Ruha backed away from the exit, then took her kuerabiche and went to the back side of the tent. She lifted a wall and pushed the bag outside, then started to squirm out herself.

A pair of dogs started barking on the far side of camp. Cursing the beasts, Ruha left the bag outside and crawled back into the tent. The dogs would awaken every other animal in camp, which would make it much more difficult for her to take a camel without causing a general tumult. Even with the animals alert, the widow could use her magic to move about undetected. Unfortunately, any camel she tried to take would be startled by her silent appearance from the shadows and bellow an alarm. It would be better to wait for the dogs to quiet down, then try again.

The dogs did not quiet. More joined the chorus, and then the camels began to bray. Soon the voices of sleepy men joined the uproar. Vexed by her bad luck, Ruha wrapped her cloak around her shoulders and waited for the men to put to rest whatever problem it was that had awakened the whole camp. When the tumult only grew worse, Ruha went outside to see the cause.

The first thing she saw was a stern-faced Nata striding purposefully toward her khreima. Behind him, in the center of the camp, her father and two dozen warriors stood gathered in a circle. They were all shouting at each other in puzzled, shocked voices.

As Nata approached, he said, "You'd better come with me, witch."

Ruha frowned in concern. "What's wrong? Is Kadumi hurt?"

The burly warrior shook his head, but before he could answer, a youthful warrior appeared from the other side of her tent. He was carrying the kuerabiche Ruha had packed earlier that night. "I found this behind the witch's tent, Father."

Nata took the shoulder bag from his son, then threw it back inside her khreima. "You won't be going anywhere tonight, Ruha. Come with me."

Frowning in confusion, Ruha followed the burly warrior back to the camp. Nata pushed through the jabbering men and moon-eyed children, keeping the widow close behind him. When they stopped moving, what Ruha saw made her gasp.

Al'Aif and her father stood in center of the crowd, holding torches. Al'Aif was watching her, but her father was staring at the lifeless and naked body of Zarud. The Zhentarim agent lay spread-eagled on the ground, as if someone had carried his corpse to the center of the camp and dropped him there to be inspected. The dead man had the sinewy build of a warrior, and his torso was blanketed with old scars. Ruha could scarcely believe a man could be wounded so many times and survive.

The most noticeable thing about the Zhentarim was the gaping gash below his jawline. Somebody had slit his throat from ear to ear, apparently with great relish. The wound was both deep and unnecessarily lengthy, and had left his body covered with blood from the shoulders to the hips. Ruha thought immediately of Lander, for he was clearly an enemy of the Black Robes.

She rejected the idea as quickly as it came to her. The last time she had seen the stranger, he had barely been able to walk, much less slit a healthy man's throat. She thought of Al'Aif next, wondering if he had believed murdering Zarud would convince the sheikh to change his mind about sending hostages to the Zhentarim.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a woman's curious voice. "How come he's not dressed?"

The Bedine removed their clothes for only one purpose. Since the Zhentarim had not brought any wives with him, his nakedness seemed peculiar to the tribesmen.

"Perhaps Ruha knows," suggested an aged warrior with a mouthful of rotten teeth. "What better way to catch a man off-guard?"

A flutter of murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"I can think of a dozen," she retorted, glaring at the old man. "Any one of which I might use to silence your lecherous tongue."

The crowd snickered openly at the widow's retort, and the old man flushed with embarrassment. He rudely brushed his nose at Ruha, then pushed his way out of the assembly.

As the man left, Al'Aif spoke. "If Ruha did this, she has performed us a great service."

Considering that she suspected Al'Aif of being the murderer, the accusation both astonished and angered Ruha. She stopped short of accusing the scarred warrior openly, however, for she knew it would work against her. Given a choice of believing her or Al'Aif, the crowd would place its faith in the warrior.

Nata spoke next. "When we went to fetch Ruha, my son found a packed kuerabiche behind her tent."

A wave of speculation rolled through the crowd. The widow realized that, aside from herself, the only one who did not believe she had killed Zarud was the real murderer.

The sheikh shifted his gaze to Ruha and stared at her in dismay for several seconds. Finally he said, "Do you know what you have done, Daughter?"

"She has saved us," Al'Aif interrupted. "Now there is no question of placating the Zhentarim. We must fight."

The sheikh whirled on Al'Aif. "We're out-manned thirty-to-one, you idiot!" he snarled. He looked back to Ruha, his ancient eyes welling with tears. "Our only hope is pay the blood price and hope the Zhentarim will accept it."

The pronouncement struck Ruha like a club. Her knees buckled, then she felt Nata's big hands beneath her arms. The burly warrior held her up while she spoke. "Father, you mustn't do this," she gasped. "I didn't murder your guest."

The old man dropped his gaze back to the corpse. "If you didn't kill the Zhentarim, who did?"

Ruha looked in Al'Aif's direction, but before she could speak, Kadumi stepped forward and threw his jambiya at the sheikh's feet. "There is the weapon that cut Zarud's throat," he declared.

"Kadumi's lying," Ruha said, pulling free of Nata's supporting hands. "He's just trying to protect me. The Zhentarim's blood is on neither of our jambiyas."

The old man picked up the youth's dagger. "The boy has admitted the crime. You were caught about to sneak from camp. What can you say to make me believe that one of you did not do this?"

It was Al'Aif who answered. "I say it doesn't matter who killed Zarud, because we owe the Zhentarim no blood price. They are our enemies, not our allies!"

"If you were sheikh, Al'Aif, we would be dead in two days," Ruha's father retorted. "Fighting is not always the best solution."

"Is paying the blood price with the life of your daughter or an innocent boy a braver solution?" demanded Al'Aif.

"What are you saying?" yelled the sheikh. When Al'Aif did not respond, the old man shoved the warrior, knocking him back into the crowd. "Do you call me a coward?"

As he regained his balance, the scarred Mtairi grabbed for his jambiya. In the same instant, Nata flashed past Ruha to stand before the sheikh, his hand on the hilt of his own weapon. As the two warriors glared at each other, the crowd backed away in tense silence, scarcely daring to breath lest they touch off a fight that would not stop short of death.

It was the sheikh who spoke next. Stepping between the two warriors, he said, "No matter what you said, that was wrong of me, Al'Aif. If we start fighting each other, the Zhentarim have taken us already. Nata, take Kadumi and Ruha to her tent. We shall consider this matter again in the morning."

When neither Al'Aif or Nata moved to obey, Ruha's father snapped, "I have spoken!"

Reluctantly the warriors relaxed, and the sheikh turned to go. As the crowd parted to let him pass, a strange man moved from the edge of the gathering. He wore a yellow aba with a ragged hole in its breast, and a wide strip had been cut off the hem to make the sling in which the man now carried his right arm. In contrast to his dusty clothes, his face and hands were freshly washed, and he appeared remarkably alert for someone who had so recently suffered a serious wound.