He Who Speaks for the Sun

"Is Celestia just?"

"Heavens, no! What would become of us if she were?"
—Overheard Conversation in the Canterlot Poetry Society

Chapter 14: He Shall Learn Their Ways

Blueblood wasn’t sure how long he had slept. He didn’t sleep well, that was for sure. As the first rays of sunlight crept over the horizon and set the sand alight in a burning corona of red and gold, he rolled to his hooves and shook the dust and grit from his coat. He missed his bathtub. He missed his coat moisturizers and his lotions and his exfoliation brushes. Shafts of red sunlight glinted off the diadems in his crown, casting prismatic shadows at his hooves. Trixie was still snoring softly at his side, black and blue and yellow bruises blossoming on her coat.

He checked his battle wounds carefully. They had applied healing salves to his foreleg and the slash on his face, both of which seemed to be healing well enough. He could feel an ugly scab forming on his cheek, and his foreleg was still numb. He glanced beneath the bandages and regretted his decision. It was healing, but not nicely. It was an ugly sight, and he quickly snapped the bandages back. He still couldn’t put his weight on his bad hoof. Shocks of violent nausea racked his guts anytime he tried.

Chicory was already awake in the valley below. She looked like she hadn't slept a wink and she was tracing lines on an unfolded map with bloodshot eyes. As Blueblood approached, she glanced up briefly, quickly returning to her work.

Blueblood shuffled as he walked, every step uncertain. How was he supposed to talk to her now? They didn’t sell apology cards for threatening to kill someone’s son. He cleared his throat as he stood a little ways off, trying to force the conversation naturally. She didn’t acknowledge him.

He sat on the sand beside her, looking over her shoulder at the map. He pursed his lips and tried to think of what to say. He supposed there was only one thing he could start with.

“Chicory, I’m sorry.” He said quietly, as if speaking too harshly would breathe the silent shroud.

“I know you are.” Chicory’s voice was once again monotone and implacable. “That doesn’t change what you did.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” Blueblood pled, his hooves on the map.

“Didn’t you?” She arched an eyebrow. “Were there no other options? Was there no midpoint in all your potential contingencies between dying to mercenaries and taking my son hostage?”

“I didn’t have time to think of anything better!”

“So your first instinct was to put my child in danger?!”

“We couldn’t have fought our way through them. There was nothing else we could—”

“You didn’t let us try!” Chicory snapped, her eyes shimmering like the edgeshine of a knife. “We outnumbered them, yet the second you saw that we were up against Equestrian soldiers, you gave up!”

“They’re trained mercenaries, Chicory!” Blueblood’s voice rose in turn. “They’ve been to war in Zebrica once already! We didn’t stand a chance!”

“And how do you know? One volley was all it took for you to throw in the towel!”

“Because after one volley your army dissolved! They turned tail and ran!”

“And even after our losses, they were outnumbered!” Chicory growled.

“I couldn’t let you throw your lives away!”

“They’re not your lives to command!”

They both went silent, sitting beside each other as the sun crested over the dunes and bludgeoned them with heat. Blueblood glanced over to Cedar, who was sleeping soundly beneath one of the rocky outcrops, covered in a discarded robe he was using as a blanket.

“I’m sorry.” Chicory sighed, rubbing her sore eyes. “I don’t mean to take this all out on you.”

“I’m sorry too.” Blueblood fidgeted with his mane. “Last night I panicked. All I could see was us ending up shot to death by mercenaries, so I acted out of fear. Like I said, I didn’t have time to think. I just did the first thing that I thought had a chance of getting us out alive.”

“You had good intentions.” She folded the map and slipped it back into her pocket. “And we’re still alive, thanks to you.” She touched his hoof and pressed down hard enough to make him gasp. "But never threaten Cedar again. Understand?"

"Understood." Blueblood winced as she released his tender hoof.

The rest of the camp was starting to stir. Horses made ablutions to the rising sun while a few jackals set a small fire with a bit of kindling and whispered their own prayers. Trixie shambled down the dune a few moments later, her lips chapped and her throat parched. She drank a sip of water from a tin cup one of the jackals offered her, but no more.

“Well, good morning.” Trixie croaked as she sat beside Blueblood. “Did you decide yet? Stay or go?”

“We’re staying,” Blueblood said simply. “I can’t go back to Equestria yet. Not until my work here is done.”

She squeezed his hoof and smiled. "Our work."

“But,” Blueblood went on, glancing around the clearing. “We’re not equipped to fight Fairweather in the slightest.”

“We’re not even equipped to survive the night.” Chicory gave a bitter laugh. “We left the city in such a rush that no one had time to gather supplies. We’re low on water, low on food, and don’t have much more than the clothes on our backs.”

“Plus, we managed to get a headstart on Fairweather, but he’s bound to come after us sooner or later. The more distance we put between us and Sutaf the better.” Blueblood could still see the city on the horizon, its warded walls seeming to mock him. “Do you have a plan?”

Chicory fanned herself with the folded map. “I have a map, but it's about ten years out of date. Whether or not the oases listed on it are still there is anyone’s guess.”

“We need a guide.” Trixie mused. “Someone who knows the desert like the back of their hoof.”

“Do we have someone like that?” Blueblood glanced to Chicory, who shrugged.

“Let’s find out.” Chicory rose from her seat, brushed the dust from her legs, and took a deep breath. “Fall in!”

Horses and jackals and a single camel dropped what they were doing, assembling in a line at the base of the wadi. They stood at what Blueblood assumed was supposed to be attention, but it was hard to tell.

Chicory, however, looked every inch the general she fancied herself as. She walked with a crispness to her gait that would have made any drill instructor proud and carried herself with the sort of confidence that would make an Equestrian commander blush.

“Roll call,” Chicory cried out, her voice echoing up and down the valley as she paced in front of her troops. “State your name and your occupation.”

As they went down the line, Blueblood’s hopes dimmed. There were a few with useful skills of course, one jackal by the name of Seafoam was a part-time scribe, Crocus, of course, was a curist, and one of the horses, Salt, had been a gunsmith before Fairweather had cornered the market. But in between those were plenty that didn’t bring anything to the table. Factory workers, clerks, florists, and coach drivers were distinctly nonessential in the midst of the desert. That left the lone camel in their midst.

“I am Shoresh.” His voice was thickly accented. “I am a caravan merchant by trade.”

“Shoresh,” Blueblood turned the name over on his tongue. “Is that your true name?”

“No. It’s a Camish word. It means ‘roots’.”

“I’ll admit, I’m unfamiliar with Camel culture.” Blueblood furrowed his brow. “You said you’re a merchant, right?”

“For generations, Camel tribes have traveled the wastes and traded between the cities of Sarabia.” Shoresh slid out of the stiff attention he had held and into a much more casual pose. “Many of us still do. I was one of them before I settled down in Sutaf.”

“Can you lead us to your caravan?” Chicory asked.

“I can. They departed from Sutaf only two days ago. We can catch them, but we’ll need to make good time.” He smacked his large lips and spat into the sand. “Though they are not likely to assist us beyond hospitality. My tribe has little interest in the cities of Sarabia, aside from being allowed to trade with them. To involve themselves in a revolution would be…” He paused for a moment as if pondering the words. “They do not think it is worth their time.”

“Not worth their time?” Blueblood raised an eyebrow. “Elaborate.”

Shoresh stretched and yawned. “We make our home in the dunes. Those of us who live in the cities are…” He pursed his lips. “Somewhat frowned upon.” He arched his back until it popped and went on. "There's much bad blood between camels and the Caliph. We were forced into the union at gunpoint only two generations ago, and my people have long memories."

“Well, Camish hospitality sounds better than dying in the desert.” Trixie shrugged. “Even if they just give us a place to spend the night, that’s better than nothing.”

Chicory reached out with her magic, levitating a still-sleeping Cedar onto her back. “I agree. It’s not much to go on, but it's something.”

“We’ll have to travel all day.” Shoresh gathered up his meager supplies and slung them across his hump. “Possibly through the night as well. Are you sure you’re up to it?”

“We’ll make do.” Blueblood accepted a small sip of water from Crocus, who stopped to change his bandages and apply another round of tranqwort and sangthistle paste. “Let’s move.”

As they began their winding trek across the desert, Blueblood increased his speed and tried to match Shoresh’s pace. The camel cast a sidelong glance at the pony. “Do you need something?”

“Camish shares some similarities with Sarabic, doesn’t it?” Blueblood questioned.

“Some. Not many.”

“While we walk, can you teach me?”

The camel made a sickening noise in his throat that Blueblood was forced to assume was stifled laughter. “You want to learn Camish in a single day?”

“I’m a fast learner.”

*****

Trixie felt like she was wilting. She had thought she had gotten accustomed to the heat of Saddle Arabia, but as it turned out, she had gotten accustomed to that heat with air conditioning. Her mane was withering, her back was slick with sweat, and her lips were parched. As they crested another dune and gazed out on a veritable ocean of sand stretching ahead, Trixie felt the crushing weight of her choice to stay.

The air ahead of her shimmered with ambient warmth. Her tongue felt like shag carpet. Her eyelids fluttered and her steps staggered from side to side. She had to lean against one of the jackals for support, and they seemed barely able to hold her. The only one who seemed to be thriving in this new, bleak environment, aside from Shoresh, was Cedar.

The little colt galloped up ahead of the group, standing atop a rocky outcrop and staring ahead like a lookout. Satisfied that there was nothing of interest aside from more sand, he ran back down and bounced around Chicory for a few moments before dashing off to pester Trixie.

“Miss Briar!” He skidded to a stop, kicking up clouds of dust. “Did you hear we’re going to meet a bunch of camels?”

“I did.” Trixie panted, squinting as salty perspiration dripped into her eyes.

“Did you know that camels don't actually store water in their humps?” He cocked his head.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, they actually store food in them!” Cedar beamed proudly as he danced around her. “Do you think we’re gonna stop for lunch soon? Or is everyone just gonna keep walking all day? There’s not much food out here, so I hope everyone packed a lunch. Whenever I would go to school, they would send me with a thermos of soup, but since we left and didn’t have time to pack, I couldn’t grab my thermos. Plus hot soup probably wouldn’t be very fun to eat out here when it's so hot. But maybe you could have cold soup? I heard in Equestria there are some soups that ponies eat cold. I always thought that sounded yucky, but maybe on a really hot day it would be pretty good…”

The emir continued to talk her ear off as she withered under the boiling sun. None of their tiny army seemed to be taking the heat particularly well. The horses were slumping along and dragging their jezails in the dust. The Jackals were panting with their tongues out, trying and failing to keep cool. Blueblood himself looked like he was on the brink of collapse. Under the heat, Trixie was able to see quite clearly that he had been wearing makeup, which was now running off of him in thickly clotted rivulets.

“Now, I’m curious,” Blueblood said, wiping the sweat from his face with the back of his hoof. “So you’ve mentioned that verbs are conjugated based on prefixes and suffixes attached to the root, correct?” Despite the sweltering sun, his special talent was shining through. “But now I’m noticing that a number of the prefixes alter the base form and can change the pronunciation. Is this a case of dropping weak consonants? Or are we dealing with an all-out replacement of them?”

“I’m not sure.” Shoresh looked overwhelmed. “We’re getting beyond learning the basics, and—”

Blueblood cut him off with a dense, sloping phrase that Trixie couldn’t understand. Whatever it was, it caught Shoresh’s attention.

“I didn’t teach you that.”

“You’ve been calling me that under your breath for hours now,” Blueblood replied with a self-satisfied grin. “Thank you for confirming that it's an insult.”

The camel muttered again, closing his eyes and rubbing his temple.

The day stretched on in an unbroken arc of trudging through the sand and sun. The landscape was occasionally broken by clusters of dry, twiggy dunegrass that the horses and ponies plucked and nibbled on. Trixie managed a few forced bites, before deciding it was better to go hungry. It tasted like tree bark and dissolved into an unpleasant grit on her tongue. They stopped only once, at a pool of stagnant water concealed behind a screen of thorny scrub brushes.

Everyone rushed to drink, even though the water tasted bitterly vile. Blueblood sipped on it, retching at the rusty, metallic tinge. The only one unphased by the sickening alkaline flavor was Shoresh, who drained gallons in under a minute. When they had choked down their fill, they were back on the road.

They skipped lunch, which managed to dampen even Cedar’s mood. Shoresh made it clear that they didn’t have time to spare. Salt passed out tiny squares of unleavened bread along the marching line, the only rations they’d managed to pack in the mad dash to leave. Trixie frowned when she found that the portion they were all allotted was about the size of a cracker. She swallowed it in a single chomp, but her stomach still grumbled and groaned demanding more.

Sometime after noon, a blistering wind whipped up, scouring them with stinging sand. Only Shoresh could see through the blinding whirl, so everyone gripped the tail in front of them and marched single file with their eyes closed. Trixie held a mouthful of Chicory’s tail and pressed on through the sandstorm, silently praying that it would pass soon.

Instead, they marched blindly for most of the day. By the time the wind died down, the sun had already set and the moon had risen. The air was cooler and less stifling, but it hardly helped. The party was so exhausted from the day's march that they were practically dragging themselves along. The jackals were reduced to crawling on all fours, the horses slouched so deeply their bellies nearly dragged in the dirt, and even Shoresh looked exhausted. His hump was deflating more and more with every step. Cedar had given up on walking and had decided to ride across his mom’s back, snoring softly as his mouth hung open. Blueblood had finally given up on wheedling more Camish lessons out of Shoresh and slid back in the marching order to stand beside Trixie.

“So,” She brushed her damp mane out of her eyes. “How’s your Camish?”

“Passable.” Blueblood huffed. “I’m still iffy on some of the more complicated aspects, and I’m certainly not fluent, but it's enough.” He still struggled to put weight on his injured foreleg. The makeshift splint had started to slip, and the tranqwort was making his stomach churn. “Are you regretting your decision to stay yet?”

“I’ll get used to it.” Trixie panted, managing a weak grin.

Blueblood chuckled softly. “And after you assured me you’d never get used to Saddle Arabia.”

“Don’t think I haven’t seen you struggling.” She pushed him, regretting it when she saw him catch himself on his bad leg and hiss. “Sorry! Sorry!”

“I’m fine.” He said through clenched teeth. “Crocus says it’ll heal, but I’m going to be limping for a long time.”

“Not forever, right?”

He shrugged. “We don’t know yet.”

As they wound their way through a desiccated valley between a pair of red rock cliff faces, all sound seemed to fade. Trixie could feel the air tingling around her. A presence was watching her and letting her know it was there. The sound of rushing water trickled past her on a faint breeze that no one around her felt. She shivered knowing what it meant. Swallowing hard, Trixie could tell that her supernatural stalker didn’t want to talk. It merely wanted her to know it was nearby.

The earth beneath their feet sloped upward, and they clambered up and out of the canyon. Where the ground leveled out into a rocky waste, Shoresh stopped short. The horses that flanked him froze. Chicory stood beside them, mouth agape. When Blueblood and Trixie at last scrambled up the pebbly slope, they realized why everyone had stopped their march.

Ahead of them stretched a veritable city of shaggy tents. Small fires burned in shallow, sandy pits, and the tempting scent of firesmoke and roasting vegetables whirled in the cool night air. Camels young and old stared at them with bland, incurious expressions, as though a ragtag armed militia stumbled into their camp every other week. Whispers that sounded less like shock and more like bored frustration rippled through the assembly.

One thing that was immediately clear to Blueblood was that these were hardly destitute wanderers. Their clothes were finely tailored, and embroidered in shimmering gold, silver, and violet. Silk was commonplace, as were velvet and sheer chiffon. Nearly every camel carried an ornate dagger tucked into a sash that bound their hump. Among these Blueblood spied hilts bejeweled with banded sardonyx and glittering ruby, delicate ivory handles carved into leering leopards or regal lions, and sheathes of fine leather inlaid with golden leaves. From the open flaps of tents fluttered the scents of cinnamon and cardamom and turmeric and sumac. Lumps of fragrant ambergris were concealed beneath burlap tarps and casks labeled with wedge-shaped Camish script that carried wine, beer, and brandy.

The camel who strode towards their group was dressed in a black vest that sparkled with shards of obsidian. She towered over the rest of her people despite her hunched posture. Tiny silver bells that ringed her golden anklets jingled as she approached. She spat orders to the rest of her tribe, and they swiftly set about preparing a late meal for their guests. Her eyes never left Shoresh, who seemed unable to meet her gaze.

They exchanged some terse words in Camish. Blueblood managed to catch some of it and picked out a few choice words.

“Abandoned.”

“Serpent.”

“Brother.”

“Return.”

“Unwelcome.”

Blueblood sighed. He was glad to see things would already be off to a difficult start.

“My name is Zaruah.” Turning from her brother, the camel addressed her guests in accented Sarabic. “On behalf of the Baluta tribe, I welcome you.”

Blueblood sank to his knees in the dust. When he replied, it was in the most polite Camish he could muster. “And I am Indigo of Equestria. We accept your welcome with honor.”

Zaruah paused, her long lashes blinking as she noisily chewed her cud. She mushed the Camish word for Equestria under her breath, repeating it as if she had never used the term. Swallowing, she proceeded with the ritualistic greeting.

“In accordance with the tradition of my people,” She recited from the same script she had read for decades. “You will lay down your weapons.”

There was a clatter as jezails were unceremoniously dumped in the sand. Chicory threw down the kitchen knife she still had tucked in her robe. It stuck blade first in the packed sand. Blueblood laid down Pride as gently as a father with a newborn.

“You will be inspected for plague.” Zaruah gestured to another camel, one smaller and rheumy with age. They briefly inspected each member of the army, paying particular attention to Blueblood’s bandaged foreleg. They clucked their tongue as they examined the wound, shaking their head. He rasped something to his chieftain. Blueblood understood the root word for “clean” in his statement.

Taking a step closer to her guest, Zaruah’s snout wrinkled. Trixie could see her nostrils narrow as she quickly backstepped. “And you will be bathed.”

Trixie cringed. Blueblood bit his lip. He assumed that was a rare divergence from tradition.

“After that, we will have a meal and a tent prepared for you.” Switching to Camish, she gave a command to a group of youths, who dropped the ball they had been playing with and sprang ahead of their guests to prepare a bath.

“Was it really necessary to tell us we stink?” Trixie crossed her hooves and snorted.

“I wasn't going to say anything,” Blueblood replied, working his mouth.

Trixie harrumphed, tossing her sandy mane. “Oh, as if you smell any better!”

“Both of you smell like sweat and gunpowder.” Chicory interrupted, standing between them to temper their bickering. “Now go! Bathe quickly! We're all starving!”

Blueblood tried to protest. “I was planning to—”

“Indigo, you frequently take over an hour to wash each morning.” Chicory rolled her eyes.

“Because I had a very in-depth coat care routine that I had to follow!”

“Starving!” Chicory pressed the importance on him as they approached a sealed-off tent marked with streaks of blue and white paint.

One of the young camels handed Blueblood a towel and a bar of soap. Huffing indignantly, he threw the towel over his shoulder and shoved his way into the bathing tent. It was hardly ideal, but at least he could finally scrub the dirt and blood from his coat.

*****

Properly washed, dressed in loose shifts, and warmed beside crackling fires, Blueblood and Trixie finally shared a meal. They were presented with pots of liberally spiced rice mixed with fragrant desert blossoms. It had been boiled until tender, plated up, and served hot. Silverware wasn’t provided, but they were so hungry they could hardly care. Both dug in with their bare hooves, shoveling rice into their mouths and inhaling it. The rest of their army did much the same, stuffing their faces as quickly as they could and guzzling water by the gallon. Their hosts were gracious, hovering around them as they reclined on thick, shaggy rugs in the tent they had been given.

Trixie downed an entire pitcher of water, letting it dribble down her cheeks and spill into her mane. When it was finally empty, she slammed it down on the sand with a metallic clunk. Panting, she laid flat and luxuriated. “Oh, thank Celestia. I thought the water was going to be the same stuff we drank at the pool.”

“It could have been for all I cared.” Blueblood wiped his mouth with his shift. “I don’t think I tasted anything they served us. I ate too fast to care."

“So, since your persnickety standards have lowered, I take it we can have our first real date at The Grease Pit?” Trixie smirked.

“In your dreams.”

Chicory approached them, leaving Cedar to play with a few young camels who were up past their bedtime. “I hate to be the sandstorm at the celebration, but we’re only granted one night here. We need a plan for tomorrow.”

“Trust me, we’re aware.” Trixie laid on her back, glancing at Chicory upside down. “Indigo would be fretting about it if he weren’t starving.”

“But now I’m full,” Blueblood sighed. “And now I’m free to fret as much as I like.”

“Oh, goodie. I bet now you’re going to tell us we’re in for a long night.”

“I didn’t want to say it.”

“I’m hoping it won’t be too late.” Chicory sank onto the carpet. “I assume it's not far-fetched for me to suggest that we need Zaruah and her camels. Ten doesn’t make an army, but hundreds of camels?”

“It would be a start.” Blueblood stroked his chin. “I’d rather tens of thousands, but hundreds is good.”

“Getting them on our side is… Tricky.” Chicory worked her mouth. “There aren’t a lot of camels in Sutaf, Damarescus, Sorrowdeep, or the other cities. Plus, their history with the Caliphate in the past isn't exactly rosy."

"That's not even mentioning the money." Blueblood’s eyes followed though he gnawed the inside of his cheek nervously. “War is very costly. Not just in gold, but in lives too. I’ve never conducted a war, but I’ve seen the sheer amount of the treasury that Luna is willing to shift around to the armed forces. I could have a fully staffed embassy in every corner of the globe for a quarter of it.”

“I mean, if anyone in the desert has the money to do it, it would be Zaruah.” Trixie said, gesturing to the splendid dagger tied around the hump of a nearby attendant.

“If the two of you are done eating,” Chicory looked over the plates they had cleaned off. “I’d like to have a chat with Zaruah right away. It’s better we do this tonight rather than in the morning when they’re expecting to be rid of us.”

Rising solemnly, Blueblood extended a hoof to help Trixie up. She took it, grunting as she shifted to her hooves and yawned. Blueblood reached out to fix her mane as best he could, and she swatted his hooves away.

*****

Zaruah’s tent was situated at the zenith of the campsite, crowning a small, stony knoll that overlooked the flat terrain and the craggy canyon beyond. Perfumed braziers lined the path, sending up liquid plumes of silvery smoke and scenting the night with the fragrance of myrrh. The earth was soft and springy beneath their hooves, and Trixie glanced down to see their path paved with overlapping palm leaves. As they drew nearer, the tent itself seemed to glimmer in the moonlight. The white fabric shimmered prismatically as the light shifted, capping the hill with an ethereal rainbow.

Four camels eyed them as they approached the tent flap, their strange two-toed hooves resting on their daggers.

“We would like to speak with Zaruah.” Blueblood intoned in stilted Camish.

“Would Zaruah like to speak with you?” One of the guards replied.

“Why don’t we ask her?”

“She is sleeping.”

“Wake her.”

“You are a guest, little horse,” The camel’s throat grumbled and he spat in the dirt. He drew his blade with a steely hiss. “Do not tax our hospitality.”

Trixie gulped as she saw her face reflected in the mirror sheen of the knife.

“Stand down, T’septa.” Zaruah’s voice rumbled from within the tent. A faint light shone through the thin fabric. “Let them in. I’ve been expecting them.”

T’septa took a breath, sheathed his dagger, and pulled aside the curtain to admit the three visitors.

Entering the tent was like stepping into an unknown room of the Caliph’s palace. Plush carpets dampened their hoofbeats, pillars of cedar carved into the fantastical shapes of dragons, manticores, and sphinxes upheld the fabric ceiling, and a set of magically enchanted crystal growths chilled the air. Zaruah herself was seated beside a low table surrounded by sumptuous velvet cushions. With a silent wave, she beckoned for her guests to be seated. They did so without question. For what felt like hours, they sat across from each other without speaking. Blueblood had given them a trimmed-down version of the trimmed-down version of Camish culture that Shoresh had given him. The one thing he had stressed above all was that Camels were patient and traditional. Discussions between caravan leaders always began with tea. To breach business before the cups were poured was an insult of the highest caliber, especially if you were a guest. Zaruah was testing them.

The scream of a kettle broke the silence. A pair of camels entered and laid out four porcelain cups painted with deep green floral patterns. They poured a finger of steaming tea into each, bowed, and walked out backward. Zaruah’s lips twitched in what Trixie hoped was a smile. She lifted her glass and inclined her head to her guests.

“May our meeting be blessed.” She toasted in accented Equine.

Her guests lifted their own cups and inclined their heads in turn. Blueblood could smell the sharp, peppery aroma of the beverage as he held it.

“May the blessing be upon our host,” Blueblood replied, his first language leaden on his tongue.

All four drank. One test under their belt, countless more to go.

They shared introductions and exchanged names. The camel repeated each name, feeling the words with her lips.

“Why are you here?” Zaruah was straight and to the point. “You’re city dwellers, deeply unused to our desert. You travel with Shoresh, my brother who abandoned our ways. You arrive armed and without supplies. My only assumption is that you’re suicides.” She tapped her hooves against the table idly. “Are you suicides?”

“No.” It was Chicory who spoke up first. “We’re refugees from Sutaf.”

“Refugees.” The camel turned the word over on her tongue. “We were in Sutaf only three days ago to trade. We saw no war.”

“There was a coup.” Blueblood took another sip of the strong, piquant tea. “The Caliph died, and a group of Equestrian nationals stormed the palace.”

Zaruah’s eyes narrowed as she swept her gaze across the two ponies.

“Equestrian nationals who we were very strongly opposed to!” Trixie interjected.

“I’m sure.”

“They speak truth.” Chicory defended them, hoof over her heart. “They risked themselves to save myself and my son.”

Zaruah ground her teeth. “So you fled the capitol and sought refuge with my caravan. I presume you seek to join us, but it’s not so simple. This one,” She gestured at Blueblood. “May speak our language, but our culture is—”

“We don’t seek to join your caravan.” Chicory interrupted gently.

Zaruah’s teeth were still. “Then what?”

“The ponies who took the capitol do not intend to stop with Sutaf.” Blueblood leaned forward in his seat. “Their leader, a pegasus named Fairweather, wishes to install himself as the power behind the Caliph and integrate Saddle Arabia as a new arm of Equestria.”

“He wants to be a dictator,” Trixie added.

Chicory took a deep breath. Trixie squeezed her hoof under the table.

“We don’t intend to let him take our home without a fight.” She sharpened her voice to a daggerpoint. “My son is the legitimate heir to the Caliphate. I want to undo the wrongs that Caliph Sandalwood and his predecessors wrought. Abolish slavery, retake the industry that foreigners have stolen, and build a more equal society for all of us. Not just horses.” Chicory’s tone softened. “The camels have not been treated justly. In the past, the Caliphs have been cruel towards—”

“Yes, we know.” Zaruah snorted and waved a hoof. “Where do we come in?”

“We can’t stand against Fairweather alone.” Chicory hardened herself. “We need an army.”

“Out of the question,” Zaruah replied without a second of hesitation.

Trixie interjected. “But why?”

“My people are not your army.” She narrowed her eyes to slits.

“But you’re a part of Saddle Arabia.” Chicory’s hooves trembled under the table. Whether it was anger or nerves that made them shake, Trixie couldn’t tell. “I know that there’s still lingering tension between our people but—”

“Our elders remember the Second Unification War. We remember that our tribes were not brought into the fold for friendship and equality.” Zaruah’s nostrils flared. “Your Caliphs saw our wealth, the wealth we gained by the sweat of our brows and the death of our loved ones, and demanded we share with them. When we refused, they shot us, burned our camps, enslaved our leaders…” She trailed off into an uncomfortable silence. The air within the tent buzzed with condemnation as the shadows danced across their faces. When Zaruah spoke again, it was in Old Equine.

“Acta, non verba.” Her eyes landed on Blueblood. “Your friend here knows what that means.”

“Deeds, not words.” Blueblood translated plainly.

“It’s all well and good to tell us that when you sit on the throne, you will treat us with the respect we deserve. But we have heard the same promise from the lips of countless Caliphs before Sandalwood. And yet, here we remain. The same as it ever was.”

“We don’t have the power to change anything as it stands.” Blueblood laid his hooves on the table. “We don't have an army, we don’t have food, water, or arms. We’re only surviving on your hospitality—”

“A hospitality that has been excellent, might I add!” Trixie grinned widely, her words dripping with honey. “And we’re definitely going to remember how much you helped us when we—”

“Enough flattery.”

Trixie bit her tongue and huffed petulantly.

“If you won’t fight with us,” Chicory recovered and tried another track. “Would you be willing to fund us? We’ll need to purchase food, supplies, and arms in the future. I can only give you my word, but—”

“So we are to act as your bank with only your word?” The camel snorted a laugh. “No. We will supply you with some basics when you depart in the morning, but will not fund your war, little horse.”

This was going poorly. Blueblood had known they would be fighting an uphill battle, but this battle was up a sheer cliff face. They needed to find some way to turn this around. He prepared a series of worst-case scenarios that could force Zaruah’s hoof somehow. Yet just as he opened his mouth to offer an ultimatum, Chicory took action.

She rose from her seat at the table and slowly lowered herself to her knees. Bowing, she pressed her head to the packed earthen floor of the tent and kissed the ground. It was debasement of the highest sort. A declaration of unworthiness in another’s presence. A gesture Blueblood instinctively knew that no Caliph before had ever dared to make.

“Tell me,” Chicory spoke not with the authority of one seeking a throne, but the desperation of a mother trying to save her child. “What must we do? How can I prove to you that I mean what I say?”

Blueblood nodded to Trixie, and the two ponies mimicked Chicory’s gesture. They heard Zaruah rap a steady rhythm on the wooden table with her toes.

She ground her teeth and swallowed a lump. “Rise.”

They lifted their heads, dust staining their cheeks.

“In the days before Caliphs, before the Unification Wars, before the first bricks of Sutaf and Damarescus were baked, there was only one way that our tribes made their word matter.” She unbuckled the dagger from her hump and laid it across the table. “In blood.”

The thick, curved khanjar slid from its beautiful sheath silently. The odor of blade oil wafted from it.

“We will not offer our sons and daughters for your war. We will not fund you with our coin. But we can give you something almost as valuable.” Zaruah produced a crackling, folded parchment from her vest, and laid it across the table. “Our knowledge.”

Trixie unfolded the paper carefully. It was a detailed map of the Sarabian Desert, with notes from six generations of Baluta tribal chieftains. Oases were clearly labeled, caravan routes were drawn in detail, and cities and outposts were marked, with intricate lists of their trade goods. Political connections in local government were laid out: minor merchants who were dependent on their goods, governors whose pockets were gilden with Baluta graft, captains and generals bribed to look the other way at military checkpoints. It wasn’t the army they had been hoping for, and it wouldn’t fund their fight, but this kind of information was worth its weight in gold.

Chicory’s eyes shifted to Blueblood, eyebrow arched in a subtle question. Is this worth it?

Blueblood had to weigh their options. It was clear they weren’t walking away from the negotiations with an army. They weren’t even walking away with the bits to hire one. He was used to negotiating with the weight of Equestria behind him. But now, what did they have to offer other than their word?

He gave a nod. Information was better than nothing.

“And what would you want in return?” Blueblood dreaded the reply.

Zaruah folded her hooves over her chest. “You say you want to make Saddle Arabia more equal? Then I want you to prove that when you take power.” Sweeping the map off the table, she gripped her khanjar. “A blood oath. One only broken on the pain of death. Swear to me you will remember the hospitality I showed you this night, and you will appoint me as one of your advisors.”

Blueblood recalled the parade of ineffective advisors that Sandalwood had surrounded himself with. All of them, except Fairweather, had been horses. So had all the minor nobles, local barons, and wealthy heiresses vying for positions in his orbit. It had been so for generations.

“Some traditions are made to be broken.” Chicory took the dagger with her magic and flicked its blade across her foreleg. She extended her hoof as a scarlet rivulet laced across her silver coat. “I swear you’ll have a position in my council.”

Zaruah’s lips curled into a smile. She snipped her own foreleg and gripped Chicory’s hoof. “We will hold you to it.” Sheathing her dagger, she passed it across the table. “Keep it. Consider it a token of goodwill.”

Chicory clasped the belt around her waist and drew it tight.

“But remember,” The camel dipped a toe in the mingled droplets of blood on the table. “A blood oath is taken under the pain of death. If you retake Sutaf and refuse to honor our agreement…”

She let the threat hang in the air. Chicory swallowed hard. Her predecessor had been poisoned in front of her, assassination was very much still an expedient way of settling scores in Sarabian politics. And given the vast wealth and connections the Baluta tribe already had, it was clear they had the reach to make good on their promise.

“We won’t let you down.” Chicory’s hoof lay on the handle of the knife. “I promise.”

“Pray that you don’t.”

Oppressive silence hung over the meeting. Trixie glanced over to Blueblood with a worried expression. They hadn’t gotten what they wanted. Their cause was already floundering at the first hurdle. Blueblood looked back with a knitted brow. This was a victory, but it was a pathetic one to start on.

Zaruah clapped her hooves, and a pair of attendants entered to clean the blood and teacups from the table. They laid out fresh dishes, each piled high with small balls of fried dough dusted with sugar. “Now, dessert.”

A third camel entered and metered out four glasses of sweet, milky palm wine. Zaruah lifted her glass. The shallow wound on her foreleg still bubbled red.

“To the future Caliph.”

“To the future Caliph.” Blueblood and Trixie echoed as the four glasses struck together.

Even the sweets couldn’t lift the sour mood that lingered over them. Blueblood had to remind himself again and again that wars were not won in a day. This would have to do.

*****

In the morning, they prepared to depart. The camels had been generous with their parting gifts, even if all they had given were the basics. Shoresh had hitched himself to an open-topped wooden cart that carried the heaviest of their new gear. They had two tents that could house their ten with room to spare, cots and blankets to keep them off the sand and safe from the nightly chill, rations of water and unleavened bread, a compass, tinderboxes, and pots for cooking. Chicory lashed the last of their supplies into the wagon and hopped down, bidding a fond farewell to Zaruah.

Blueblood had already chartered their course on the newly acquired map of the desert. No longer were they wandering aimlessly. They had a path that would lead them to fresh water and wild grasses. Pride was back on his hip and his newly acquired beaded bag bounced against his flank. He had managed to talk Zaruah into gifting him some fresh parchment, ink, quills, and a few bottles of dragonfire.

The march began in the dimness before the dawn. Zaruah’s notes indicated that the best times to travel were the early morning and mid-afternoon, resting during the sweltering hours of noon to beat the heat.

Cedar was content to ride alone with the supplies in the cart, dangling his hooves over the edge as they trundled through the desert on barely discernable tracks of packed sand. Chicory walked with a scowl on her face, avoiding conversation. Last night hadn’t gone according to plan. She had expected to leave the negotiations with a banner held high, streaming at the forefront of a legion of Camish soldiers and backed by the gold of a powerful merchant tribe. Instead, all they had to show for their efforts was a map and some provisions they should have started their journey with.

“We’re not going to convince anyone, are we?” Chicory said to Blueblood as he hovered over his compass.

Blueblood’s ears perked up. “Not happy about last night?”

“No.” She mused bitterly. “We’re fighting for what’s right, to give everyone a better Saddle Arabia, but that doesn't matter. No one wants to fight for a cause. They want something to gain.”

“Sadly, that’s politics.” Blueblood shrugged his shoulders. “Unless there’s something in it for them, they don’t want to put themselves on the line.”

“So how do we convince anyone to fight with us? We have no money, no connections, and no power.”

Blueblood traced the tip of his hoof across the map. It landed on a triangle only half a day's travel from their destination. The Asil Oilfields. Beside it on the map was scrawled a list of crossed-out former owners, the most recent addition to the list was Appleoosan Oil CEO Razor Russet.

“People love a good cause, but they’re loathe to throw themselves into it without insurance.” Blueblood gestured for Shoresh to turn the cart as they approached a sharp bend in the road. “Everyone roots for the underdog, but they don’t bet on them. We need to show everyone we’re worth betting on.”

“And how do the Asil Oilfields factor into that?” Chicory quirked her eyebrow.

Blueblood smiled grimly. “We need to start racking up victories somewhere, don’t we?”