Sandstorm (5 page)

"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."