None of the three settlements were cause for worry since their owners were wealthy and business minded. The tents pitched to their left, however, were cut from a different cloth. They belonged to a freelance caravaner, a polite way of saying a smuggler, someone who, for a fistful of gold diegans, would spirit a caravan through the desert, away from the searching eyes of the Temple. This caravan harbored a large group of wailing women— women willing to cry at any funeral to extol the virtue of the dead for a handsome fee. Although innocent in appearance, wailing women could hide agitants, women whose voices could lead men to rampage. They were a feeble impersonation of the dreaded Adorants of the Temple of Baal. Women of this all-female order could break the will of men using just their voices. Nevertheless, agitants could provoke men to go berserk. Next to the wailing women’s tent, there was a curci-barber, a barber whose scissors engraved curses in stylized hair. The curses would last as long as they were visible, therefore, when hidden beneath a caftan or a hat, they were undetectable. Across from the barber, there were twin sister shoemakers. Corintus was convinced they were soft assassins, killing their victims with poisoned darts through the soles of their feet. They cut shoes to order and ornamented them to be enviable gifts that honored their unsuspecting recipients.
Whiffs of rotten stench interrupted his train of thought. They sourced from the large apothecary’s tent in the same caravan, where, most likely, spells, poisons, and antidotes simmered. Three turbaned short men with thin mustaches, flowing silk garments, and curved shoes strolled between the tents. Cutthroats, thought Corintus. Most likely looking for a client. His mood darkened. Aside from these tents, the freelancer’s caravan harbored another dozen hidden from view. Who knows what lurks in the darkness, he thought. If the Temple had caught wind of our little escapade … he shuddered. This freelance caravan offers more than a dozen ways the Temple could kill us. Tirka hosted close to a thousand caravans, and the ever-shifting landscape of the city was grating on his nerves. He wished Master Kwadil’s caravan would arrive here soon so they could be on their way.
“No one is watching us,” Amaréya said.
“Agreed.”
“Come, husband, all is quiet along our caravan’s frontier. We have other matters to discuss.”
He followed her inside the tent where he grabbed a three-legged stool, then sat and faced his wife. He was ready.
“We need to discuss Vily,” she said, sitting with her weapons across her lap. If a stranger were to barge into their tent, he would not be surprised to find a Finikian weapons’ merchant with two Empyrean blades on her lap. Amaréya eyed her husband. His sleeves were rolled up, exposing his arms. Corintus knew how to disguise his lean and powerful build. True to the Silent’s ways, his appearance was unassuming, but even an Empyrean with two double-blades would think twice before engaging him in direct combat. Prudently, Amaréya started with a vague statement. “Vily is sick,” she said, and waited for his reaction. If he were to throw his arms in the air, stand, and pace, she would know he would not discuss the topic any further. Corintus blinked. Once. Encouraged, she continued.
“She is no longer herself.” Corintus’ demeanor did not change and she knew now that he would listen to her without interruption. “Vily is suffering from the vanishing.”
“That’s not possible,” Corintus replied coolly. “The vanishing affects very young children; Vily is almost thirteen years old.”
“For the children of Teshub and the Empyreans, that is true. Vily is an orphan. We do not know her true origin. In other kingdoms, the vanishing affects people differently.”
“Have you seen this happening in older folks?”
“Hoda has. She told me she was at a feast once and a young woman was dancing with her beloved, when all of a sudden, she stood, held her hands in supplication, and then … vanished.”
“Did Hoda hear of this woman, or did she see it with her own eyes?”
“She saw it with her own eyes. I have no reason to doubt her.”
Corintus nodded. “Neither do I.” He shifted his line of questioning. “How do you know it is the vanishing? Can’t it be something else?”
“For the past ten days, Vily has been dreaming of a place where people are ‘see-through’ and children play with magic.”
“What does that prove?”
“She’s never dreamed of such things before. Also, she’s lost her appetite and is not talking much. She’s even stopped reacting to the whistle Karadon gave her, you know, the one that can produce the sound of an animal. Also … she doesn’t play with Aquilina anymore.”
“I see, I think you’re right. So, what should we do? We cannot let the Vanishing Land claim her.”
“We don’t want it to. You know those affected by it become evanescent, then turn into a wisp, a translucent image of themselves until they’re no longer visible. Their shadow lingers for a few more days before it too disappears entirely. No one has ever found a cure for the vanishing.”
“I know someone who may have.”
“Who?”
“Cahloon,” Corintus replied after a slight hesitation.
Amaréya did not flinch even though she knew the challenge. “Seeking Cahloon is a possibility,” she advanced carefully. “Another option is to accept the inevitable and let Vily vanish. She’s had a good life. She lived two happy years with Aquilina, more than most of her kin. Isn’t that acceptable?”
“What of Aquilina?” Corintus retorted. “Do you think she would find this acceptable?”
“She’s a child. She’s not to be asked what she can or cannot find acceptable. Such a heavy burden cannot be shouldered by young ones.”
“Speaking of a heavy burden, did she tell you who died after she came back from her last visit to Tyrulan?”
Amaréya shook her head. “She refuses to talk about it to me. She’s hurt and sad, but there’s a burning fire behind her eyes. She’s strong. She will survive.”
“I am not worried about her survival. I am worried about our survival once she finds out Vily is vanishing.”
“What do you mean?”
Corintus looked at his wife and smiled. “Didn’t it occur to you that, in desperation, Aquilina might try to take Vily with her to Tyrulan? She might want to hide her there, to protect her.”
“That would be disobedient,” Amaréya objected.
“True, it would be. But think of it this way: If you thought you were the only one who could save the Empyrean empress from a certain death because no one else knew about the danger and there was no time to alert your superiors, what would you do?”
“I would save her.”
“Well, Vily is to Aquilina what the empress is to you. Aquilina would not think of it as disobedience. She would think she’s the only one who can do something for Vily when the rest of us can’t.”
“I see. That makes sense.”
Corintus got up. “You are right, Amaréya, no one has ever been saved from the vanishing, but to our daughter, these are just words. She does not know of anyone else who succumbed to this terrible curse. All she knows is that her friend, her only friend, the one she saved from the orphanage, needs her help. If Cahloon cannot save Vily, she will say so. If Aquilina hears the most powerful magician this side of Babylon tell her there is no cure, she might believe her and let Vily go.”
“How do you know Cahloon is a real magician? If she were real, the Temple would have destroyed her.”
“Or she is so real the Temple leaves her alone, so long as she doesn’t step outside Tirkalanzibar. But these subtleties will be lost on Aquilina. She might go to Cahloon if we don’t do it first.”
“This will endanger and delay our mission.”
Corintus shrugged his shoulders. “If Vily is suffering from the vanishing, then our mission is already in danger. It can’t be helped.”
She got up and refitted her blades beneath her cape. “I am ready, then.”
Corintus felt guilty. He hated twisting his wife’s hands the way he just
did, especially when she was willing to do what was necessary to protect Aquilina from the Temple. It would have been more expedient and far easier to let Vily fade away, but he also knew another side of their daughter, the impulsive, passionate, rebellious side, far better than her mother did. He had no doubt Aquilina would throw all manner of prudence aside and go to extremes in order to save Vily, and neither he nor her mother could stop her. He could not blame his daughter, knowing full well he would have done the same.
“Shall check on the children?” Corintus asked as they stepped outside.
Amaréya scanned the surrounding area once more. “That’s not necessary,” she said. “They’re in the care of Hoda and Karadon. Let’s be on our way to Cahloon.”
Tirka was beginning to wake and more people were outside their tents. They crossed over the small wire enclosure surrounding their plot and went down a narrow dirt road toward the large and highly visible tent of Cahloon. Leaving the tents of the snake merchants behind, they followed a wide bend around a large encampment of proud Varkunian tents. These taciturn northerners traded in fur and bones and lived inside tall white tents covered with fur. Midway through the bend, the path narrowed and they were forced to walk in single file. The path narrowed further so that two tents, one from the Varkunian camp and a second from another caravaner, stood facing each other with nearly no space to pass between them. Amaréya was walking in front of Corintus and reached the two tents first. As she was about to make her way between them, a hairy arm, as thick as a man’s thigh, jutted out from the Varkunian tent and grabbed her hand. She stopped abruptly and Corintus bumped into her. A lasso adroitly thrown from the opposite tent caught him by the neck.
Tirka was ruled by one simple four-word code of conduct: Aladi, boladi, baradi, skibit. Whatever you could grab—aladi—you could keep—boladi. And whatever you could keep, you could sell—baradi. If you couldn’t sell it, then you were allowed to kill it—skibit. This meant that anything and anyone who could be stolen, captured, or abducted was fair game.
Except for the camels.
Anyone caught stealing a camel was stoned to death and his body hung for the crows. Once his bones had been picked cleaned, curse merchants would fight over them, for the bones of one who is hanged were considered accursed.
Thus, Tirka’s slave market was violent and bloody, consisting of abductions, counter abductions, and exchanges of slaves. No one walked in Tirka without a sizeable party, much less a woman as stately as Amaréya or a man as strong as Corintus. Whoever could catch her, could sell her at auction and reap a large reward, and whoever could sell Corintus would reap a smaller but still sizeable reward—assuming the would-be abductors were able to succeed.
By the time Amaréya and Corintus had crossed the two tents, the thick hairy arm was laying in the dirt, cleanly sundered from its owner by an Empyrean blade. Corintus pulled off the lasso from his neck. He glanced back and saw the body of the man who had tried to abduct him being dragged back inside the tent. He won’t be able to use that arm to throw a lasso again, he thought.
They heard a muffled moan and a string of curses from both tents. Whoever it was that tried to take them prisoners had failed, and that was that. There would be no recriminations, no complaints, and no attacks: aladi, boladi, baradi, skibit.
Rounding the bend, they came into full view of a camel enclosure where hundreds of the tall single-humped creatures lounged. The large circular stone fountain bubbled up and water gushed from twelve stone pipes. The couple stopped to watch the stampede of thirsty animals.
“How much water can a camel drink?” Amaréya asked, curious.
“I asked Kwadil that question,” her husband replied, observing the camels maneuver to access the basin, “and he said that a camel can drink sixty gallons in three minutes.”
Amaréya eyed Corintus with a quizzical look. “Are you funning me?”
“No, I am not making fun of you.” For some reason, his wife could not get that expression right.
The camels’ braying grew louder. When walking single file in the desert, with owners that cared for them, dromedaries were as gentle as pups, but when overworked and abused by greedy caravaners, these highly sociable creatures became quickly angry and frustrated. Locked in dirty enclosures, they brayed, snipped one another, and spat cud at anyone who ventured too closely. In winter, during the mating season, their agitation reached its apex leading males to bray loudly, stamp their feet, and spit at one another in attempt to woo a female. Since Tirka was home to thousands of camels on any given day, the constant braying forced everyone to raise their voices, which only added to the din.
Corintus tugged at his wife’s shoulder. “We need to go.”
Blasted High Riders and their sick games, he thought. He was angered by the callousness of the soldiers of Baal. Restricting water for the camels was one of the games the soldiers liked to play. Like caged animals, the High Riders were confined, not inside an enclosure, but inside the high walls of the city, and whenever they could cut the water without being noticed, they would do so.
High Riders were barred from stepping inside the city proper. They spent their days patrolling the perimeter to protect Tirka from any would-be invader. But no invader had challenged the defenses of the city for six hundred uninterrupted years. To the soldiers, their assignment to Tirkalanzibar felt like six hundred years of maddening boredom, enough to drive anyone crazy. On occasion, a scuffle inside the walls might escalate into a confrontation large enough to threaten the economic well-being of the caravaners. In these rare cases, the High Riders were allowed to perform a sortie inside the city to restore calm. Even then, they were forbidden from exercising lethal violence and were restricted to the brandishing of swords and the barking of orders, like mad dogs kept on short, tight leashes.
“Vat are you two doing hiyar?” a tall, turbaned individual asked.
Amaréya recognized a northern Thermodonian. Since Gordion was a major commercial hub, she was very familiar with Thermodonian merchants. Whereas the southerners could be rough and unwieldy, their northern brethren were more calculating.
“Morning of roses,” she replied with a Finikian accent. “I am Amar, and this is Coran. We are blade merchants, and we were admiring your beautiful camels.”
The tall man nodded. “Mornin’ ov jasmin,” he curtly replied. He stood by the enclosure until they were gone.
“He is right to be nervous,” Corintus said philosophically. “After all, the camels are the blood of the caravan.”
They entered a straight road covered with wide rectangular strips of hand spun and woven goat hair that hung between two rows of tents. There, an impromptu bazaar had materialized, and customers and merchants haggled in loud voices. Instinctively, Corintus scanned his surroundings. To their right, a large bald eunuch was bartering with a merchant selling bleached monkey skulls. “They’re the best good luck charm, my man,” the merchant jovially blared, “you won’t find anything like them outside of Mani-Congo, my man.”
Across the way, a young boy with six female bodyguards was checking dried lizard tongues and tails, mummified frogs, toads, and scorpions.
“I don’t care-ah for your frogs-ah,” he said in the characteristic Rastoopian accent. “They are fake-ah.”
Curious, Corintus drew close and looked at a mummified frog inside a glass jar, which was filled with an amber, viscous liquid. He jerked and withdrew quickly when he saw the dead animal swallow. Hallucinogens, he thought. These vendors are shrewd, they use drugs to make you believe the mummified creatures are alive.
Farther down the bazaar, Amaréya was offered golden scarabs, then eagle feathers dipped in the blood of hyenas, and when she refused, a merchant slipped a jug of aged, cursed ale under her nose. Corintus leaped forward, expecting her to lop off the merchant’s head with her blades, but instead, Amaréya asked the young Nubayatian woman if she was selling aged ale with a curse, or ale with an aged curse.
“Kirri, kirriloo,” sang the woman with
a strident voice, “you are wise like a scorpion, kirrilaloo,” she said. “It’s both. Curse and ale are aged together, kiraloo.”
“What curse is this?”
“Any man who drinks this ale will go completely bald within six months. That is why it is aged, kirrikirriloo. It acts slowly. For your pretty eyes, kiralilaloo, I give it for three silver ferrovians.”
“Do you sell the countercurse?”
“You mean the charm, kiraloo? No charm, no countercurse,” the thin, tall woman shrieked, her ebony-colored skin shining in the ambient darkness. “No charm for this one or your money back. Hair will not grow back, kiraloo. Ever.”
Amaréya looked at Corintus, a glint in her eyes, but he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her forward.
“Seriously, Amar,” he said, using her Finikian name, “can’t you think of something other than a balding head?”
“But you would be so charming, bald,” she cooed, “it’s the latest Finikian fashion, don’t you know?”
He glanced at her and smirked briefly. Very good cover, Amaréya, he seemed to be saying. He squeezed her arm. Don’t overdo it, she inferred. As they were about to exit the bazaar, a persistent young man with an enormous turban barred the route. He pulled a ring from his pocket and bounded ceremoniously in front of Amaréya. “With this ring you could rule the world!”
Deftly, they sidestepped him only to bump into his acolyte who bowed likewise and produced a thin glass container filled with a gray-colored syrup. “This is silver water,” he said. “Drink it and the metal you ingest will allow you to fly.”
Corintus pushed his way through, pulling his wife behind him.
“What if it’s true?” she wondered.
Corintus scoffed. “A ring that controls everything? And who drinks metals? That’s fantasy. Come on, Amar, don’t tell me you believe in all this crazy stuff?”
She shrugged her shoulders and did not reply, but deep down she couldn’t help wish it were true. They reached the end of the street, stepped out into the sun, and found themselves standing in front of a tent so vast it must have occupied a third of the city. A dozen bright oriflammes briskly flapped high overhead, and the tent, or collection of tents, stood as tall as the Palace of Gordion.
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 2