“You’ve never met the sheik.”
“Learning about the kingdoms of the world is part of the Silent’s formation, Sheheluth,” Ahiram cut in tersely. “I know exactly who the sheik is and what will rile him.”
Sheheluth looked at him aghast. “You mean to say that you spoke to the man the way you did because you’re looking for a duel? Don’t tell me you’re going to try and derail the sacrifice.”
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“But what about the caravan? Aren’t you putting these peoples’ lives in danger?”
“The caravan is in danger whether I duel or not. You said it yourself: Khawand cannot be trusted. Even without the duel, he would have found an excuse to lay his greedy fingers on the caravan and dispossess everyone. So, you see, my risk is calculated.”
“But why duel him?” Sheheluth asked. “What’s the point?”
“You’ll have to wait and see. Things are under control.”
Things got out of control very quickly. Balid was furious and threatened to fire Ahiram, who reminded him that he still needed a personal guard and besides, there was nowhere he could fire him to, other than to the sheik’s champion. While they were arguing, six merchants entered Balid’s tent and took turns scolding Ahiram for his rash behavior. They told him they were all betting against him, convinced that the outcome was in favor of the sheik’s champion. As they perorated, five other merchants joined them to express their indignation and formally complain about the bodyguard’s unacceptable behavior.
“How do we even know that the horse is his?” one of them asked. He looked at Ahiram with suspicion. “Maybe he stole it.”
“The horse is his,” Balid told them with a tired voice.
“Why should we trust you?”
“Try to feed that stallion an apple. He’ll bite your hand off, and I’m not even talking about riding it. We’re fortunate that this stubborn animal was actually enjoying a half-dozen apples while the men inspected him. He would have kicked the whole lot of them long before my bodyguard made a fool of himself.”
“Like horse, like owner,” one of the merchants grumbled.
While they were discussing the horse, Alfi, a professor in stoicism, entered and offered Ahiram a lecture on the relationship between death and the art of living.
“What’s the point?” Balid asked. “Why does he need to know that?”
“What’s it got to do with the horse?” one of the merchants added.
Right now, we’re thirteen standing inside this tent, thought Ahiram. I wonder how many more can enter before the tent collapses.
“If your bodyguard kills the sheik’s champion,” Professor Alfi explained, “his life will change forever and he needs to be well-prepared for the aftermath.”
“Who?” Balid asked confused. “The champion?”
“Of course not,” Alfi replied. “He would be dead.”
“Indeed, so he would need to be prepared for the aftermath,” Balid insisted, “as in the afterlife.”
“Your bodyguard’s life would change forever,” Alfi insisted.
“How so? What will change?” another merchant asked. “He’d still be a donkey riding on a horse.”
Alfi ignored the jibe and persisted. “In the unlikely event that your bodyguard wins, the sheik will put a bounty on his head, and he’ll need to learn to appreciate the few days he’ll have left to live. That’s why my lessons are essential. It’ll be two silver ferrovians, by the way.”
“That’s too expensive,” another merchant counseled Ahiram. “If I were you, I’d bargain him down to half a ferrovian.”
Two women walked in and offered to sell the Silent agate beads to ward off the evil eye. “The red jasper will shield you from poison,” one of them added.
Balid, who had self-appointed himself as Ahiram’s counselor, glared at them. “Why will he need to be shielded from poison during a duel?”
The women looked at him, surprised. “Everyone knows the Desert Legions use poison. You don’t expect a fair fight, now do you?”
“What’s in it for you?” Professor Alfi asked.
“Two gold diegans.”
“But these stones are worth a fraction of a diegan,” Balid countered. “I say never engage in futile transactions when a horse is on the line.”
The two women and the professor of stoicism got into a heated debate on the nature and value of precious stones relative to a horse, and whether precious stones were valuable per se, or whether they were an indication or a symbol of attributed value to their beholder. The merchants, meanwhile, were in agreement with the teacher of stoicism as to the price.
“If I were you,” Balid whispered in Ahiram’s ear, “I’d give them two-and-half ferrovians for the stones and the lecture. It’s a pretty good deal.”
A group of twelve women walked in to inquire if Ahiram wanted to hire them as the wailing party for his inevitable funeral. These were servants of the wives of several merchants, who thought it a good occasion to secure some additional income.
We’re twenty-four in this room now. The tent will collapse soon and everyone will suffocate, Ahiram thought with a guilty glee.
“What’s your wailing rate?” Balid asked.
“One gold diegan.”
“He won’t need you,” the merchants of stones cut in, “he’ll have our stones to protect him.”
“What?” the teacher in stoicism protested, “I thought the stones were for the horse.”
“We’re the best wailing company you’ll find for miles around,” the women insisted.
“I’m not sure,” Balid replied. “Maybe he can hire the desert hyenas. I bet they can wail better than you.”
“There are no hyenas in the desert,” Alfi said disdainfully. “It’s a legend the sheik created to protect himself from tax collectors.”
Undaunted, the woman gave everyone a demonstration of their wailing abilities. Ahiram felt as if a herd of enraged camels had teamed up with a drove of donkeys and a flock of owls to serenade them. The wailing was so eerie, he was certain every nearby date had just died.
While the wailing proceeded, a merchant of fine draperies and a carpenter squeezed in and asked if Ahiram would like a custom-built coffin. When Alfi, the professor of stoicism, pointed out (over the wailing din) that there was no wood to chop in the desert, the carpenter told him they would worry about these minor details after Ahiram’s passing.
A young woman ventured into the tent, shouting, “Aunt Mimi, Aunt Mimi, are you in here?” Her voice was so shrill and strident that everyone ducked. An embalmer stepped in just as the young woman was leaving and asked if Ahiram had any intention of being embalmed before being interred. Balid asked the merchant of fine draperies if he could work a comprehensive deal with the wailing women, the carpenter, and the embalmer. Professor Alfi urged Ahiram not to fall prey to the fashion of the times, which valued embalming as an emblem of power. The women-merchants with the precious stones argued that it was better to die with precious stones than to be embalmed anyway. The embalmer pointed out that stones might be stolen, but that no one had ever stolen an embalmed limb. Professor Alfi retorted that since Ahiram would be dead, he would not care either way. This shocked and scandalized the wailing women, who proceeded to wail louder.
A merchant of roasted pistachios thought that all these fine people might get hungry soon, so he set up shop outside Balid’s door and entered into competition with the wailing women. A second merchant of roasted pistachios seized upon the occasion and set up his stand next to the first one. The two of them engaged in a fierce competition in order to attract the attention of the crowd until Mimi’s niece came back in a state of panic and began shouting at the top of her lungs, “Aunt Mimi: someone stole Aunt Mimi!”
Derict, a teacher of philosophy, forced his way into the tent, determined to lecture Ahiram on the meaning of death and the five major attributes of suffering. Upon hearing this, the wailing party resumed their wailing demonstration, while t
he merchant of fine linen and the embalmer drew close to the Silent and started taking measurements, at which point the tent’s walls collapsed and total chaos ensued. Balid thundered over the din and shooed everyone out, threatening to feed them to the hyenas if they did not comply. Ahiram was the first to storm out, more aggravated than when he had entered. Now, he was ready to take on the sheik’s champion, the sheik’s bodyguards, the sheik himself, and the entire Desert Legions. “I’m going to teach the sheik’s champion the art of living and dying, and the five major attributes of suffering,” he muttered as he strode away. As he was about to leave camp, his horse met him with an empty bucket dangling from his muzzle.
“Don’t start now, Your Highness,” Ahiram snapped. “We’re in the desert, in case you haven’t noticed, and there aren’t any fresh apples here.” The Silent tried to sidestep the horse, but the horse, moved in lock-steps, blocking the way. They faced each other with mere inches between head and muzzle.
“Listen to me, stubborn equestrian quadruped! You’re a horse. You’ll eat hay like all the other horses.”
Another deriding snort.
“What do you want me to do? I don’t have fresh apples. Who has heard of a horse that won’t touch an apple if it has a blemish? Even I eat those apples, but no, Your Highness will not touch them. Go eat hay.”
The horse shook the bucket.
Ahiram was about to yank the bucket away from the animal when the horse lifted his head and cantered away. Ahiram looked back and saw Foosh standing by the tent.
“Spoiled brat, that’s what you are,” he muttered as he continued to walk away. He reached the spot of the three enchanted dunes and found Darwiish sitting under a nearby date tree.
“You got yourself in trouble, I see.”
“Darwiish, don’t start. I’ve been lectured by almost everyone, including a horse. Those men wanted to—”
“I know, I know,” Darwiish replied with a chuckle, “they want your horse and you want to keep it. It’s understandable, the sheik doesn’t have one like it. Your horse is truly remarkable, and so you offered to take on their champion.” Ahiram did not reply. Darwiish leaned closer. “The Sheik will appreciate a good duel, and he will not care if his champion loses, so long as the duel is a good fight. If the sheik is dissatisfied, then we’re in trouble.”
“Don’t worry, Darwiish,” snarled Ahiram. “By the time I’m done with his champion, the sheik will be impressed beyond measure.”
“The Oasis of Teshir is the most striking illustration of the age-old covenant between the gods and man: a sacrifice in exchange for the necessities of life. We all know that the Desert Legions worship Anat, and her thirst for blood is unquenchable. Yet, Aila Labadiah, the wise Oracle of Darub-Maj, once told me that the children offered as a sacrifice are alive in a land inaccessible to mortals and will one day return. As to the hour or day of their return, she did not know.”
–The Glory of the Desert Legions by Sahrayar Al Motawany, First Poet at the Court of Sakhr Horany, 137th Commander of the Desert Legions.
Across the lake, removed from the commotion of Balid’s caravan, four riders stood beneath the meager shadow of a cluster of palm trees. They were dressed like soldiers from the Desert Legions. One of them was a woman for she wore the khafa, a black leather mask with red stripes that covered her forehead, neck, and chin. Two leather bands ran from the bridge of her nose, down her cheeks and past her jaw. Small silver coins hung in tight rows from each of these silver bands, leaving only her eyes exposed.
“Surata,” said one of the men, “are you certain this is the place?”
“Yes. Stop being a worry wart, Slippery Slued. They’ll be here soon.”
“How did you manage to get us these Desert Legions outfits?” he said. “Brilliant disguise.”
“I plan ahead, and I’ve got distant relatives in the Desert Legions,” Quiet Surata explained.
“Really? I’m shocked. How come you never told me?”
“How come you never asked?”
“Dhat’s all well and good,” Huska the Fat interjected, “But your friends, da better be here. We can’t do da job without them.”
“Don’t start, Huska,” Quiet Surata grumbled. “Why can’t you be quiet like Bow over there? The more you talk, the less you’ll eat.”
“Really?” Huska said, placing his hands on his expansive waist. He eyed Bow who seemed to float inside the thobe. “Dhat might be true. You got da point dhere, Surata. Bow is skinny like da mummy.”
“There they come,” Surata said, pointing at three riders galloping in the distance. A moment later, the riders slowed down and approached Surata and her companions. Huska identified two men and one woman who was dressed like Quiet Surata.
“You’re late,” Quiet Surata said evenly.
“Complications on the way,” Krom the Hunter replied. “High Riders everywhere. War is coming.”
A short woman with braided midnight hair and dreamy eyes spoke up. “The tribes are finicky when this thing is hanging over their heads.”
“Team,” said Quiet Surata, “this is Krom the Hunter, gambler extraordinaire and the finest blade you’ll ever meet—and never want to face in battle. This young woman here is Sweet Gondolaz, and the quiet big guy here is Mango Karthal. Gondolaz can sweet-talk herself out of a Kerta priest’s hold, and she’s as convincing as an Adorant. Mango Karthal is the best wrestler you’ll ever meet. You don’t ever want to face him in a one-to-one combat.
“This is Slippery Slued, he can convince you that this palm tree behind me is your grandma, and he’s also the most wanted thief across all sixty-two kingdoms. Huska the Fat can unlock any door and can finagle his way out of any curse. Bow the Mute is a superior archer who will cover for us.”
“And,” finished Slippery Slued, “in case anyone doesn’t know her, this is Quiet Surata, the best mastermind you’ll have the honor of working with. And when she prowls, she’s quieter than a cat.”
“Now that everyone is introduced,” Krom said, “What’s the plan?”
“We wait,” replied Quiet Surata. “Our client will be here shortly.”
They dismounted and sat in the shade of a tall dune. Less than an hour later, a thin trail of dust appeared behind the dunes and a group of riders emerged. Slippery Slued’s keen eyes immediately recognized Khawand. If the sheik himself is coming to meet us, it must be important, he thought. Krom, Quiet Surata, and he had previously worked for the sheik as paid mercenaries in some of his military campaigns and had found it rewarding. What is it now? he wondered, What are you up to, Surata? You told me we’re supposed to retrieve an item, but what does the sheik want that he can’t get with his wealth?
Surata knew the sheik would not speak to a woman, at least not in public, and certainly not in private. Not that the sheik kept to a high standard of morality, but he was one to respect the age-old traditions of the nomads. Thus, she let Slippery Slued act as her spokesman, who then engaged the sheik in the long and complex salutations customary to the Desert Legions. Wishes of good health, greater health, health of the gods, great fortune, greater fortune, fortune to rival that of the Tajéruun, long years, and years beyond those of the Ancient of Days followed in rapid succession. Then the two men piled on flowery blessings of ruddy children, strong boys, and wise girls, happy wives, and serene mothers-in-law. Next, they went through the ritual of 1001 divine blessings, giving thanks to a multitude of gods for their encounter. Finally they dismounted, bowed three times ceremoniously, exchanged four kisses, and entered the tent of the meeting that had been set up in the meantime by Khawand’s men. Quiet Surata was allowed to stand by the door.
“My dear Slippery Slued,” the sheik began, “have you heard of the tiara of Anethtee-the-Fallen?”
Slued kept an imperturbable face even though his heart started racing. Who had not heard of the famed tiara and the treasures that accompanied it? Every respectable treasure-hunter dreamed of unlocking the nightmarish spell protecting Anethtee’s tomb, to get
in and come out alive richer than a tajèr. “What is your desire, O Sheik?” he asked shrewdly, neither confirming nor denying anything. “Do you know something that the rest of us are ignorant of?”
Khawand grinned. “You and I know, my dear Slued, that it’s impossible to enter this tomb and come out alive, not without the proper key to unlock the door.” The Sheik’s emphatic style annoyed Slippery Slued, but he remained impassible and waited. “I don’t have that key, and I’d wager that no one—not even the Temple—has one. But,” he added leaning forward, “I may have a window.” He threw a pouch at Slued, who caught it deftly. He felt it without taking his eyes away from the Lord of the Desert Legions.
“What is it?” he asked, “Precious stones?”
Khawand laughed. “Open it. It won’t bite you.”
Slued opened it. “Twelve pebbles.” He closed the bag, tossed it up in the air and caught it. He repeated this three or four times while looking at Khawand. “I don’t get it; they look like ordinary pebbles.”
“Yes, yes, they look like ordinary pebbles, yet they’re anything but ordinary. They are curse diffusers. As you know, the reason you cannot enter Anethtee’s tomb is because of a curse imposed by Oreg, one of the finest high priests of Baal and a direct student of Alissaar Ben-Nadam. But even when a location is cursed, there is still the need to get in there from time to time for inspection or maintenance. Now, breaking and resetting a curse is an expensive affair, so Alissaar devised an ingenious little trick: you place these diffuser stones following the correct pattern to activate them, and they absorb the curse. The more of these pebbles you’ve got, the longer you’re able to divert the curse away from you. But, the greater the number of stones, the more complicated it is to set up the diffuser.”
“How long do we have before the diffusers stop working?”
“Every stone will absorb the curse for about ten minutes before it saturates. Twelve stones will give you two hours to get in and out. For a thief of your caliber, that is one hour and forty minutes too much.”
The Wretched Race (Epic of Ahiram Book 3) Page 52