The Great Bazaar and Other Stories (6 page)

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 got 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 father's 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
damn
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.

Arlen staggered to
his feet, running after Abban and the boy. The were on the cart now, and Arlen
leapt aboard just as Abban whipped the camel and the beast galloped away.

Behind them, half
a dozen clerics gave chase, all carrying lanterns and moving with the same
impossible grace and speed.

Abban whipped the
poor camel raw, and slowly they began to pull away, as the beast reached speeds
no man could match. Arlen dared to think they might escape when they hit a pit
in the road and one of the cart's two wheels shattered. All three were thrown
to the ground, and the camel stopped, the heavy beast laboring for breath.

"To the abyss
with you both," Jamere said. "I'm not dying for a
chin
and a
khaffit
." He leapt to his feet and ran towards the
dama.

"Mercy,
masters!" the boy cried, falling to his knees before them. "I was but
a hostage!"

Arlen didn't stop
to stare. "Get on!" he shouted, shoving Abban at the camel as he
produced a wicked knife to slice the leather harnesses that held the beast to
the broken cart. The moment it was free, he stuck one foot in the stirrup,
grabbed the saddle horn, and slapped the camel hard on the rump with the flat
of his blade. The beast gave a great bray and broke into a run, leaving the
cries of the
dama
behind.

"Take the books
and go at first light, Par'chin," Abban said. "Leave the city, and I
will bribe the gate guards to swear you've been gone for a week."

"What about
you?" Arlen asked.

"I will be
better off with you and the evidence long gone," Abban said. "Jamere
will tell them he could not see our identities with the night veils in place,
and without proof, a few well-placed bribes will divert any inquiry."

Arlen nodded, and
bowed. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "I'm sorry to have
caused you so much trouble."

Abban clapped his
shoulder. "I am sorry, too, Par'chin. I should have better warned you
about the dangers of Baha kad'Everam. Let us call the account settled." The
shook hands, and Arlen headed out into the night.

At dawn, he
returned to his hostel, pretending to be returning from
alagai'sharak.
No one questioned this, and he was able to retrieve his possessions and escape
Fort Krasia before most of its inhabitants left the undercity. The
dal'Sharum
at the gates even lifted their spears to him as he left.

As he rode, he
clutched the precious map tube. He would go to Fort Rizon and resupply, and
then, he would find Anoch Sun.

There was a
hissing in
the bazaar, as the merchants warned of approaching
damn.

Abban hurriedly
drew back into his tent, peeking through the narrow gap in the flaps as a group
of black-clad
dal'Sharum
warriors appeared, shoving people aside as they
escorted a group of furious looking
damn
and a young, skinny acolyte.
Abban's fingers tightened on the canvas as they marched up the street, stopping
in front of his pavilion.

Amit came limping
up to them, the crippled
dal'Sharum
bowing his head slightly. "Have
you come for the
khaffit,
finally?" he asked one of the warriors.
"Whatever you think he has done, I assure you it is the least of his
crimes..."