The Great Bazaar and Other Stories (4 page)

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
dame'
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.

"Pity, I had
hoped for better," Abban said, though the vase was more beautiful than any
Arlen had ever seen in Abban's pavilion. "I doubt it will sell for
much."

"Spare me the
demonshit, for once," Arlen snapped. "I almost got myself cored over
these pieces, and if you're not paying good coin for them, I'll take them
elsewhere."

"You wound
me, son of Jeph!" Abban cried. "I, who gave you the very maps and
instruction that led you to the treasure in the first place!"

"The place
was full of strange demons," Arlen said. "That drives the price
up."

"Strange
demons?" Abban asked.

Arlen nodded.
"They were snub and orange like the rock," he said, "no bigger
than a dog, but there were hundreds of them."

Abban nodded.
"Clay demons," he said. "Baha kad'Everam is infested with
them."

"Night, you
knew?!" Arlen cried. "You knew and sent me there unprepared?"

"I didn't
tell you about the clay demons?" Abban asked.

"No, you
corespawned well didn't!" Arlen shouted. "I didn't even have proper
wards against them!"

Abban paled.
"What do you mean, you didn't have wards against them, Par'chin?" he
said. "Any fool child knows about clay demons."

"If you were
born in a ripping desert, maybe!" Arlen growled. "They told me the
same thing in the corespawned Duke's Mines after I was almost cored by a pack
of snow demons. I should take this whole load north to Fort Rizon, just to
spite you!"

"Oh, there's
no need for that, Par'chin!" a voice called. Arlen looked up to see a
dal'Sharum
hobbling across the street to them. He didn't know the man, but
it was no surprise the man knew him. Most
dal'Sharum
had at least heard
of the Par'chin, if not met him directly.

By itself,
chin
meant "outsider," but in practice it was an insult, synonymous with
"coward" and "weakling." It was a title even lower than
khaffit.
"Par'chin," however, meant "brave outsider,"
and it was a singular title belonging to Arlen alone, the only greenlander ever
to learn the ways of the Desert Spear and stand beside
dal'Sharum
in
alagai'sharak.

"Allow me to
introduce myself," the stranger said in Krasian, gripping forearms with
Arlen in a warrior's greeting. He didn't speak the northern tongue as Abban
did, but unlike most other Messengers, Arlen spoke the Krasian tongue fluently.
"I am Amit asu Samere am'Rajith am'Majah," the man said. "Tell
me how this pathetic
khaffit
has failed you, and I will better anything
he has offered."

Abban grabbed
Arlen's arm. "Tell him you stole pottery from hallowed ground,
Par'chin," he said in the Northern tongue, "and we'll both be staked
out before the city gates as night falls."

"Khaffit!"
Amit barked. "It is the height of rudeness to speak some barbarian tongue
in the presence of men!"

"A thousand
apologies, noble
dal'Sharum
," Abban said, bowing low and stepping
back so the other man could not trip him again.

"You don't
want to deal with the likes of this pig-eating half-man," Amit said to
Arlen. "You have stood in the night! Dealing with
khaffit
is
beneath you. But like you, I have demon ichor on my hands. Twelve, did I help
see the sun, before losing my leg!"

"Ah,"
Abban muttered in Arlen's language, "the last time I heard him tell it, it
was only a half dozen. He must be adding to his count still."

"Eh, what was
that,
khaffit?"
Amit asked, not understanding, but knowing it was
likely an insult.

"Nothing,
honored
dal'Sharum
," Abban said, bowing smugly.

Amit smacked
Abban's face. "I told you before you were being rude with that savage
grunting!" he barked. "Apologize to the Par'chin!"

Arlen had had
enough. He stamped his spear, rounding on the merchant angrily. "You would
ask a man to apologize for speaking my own language to me?!" he roared,
shoving Amit so hard he fell to the ground. For a moment, the merchant's eyes hardened
and he gripped his spear, ready to leap to the attack, but his eyes flicked to
Arlen's strong legs, and then to his own stump, and thought better of it. He
bowed his head.

"My
apologies, Par'chin," he bit off the words as if each one had a foul taste.
"I meant no insult."

The caste system
cut both ways. Amit had greeted Arlen as a fellow warrior, and warriors had
their own pecking order: strong to weak. His peg leg put Amit at the very
bottom of that order. To a strong warrior, he was only a small step above
khaffit
himself. It was no wonder Amit had chosen to make the bazaar his home.

Arlen pointed his
spear at Amit. "Think twice before you insult my homeland again," he
said, keeping his voice low with menace, "or the next time the dust of the
street will be dampened with blood."

He meant no such
thing, of course, but Amit need never know that.
Dal'Sharum
required a
show of strength, if they were to respect you.

Abban took Arlen's
arm and hurried him into his pavilion before the incident had a chance to
escalate further.

"Hah!"
he cried, when they were inside and the heavy tent flap closed behind them.
"Amit will make me suffer a month for seeing that, but it will be worth
every insult and blow."

"You
shouldn't have to tolerate such treatment," Arlen said for what felt like
the thousandth time. "It's not right."

But Abban waved
him away. "Right or wrong, it is the way of things, Par'chin," Abban
said. "Perhaps they treat my kind differently in your land, but in the
Desert Spear, you might as well ask the sun not to shine so hot."

It was cool in
Abban's tent, and his women came over immediately, taking Arlen's dusty outer
robe and his boots, giving him a clean robe to sit in. They piled pillows for
the men and brought out pitchers of water and bowls of fruit and meat, along
with steaming cups of tea. When they were refreshed, Abban produced a small
bottle and two tiny clay cups.

"Come,
Par'chin, drink with me," he said. "Let us calm our nerves and start
our meeting anew." Arlen looked at the tiny cup dubiously, then shrugged
and took a sip.

A moment later, he
spit it back out, reaching frantically for the water jug. Abban laughed and
kicked his feet.

"Are you
trying to poison me?" Arlen demanded, but his anger dissipated when Abban
held up his own cup and drained it.

"What in the
Core is that foul brew?" he asked.

"Couzi,"
Abban said. "Made from distilled fermented grain and cinnamon. By Everam,
Par'chin, how many casks of it have you lugged across the desert without having
a taste?"

"I don't
drink the merchandise," Arlen said. "And for the ledger, it tastes
more like a flame demon's spit than cinnamon."

"It can
double as lamp oil," Abban agreed, smiling. He refilled Arlen's cup and
handed it to him. "Best to drink the first one quickly," he advised,
refilling his own cup, "but by the third, all you'll taste is the
cinnamon."