The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold (3 page)

The mist flowed around the circle, trying again and again to find a hole in Arlen’s tight net. Even in its disembodied state, Arlen could taste its desperation and fear, and he tensed with excitement. Demons were all-but immune to mortal weapons. The only guaranteed way to kill one was to trap it in a warded circle and wait for the sun, a task that often took as many humans with it as demons.

Finally, the sun rose high enough to reach the far side of the river, and Arlen could see sparks catching in the orange cloud like kindling. Suddenly, there was a flash of intense heat as the mist ignited, setting the very air on fire. Arlen felt the rush of vacuum; his eyes dried out and his cheeks reddened, but he could not have looked away if his life depended on it. For all that demons had taken from the world, Arlen would never tire of seeing one pay the ultimate price for its evil.

He searched his campsite after the demon flame expired, but most of his gear had been torn apart and smashed by the demon, or else burned when it ignited the air. He had spares of the most irreplaceable items in Dawn Runner’s circle, but that one dead demon was going to end up costing him most of his profit from selling the pottery.

If there was even pottery left to sell. Arlen rushed back up the stairs to Master Dravazi’s workshop, and as he feared, almost every piece was cracked or shattered. He searched the rest of the adobe buildings and found a great deal of pottery, but it was sturdy and utilitarian. The Bahavans, dependent on trade to survive, had wasted little of their artistry on ornamenting the pieces they used themselves. He would be lucky to even cover his losses.

Still, despite the pain and loss, Arlen rode out of the canyon with his head high. He had seen someplace no one had visited in over twenty years, braved its demons, and would return to tell the tale.

One of these days, your luck won’t hold
, his father’s voice reminded him.

Maybe
, he thought back to it,
but not today
.

* * * * *

Abban limped through the great bazaar of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was a large-bellied man, but his lame leg would not have been able to support him in any event.

He wore a yellow silk turban, topped with a tan felt cap. Under his tan suede vest he wore a loose shirt of bright blue silk, covered in thread-of-gold scrollwork, and his fingers glittered with rings. His pantaloons, the same yellow silk as his turban, were held up by a jeweled belt, and the head of his crutch was smooth white ivory, carved into the likeness of the first camel he had ever bought, with his armpit resting between its two humps.

The bazaar sprawled for miles along the inner walls of the city. There on the hot, dusty streets were seemingly endless kiosks, tents, and pens, showcasing food, spices, perfume, clothing, jewelry, furniture, livestock, pack animals, and anything else a buyer could possibly want.

Much like the Maze outside the walls, designed to let the
dal’Sharum
trap and kill any demon attempting to get into the city, the bazaar was designed to trap shoppers and put them off balance as the vendors descended on them. The dazzling array of goods and the aggressiveness of the sellers weakened the resolve and loosened the purse strings of even the most difficult to please shopper, and apparent exits from the district were more often than not dead ends as the ever-shifting kiosks blocked through-passage of the street. Even those familiar with the twists and turns of the bazaar found themselves lost from time to time.

But not Abban. The bazaar was his home, and the sound of shouted haggling was the air he breathed. He could no more get lost in the bazaar than the First Warrior get lost in the Maze.

Abban was born in his family’s tent, right in the center of the bazaar. His grandmother had served as midwife, and Abban’s father, Chabin, had kept their kiosk open to customers even while his wife howled in the back. He couldn’t afford to lose the business, especially if there was to be another mouth to feed.

Chabin was a good man, Abban remembered, a hard worker trying to provide for his family even though his cowardice had made him unsuitable as a warrior, and the clerics had found his faith lacking.

Denied those two vocations, the only callings considered suitable for a Krasian man, Abban’s father had been forced to bend his back each day, toiling like a woman. He was
khaffit
, a man without honor, and the paradise of Everam would forever be denied him as a result.

But Chabin had shouldered his burdens without complaint, turning a minor kiosk of substandard trinkets into a bustling business with clients as far away as the green lands to the north. He had taught Abban about mathematics and geography, showing him how to draw words and to speak the tongue of greenlanders so that he could haggle with their Messengers over the goods they brought to trade. He taught Abban many things, but most of all, Chabin had taught Abban to fear the
dama
. A lesson provided at the cost of his own life.

Dama
, the clerics of Everam, were at the highest echelon of Krasian society. They wore bright white robes that could be spotted at a distance, and served as a bridge between man and Creator. It was within the rights of the
dama
to kill any tribesman below their station, instantly and without fear of reprisal, if they felt that the man was disrespecting them or the sacred laws they enforced.

Abban had been eight when his father was killed. Cob, a Messenger from the north, had come to the kiosk, buying supplies for his return trek. He was a valued customer and a vital link to the flow of goods form the green lands. Abban knew to treat the man like a prince.

“Damaged one of my circles on the trek in,” Cob said, limping with the aid of his spear. “I’ll need rope and paint.”

Chabin snapped his fingers, and Abban handed his father a small pot of paint while he ran to fetch the rope.

“Damned sand demon bit off half my foot before I could retreat to my spare,” Cob said, showing his bandaged foot.

Distracted by the sight, neither Chabin nor Cob had not noticed the
dama
passing by.

But the
dama
had noticed them; particularly that Abban’s father had failed to bow low in submission, as was required of a
khaffit
in the presence of a cleric.

“Bow, you filthy
khaffit
!” the
dal’Sharum
escorting the
dama
had barked.

Chabin, startled by the shout, had whirled around, accidentally spilling paint onto the
dama’s
pristine white robe.

For a moment, time seemed frozen, and then the enraged
dama
reached over the counter and took hold of Chabin’s hair and chin, twisting sharply. A crack, like the sound of wood breaking, resounded in the tent, and Abban’s father fell over, dead.

It was over a quarter century since that day, but Abban still remembered the sound vividly.

When he was old enough, Abban had been forced to try his hand at being a warrior, that he might not share his father’s shame. But though his Chabin’s caste was not hereditary, Abban had proven just as weak, just as cowardly. He was still a novice when the brutal training crippled him, and he found himself cast out as
khaffit
.

Abban nodded at some merchants as he passed their kiosks. The vendors were mostly women, wrapped head-to-toe in heavy black cloth, though there were other
khaffit
like him, as well. They, like Abban, were easily distinguishable in their bright clothes, though all wore the plain tan cap and vest of their caste. Apart from
khaffit
, only women wore bright, colorful clothing, and they only when alone with their husbands or other women.

If the merchant women felt contempt at the sight of Abban the
khaffit
, they knew better than to show it. Though he shared his father’s weaknesses, Abban had inherited Chabin’s strengths as well, and the family business had grown every year since Abban had taken the reins. Offending him invariably meant a loss of business, as the fat
khaffit
had connections and ongoing deals throughout the bazaar and in cities hundreds of miles to the north. The bulk of trade from the green lands came through Abban, and any who wanted access to the valuable exotic merchandise kept their disdain to themselves.

All except one. There was a shout from across the street as Abban came to his own pavilion, and he looked with disgust at the competitor who hobbled towards him.

“Abban, my friend!” the man called, though he was anything but. “I thought I recognized your bright womanly clothes coming down the street! How is business this day?”

Abban scowled, but he knew better than to offer a rude response. Amit asu Samere am’Rajith am’Majah was a
dal’Sharum
warrior, as far above Abban the
khaffit
as a man was above a woman, and while it was not technically legal for a
dal’Sharum
to kill a
khaffit
without just cause, in practice, there would be little or no repercussion if one did.

This was why Abban had to pretend that the occasional carts of goods that vanished from his possession had never existed, much less been stolen, even when he knew it had been Amit’s people who took them.

Amit was a recent addition to the market. A sand demon had bitten the meat from his calf in battle, and the wound had festered. Eventually, the
dama’ting
had no choice but to amputate. It was a grave dishonor to be crippled in battle but not die, but since he had managed to trap the offending demon before the rising sun, Amit’s place in the afterlife was assured.

Unlike Abban, Amit was clad from head to toe in black, as befitted a warrior, his night veil loose around his neck. He still carried his spear, using it more as a walking staff than a weapon these days, but he kept it sharp, and was quick to threaten with it when aroused.

A man in warrior black attracted attention in the bazaar, since it was, for the better part, the near-exclusive domain of women and
khaffit
. People tended to move carefully around him, frightened to approach, so Amit had tied a bright orange cloth beneath the head of his spear to signal his status as a merchant and to draw the eyes of potential customers.

“Ah, Amit, my good friend!” Abban said, his face filling with a look of warm, welcoming sincerity practiced before thousands of customers. “By Everam, it is good to see you. The sun shines brighter when you are about. Business is well, indeed! Thank you for asking. I trust things go well in your pavilion also?”

“Of course, of course!” Amit said, his eyes shooting daggers. He looked ready to say more, but he noticed a pair of women who had stopped to examine one of Abban’s fruit carts.

“Come come, honored mothers, I have far better fare across the way in my pavilion!” Amit said. “Would you rather buy your goods from a soulless
khaffit
, or one who has stood tall in the night against the demon hordes?”

Few could refuse him when it was put that way, and the women turned and headed towards Amit’s pavilion. Amit sneered at Abban. It was not the first time he had stolen Abban’s business thusly, and likely it was not the last.

There was a hissing in the general din of the market then, and both men looked up. The sound was a warning from other vendors that
dama
approached. All around, merchants would be hiding wares that were prohibited under Evejan law, such as spirits or musical instruments. Even Amit glanced down at himself to see if he had any contraband on his person.

A few minutes later, the source of the warning became clear. Led by a young cleric in full white robe, a group of
nie’dama
, novices in white loincloths with one end thrown over their shoulders, were collecting bread, fruit, and meat from the market. There was no offer of payment for what they took, nor did any vendor dare ask. The
dama
grazed like goats, and there was nothing a merchant who valued his skin dare say about it.

Remembering his father’s lesson, Abban bowed so low when the
dama
appeared that he feared he might tip over. Amit noticed, and smacked Abban’s crutch with the butt of his spear, braying a laugh as Abban fell in the dust. The
dama
turned their way at the sound, and Abban, feeling the weight of that look, put his forehead down and groveled in the dirt like a dog. Amit, conversely, simply nodded his head to the
dama
in respect, a gesture the cleric returned.

The
dama
walked on after a moment, but Abban caught the eye of one of the
nie’dama,
a skinny boy of no more than twelve years. The boy glanced at Amit, then smirked at Abban kneeling in the dust, but he winked conspiratorially before following after his brothers.

And to make matters worse, that was the precise moment the Par’chin arrived.

Being caught groveling in the dirt was never a good way to begin a negotiation.

* * * * *

Arlen looked sadly at Abban kneeling in the dirt. He knew the loss of face hurt his friend more deeply than a
dama’s
whip ever could. There were a great many things that Arlen admired about the Krasian people, but their treatment of women and
khaffit
was not among them. No man deserved such shame.

He looked away purposefully as Abban hauled on his crutch to regain his feet, staring intently at a cart of trinkets he had no interest in. When Abban had righted himself and dusted off, Arlen led Dawn Runner over as if he had just arrived.

“Par’chin!” Abban cried, as if he had just noticed Arlen himself. “It is good to see you, son of Jeph! I take it from the laden horse you lead that your journey was a success?”

Arlen pulled out a Dravazi vase, handing it to Abban for inspection. As ever, Abban had a look of disgust painted on his face before he even had a good look at the object. He reminded Arlen of old Hog, the owner of the general store in Tibbet’s Brook where he had grown up. Never one to let a seller know he was interested until the haggling was done.