Rejoice, rejoice, rejoice!
Jonjon’s Circus has finally come.
All hearts shall sing with one voice,
And if you can’t sing, well then, hum.
“This way,” Karadon said, leading them around the enclosure. “We’re closer to the exit now.”
“How did those dwarfs find us?” Hoda asked. “Do you believe them?”
“In Tirkalanzibar, I believe anything,” Karadon replied.
Rounding a bend, they stopped in their tracks. A man holding a scimitar and two armed women stood barring the way. One of the women carried a whip in each hand, and by the looks of it, knew how to use them. The second held a spear.
“Look here,” the fellow said while extending a conciliatory gesture. “We understand how hard this must be for you to see your daughter vanish, but you must realize, there’s nothing you can do to save her. Just give her to us and I promise you a merciful and swift death. We cannot let her vanish. If she does, it’s a bad omen for all of us.”
Two large camels ambled toward Karadon. Perhaps they thought there was food to be gained. Seeing no response, the man nodded slightly and a whip cracked, aimed at Vily’s throat. Before it could hit its mark, Hoda yanked Vily out of harm’s way and slashed the leather thong with one of her blades. This was all the distraction Karadon needed.
“May the god of camels, whoever he is, forgive me for what I am about to do.” With one of his knives, he slashed the side of each of the animals. The camels jerked in surprise and bolted in panic, braying as if all the jackals of the great desert were after them. A second whip flew and slashed Hoda’s shoulder. The second woman raised her spear and aimed at Vily. Hoda stood firm in front of the girl.
“No matter,” the spear holder angrily yelled, “the spear goes through you both. Die!”
“Not if you can’t throw,” Hoda replied. The woman screamed and dropped her weapon. She held her bleeding hand where Hoda’s knife had carved a deep gash.
“Enough!” the tall man yelled. “I warned you and …”
In the heat of the fight, they had forgotten about the enraged camels whose cries led the rest of the herd to panic, and the stampede took the tall warrior by surprise. About sixty camels came crashing through the fence and rushed the nearby camp, tearing through tents. Immediately, Karadon grabbed Vily’s hand and ran.
Her shoulder on fire, Hoda ran after her husband. I may have to resort to magic, she thought. It may come to that.
“Faster,” Karadon yelled looking behind him. Hoda glanced and yelped. The stampeding camels were running after them now, and she couldn’t tell if it was a coincidence, or if the camels were pursuing Karadon. Chaos surrounded the careening animals, with tents falling down in clouds of dust. Terrified camp dwellers ran in every direction, and camel owners raced after their animals, desperate to stop them.
“The gates,” Karadon shouted. “We’re close!”
She looked up and glimpsed the tall gates between the neighboring tents. As they ran, heads bobbed out of tents and caravaners ran for safety from the incoming herd.
The path ahead widened. They were moments away from stepping out onto the open plaza in front of the eleven gates of Tirkalanzibar. Hoda glanced behind her and saw the camels only a few feet away. We’re going to be trampled to death! Up ahead, the circus parade marched in from the right with trumpets and tambourines all blaring.
“Hoda, look,” Karadon shouted over the din. “They’re after Vily.”
She glanced to their left and saw the killing mob running up from another alley, also leading to the plaza. The plaza. The mob. The camels. The parade. “Get ready!” she yelled.
Karadon turned to face her. Hoda grabbed Vily and pushed him toward the tent on their left. They fell and tumbled, but Vily had just a few scratches to her knees and ankles, for Hoda took the brunt of the fall.
Karadon bounded back to his feet and with one strong pull helped his wife up. They watched as the mob continued running up to the main plaza. “How did they know we’d be here?” he asked.
“Most likely, they didn’t,” Hoda replied breathlessly. “They’re seeking the help of the High Riders.”
Karadon stiffened. “You’re right.”
The fanfarade and the mob met in the center of the plaza. The procession tried to continue down the path from which the murderous search party had come, while the agitated horde cut through the procession to reach the gates. Screams and shouts filled the plaza when sixty enraged and panicked camels dragging torn tents crashed into both groups. The owners of the camels were running right behind and fell into the chaotic melee. Hearing the loud, panicked braying, camels of nearby caravans joined in the frenzy. Trying to run, they plowed into one another and turned the gates into a harrowing mess.
To the soldiers who stood and watched from the wall, the scene was utter madness. The load on a camel’s back was normally secured to withstand a walk or a trot, but not a full run. Under the pressure, the ropes buckled and bundles flew in every direction. Serpents and scorpions scurried out of their enclosures, hundreds of toads spilled out of large containers, falcons, parrots, and ravens flew out and alighted on the walls, and a shower of gold and silver coins rained down on everyone. In the plaza, the people and the camels struggled to disentangle themselves. Some lay on the ground unmoving, and some camels limped on three legs. Members of the mob got into scuffles. Swords were drawn and daggers were thrust until a dozen vials containing a glowing red liquid fell from a wooden box hanging precariously on the back of a camel. As each bottle fell, it shattered and its contents exploded, causing the frightened animal carrying the box to gallop faster, which caused more bottles to fall. People screamed in hysteria and would have trampled over each other in a deadly stampede when imperious trumpet shouts burst forth from within the casern of the High Riders.
“I don’t think Ashod is going to like this,” Karadon muttered.
“Not one bit,” Hoda replied.
“You’ll explain it to him, won’t you?” he pleaded. “You’re better with words. I’d just stand there and grunt.”
Hoda ignored him. “What do we do now?”
Not thinking, he said, “We need to vanish.” She elbowed him. “Sorry, I meant we need to leave Tirka.”
One light guard of High Riders, 288 soldiers, streamed into Tirkalanzibar. “The vanishing girl!” a short man with a sparse beard and a pockmarked face yelled. He was pointing his sword at Vily. “Guards, arrest her! She’s vanishing!”
Two High Riders spotted them. Karadon stopped in his tracks. The gate that was so close, now seemed so far away.
“Don’t move,” Hoda said with a smile. “I’ll handle this.” One of the soldiers nodded at them and Hoda smiled again and returned the nod. “He wants us to wait for them. Let’s do that. With luck, we may be able to convince them that Vily is fine.”
“How is she doing?”
“Good. Giving her the medallion to wear was a great idea.” Please El, let Aquilina be safe, she prayed.
The two Black Robes stood and watched as the High Riders began to restore order to the plaza. A large number carried lasso-terminated long poles and went about restraining the animals while blowing small whistles. The strange shrill did wonders, quieting the animals in mere minutes. Another group of soldiers broke up the fights and quickly separated the various parties into small groups. The remaining soldiers cordoned the plaza, preventing anyone from getting in or out. Then, the soldier that had nodded in their direction gestured for them to come. They walked over with deliberate slowness, keeping a relaxed posture.
“Afternoon of lilies,” Hoda greeted him.
The soldier gave a start and flashed a radiant smile. “Afternoon of rosebuds and orange blossoms and red plum cherries,” he exclaimed. “I haven’t heard a salutation from back home in months.”
Hoda’s smile widened. “Where are you from, officer?” she inquired. Not doing so was considered rude among Finikians.
The soldier li
fted his helmet and scratched his head. His hair was plaited in four braids, indicating his rank as soldier. Officers had five.
“Not an officer, ma’am,” he said blushing. “Just a soldier. Originally, I’m from Wayfak, but my family moved to Byblos when I was a boy.”
“Wayfak? Do you know the Obeid family?”
“Gérgé Obeid?” he asked, delighted and surprised. “Of course, Gérgé is the cousin twice removed from my aunt Sahla on her husband’s side.”
“Funny,” Hoda said with similar delight, “he is my grandfather’s nephew on his second wife’s side.” This, of course, was a lie; a necessary lie that Ashod had helped her and her parents create in order to give them new Finikian roots after the burning of Baher-Ghafé.
“You Finikians,” Ashod had told them, “are as stubborn as the flint of your mountains. There’s no use in trying to make you pass for Tanniinites or Bartanickians. It’ll never do. Better take on new Finikian identities.”
The lie, however, was not a full lie. Gérgé Obeid was Hayat’s cousin thrice removed through a complex set of relations that would confuse anyone who was not Finikian.
“We’re practically related!” the young soldier exclaimed. “We’ll get this business sorted out very quickly, but you’ll have to speak to the duty officer on account of the gravity of the charge and the … mess that we’re presently facing.”
“Of course,” Hoda said. “We would be honored to speak to the captain in charge of Tirkalanzibar.”
So far so good, thought Karadon. He wasn’t under any illusion that the soldier would let them go with no further inquiry, but a friendly Rider was always a good start.
It took the rest of the afternoon for the High Riders to bring control back to the main plaza. They managed to corral the camels, and the few that had strayed were being rounded up by their owners. The soldiers set up a portable tribunal in the plaza that the captain would use when judging the conflicting accusations. All those who had grievances had to wait for two hours before the captain of the High Riders finally showed up. He was a tall man with pudgy cheeks, dark pockets under his eyes, and an unkempt, scruffy beard. His belly bulged under his gray vest and his left pant leg was not properly tucked inside its boot. He took his seat on a tall ebony chair with ivory covered arms and back. A silver bust of Baal towered over the seat, and the hollow eyes of the god looked down on the plaintiffs, who now stood before the captain.
With his right hand, he gestured impatiently for the first case to be brought forward. For the members of the circus who had been injured by the stampeding camels, the captain ruled that fifty silver ferrovians would be collectively levied from all camel owners and handed over to the circus. The plaintiffs and the accused bowed low and stepped away. Barring the presence of a member of Baal’s priesthood, the captain’s judgment was without appeal.
Next, the camel owners presented a collective suit against the city itself, alleging that the city’s lax security and the absence of patrolling High Riders allowed unknown parties to bring harm to their camels. The captain agreed and awarded them two hundred silver ferrovians from the city’s coffers to be equitably divvied among them. They all bowed low and left satisfied. The Temple, acting on the advice of the tajéruun, had found it cheaper to compensate camel owners for the occasional injury rather than try to police the entire city.
A man came forward and accused his wife of adultery. The captain asked if the adultery had taken place during the prevailing chaos of the last few hours. The man said yes.
“Would you swear it on Baal?” the captain insisted.
The man, short, with a youthful face, gazed at the bust hanging over the captain’s head and stammered a few words.
“Then, you’ll take your case with an Adorant,” ordered the captain. “They are the officers who handle such matters.”
Two women drew close and in loud shouts accused each other of stealing the love of their life. They threatened each other with dreadful curses and spells, while behind them a sorrowful young man stood weeping. With a dismissive gesture, he sent them away. “I suggest you seek an Adorant. They can help with such matters, but I would counsel against love potions. Many before you came to Tirkalanzibar seeking a love potion, a poison, a heart spell, or some similar concoction, and they all ended up far more miserable than before. Go talk to an Adorant and let her help you.”
He craned his neck and shouted, “I am to legislate on matters that pertain to the incident in the plaza only. If you have any other complaint, I suggest you take it to the closest temple of Baal in Rastoopa.”
The majority of those waiting in line to present their cases stepped away, grumbling loudly about the laziness of High Rider officers and the Temple’s lack of consideration and attention to its people. The captain didn’t object, for this was Tirkalanzibar, the city where folks were allowed to say what was on their mind. He spent the next hour judging between members of different caravans that had been affected by the mayhem and then came to the conclusion that there was no straightforward way to determine which camel caused what damage to which caravan.
“Listen up everyone,” said the military man rising from his seat, “this incident is clearly not anyone’s fault. At least not any of your faults, so we will keep things simple. I will send a zakiir to record and verify your losses. He will then compensate you fairly. There’ll be an additional sum for opportunity lost and meetings missed. The Temple takes full responsibility of these events and guarantees your payment.”
A general sigh of relief filled the plaza.
“This explains why the entire world follows the Temple,” Karadon whispered in Hoda’s ear. “The Temple is willing to stand by its commitment and pay up.”
“Never mind that it’s a fraction of the sum the Temple levies from Tirkalanzibar,” Hoda grumbled.
“True, but you have to admit, it deals really well with these types of situations. I mean, the High Riders stopped the mess quickly, restored order, and that captain judged fairly.”
Hoda shrugged her shoulders. Like most survivors of the Temple’s massacre, she was unable to see the good in any of the Temple’s actions. She admired Karadon, for he was levelheaded, even if she resented the friendly tone with which he had just surmised the captain’s actions. Her head agreed with his conclusions, but her heart felt betrayed, as if any goodness Karadon found in the Temple was a thorn in her side.
“Look,” her husband said while pointing with his chin to a soldier who was now speaking with the captain. “I think it’s our turn.”
The captain looked in their direction and gestured impatiently for them to come closer. “Stay relaxed,” Hoda whispered, “and always remember that a man’s will is like a block of ice that melts before a warm, womanly smile.”
Karadon glanced sideways at the High Rider soldier that had first spoken with them. He was by their side for support but stayed a few steps behind to give them some privacy.
“What is your case?” asked the captain who glanced briefly at Hoda and then looked away.
He looks vaguely familiar, Hoda thought. “We have no case to bring, Most Excellent Magistrate.” She used the formal address reserved for an officer of Baal sitting on the judgment seat.
“Listen up, man of Baal,” spat one of their pursuers. “We accuse this girl of vanishing, and we demand you put her to death before she vanishes for good and brings a bad omen on us all.”
The captain turned around and faced the man. “Bragafârian, are you?”
“What if I were?” the man replied dryly. “And why the sarcasm?”
“Definitely Bragafârian.” The captain sighed. He eyed Vily standing next to Hoda. “Your folks are spooked silly by the vanishing, and you are willing to cut down tribe and family to be rid of anyone or anything seized by the Vanishing Land. This girl has been standing in the plaza for a good while now. Tell me, Bragafârian, is she vanishing?”
“I saw her with my own eyes earlier today. She vanished for a quick moment,” the man r
eplied.
“Refusing to answer my question, are you not? Well, if what you say is true, then she should be in the latest stage of the vanishing by now, wouldn’t you say?” The man bit his lip and didn’t reply. He knew where the captain was going. “Wouldn’t you?” the captain insisted.
“We don’t know,” replied another man who had joined them. “Maybe they’re using some trickery, some magic, to stop her from vanishing.”
The captain burst out laughing. “Really? You’re a Sowasian, are you not? You’re one to talk about magic and tricks and then, of all places, here in Tirkalanzibar? Besides, if they found a way to stop the vanishing, why, you’d better kidnap the three of them and find out what that secret is. Wouldn’t that be better than killing the girl?” The Sowasian glanced sideways at them, and Hoda shivered. He was eyeing them the way a famished toad eyes a fly. She was about to protest the suggestion, but the captain spoke first. “Too late now, isn’t it? You brought your case to me and seeing that the girl is not vanishing, I place them under the protection of the High Riders. They will stay in the barracks, that way, your superstitious lot will not have to deal with them, and there will be no more disturbance of the peace in Tirka. Have I made myself clear?”
Why does he sound so familiar? Something was screaming inside Hoda; deep within her mind, she could sense danger, grave danger, but she simply could not place it. She glanced at Karadon, but if he was perturbed, he did not show it.
“Soldier,” the captain ordered as he was about to leave, “accompany this family to our barracks and treat them as my personal guests.”
The Finikian soldier beamed a reassuring smile as he ushered them toward the outer-wall.
“We will be safe there until Kwadil’s caravan reaches us,” Karadon said. “Then Vily will be able to join our friends, and all will be well.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 5