The Great Bazaar and Brayan’s Gold (5 page)

But if they were anywhere, they were in Anoch Sun. When the Krasians prayed, they knelt to the northwest, where the city was supposed to lay. Arlen had looked for the lost city twice before, but there were thousands of square miles of desert in that direction, and his searches had felt like looking for a particular grain in a sandstorm.

“You get me a map to Anoch Sun,” Arlen said, “and you can have the lot of Bahavan pottery for nothing. I’ll even go back with a cart for another load, on my own coin.”

Abban’s eyes widened in shock, then he brayed a laugh and shook his head. “Surely you know I was joking, Par’chin,” he said. “The lost city of Kaji is a myth.”

“It isn’t,” Arlen said. “I read of it in the histories in the Duke’s Library in Fort Miln. The city exists, or did, once.”

Abban’s eyes narrowed. “Let us say you are correct, and I could procure this,” he said. “The Holy City sacred. If the
dama
ever learned you went there, both our lives would be forfeit.”

“How is that different from Baha kad’Everam?” Arlen asked. “Didn’t you say looting the ruins for pottery would mark us both a death sentence if we were caught?”

“It is as different as night and day, Par’chin,” Abban said. “Baha is nothing, a camelpiss hamlet full of
khaffit
. The
dal’Sharum
danced
alagai’sharak
there to hallow the graves of the Bahavans only out of obligation to Evejan law, to allow its inhabitants a chance to be reincarnated into a higher caste. Besides, there is Dravazi pottery in every palace in Krasia. The only notice a few new pieces added to the market will draw will be from eager buyers.

“Anoch Sun, on the other hump, is the holiest place in the world,” Abban said. “If you, a
chin
, were to desecrate it, every man, woman, and child in Krasia would cry for your head. And any artifacts you returned with would draw many questions.”

“I would never desecrate anything!” Arlen said. “I’ve studied the ancient world my entire life. I would treat the find with more reverence than anyone.”

“Simply setting foot there would be a desecration, Par’chin,” Abban said.

“Demonshit,” Arlen snapped. “No one has been there in thousands of years, a time when Kaji’s empire extended over my people’s lands as well as yours. I have as much right to go there as anyone.”

“That may be, Par’chin,” Abban said, “but you will find few in Krasia who will agree with you.”

“I don’t care,” Arlen said, looking Abban hard in the eyes. “Either you get me that map, or I take the Dravazi pottery north, and start selling my northern contacts’ goods to other vendors in the bazaar.”

Abban stared back at him for some time, and Arlen could practically hear the abacus beads clicking in his friend’s head as he calculated the loss of Arlen’s business. There were few Messengers willing to brave the dangers of the Krasian desert and its people. Arlen came to the Desert Spear three times as often as other Messengers, and he spoke the Krasian tongue well enough to take his business elsewhere.

“Very well, Par’chin,” Abban said at last, “but be it upon your head, if it comes back upon you. I will deal in no Sunian artifacts.”

That surprised Arlen, who knew Abban was not one to turn down any chance at profit.

A fool’s a man who knows better, and does the thing anyway
, his father’s voice said.

Arlen pushed the thought aside. The call of the lost city was too great, and worth any risk.

“I’ll never breathe a word of it,” he promised.

“I will get a message to my nephew this evening,” Abban said. “There is a lesser
dama
who comes to me for couzi each night, and he carries messages to the boy in exchange. He will reply tomorrow telling us how long the texts we require will take to copy, and where and when to meet him to make the exchange. You’ll have to come with me to that, Par’chin. I won’t smuggle a map to Anoch Sun through my tent.”

Arlen nodded. “Anything you need, my friend,” he said.

“I hope you mean that, Par’chin,” Abban said.

* * * * *

“We’ll need to wear these,” Abban said, holding up black
dal’Sharum
robes. Arlen stared at him in surprise. Even though he sometimes fought beside
dal’Sharum
in the Maze, Arlen was not allowed to wear the black, and Abban . . .

“What will happen if we’re caught wearing those?” he asked.

Abban took a swig of couzi right from the bottle and passed it to Arlen. “Best not dwell on such things,” he said. “We’ll be doing the exchange at night, and the robes should hide us well in the darkness. Even if we are seen, the night veils will add a measure of disguise, so long as we outrun any who see us.”

Arlen looked at Abban’s lame leg doubtfully, but made no mention of it. “We’re going out at night?” he asked. “Isn’t that forbidden under Evejan law?”

“What about this Nie-spawned transaction isn’t, Par’chin?” Abban snapped, grabbing the couzi bottle and drinking again. “The city is well warded. There hasn’t been a demon on the streets of Krasia in living memory.”

Arlen shrugged. “Makes no difference to me,” he said.

“Of course not,” Abban muttered, taking another pull of couzi. “The Par’chin fears nothing.”

They waited for the sun to set, and then slipped into the black warrior robes. Arlen admired himself in one of Abban’s many mirrors, surprised to see that with a bit of makeup around his eyes and his night veil drawn, he looked just like any other Krasian warrior, if a few inches shorter.

Abban, on the other hand, would not withstand close scrutiny. He was tall like a warrior, but without his crutch, he leaned heavily on his spear, and the bulk stretching the robes about his midsection was most unlike a warrior’s lean form.

It was full dark when they opened the tent flap and looked outside. In the distance, Arlen heard the signal horns of the
dal’Sharum
and the reports of their artillery, and longed to fight beside them.

Anything is safer than that,
the voice in his head said, and for once, Arlen agreed.
Alagai’sharak
was a beautiful madness, but without the combat wards of old, it was madness nonetheless. But the way of the north, cowering behind wards each night, was no saner. One way killed the men’s bodies, and the other, their spirits. The world needed a third choice, but only the wards of old could give it to them.

They rode a small camel cart to their destination. The camel’s feet, as well as the wheels of the cart, were wrapped in cushioned leather for silence, and whispered in the dusty sandstone streets. They dared no light as they crossed the city, but the stars in the desert were bright, and the flashing of the wards in the Maze was like lightning, illuminating everything for a moment at random intervals.

“We meet Jamere at Sharik Hora, the temple of Heroes’ Bones,” Abban said. “He cannot venture far from the acolyte cells.”

Arlen weathered a moment’s guilt. Mammoth Sharik Hora was both temple and graveyard, the entire structure built from the
dal’Sharum
who had died in
alagai’sharak
. The mortar was mixed with their blood. Their bones and skin composed the furniture. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of warriors had given their lives for its ideals and their bodies for its walls and domed ceiling.

There was no holier place in Fort Krasia than Sharik Hora, and here he was, sneaking in the night to steal from its walls. Like Baha kad’Everam. Like Anoch Sun.

Is that all I am?
Arlen wondered to himself.
A grave robber? A man without honor?

He almost asked Abban to turn back. But then, he thought of the huge temple, and how the
dal’Sharum
could not even fill the seats anymore, because of their endless war of attrition. All because a group of Holy Men hoarded knowledge. The Tenders of the northland were much the same, and Arlen had never hesitated to ignore their rules.

They’re only copies
, he told himself.
Ent stealing, just forcing them to share.

It still ent right
, his father said in his head.

They left the cart in an alley two blocks away, and went the rest of the way on foot. The streets were utterly deserted. As they approached the temple, Abban tied a bright cloth to the end of his spear, waving it back and forth. After a moment, a similar cloth was waved from a window on the second story.

“That way, quickly,” Abban said, hobbling towards the window as fast as his lame leg would allow. “If they catch Jamere out of his cell...” he left the thought unfinished, but Arlen could easily imagine the rest.

As they put their backs to the temple wall, a thin silk rope was slung down from the window. The boy who slid down it may have been skinny, but he moved with the fluid grace of a warrior. The
dama
were masters of the brutal Krasian art of weaponless combat known as
sharusahk
. Arlen had studied the art with its greatest teachers amongst the
dal’Sharum
, but while it was only part of a warrior’s overall training, the
dama
devoted their lives to the practice. Arlen had never seen one of them actually fight—no one was fool enough to attack a
dama
—but he saw how they moved, always in perfect balance and awareness. He did not doubt that they were masters of killing men.

“I’ve only a moment, uncle,” the boy said, pressing a leather satchel into Abban’s hands. “I think someone heard me. I need to get back before I am seen, or they perform a bido count.”

Abban produced a pouch that clinked heavily with coin, but the boy held up his hand. “Later,” he said. “I don’t want it with me if I’m caught.”

“Nie’s black heart,” Abban muttered. “Get ready to run,” he told Arlen, handing him the satchel.

“I’ll give the money to your mother,” Abban told Jamere.

“Don’t you dare!” the boy hissed. “The witch will steal it. I’ll come for it later, and you had best have it ready!”

He went and gripped his rope, but before he could begin to climb, a flickering light blossomed in the window above, and there was a shout as the rope was spotted.

“Run!” Abban whispered harshly, using the spear to hop along at an impressive pace. Arlen followed, and when a white robed
dama
stuck a lamp out the window and spotted them, the boy came hurrying after, muttering Krasian curses too fast for Arlen to follow.

“You there! Stop!” the cleric cried. Lights began to blossom in the temple windows, and the
dama
leapt from the window, disregarding the rope entirely. He hit the sandstone street in a roll, heading right for them even as he exhausted the fall’s momentum. He back on his feet in a moment, sprinting hard after them.

“Stop and face Everam’s justice!” he screamed.

But all three of them knew that 'Everam’s justice’ meant only a quick death, and wisely ran on, turning a corner and breaking the cleric’s line of sight momentarily.

Abban was slowing them, huffing as he hobbled on his spear. He stumbled suddenly, falling to his knees and dropping his spear. He looked at Arlen with frantic eyes.

“Do not leave me!” he begged.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Arlen snapped, grabbing his arm and hauling the fat merchant upright.

“Get Abban to the cart,” Arlen told Jamere. “I will delay the
dama
.”

“No, I’ll do it,” Jamere said. “I can . . . ”

“Mind your elders, boy,” Arlen said, shocked to hear one of his fathers phrases pass his own lips. He grabbed the boy’s arm and propelled him towards Abban. The boy looked at him as if he were mad, but Arlen glared at him and he nodded and tucked himself under Abban’s arm.

Arlen slipped into a shadow, his black robes making him invisible in the night, and slung the satchel over his shoulders. If anyone was caught with the evidence, let it be him.

Right fix you’ve gotten yourself into now
, the voice in his head observed.

The
dama
came around the corner at a run, but still he was ready for Arlen’s ambush, ducking smoothly beneath a circle kick that would have blown across his solar-plexus. The
dama
rolled by, then straightened suddenly, his stiffened fingers striking Arlen in the wrist.

Arlen’s hand went numb, and his spear fell away from his nerveless fingers as the
dama
dropped low and spun to sweep his legs. Arlen threw himself backwards, tumbling until he could spring back to his feet. The
dama
came at him hard, a white-robed specter of death.

They met on even footing, and traded furious blows. For the first few moments, Arlen thought he might have a chance, but it quickly became clear the
dama
was only taking his measure. He twisted sharply away from one of Arlen’s kicks, pivoting back to punch Arlen hard in the throat.

It was not like having the wind knocked out of him, which Arlen had experienced many times. This was like having the wind trapped within him, its means of egress and replenishment cut off. He choked, staggering, and the
dama
turned almost lazily into the kick to his stomach that forced the breath back out of his damaged windpipe with a blast of agony and sent him flying onto his back in the street.

Arlen could hear other
dama
approaching from Sharik Hora, and see the flicker of their lamps. He struggled to rise as the
dama
coldly advanced upon him.

“Who were your accomplices, servant of Nie?” the
dama
asked. “Tell me the names of the lame one and the boy and I will grant you a quick death.”

Arlen tensed to attack again, and the
dama
laughed. “Your
sharusahk
is pitiful, fool. You only prolong your pain.”

Arlen knew the man was right, he was the superior fighter. But combat was more than perfection of art. Combat was doing whatever was required to win.

He grabbed a fistful of sand from the street and flung it into the
dama
’s eyes, kicking hard at his knee even as the cleric cried out and clutched his face. There was a satisfying crack, and the
dama
dropped screaming to the ground.