Chapter 11

Ten guards traveled with Samariyosin’s caravan, huge and imposing men armed with enough swords and bows to supply a detachment of the Amarian army.

And, yet, as Jesse, Silas, Rae, and Samariyosin himself crouched by a small fire at the edge of the camp, no guards protected them from any desert bandits who might ambush them.

As soon as Jesse turned around and scanned the camp, he knew why. Several dark figures were clustered around the tent that held the trading goods. Ah. I suppose that means we’re not worth as much as spices and woven cloth.

It was not a comforting thought, especially since night had fallen, and Samariyosin had told them that Nalatid, the oasis town nearby, was known as a haven for rogues and thieves.

“Nalatid is the largest oasis in the Abaktan Desert, and the closest to the Da’armon border,” Samariyosin said, throwing more chips on the fire. He had explained earlier that they collected the dung from their camels, dried it, and used it in place of firewood, which was scarce in the desert. “We’ll be at the Da’armon capital by tomorrow afternoon.”

After another day of travel through the desert, that was welcome news. Jesse wasn’t quite as sore as he had been the first night. Riding on a camel was much easier than walking, even if the padded saddle wasn’t quite enough to make the bumpy journey comfortable.

“Thank you for letting us travel with your caravan,” Silas said politely, as one of Samariyosin’s servants handed him a bowl of stew.

“It was nothing,” Samariyosin said dismissively, waving away the thanks with a flutter of his long-sleeved robe.

That, at least, was true. Jesse was fairly sure that Samariyosin would have left them standing there if Rae hadn’t mentioned the silver coins she carried, coins she would give to someone who would guide them to Da’armos. Samariyosin had been only too willing to volunteer.

The servant, one of many traveling with Samariyosin’s caravan, gave Jesse his bowl. It was still hot, and Jesse balanced it on the edge of his fingertips. That, at least, gave him an excuse not to start eating yet. In the dark, Jesse couldn’t identify what was in it. He decided to let Silas or Rae take the first sip.

Rae seemed to have other things on her mind. “How is it that you speak Amarian and Da’armon?” she asked Samariyosin.

“Ah,” Samariyosin said, nodding. “An excellent question. I am, as you would say, a half-breed. My father was a trader also, born in the capital of Da’armos. He met my mother, one of your own kind, on one of his journeys. This was before the War of Palms, of course, when such marriages were not forbidden. They taught me both languages, both sets of customs.”

He tilted his head back and took a gulp of soup. Jesse noticed that Silas did the same, although with a bit more caution. When he didn’t wince, spit into the fire, or drop dead, Jesse picked up his own bowl, finally realizing how hungry he really was.

Jesse tried hard not to think about the kaltharas while he ate the stew. He also tried not to think of the fuel that was used in the fire it had been cooked over. With those things out of his mind, the stew was actually quite good. A little spicy, maybe, but filling. And, more importantly, there’s nothing crunchy in it.

Silas set his bowl down and looked intently at Samariyosin from across the fire. “I have heard that some members of the movement we in Amarias call the Rebellion, cross the border of Da’armos for safety,” he said. “Is this true?”

Samariyosin laughed. “I can assure you that it is not. No citizen of Amarias is welcome in Da’armos. If any of the Rebellion sought shelter here, they would no doubt be killed instantly.”

“Good,” Silas said with satisfaction. “It’s no more than they deserve.”

“Why do you hate them so much?” Rae asked him, sipping some of her own soup. “What they do is foolish, but these are desperate times. Many are without food, and maybe they feel like they have nowhere else to turn.”

“I have no use for lawlessness,” Silas snapped, refusing to look at her. “They are nothing more than common criminals.”

Rae just shrugged. “At least they’re taking some sort of action rather than letting their families starve. The king clearly isn’t looking out for us. I say it’s every person for himself.”

This earned her a cutting glare from Silas. “Yes,” he said coldly. “I forgot you are a mercenary, selling your loyalty to the highest bidder.”

For a moment, there was silence around the fire. Then Samariyosin, clearly uncomfortable, changed the subject. “Now,” he said, setting his bowl down by the fire to keep it warm, “I have a question for you. The Sheik does not grant audiences lightly. How is it that three young people wish to speak to the ruler of the land?”

Jesse glanced at Silas, who gave a strong shake of his head. Apparently Rae wasn’t watching, because before Silas could cut her off, she answered Samariyosin’s question with a question of her own. “What can you tell us about the Scorpion’s Jewel?”

In the firelight, Jesse could see confusion flicker across the old man’s face. Then he grinned. “Ah, you mean the obidhala,” he said. “I forgot the name given it by foreigners.”

Since Silas seemed to be too busy glaring at Rae to speak up, Jesse asked, “Is it true that it is the greatest treasure of Da’armos?”

“Yes. Given by the gods, or so it is said. It comes with a powerful curse for any who would try to harm the king or his people.”

Wonderful. Although Jesse did not believe the stories about the obidhala, as Samariyosin called it, he also knew the treasure would be well-guarded. Which is not good for us.

“Why do you ask?” Samariyosin said casually, draining the last of his stew. He wiped his mouth on the corner of his headdress.

Silas didn’t hesitate. “We have heard it has some power to curse the king of our country. King Selen sent us to investigate these rumors.”

“Of course.” Samariyosin nodded. Somehow, Jesse knew he didn’t believe them, but he seemed content to accept their false answer. “I can assure you, though, that the obidhala is harmless. The curse is mere legend. How else would you explain Da’armos’ defeat in the War of Palms?”

“Just the same,” Rae said, “we will speak to the Sheik about it.”

Before Samariyosin could ask any further questions, one of the armed guards hurried up to him. He said something to the merchant in Da’armon.

“Amarian Patrol members,” Samariyosin muttered under his breath, spitting contemptuously in the sand. “They ask for my papers every time I pass through a town. That is the problem with being a half-breed: you are not fully trusted by either side.”

He stood slowly and edged away from the fire, bowing slightly to them. “You will have to excuse me, young guests. I will be back with you soon.”

Jesse watched him as he made his way to the other side of the camp, where three men were waiting in the shadows beyond the main tent.

“Why did you ask him about the Scorpion’s Jewel?” Silas demanded, turning to Rae. “I thought we had agreed never to speak of our mission.”

“How do you expect us to accomplish our mission if we don’t know anything about the territory we’re entering or the object we need to bring back?” Rae took one last sip of soup and delicately wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “I was just gathering information.”

Will they ever stop bickering? Jesse guessed the answer was no, so he changed the subject. “What do you think of our host?”

Silas shook his head hard. “I can’t wait to be rid of him. He doesn’t seem trustworthy. No merchant could become this rich by honest means.”

Rae shrugged. “Dishonest or not, he knows the way to Da’armos. And it will be useful to have a translator with us when we get there.”

“And what of the Scorpion’s Jewel?” Silas asked. “Do you have any plan to secure this obidhala that he spoke of?”

“No,” Rae admitted. “Do you?”

“I hoped we would be able to plan on the journey tomorrow. Only Samariyosin seems to speak Amarian, and he will be at the head of the caravan. It may be that….”

“Shh,” Rae hissed, jerking her head toward the tents, “he’s coming back.”

Samariyosin was indeed scurrying his way across the sand. As he came back into the firelight, Jesse noticed how old and tired he looked. “It is late,” Samariyosin said, as if reading Jesse’s mind. “I am sure you must be weary from your journey.”

Rae nodded and stood, brushing the sand from her tunic. “It’s been a long day.”

“I could use some rest,” Silas agreed.

Jesse stayed where he was. He was used to staying up late, serving guests at the inn. Though he was tired, he was excited too, and a bit frightened, neither of which would be good for going to sleep. So close to Da’armos. And then what?

“I’ve had three more tents prepared already.” Samariyosin nodded and clapped his hands twice, and two of the light-robed servants seemed to appear out of the darkness at his side. He rattled off a string of commands, and each one escorted Rae and Silas away. Jesse noticed they were taken in opposite directions, and he wondered if that had been part of Samariyosin’s instructions.

Jesse shook his head. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to stay up a little while longer.” Though they were still in Amarias, there was no curfew in the desert. Jesse enjoyed being out under the stars, especially since night was the only endurable part of the day, when the sun did not burn at his back.

“Your two friends seem to be more inclined to talk than you,” Samariyosin said. “I don’t even know your name.”

“My name is Jesse,” he said.

“Ah,” Samariyosin said. “What does it mean?”

Jesse blinked. “Nothing. Nothing that I know of, at least.”

“Ah. I forgot. You are an Amarian,” Samariyosin said.

Jesse was not quite sure what that meant, and it must have showed on his face. “Here in Da’armos, names have great meaning,” Samariyosin explained. “Mine means, ‘He who has no fear of the night terrors.’”

“Samariyosin,” Jesse said thoughtfully. “It’s a long name, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “All of my people have long names.”

“Do you mind if I call you Sam?”

Samariyosin frowned, and Jesse was afraid he had offended him. “Sam has no meaning in Da’armon.”

“How about Samar, then?” Jesse tried. “I would think that ‘He who has no fear’ is far more impressive. And much easier to pronounce.”

Samariyosin’s leathery face broke into a grin. “That it is, young Jesse. You may call me Samar if you like.”

Tilting his head back, Jesse looked up at the stars. Once again, Jesse was amazed at their beauty. “You could never count them all,” he mumbled to himself.

“Marakondanset,” Samar said, offhandedly. “It was my father’s name, meaning, ‘Servant of the Numberer of the stars.’ That is one of the titles the people of Da’armos give their god of justice and the afterlife.”

Justice. The word made Jesse think of Parvel. “Do you believe in God, Samar?”

“I have never given it much thought,” Samar said, after thinking for a few seconds. He too looked up at the stars. “Perhaps there is a Being of sorts who made all of it. How else would you explain the stars?”

Jesse just grunted. It was not what he wanted to hear.

“But,” Samar added, “in all my years, I have never seen evidence of any sort of personal God, one who listens.” He paused, threw more chips on the fire. “Then again, I have never made any attempt to find one either. Never saw the need.”

Then perhaps that is why you’ve never heard Him. Jesse shook his head to rid it of Parvel’s words. He wanted to forget the whole business, but everywhere he turned, it seemed, something would remind him of Parvel and his God.

They fell back into a comfortable silence. Looking at Samar, Jesse remembered all the guests at his uncle’s inn. The merchants and traders especially, whether they traveled by land or sea, had the look that Jesse saw in Samar’s face now. It was the lonely look of someone who has no one to talk to. Those were the people, Jesse knew, who told the best stories of all.

“Samar,” Jesse began, “traveling around the desert with a caravan this large, you must have encountered some trouble in your days.”

“Of course,” Samar said, a deep laugh bubbling up like water from the oasis. “Of course I have, young Jesse.” Then he stared into the fire, lost in his memories. “But surely you don’t wish to hear an old man babble.”

In that moment, instead of a blustering man with a dozen servants at his command and a caravan of fine goods, Jesse saw a lonely old man with no family and no close friends. “I do,” he said simply.

Samar’s deep-set eyes seemed to brighten, and he leaned back in the sand. “I remember it as if it was yesterday, the day the Amarian soldiers thought I was a spy for Da’armos….”

An hour later, Jesse crept to his tent, a small linen cloth pegged to the ground near the edge of the oasis, his mind full of tales of betrayal, pursuit, and adventure. He must have fallen asleep as soon as he lay on the mat, because the next thing he remembered was someone shaking him. He almost cried out, then stopped himself.

“Jesse,” an urgent voice whispered. “You must get up at once.”

Samar. But it can’t be morning yet, can it?

The old man crouched above him, and he was clearly agitated for some reason. He splashed some cold water on Jesse’s face, making him gasp slightly. “Make haste,” he whispered again. “Grab your belongings. You and your friends must leave here at once.”

“What?” Jesse muttered sleepily. It was an easy thing to gather his possessions: they were right where he had laid them before falling asleep. He took his walking stick, leaning against the side of the tent. “Why? What’s happening?”

Samar grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the tent. “Not a word, not a sound,” he said. “The camels are packed and waiting, but we must hurry.”

“Stop,” Jesse commanded in a whisper, and Samar did, staring back at him with wide, frightened eyes. “Please, Samar, I need to know what is happening.”

“I could not do it,” Samar whispered hoarsely. “Though it may cost me my life, I could not do it.”

“Do what?”

Samar took a deep breath, which seemed to calm him down some. “The Patrol members who came earlier…they are assassins who are coming to kill you. I do not know why. I do not know what you have done. All they asked is that I let it happen. But I could not do it.”

There would be time for more explanation later. “I’ll wake Rae,” Jesse said. “You get Silas.” Jesse practically ran to Rae’s tent. “Rae!” he hissed. “It’s Jesse.”

“Be grateful that you identified yourself,” Rae growled from the dark. “I nearly stabbed you.”

That made Jesse take a step back. “Rae, our lives are in danger. Get up, grab your things, and follow me.”

Outside the tent, Samar was waiting with Silas. “Come,” Samar said, motioning them forward. He carried a wicker basket lashed to his back, the kind that hung from the saddles of the camels, and a large water skin. “We must go on foot now.”

“Where are we going?” Jesse asked.

“No more questions,” Samar insisted. “Just follow.” He shoved a thick palm branch at Silas. “You—wipe out our tracks as we walk. I fear the patrol members are already nearby, but if they are not, we will not leave them a trail.”

Jesse remembered that trick from one of Samar’s stories. But I never thought I’d be in one of them.

“Do not look back, and move silently,” Samar advised them. “Riangen da’ede. ‘Even the sand dunes have eyes.’”

Someone is watching us? But why?

Old as he was, fear had apparently made Samar quicker than his years. He hurried through the camp and over the hills near the oasis. Even with the use of his walking stick, it was hard for Jesse to keep his pace.

The moon on the white sand made it easy for Jesse to see where he was going. Which means it will be equally easy for anyone to see us. The thought made him hurry to the topof the first of the hills.

“The Patrol did not know of the smugglers’ pits when I came last year,” Samar said, leading the way. “Let us hope that they have not learned of them since then.”

Even though Samar had warned him several times not to turn back, Jesse took one last look at the camp from the top of the hill.

There, three men with swords hacked their way into his tent.