“Oh, no,” Aurens said, with gentle warmth. “But those are Arab deceptions, double-dealings, and ruthlessness. Clever, but predictable to another Arab; these things are understood all around. They have not yet learned the ways of men who call themselves civilized. I should like to see them well-armored, before Allah calls me again.”
Kirkbride raised an eyebrow at that. “You haven’t done anything any clever man couldn’t replicate,” he replied, half in accusation. “Without the help of Allah.”
“Have I ever said differently?” Aurens traded him look for ironic look.
“I heard what happened before the battle.” Aurens, they said, had ridden his snow-white stallion before them all. “In whose name do you ride?” he had called. “Like a trumpet,” Kirkbride’s informant had told him, as awed as if he had spoken of the Archangel Gabriel.
And the answer, every man joined in one roar of response. “In the name of Allah, and of Aurens.”
Aurens only looked amused. “Ride with me to Baghdad.” This had less the sound of a request than a command. “Ride with me to Yemen. Help me shape the world.” Again, the touch of humor, softening it all. “Or at least, so much of it as we can. Inshallah. I have Stirling, I have some others, I should like you.”
Kirkbride weighed the possibilities, the gains, the losses. Then weighed them against the intangible; the fire in the eyes, the look of eagles.
Then, once again, he looked Aurens full in the eyes; was caught in the blue fire of them, and