Frowned and remained silent.
Their war council was not going well. It was clear there was too much at stake for all involved.
Nevertheless, Omar listened as Reza bin-Latief shared reports about the boy-king of Khorasan. His peculiar disappearances. And the sorry state of his ravaged kingdom.
Many of the caliph’s Royal Guards had died the night of the terrible storm. A large portion of his standing army had either perished or fled Rey. Now Khalid Ibn al-Rashid was calling on his bannermen to help rebuild and refortify the city.
Rey—and its ruler—were vulnerable.
At this revelation, a collective outcry arose from many of the young men present.
“Now is the time. We must strike at the heart of Khorasan!”
“Kill the bastard while he is weak!”
“Why are we sitting here idling about? We should attack the city with all haste!”
Omar’s frown deepened. Still he said nothing. He did not so much as move from his cushioned seat in the corner. Even while he witnessed the clamor rise to a feverish pitch.
It did not behoove Omar or his people to raise objections now. It was best for him to remain unseen and unconcerned. A casual observer of this crisis. Omar did not yet have all the facts. And he needed to know more about the war that would likely transpire at his border.
The war that might put his people at risk.
The request Omar had recently made of Reza had not been met with glad tidings. Only moments before, he’d asked Reza to remove his soldiers from the borders of Omar’s camp. This was to be the last war council in his tent. His last chance to witness the seeds of this discord. He’d already risked too much by assisting them with the provision of horses and weapons.
The Badawi people could not be associated with this uprising. Not yet.
Not when Omar had yet to choose which side to take.
It was true he felt genuine affection for the young sahib Tariq and his uncle Reza bin-Latief. But Aisha continued to warn him that neither of these men was to be trusted. One was lovelorn and reckless. The other hid behind secrets and sellswords.
And when it came to such things, his wife was never wrong.
The outcry around him grew even more uncontrolled, tearing Omar from his musings. The soldiers stamped their feet and waved their arms in the air, demanding to be heard.
Finally Reza stepped into the center of the tent.
At his flank stood two hooded soldiers, muscled and menacing. When a surge of men moved forward, the lackey to Reza’s right barreled into their path, a hand on the hilt of his scimitar.
The scarab brand on the soldier’s forearm flashed into view for an instant.
The mark of the Fida’i.
Omar leaned farther back into his cushions and ran his fingers along his beard.
Hired assassins. In his camp. Aisha was right. Such a thing could not be tolerated beyond tonight. His family. His people. There was simply too much at risk.
“My friends!” Reza raised both hands in the air, awaiting silence. “Though it may seem that now is the best time to attack Rey, it will all be for naught if we fail to secure the border between Khorasan and Parthia first. We must seize control of the lands between the two kingdoms, so that we may have strongholds we can rely on for supplies. I urge you to temper your rage—at least for the time being.” A smile coiled up one side of his face. “Save it for when it is most needed. For when justice will finally be served on the boy who dares to call himself a king.”
The cheers began anew. Frenzied in their fury.
Omar toyed with his mustache and swallowed a sigh.
His list of questions for Reza grew with each passing moment. For it had not escaped Omar’s notice that Reza seemed disturbingly at ease with warmongering. As well as ever-flush with gold. Alas, the identity of Reza’s nameless benefactor continued to elude Omar.
To deepen his suspicions.
The presence of Fida’i in Omar’s camp only made matters worse. As did the recent attack on the Calipha of Khorasan. Especially since Omar had not been granted the courtesy of meting out justice. Not even on his own land.
Omar refused to lose control. The calipha and her family were his guests. These were his lands. His people.
He wanted Reza’s men out of his camp. He wanted to keep those in his charge safe. It pained him greatly that he did not yet know from whom.
As he glanced across the way, Omar saw another face sporting a frown to match his own. Though he’d noticed this face for its troubled silence earlier, it rather surprised him now. For it was a face that failed to conceal its confusion . . . and the many questions lurking beneath.
The frowning boy stood in a place of esteem on Reza’s far right. He did not partake in the angry revelry. He did not say a word. Nor did he seem pleased with the news that his enemy’s position had weakened.
When Omar leaned forward to study the tang in the air between the boy and his uncle, he sensed brewing consternation. A strange uncertainty.