Chapter 7: Two Fronts

The wagon jolted hard over a rut in the road, and Faris pressed himself flatter against the sacks of grain packed around him, the smell of dust and old burlap thick enough to taste. Beside him, Salim held perfectly still, breathing shallow and controlled, the way men trained to wait for violence learned to breathe.

Concealing themselves inside the wagon had been necessary only to pass the outer checkpoints without revealing their faces to guards who might recognize them. Hayat's banners carried the convoy through without a single challenge — her father's political standing with Banu Azab ran deep enough that the guards waved the wagons through with barely a glance. Faris hated relying on it, hated owing anything to Gaddar's name even secondhand, but hatred solved nothing out here. Only results did.

Once the wagon rolled to its final stop inside the camp, they slipped free under cover of deep shadow and moved directly into the spacious guest pavilion reserved for Hayat, her family, and the entourage of Banu Haman. Here, sheltered within the encampment, they could shed their concealment and blend in as ordinary merchants and servants belonging to Hayat's caravan. It gave them a secure base to move unremarked throughout the camp for the three or four days they needed.

"My Amir," Salim whispered as soon as the thick entrance flap fell shut behind them. "What is the plan?"

Faris crouched low, turning the shape of the problem over once more. "This wasn't random. Whoever took her carries a real grievance against our line — that kind of patience, that kind of planning doesn't come from a common raider. It comes from someone with rank. Someone who feels the insult of our blood personally." He met Salim's eyes. "Two men fit that measure here. Seyyid Muraj himself, or his son, Jahim."

"Which do you take?"

"Muraj's pavilion. You take Jahim's quarters — his slave tents and whatever harem he keeps. Move quiet. We meet back here before first light."

Salim nodded once and vanished back into the night.

Faris moved through Muraj's section of the camp like a shadow given purpose, slipping past outer sentries with the patience of a man trained in stillness. The tents reserved for the Seyyid's concubines and slaves sprawled far wider than Faris had expected — far wider than any real shortage of women in these lands should have permitted. Greed dressed up as status, he thought bitterly. In a desert where ordinary men struggled to find even a single wife, this ruler hoarded women by the dozen simply to flex his power.

He searched each tent with ruthless efficiency, checking face after sleeping face in the dim lamplight, his heart hammering harder with every tent that didn't hold her.

She wasn't there.

He allowed himself one slow breath of relief even through the fresh frustration. *Alhamdulillah, at least not here, not under this man's hand.* But relief and progress were not the same thing, and he still had no solid lead.

Across the camp, Salim moved through Jahim's slave quarters and harem with the same grim thoroughness, checking every tent reserved for captives and servants.

Nothing there either.

Latifa woke deep in the night to the baby's insistent kicking against her ribs, sharp enough to pull her fully from sleep. She lay still a moment, one hand pressed flat over her stomach, and felt something else entirely — a strange, sudden tightness in her chest, an inexplicable certainty that pulled at her like a hand reaching across distance.

*Faris.*

She sat up slowly in the dark, heart racing, scanning the quiet tent as though he might materialize out of the shadows. *Could he truly be close? No. That's madness, Latifa. Grief playing tricks on an exhausted mind, nothing more.* She shook her head hard, forcing the thought back down.

She rose and poured water from the clay pitcher beside her bed, drinking slowly. This was no cramped, filthy slave barrack. Jahim had intentionally placed her in an isolated, plush guest tent, keeping her separate from the common captives to "prepare" her for his own design.

Looking around at the soft mattress, the clean folded robes, and the untouched tray of food, she felt a bitter irony. After months of dirt and raw hands, this tent felt like luxury — yet it reminded her how completely she had once taken such basic comforts for granted back on Earth. She thought of every ordinary morning she had rushed through without gratitude, every simple blessing she had never once thanked God for because it had never been stripped away.

*True wealth isn't silk,* she thought, settling back against the pillows, her hand resting over the child inside her. *It's a free soul, safe under God's protection. I had that once without even knowing its name.* She closed her eyes and prayed for the strength to endure until she had it again.

Faris and Salim slipped back into the Banu Haman guest tent within minutes of each other, dust-streaked and breathing hard.

"What news?" Faris asked, though Salim's face already gave the answer.

"Nothing, my Amir. No trace of Amira Latifa anywhere among Jahim's slaves or concubines."

A low curse escaped Faris. "Where else, then? Where do we look?" He dragged a hand down his face. "Tawakkul. We place our trust in Allah, because I have run out of ideas."

And yet, sitting there in the dark, something refused to let him accept defeat. A conviction settled into his chest, quiet but absolute.

"We stay," he said finally. "Something tells me she's here in this camp. Changing into the caravan's robes will let us search during the day without raising alarm. We stay."

Salim nodded without question. They began quietly preparing for a longer stay than either had planned.

Far to the east, Yahya's party crested the final ridge overlooking Banu Tayf's lands, the great valley settlement spread out below in the pale morning light.

Yahya thought of his grandfather — a man of unyielding justice. In their youth, he and Muhtadi’s grandfather had stood shoulder to shoulder as staunch allies, until an absurd misunderstanding drove them apart, turning brothers-in-arms into blood enemies for the rest of their days. Absurd how pride could twist the friendship of youth into a bitter feud over events neither side fully remembered anymore.

"Raise our banners," Yahya commanded.

The great white standard rose into the wind, gold thread catching the early light, the star crest unmistakable from afar.

A sentry's cry carried across the valley: "Banu Rayyan! Our blood enemies approach!" War drums began their deep thunder, and the camp below erupted into motion — guards snatching up spears and common folk gathering at the settlement's edge.

Inside the council tent, Seyyid Muhtadi rose at the first drumbeat, broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed.

"My Seyyid," an advisor urged, "let others ride out to meet them. Don't risk yourself."

Muhtadi let out a short laugh. "What manner of Seyyid hides behind his men at the first sign of trouble? Prepare my varak. We ride out."

The two parties met on open ground between the ridges, Yahya sitting tall on his mount, praying silently that no blood would be spilled today.

Muhtadi approached first, inclining his head with exact traditional measure. "Assalamu alaikum. What brings Banu Rayyan to my gates?"

"Wa alaikum assalam." Yahya kept his voice level. "I come to ask one thing of you, Muhtadi. Our clans carry old blood between them, but I know your character well enough to trust you with honesty." He paused. "First — my sincere condolences on the passing of your father, Seyyid Aslan."

Muhtadi's jaw tightened briefly, acknowledging the respect with a solemn nod.

"I know there are men in your camp who hunger for war," Yahya continued. "I have no wish to spill innocent blood. So I ask plainly: is my brother's wife held on your lands? She was taken by raiders months ago, and we have found no trace of her.

Muhtadi considered that. "Do you accuse my people of taking her directly, or of buying her from raiders?"

"Perhaps a bit of both," Yahya admitted. "I know old grudges against my bloodline haven't fully died here."

Muhtadi broke into a booming laugh that startled nearby riders. "Bold, Yahya! Genuinely bold, asking me to my face rather than sneaking through my camp like a thief in the night." His expression softened. "For that honesty, you have my respect, and my word before Allah — I will search every corner of my lands myself. I would never deceive a descendant of the Prophet, peace be upon him, whatever blood sits between our houses."

Yahya inclined his head, relief settling in his chest. Whatever feud history had carved, the sacred weight his lineage carried in honoring Prophet Yahya, peace be upon him, still commanded respect here.

The two Seyyids turned their mounts together, riding side by side toward the settlement under a newly forged truce as the war drums slowly fell silent.