The second radio call of the night came began with a measured series of clicks. "If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken."

Roy smiled and supplied the next phrase of the poem."Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools."

It was the next transmission that confirmed the identity. "Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken/And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools."

It wasn't really necessary to go any further, but he liked the poem. "If you can make one heap of all your winnings; And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss."

She humored him and followed the pattern. "And lose, and start again at your beginnings/
And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone."

"And so hold on when there is nothing in you; Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'" It's good to hear from you, Hawkeye.

I'm glad you're safe, sir, Riza Hawkeye replied. Security on this end isn't certain. I think we should keep to telegraph transmission and cadre-specific encryption protocols for this and future reports.

Roy paused. Understood. I talked to Grumman earlier. He knows we borrowed his pen, and he made it clear that he'll tolerate it as long as our activities don't interfere with his.

What do you think he has in mind?

For now, keeping our neighbors from invading or trying to overthrow the new government before it's even formed...and keeping General Armstrong out of Central until the biggest decisions have been made. He's calling up civilian train crews from retirement—he'll put the Ishbalans in the western camps on passenger trains and send them to Ata Dargan and Sarmisay.

Which solves a lot of problems for him in one move. I'll get Breda to make sure those trains aren't overloaded and have enough supplies to get all those people to the border without anyone going hungry.

Good. My hosts also asked for the holy books and artifacts looted from their temples and as many of their horses as we can find—the long-legged ones with metal sheens in their coats.

I'm familiar with the breed, sir. I'll put Jean on it.

Good. Grumman probably won't interfere as long as we don't start threatening his ability to keep the army running.

He probably wants the Ishbalans too busy allocating resources and arguing among themselves to be a threat. Roy's lieutenant had no illusions about her grandfather.

Keeping us conveniently occupied, too. I think we should adopt a similar strategy.

That work's being done for us. Falman reports that the Intelligence department is monitoring activity on every border and every district capital as well as Central, and there's so much coming in they've had to bring in more clerks—including a few known spies.

Give me an executive summary.

The Drachmans have the largest contingent of spies in the country. Drachma offered an alliance against Creta and Aerugo in a letter that arrived in Central three days ago.

Clumsy.

It's entirely in line with typical Drachman tactics, sir. What's worrying Intelligence is that there seems to be an elite spy corps operating within the larger network, and they'renot falling for the usual tricks.

Competent Drachman spies? That could be a problem.

Especially if they've been here longer than we think.

Roy paused as the potential ramifications of that sank in. Any idea what they're planning?

If Intelligence has one, it's being kept from Falman and our other sources. The staff read is that Drachma is looking for opportunities to assassinate anyone who's still in power in the military and civilian command structures.

Hamhanded, but effective. It's a little too typical for Drachma. Keep an eye out for hints that there's something more subtle below the surface.

Of course, sir. Creta's trying to stir up rebellion in the west.

Yes, Grumman told me about that. He's using it as a way to keep General Armstrong away from Central.

I'm sure she's aware of that, Colonel. Most of her troops have gone west, but a few units have "gone on vacation"-together. A lot of them have taken their families camping, fishing, and hunting in Piyr Isay.

Have they been visiting the Havocs?

It's hard not to in Piyr Isay, but the store's been busy and Luc and Adrian have had a lot of customers with ripped saddle skirts and lame horses. Luc says his customers aren't annoyed and embarrassed enough about the rips, and Adrian says the lame horses are either lame because someone's deliberately made them lame or they have long-standing physical problems that would be obvious to anyone who rides as competently as these men do.

So it's an intimidation campaign. I wonder what she doesn't want us to hear about. Has the Havoc clan responded?

They're having a lot of fun playing country bumpkins and small-time racketeers, and the kids have made a game of finding the phone taps. I don't think the General expected "peasants" to be so organized.

Maybe not. She is an aristocrat, after all. Still, operate as though she knows her people are getting the runaround.

Will do, sir.

Has Olivia taken any interest in the south?

She's been getting briefings, sir, but I think she's more focused on the north and west. General Grumman's shifting the troops from Central to the south. The Aerugan queens are sending in emissaries during the day and spies at night.

Hedging their bets. Very Aerugan. Grumman told me he's going to move the troops from Ishbal southwest to the Aerugan border.

Which puts the most experienced men in position to catch anyone trying to smuggle weapons to the Ishbalans or march an army through Ishbalan territory to attack us from the east. How long do you think it will take the Ishbalans to realize they're being used as an early warning system?

Maybe a whole minute and a half, if my hosts are typical Elders. I had dinner with Elder Rehena and her family tonight, and by my count she had four reasons for the invitation alone.

What do you think she's trying to do?

To borrow Scar's metaphor, she's walking between lions.

It was such a huge array, so big and so complex, but he had to comprehend it and he was running out of time. He glanced over the whole, then looked down to focus on the detail-

-and his vision dimmed and constricted, until he could see only a tiny blur. His heart fell into his stomach and fluttered there as he dropped to his hands and knees and put his face down to the line, tracing its edges with the first finger of each hand, desperately squinting and trying to focus on the rapidly-fading contrast between light and dark-

He jerked awake into his blindness. Closed his eyes for a long moment with the half-dreaming thought that he'd just opened them wrong. Indifferent reality pushed into his waking mind, and he let his eyes slip open again, knowing there wouldn't be even the blur of the dream. It still ached every time he confirmed it. There was sunlight out there. He could feel the contrast in warmth where it fell across his right hand. That was all light was to him anymore, and all it would ever be.

"You can't see anything at all?" "Nothing."

Roy rubbed a piece of the blanket between his fingers and realized he had no idea what color it was.

"I'm sorry, Colonel." A professionally apologetic tone and the doctor's fingers holding his right eye open. "If it was simple damage to the eye we'd have some options. But this—there's nothing there. Even the optic nerves are gone."

A smaller hand on his cheek and a younger voice, "Even the best doctors of Xing couldn't bring back his sight, Alphonse."

Another young voice, without the hollow ring he was accustomed to, but nonetheless recognizable. "Are you sure, Mei?"

"Alkahestry works with the qi flowing through the body," The girl sounded truly remorseful, if only because she couldn't do as her friend asked. "The qi can't build a part of the body that isn't there. I can help the nerves in his hands heal well, but that's all."

Roy's hand clenched into a fist around the edge of the blanket.

"Roy Mustang. You are blind, and so you must be led or wear bruises from your falls...You will suffer every day that you open your eyes without seeing the sun..."

The Amestrian Emissary sat up and held his right hand in front of his face, struggling to remember what his own hands looked like. He finally pulled his knees to his face and let his eyes do the only thing they could anymore.

If Scar noticed any signs of tears on Roy's face, he said nothing about it. In fact, he didn't say much of anything. Elder Nikai arrived later in the morning, bringing a basket loaded with more igran fruit along with some other vegetables and fruits Roy could more readily identify. The Elder also provided a package of tea—then brusquely ordered Scar to brew a pot.

Roy kept an ear toward the kitchen and the sound of the Ishbalan exile stoking up the stove, then turned his face toward the Elder. "My people gave me some more details about the return of your people, if this is an appropriate time and place to talk business, Admi."

"I came because this is an appropriate time, Emissary. I also have matters of nations to speak of. What did your people say?"

"They're arranging for trains to pick up the people in the camps near our western border and bring them east to Ata Dargan. They should arrive in three weeks to a month." Roy laid his right hand down flat on the table and went on. "My people are going to search for the horses you asked for, and see about tracking down any holy books taken from your temples. I can't promise there will be much to find, but we'll do our best."

"That is all we can ask," the Elder said formally. "Perhaps you asked of the matter of the soldiers in our lands."

"I did. I'm told General Grumman is planning to move those troops to the southwest. I don't know when the movement will begin, but I expect it to be soon."

"Ah." Nikai didn't go on.

Roy waited for a moment, then ventured, "You said you had news for me?"

"I did. You spoke of your country's wish to send emissaries to Xing through the lands of our wandering brothers. This is not a simple matter, but we will do our best."

"That's all we can ask," Roy answered. "May I ask why it's not simple?"

"You might ask Etan to tell you more of the thoughts of his brothers and sisters among the mozhkarishki. I can say only that the wandering tribes do not share their water or their grazing gladly."

"I see. Would we have to negotiate separately with each tribe, then?"

"You will have to be patient and offer perhaps more than you can easily give." Nikai sighed. "Etan came himself to speak of these things, and that is more than I would have said the mozhkarishki would do."

"Why is that? Forgive me, Elder, but I'm not familiar with the...mozekahrike?"

"Mozhkarishki. They are the people of the eastern deserts. They choose tents over houses and ride when and where they please."

"And they don't like coming into" Roy restrained the word civilization "settled towns?"

"In their eyes those who build stone houses do this only to have a place to keep possessions and books of little value," Nikai said crisply. "There is little that we have that they need or want. It is their custom to send a man from their western sister tribes to speak for them to the people of the towns and foreigners."

"But they chose not to this time. Or at least Etan's tribe did." Roy bobbed his head thoughtfully. "I'm glad they want to take part in the negotiations."

"Every tribe that hears of your coming and our talking with you wants to argue for one action or another," Nikai said. "The message riders come and go day and night."

"May I ask what actions we're talking about?"

"I speak only for Ganeha and Nochi, Emissary. I say that you must ask Etan, if you would know the minds of the mozhkarishki."

"Ah." Roy paused. "I'm sorry, I'm still learning how decisions are made here."

"There is no crime in not knowing a stranger's customs," Nikai said calmly. "It is only wrong to refuse the knowledge when it is offered."

"I'm here to learn as well as to negotiate," Roy replied.

"You also teach," Nikai answered. He left a little while later, leaving Roy to wonder how many layers there were in those three words.

Two days passed more or less quietly. Izena, with her grandmother and uncle as escorts, visited to bring more ointment and make sure the cuts were healing well. Roy typed up his notes in the most cryptic language he could, to save paper. His nightly radio calls confirmed that General Grumman had ordered the Amestrian troops in Ishbal to start moving south and west, and the shuffling of train crews and equipment necessary to move the people from the prison camps to Sarmisay was underway. Kain Fury and Vato Falman had gathered the books and notebooks Roy had asked for, but hadn't yet had time to dig into them. There was nothing to do but wait and try not to let boredom drive him out of his mind.

Colonel Roy Mustang, Flame Alchemist (retired) and Amestrian Emissary to Ishbal, pushed the pieces of fruit around in the bowl and got the business ends of the fers in his right hand closed around one of them. The fruit salad was more of a way to practice with the unfamiliar utensils than lunch; he wasn't actually all that hungry. Therefore the sound of hooves on cobbles outside got his attention immediately. What sounded like several horses stopped somewhere near the gate, and voices spoke in swift Ishbalan.

Roy turned to the window, then back toward his guide, who'd been quietly cleaning the kitchen. "Scar, would you look outside and tell me who's out there?"

The Ishbalan exile answered readily, "They are men of the mozhkarishki, and they've brought your horse."

"My horse?" Roy lifted an eyebrow. "I take it I'm going for a ride?"

"Perhaps," Scar answered with a guarded note in his tone. "But the eastern tribes sometimes act on strange visions. It's wiser to ask than assume you understand."

"I see." Roy got up. "Would you take me to the gate, then?"

"Let me put the bowl in the cellar." Scar came and picked it up. "You aren't a poor man to jump up and run to see what a stranger wants when he arrives in the middle of the day."

Roy took his fers to the sink. "So how long should we leave them cooling their heels?"

"Long enough to wash your fers and your face, then put on your sandals. It's polite to offer them tea under your roof, but as they are of the eastern tribes, they'll probably refuse." Scar's voice descended into the cellar, and he went on as he came back up into the kitchen. "If they've brought your horse for you to ride and not as a different kind of message, say that I will come with you to lead your horse and to translate. The mozhkariski choose not to use Amestrian or any other foreign language any more than they must, and their own language is full of metaphors and the old stories."

"Not to mention I want your eyes and your interpretation of what's going on under the surface." Roy ran water over the fers in his hands and pushed his fingertips along the right edge of the sink until they bumped into the scrub brush, then picked it up. "What other messages could they be trying to send by bringing Ghost here? The obvious one would be a hint to get on and ride back home."

"She is saddled, so that may be the intended meaning. She is also smaller and her coat doesn't shine as their horses' coats do."

"Meaning what, that she's not well cared for or that she's an inferior breed?" Roy frowned.

"The mozhkarishki believe themselves to be 'the Chosen of the chosen', and their horses to be the purest bred." A growl slipped into Scar's voice as he went on. "In their eyes, those of us who are descended from the 'slave tribes' are mongrels tainted by the blood of varisti."

"I hesitate to ask what that makes me," Roy said.

"If your horse isn't here for you to ride I'll tell you," Scar grunted. "Pray that she is."

Once the fers were clean and set out to dry, Roy washed his face and tied on his sandals, then took Scar's arm and followed him to the gate, where the men on horseback waited. There were two distinct scratches of sandals from the walls near the gate—the warrior-priests on watch wanted him to know of their presence. He acknowledged them by turning his head and giving a small nod to each of them, then addressed the visitors. "Good afternoon. Would you gentlemen like to come in to have some tea while we talk?"

Scar translated, and one of the mounted men answered, speaking in slow phrases punctuated by momentary pauses.

Scar said in Amestrian, "He didn't offer so much as a trader's name, and he speaks to me as though speaking to a man of slow wits. He says he and his tribesmen have brought your horse so that you may ride with them to their camp."

Roy raised a quizzical eyebrow toward the nomads at his gate. "What an unusual and unexpected invitation," he said mildly. "Why was it extended, I wonder?"

Another exchange in slow Ishbalan, then Scar said, "Etan gave his tribesmen a message for you. 'If you will come and face the Free Tribes, we will pour tea for you and speak of what you ask of us.'"

"Interesting." Roy lifted his chin. "I came to talk with your people, so if you'll give me a minute to get my cloak I'll accept your offer. My friend here will come along to lead my horse and make sure we understand each other." He turned back toward the house without waiting for an answer, and kept his head up and his stride confident as Scar led him the few steps across the yard to the doorstep. Once inside, he went through to the back porch to take his riding cloak down from the line surrounding the bathtub, then into the bedroom to get his gloves and tuck them under his belt. Then he stood there in the bedroom and gave himself two deep inhales and slow exhales to clear his mind and prepare for a battle of words and wits. Scar confirmed that the nomads were still waiting by the gate, and led Roy to Ghost's side. The smell of horse and leather and dust brought back some of the tension of the ride across the desert, and Roy firmly disciplined his face and body to matter-of-fact calm as he accepted a leg up from Scar and let the exile take Ghost's lead rope and tug her into motion.

The mozhkarishki men set a pace just a little too fast for comfort as they led Roy and Scar through the ruins. The brisk trot forced Scar into a run that soon had him breathing hard, and Ghost snorted, breaking into a canter for a few strides before dropping back into a fast trot, her tail swishing in equine irritation.

They made a turn and slowed to a walk, and Roy's foot brushed stone as Scar led Ghost in an erratic series of slow sharp turns and steps up and down. "The houses have fallen into the street," the exile explained gruffly, a little winded.

"Let's take it slow and easy," Roy answered. "Ghost needs a little break, and I don't want her to slip and hurt herself on uneven footing."

"A wise man listens to his horse and cares for her as he cares for his servant," Scar said. He led Ghost another step, then sucked in a short breath that gave Roy an instant's warning before something whistled through the air above the horse's head and she bounced on all four legs and shied. Roy wrapped his legs around Ghost's barrel and grabbed for the pommel and his horse's mane. Ghost danced a little in the confined space among the big building stones, banging Roy's knee against one of them, then quieted and stood, tense.

"Scar—what the hell just happened?" Roy straightened in the saddle and reached down to rub his outraged knee.

"A man of the mozhkarishki shot an arrow toward you," Scar answered in a flat, ugly tone. "I didn't see his face or his sash."

Hooves clacked on stone, and Roy turned toward the soft stretch of leather of someone dismounting, then remounting a moment later. "Scar, what do you see?" He kept his tone level with difficulty.

"The man to your right picked up the arrow and is bringing it to you," Scar answered with an edge. "Take it and show it to Etan."

The man on horseback approached, and laid the arrow against Roy's arm until he took it. "Believe me, I have every intention of finding out who shot this and whether he acted alone or under someone else's orders." He lifted his chin and set his face into a command mask. "Let's go." He held the arrow in plain view across the pommel of his saddle in one fist as Scar nudged Ghost in the shoulder to move her away from the stone, then led her forward. Roy kept his back straight and head high while his nomad escort led him—at a comfortable walk—out beyond the ruined buildings of the ancient city.

The open air and sand of the desert soaked up sound, and Roy found himself straining for the slight creaks of leather and the occasional snort from one horse or another. The desert breeze fluttered the edge of his cloak and his shaggy bangs around his face, and he could smell Ghost, but the near-silence combined with his blindness-

"Scar, what do you see?" He didn't particularly care what the Ishbalan said, so long as he talked.

"I see the ruins of a pump house—it may have fed the fields, in the ancient days. The eastern tribes have set their camp around it. I see the flags of nine tribes—I don't know their names. They've pitched their tents in the pattern that accepts traders."

"That sounds like a good sign."

"It means they will at least allow a stranger as far as the well without challenge."

"I see." Roy straightened a little in his saddle, aware of the ears around him that might or might not understand Amestrian. "That's a significant courtesy, in a place where water is so precious."

"And one that most likely wasn't offered without some argument." Scar lowered his voice a little further. "Remember that. It's unheard of for an Elder of the mozhkarishki to come to talk to a foreigner at all. Etan risks much to invite you among his people. He can only give you so much more before he begins to lose face among the tribes."

"Like the ones who'd rather shoot diplomats than sit down to tea," Roy answered grimly. He gripped the arrow in his right hand a little more tightly.

Elder Etan met the Amestrian emissary and personally led him with a hand on his back from Ghost's side to the shade of a canopy under which a carpet had been spread. As no one offered to take it from him and he didn't have anywhere else to put it, Roy laid the arrow that had been shot at him down at his side and said nothing about it. He accepted a drink of water from the well, and didn't try to hide the relief the drink gave him. To his surprise, Scar was also afforded a few swallows of the most precious commodity the desert nomads could offer. Other people sat carefully outside Roy's arm's reach, and Etan began the discussions with a measured statement that Scar interpreted in formal tones.

"I am Etan, and I speak for more than my tribe. I came to this place with my tribe because the words came to me that one had come from Amestris our enemy and asked those who speak for the village tribes for peace. This was a strange thing to my ears, so I chose to come here to Fallen Xerxes to see the stranger myself. I went among the stones and I saw there a foreign man who was indeed a soldier of our enemy Amestris. I saw that this man was a war alchemist, and that for his sins God had taken the light from his eyes. With those who speak for the village tribes among the stones of Fallen Xerxes, I said that the blind one would shed the last blood of the war his people brought to mine, and it has been done. You wear the scars of that day, Roy Mustang. Do you say that what I have said is true, or do you hold my words false?"

"What you say is true in all but one detail, Elder," Roy answered. "I was a State Alchemist until the day of the eclipse. That day changed me and my entire country. I'm not a soldier any more. I speak for the new government of my country as a civilian."

Scar rendered that somehow, then took his time to interpret Etan's answer.

"I have heard this, and I will remember it. Perhaps then you will say whether it is true that you came here because I sent truthful men to you with the words that if you would come and sit in our camp, we would sit near the well and talk of matters of nations in peace."

Roy chose his words with care. "That's true. You invited me, and I came of my own free will. I'm here to talk about relations between your people and mine."

"All of us here have heard these things, and we will remember it," Etan said through Scar. "So we will have tea, and we will talk. You ask to ride across our lands all the way to Xing. Perhaps to Bharat as well, is this so?"

Here we go..."It's been a long time since my people last had regular contact with Bharat," Roy said. "I'm sure the new government will want to send someone to talk to them."

"And yet on the way these people will search for water. Their animals will graze in the valleys where our horses and our goats eat. Perhaps there will be so many of them that the Free Tribes will go hungry."

"I doubt that will be an issue anytime soon. It's going to take years of diplomacy to establish trade terms. We're talking about a few emissaries and messengers on horseback, nothing more." Roy heard liquid pouring to his left, and accepted the cup nudged against his knee. He sipped the tea and went on. "We could discuss using multiple routes, or setting a limit on how many Amestrian diplomatic caravans could cross your land every year."

Several voices spoke up after Scar had passed that along. The suspicion behind the words needed no translation. Etan listened and answered each voice in turn, then told his guest, "The tribes say that it is very easy to make promises, but our eyes have seen the past. We have watched for generations, and we have seen that your people do not choose to talk to other peoples. In the place of words you choose war. Perhaps the ones you will say are emissaries and messengers will be in truth scouts sent to find the wells in the desert. Perhaps the armies will follow."

"To be honest, Elder, there's a reason even the old regime didn't try that. As you just said, there isn't much water or food to be found in your territory. Even if our leaders wanted to try and invade Bharat or Xing, they wouldn't send the armies through the desert. The logistics of supplying large groups of men in the field with food and water, not to mention the fuel for trucks, are difficult enough in well-mapped territory with good transportation routes and some local resources to augment the trucked-in supplies. Without accurate maps, solid roads, and the ability to live off the land along the way, maintaining long supply lines becomes a bigger battle than the actual invasion."

"Yet your armies invaded the villages in the desert. They are there now with their tanks and trucks, and when they need food and water they take it from the village tribes."

"That occupation has all but bankrupted my country," Roy said flatly. "General Grumman is moving those troops out of Ishbal as we speak." He went back to the subject he wanted to talk about. "It could benefit your people to allow a few caravans to cross your land. You could sit with the diplomats and rulers of the countries on your borders, and make sure your interests were protected."

"We could," Etan allowed. "Or we could say that there will be no caravans at all."

There it was. "That's a strong statement."

"It is what many tribes say. We gain nothing and risk much, if we allow foreigners to cross our lands."

"Would it change what those tribes say if we were to offer something of value in exchange for the crossing?"

"Perhaps for some. Others will say that gold and jewels are worthless if the well is dry."

"Then maybe we could drill our own wells," Roy offered.

"Or you could make peace with your enemies of Aerugo, and pay them to guide you and carry you on their ships."

"We could," Roy answered. "but that wouldn't be in our best interests or yours. My people sent me to end the war, but I want to go beyond that. Will you hear what I propose?"

"We are listening with interest, Roy Mustang," Etan answered through Scar.

"Thank you." Roy resisted the urge to lick his lips and betray his nerves. "A big part of the reason our leaders could convince our population that it was right to invade and occupy Ishbal was that most of our people had never even seen an Ishbalan in person, much less learned anything about your history and customs. When I first crossed the border, I believed what my commanding officers had told me about Ishbalans, most of which was either a huge distortion of the truth or an outright lie. If even a few of my people traveled through your land with your people as guides, they would know firsthand what was and wasn't true. There would be reasons not to pick a fight again."

That prompted more prolonged and vehement discussion. Etan finally said something that stopped the arguments, and said to Roy, "You say that your people have been taught to hate and fear us, yet you ask my people to ride beside yours and show them the way through our lands. Is this so?"

"That's so."

"There are those who say the only way to speak to an Amestrian is with the bow, the rifle, or the sling."

"Like the one who shot this at me while I walked under the protection of your men?" Roy touched the arrow lying beside him.

"No. That one is your ally."

Roy swallowed the natural sarcastic retort and said, "I don't understand. How can someone who tried to kill me be my ally?"

"Your servant saw him. Our men are not so careless as to be seen by their prey. Nor do they miss such an easy shot. The arrow was spent to warn you and your servant, Amestrian. Keep it close to you and let it remind you that the quiver protects the sharp edges and shows only the feathers." Etan raised his voice a little, and Scar raised his unconsciously as he translated. "We must consider what you have said. Perhaps we will meet and have tea again at some later time."

"Perhaps we will." Roy took the arrow and got to his feet. "And perhaps this arrow will be the last one taken from the quiver for a while."

(Note: The poem Roy and Riza are quoting to each other in the first scene of this chapter is Rudyard Kipling's "If". It fits them eerily well.)