. "So call me Sahayl."

"Isra, then," Isra said with a grunt, more than a little surprised that the Ghost Amir used the old custom - to use a man's name so casually was rare. Always there was a form of address when speaking to others, especially those of higher position. Even within the Ghost Tribe, precious few probably ever used the Ghost Amir's name. It was a high courtesy, and not something he would have expected from a Ghost. "If you call me desert rose again, this strange truce is over."

Sahayl laughed softly, and Isra was struck by what it did to his eyes. He looked away, down at the rippling water, wishing he wasn't so exhausted and could actually think clearly.

A heavy silence fell, and Isra struggled for something to say though he wasn't certain why he thought something needed to be said. Without a fight, there was nothing to say. Suddenly unable to take it, Isra stood and mounted his horse. "Another day, Ghost Amir…Sahayl."

"Isra," Sahayl replied, looking at him, gold eyes once again dark. "Mind, body, soul," he said softly.

Isra didn't reply, merely turned and raced off back toward home.

The sounds reached him first, and he could not believe what he was hearing. Chest tightening with fear, Isra urged his horse to a gallop. As they cleared the last of the dunes before the Desert spilled into the encampment. His eyes widened at the chaos he saw below.

Screaming in rage, drawing his sword, Isra spurred his horse forward and raced down into the chaos, catching one assailant across the stomach, knocking another from his horse, slashing open the neck of a third as he raced by. He continued to attack, defend, searching all the while for any survivors, his Uncle.

"Isra!"

"Uncle!" he said in relief, fighting his way toward the Sheik's tent. He turned his horse sharply around to stand beside Jabbar. "What's happening?"

"Ghost," Jabbar said grimly. "Haven't you noticed?"

"Ghost?" Isra repeated, taking another look at their attacks as one raced toward him. He cut the man down easily, horse rearing as it spun around to resume its place beside Jabbar.

"Where is the Ghost Sheik? The Amir?" Because he would kill the bastard himself.

Except.

He'd just seen the Ghost Amir. "Where is the Ghost Amir? Where!"

"There," Jabbar said, and pointed at a man who did indeed look the part.

"That's not his horse," Isra said softly, barely able to comprehend what he was saying. "That is not…Sahayl." Screaming a battle cry he charged through the camp, cutting down whoever stood in his way, snarling at his men to keep clear. "Ghost Amir," he said. "Why do you attack us?"

Seated on a dark-red horse, but not quite the color he had seen only a few hours before, the man did at a glance seem very much to be the Ghost Amir. He didn't reply to Isra's demand, but simply sprung forward, long curving sword flashing in the afternoon sunlight Steel clashed as Isra met the blow, and if he had not already known, the way this man fought would have told him this man was the Sandstorm. "Impostor," he snarled, urging his horse to move, sword sliding away, and metal glinted briefly before he thrust the dagger into the man's side, then knocked the sword away and shoved the man from his horse. Dismounting, he yanked his dagger free and pressed it to the man's throat as he pulled off the head wrap.

"You are not of the Desert," he said to the dying man, "and most definitely not the Ghost Amir. Who are you?"

"You're half-breed too," the man said.

"By the Lady…" Isra whispered, then spun around a shadow fell, shoving his sword into the stomach of his would-be assailant, jerking it free and attacking the next. Shoving aside the problem of the dead impersonator, he returned to the matter of saving his Tribe.

"This was not Ghost," Isra said wearily. "Upon my life."

Jabbar and the other men around the Sheik's table regarded him with surprise. "I would not expect to hear that from you, nephew. Indeed, I thought I would have to restrain you at battle's end."

"If I must be restrained, it is because I left camp without permission," Isra said quietly. "I apologize that I was not here."

"You will be punished, but not now. Tell me why you, of all people, so staunchly believe it was not Ghost who attacked us."

Isra's expression grew distant as he recalled his fight with the false Amir. "I was upset with the reprimand administered by my Honored Uncle," he said, "and left camp to vent my frustration. I found myself at the oasis where we had hoped to find peace with Ghost. I was not alone." He stared at the table, not certain how to go on, still not quite sure of what he'd seen.

"Isra," his uncle said quietly, urging him on.

"The Ghost Amir was there…if not for his horse, and the ring he wore, I do not think I would have recognized him." Isra grimaced. "He had been badly beaten, and was in too much pain to do more than call me 'desert rose'. If I had attempted to kill him, I do not think he would have resisted." He glowered at the way his uncle looked at him. "What? That is all that occurred. As soon as my horse was rested, I left to return home."

Jabbar quirked a brow, looking torn between amusement and annoyance. "You are leaving something out of your tale, nephew."

Isra shrugged. "At one point he told me to call him Sahayl." He touched his scar. "It did not seem important." He shook his head. "It's not simply that, uncle. There's a more obvious reason."

"Oh?"

"When I killed the impersonator, and accused him of being so, he told me I was a half-breed as well."

"So what?" Jabbar said. "You are. That has never mattered."

Isra glared. "He said it in the language of Hadge."

Silence fell heavy around the table as the ramifications of Isra's words struck them.

"So it would seem the Desert is indeed under attack, and that they are destroying us by turning us even more thoroughly against each other. But why send impostor Ghost after Falcon? We already regard them as enemies. It would have been more effective to send someone we consider an ally, if they are seeking to create further strife."

"More importantly," said a tall, thin man at the far end of the table, stroking his beard agitatedly, "how did they know where to find us? This is not one of our stationary encampments. Only a handful of men knew the precise location of this encampment.

"Treachery," Isra said flatly. "To undermine the Desert Tribes, you must first get inside them.

There is a traitor within Falcon."

Another man, heavyset with a livid scar running through one eye, slammed his hand on the table. "Where is that western friend of yours, Isra? He has not been seen for quite some time."

"Simon would never betray me," Isra said coldly. "If you dare to suggest such a thing again, more blood will be spilled this night."

"Peace," Jabbar said levelly. "In light of recent events their suspicions are fair. We've suffered many losses, nephew."

Isra nodded but said nothing.

"So what do we do now?" A short, thick man asked irritably.

"We head for home," Jabbar said. "If they knew the location of this camp, then we must assume they know the place we call home."

Isra shook his head. "Then what? We wait for them to come? If they know the location of our home, then we're not safe. If Hadge has infiltrated the Tribes, then we're not safe anywhere."

"At least we will be on familiar territory," another man said, as slender as Isra but not as tall.

"What do you suggest we do, Isra?"

"Fight," Isra snapped. "Not run and hide."

The heavyset man rolled his eyes. "Isra, if the Tribes did not excel at hiding, we would have killed one another off long ago. You speak like the child you are."

"Then sit here and talk like the adults you are!" Isra snapped, storming to his feet. "But do not ask me for help when friends come to the oasis and murder you in your sleep."

Jabbar slammed his hands down on the table, spilling the wine from more than a few dishes.

"You will sit, nephew! We have enough problems; I will not tolerate insolence at my table.

Isra, I agree that we should fight - but who are we fighting?"

"Hadge," Isra said flatly. "It does not surprise me, though the methods do."

"Why does it not surprise you?" Jabbar asked, staring intently at his nephew.

"You sent me to Tavamara to learn, and so I did. I try to keep up with what goes on there, through Simon. One year ago Tavamara agreed to talks with Hadge, and invited several representatives to visit Tavamara. The talks did not go well. I do not know how much you know of the politics…"

"Not nearly enough, it would seem. Start at the beginning, nephew."

Isra nodded, suddenly discomfited by the way all of his honored uncle's advisors so intently watched him. "Solleran is the largest continent in the world. To the south is Tavamara, famous throughout the world for its port cities - most notably Yella and Tasca, the largest and most affluent. Tavamara relies heavily on imports, on the tariffs it levies on all who wish to trade here. It exports a great deal of wine, pottery, silks, and spices. Other things. Tavamara is powerful because it has made itself a center for trade. Inland you will not see many foreigners, but along the coast life is…an interesting mix.