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had to get moving again. More than likely he would only get three. Staying in one place for too long would get him killed almost as fast as sneaking into camps.
    Even when he helped the idiots, they never liked him. He frowned, suddenly recalling what he had to tell Isra and his uncle.
    The fake Falcon. So close that another tribe would not have known the difference. He wondered if the two he'd assisted had. Any Falcon would have laughed in contempt and cut the imposters' heads off. The Ghosts probably hadn't bothered to notice, all too happy to kill any Falcon that crossed their path.
    He wished he had gotten a closer look at them; he was fairly certain the one who fought like a wild man had been the notorious Sandstorm he had heard so much about. The one everyone had heard about, even those Tribes who thought Ghost a mere legend.
    Just as Cobra did not think Viper existed. Just as Owl did not think Falcon still lived. Just as a dozen more Tribes considered another dozen to be entirely rumor or long dead.
    Because the Desert Tribes had a great many strengths, but communication was not one of them. He wasn't entirely certain they knew the meaning of the word. The Tribes all agreed every other Tribe was wrong about something; at best they were wrong, but not so wrong that an alliance was out of the question.

    Most alliances did not last long.
    Those few who had tried to unite the Tribes had either been Tavamara Kings who had run scurrying back to their palace after mere months, or Sheiks within the Desert who either were killed in battle or realized how stupid they were being.
    The Tribes were united only in that they were meant to be divided, and everyone outside the Desert needed to mind their own business.
    Heaving a sigh, he sat up and dug into one of his saddlebags, pulling out a pouch of dried meat. Getting up, he moved to the edge of the water and knelt, scooping it up in one hand to drink. His hands made it taste like dirt and sweat, but beneath that it was cool and crisp.
    Almost as refreshing as the sleep he wasn't getting. Nights like this he missed being a child, when he could pester his mother into singing him to sleep, or his father into telling him a story. Of course being an adult had its benefits - none of which he was enjoying. But if he dwelt on that he really would never get any sleep.
    Chewing almost absently on the tough, faintly-sweet, smoky meat, he stared at the reflection of the moon in the rippling water and let his thoughts jump as they wanted, never lingering long on any of them, until his overactive mind finally wore itself down. Crawling back to his bedroll, he curled up and fell into light doze.
    Ingrained habit forced him awake two hours later, the sky just beginning to take on a faint haze that would turn eventually into sunrise. "That time already?" Sighing, he gathered his things and fastened them in place on his saddle, then mounted and turned Angel west. "Take us back, Angel. To our home away from home."

    Three
    "Good morning, oh beautiful desert rose."
    Isra's head shot up from the book he'd been reading, and he moved without thought, lobbing the nearest heavy object - another book - at the speaker's head. "Shut up. Get out of my tent."
    "Why, Isra! What's wrong with your face? Is that a scar? Who dared to mark my beautiful desert rose?"
    "OUT!" Isra roared, standing and leaping over the small, low table at which he had been studying, lunging for the speaker and tackling him hard, sending them both to the floor of his tent. "Do you want to die, Simon?"
    Simon grinned. "If my death will bring happiness to the face of my beautiful desert rose, then gladly I will give my life."
    "Shut up," Isra said sourly, and slapped him hard on the chest before rolling off Simon and standing up. His fingers went automatically to the thin scar that ran down the length of his right cheek. "I see you've already caught up on Tribal gossip." He picked up the book he had thrown at Simon and resumed his seat at