The Chèin’ii started off back the way they had come, down the Vidhyaji towards the camp where their caravan would be transforming into a Carnival.
* * *
The pennants and streamers guiding people along the curtained perimeter to the main entrance were always the first assembled; they looked as though they could have been there forever. The two young men keeping watch at the gate by torchlight waved them through.
Beyond the outer curtain the quiet pandemonium of setup had mostly died down. Open-sided pavilions for cooking or small, semi-private stages marked definite roads through the carnival. Tall torches were placed intermittently along them. Chandi could hear the groaning of a winch as one of wagons completed its transformation into a main stage. They would be raising the curtain frame soon, then.
Since their group had performed all afternoon they could be excused from helping to set up, but one or two of them would split off each time they passed a pocket of activity. Remu and Seirya were two of the first to leave. Remu left to join his set-mates in putting the finishing touches on their pavilion, Seirya to help her parents prepare ingredients for their food stall.
As they approached the living wagons near the back of the enclosure, Chandi’s nose picked up the smells of what would be that night’s dinner: a spicy lentil stew and flatbread. She had no time to relish the idea of dinner, however; at the same moment she heard her name called.
“Chandi! Come on! Granny Arvinda wants us to help unload the costumes!” Gita was waving from the direction of the main stage off to the right of the path they were on.
“Coming! I’ll see you around the fire once we’re done, Papa!” Chandi hurried off in the direction of her friend as her father chuckled.
“Have fun,” he called before proceeding on his way to their wagon, holding Talikha close against him.
CHAPTER THREE
It was the sweet smell of cinnamon wafting through the curtained walls of her parents’ wagon that woke Chandi just after dawn the next morning. Right. Breakfast, and then the first day of Carnival. She pushed up off of her cotton mat and hastily wrapped a sari around herself before trotting to the cookfire in her bare feet. She would need her sandals soon enough, but the morning was clear and still cool.
Most of the camp was already eating when she arrived. Grandmother Arvinda had not only kept her helpers later than any other group, she had then proceeded to keep them at the dinner fire until either she decided they had eaten enough or they fell asleep where they sat.
Gita arrived just a few minutes after Chandi, still rubbing sleep out of her eyes. “Morning,” she yawned, taking a place near the fire next to Chandi.
“Good morning.” Chandi picked up a date from the ceramic bowl nearby and popped it in her mouth while she waited on the piece of flatbread that was currently making her mouth water.
“How was the crowd in the city yesterday? Good?” Gita’s voice had the distant edge to it that said she was worrying again.
“Enthusiastic, anyway. Mama and I did four songs, and each one drew a bigger crowd.”
“That’s good. To hear Seirya tell it, everyone seemed nervous. And Sepehr thought he overheard people talking about caravans being attacked, like the bandits were worse than usual somehow.”
“Really? …Wait, how did you hear all this between last night and now?” Chandi had been too tired to do more than fall into bed, even if her parents hadn’t already been asleep.
Gita rolled her eyes. “Seirya and Sepehr are my blood-cousins on opposite sides, right?”
“Right.”
“Well, after setup Papa asked Sepehr by to drink, and while they were still talking Seirya came by with some pastries. Mama asked her about the crowds first thing, and since he went with you, too…”
“I’ve got it now. Well, bandits don’t come into the Stormbreaker, and nervous people want to be entertained, too, so we should be fine.” Chandi smiled at her friend, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
* * *
Sometimes it was good to still be young, Chandi decided. She had spent the last two weeks since their arrival in Q’uungerab moving from stall to stage to stall, sometimes helping serve food, sometimes modeling jewelry or clothing, sometimes dipping cups of water – the one thing no Chèin’ii ever charged for – and always listening. The carnival was busy, always full even late into the evening, and Chandi had been seeking (and finding) those signs of trouble Gita had worried about.
There was the haggard-looking merchant in mended robes who approached Papa’s brother Uncle Esha looking to buy camels – his train had been forced to butcher some after bandits stole their water wagon and half their food. The beggars in the city streets looked less miserable than that merchant did walking away empty-handed.
Then there was the messenger who made the merchant look fortunate. His clothes were in tatters, the exposed skin sunburned and sand-lashed. He begged to be allowed to stay with them in exchange for whatever menial work they cared to demand. One of the younglings led him to Grandmother Arvinda and Auntie Nikita for fresh clothes and a good meal. Chandi smiled as the little girl reached up to lead him by the hand. The messenger’s name was Shahin, and he was a Courier from Udhampna Pradesh, on the northern edge of the desert. He was an exceptional rider, on horse or camel, but his mounts were two weeks dead in the desert.
All over there were murmurs of night raids and seemingly senseless attacks from east, west, and south. Everyone seemed to be hungry for anything that could distract them. One group laughed over a story someone had heard in a city bar about monsters in the desert, but Chandi wasn’t sure they really thought it was funny. Alcohol flowed more freely than she had seen before. The uncles began taking turns patrolling, on the watch for drunkards and brawls. The Carnival was very profitable, and stage areas were packed so deeply that latecomers had to move on, but the tension from the city began to infect the caravaners.
Someone eventually mentioned the third-hand account of the monsters at dinner one night. The newcomer Shahin’s eyes tightened, but all he would say on the subject was that the Qaehl had always been a dangerous place.
The next morning, Chandi found herself with a rare moment of downtime in a secluded corner of the camp. This was an opportunity not to be missed, and the sound of tabla and tambourine a few rows away enticed her nearer. She hurried along their narrow access paths, hidden by the curtain backdrops of the otherwise open pavilions. As she came closer she could hear Uncle Darshan’s deep bass singing as he bowed a lively tune on his kamancheh. This would be Remu’s set, then. Good; she always liked hearing him play.
The song was Jahaiya Resh To’N, and she had stepped into a dance before she realized what she was doing. Her world was that song and her body the instrument, and it was glorious. She gripped a corner of the upper drape of her sari and it became a fan. It fluttered behind her as she moved between rocking steps and quick spins on alternate feet, her arms spread wide.
As the song wound down to its end the sensation of being watched sprouted in her belly. Momentum carried her through the end of the spin and she stood, bent forward, her arms poised for the next turn. Chandi lifted her face to look down the alley she had believed safe and secluded. Standing in the shadow of one of the pavilions, a round-faced city man with the broad blade of a khanda strapped to his back was staring at her in a way that made her skin crawl. It wasn’t the way the aunties told her some men did, but more like she were a horse at market. The kind of stare that said she might fetch a good price, to the right buyer.
“C-can I help you?” The words tried to lodge in her throat.
The man recoiled from the question, then shook his head and wandered back into the crowd. Chandi hurried off in the other direction, picking her way along their private paths to the living area. She needed to let Papa and some of the uncles know about this. The last thing they needed was a group of kidnapping slavers.
CHAPTER FOUR
The camel stumbled under Shahin as they raced throug
h the dunes. “Come on, just a little further. We’ll lose them.”
The camel snorted. Fear had propelled them thus far, but now his beautiful beast was soaked with lather, his sides heaving with breath. The welt on the animal’s flank where it was lashed looked bad. They had to walk, or his mount would die. They had to run, or they both would.
The camel bellowed, his terror renewed as a hulking shape loomed out of the sand next to them. He bucked, then took off in a full gallop, nearly unseating Shahin. The camel only made it a few steps before falling, rolling over his shoulders. Shahin catapulted out of the saddle, pulling into a roll and bouncing back to his feet. As he started to run he looked ahead and saw another one not two paces ahead. He stood, transfixed, as the tail lashed towards him.
It took Shahin a moment to realize he was not dead, or even freshly injured. Rather, he was sitting bolt upright with aching ribs, panting, on a bedroll inside a curtained wagon. The ambient light suggested early morning. He raised sweaty palms to his forehead and groaned as he fell back on his pillow. That’s right.
He had delivered his message.
He had also tried to warn them about the monsters, and been laughed away. At loose ends, without even enough coin to tell Varti he was alive, he had wandered the bazaar looking for a merchant train to join and heard about the Carnival. If salvation lay anywhere, it was there. The Chèin’ii caravans were huge; they had to be safer. Sooner or later, they would get him home, and finding the coin to send Varti a message should be even easier. So, here he was, working with the animal trainers to put together a trick riding show while his ribs still tried to heal. That old woman had nearly gotten his entire life story out of him as she measured and fitted, clucking over the state of what he brought with him. The picturesque younger woman – Nikita, was it? – applied salves and bandages to the worst of his injuries. She removed the wrapping about his ribs and did not replace it, scolding him – scolding! – for not taking proper care of himself. In the end, even his smallclothes were pronounced irredeemable. He had spent the last three days walking around in someone else’s dhoti and tunic. It would be nice to have trousers again.
He couldn’t just sit in the wagon, though. There would be no breakfast left if he didn’t hurry. Shahin pulled a tunic on over the wrapped piece of cloth that served as pants for most of the men here and let himself out through the flap at the front of Esha’s wagon. It was strange: he had heard tales of Chèin’ii hospitality, but never really believed them. Just as there had been no hesitation when he asked to join them, broad-nosed Esha had welcomed him like a brother with an even broader grin, and his two young boys already called Shahin “Uncle.” It was enough to make him consider staying with them longer than their first stop in Udhampna.
As he walked towards the fire, drawn by the scent of cooking meat and warm bread, he saw one of their girls speaking with a man of the tribe. Her expression said this was probably the hundredth time she’d answered the same questions. As he walked past, he could tell she was describing someone she’d seen as a customer at their carnival: a man, probably in his late thirties, with a soft face and hard eyes, dressed in trousers with a long fitted coat in the style of the edge city-states and a massive sword. The description seemed unpleasantly familiar, but surely there was more than one southerner with a khanda in Q’uungerab. Shahin hoped the stranger didn’t cause trouble.
Esha and several of the other handlers were off patrol duty today, so he would be working with them and the animals in the morning. They were trying to find a way to incorporate both horse- and camel-riding in the show; those with experience knew camels required more skill. Those without preferred the agility and smooth gait of horses. He already had his eye on Kamari, a beauty of a mare who seemed unusually at ease around the camels. Then, in the afternoon he was supposed to meet up with a man named Korshed for some acrobatics work. Somehow, this was not what Shahin had expected, but it was good to be working with animals again.
* * *
Kamari was a tall bay mare with slender legs and a proud neck. She would let him handle her feet. He could get her to prance, run, jump, and even walk about on her hind legs–as long as his feet were on the ground. As soon as he mounted, though, she planted her feet and would move for neither figs nor goads. Shahin distinctly felt as though he were being toyed with. She didn’t balk like this for any of the other handlers.
“You said it was Nikita who treated you when you first got here?” Rostam, one of the more senior animal handlers, wore a thoughtful expression, burly arms crossed against his chest.
“That’s right.”
“And you’ve been using her ointments of an evening, I assume. Take off your tunic.”
“What?”
“Take off your tunic. We’re testing something”
“All right. Fine.” Shahin pulled the long shirt off over his head, revealing scabs from a thousand cuts and yellowed bruises. The horse snorted.
“Now try to mount.”
Shahin approached Kamari and the mare put her ears back. The skin of her neck twitched after he patted it, walking back towards the saddle. As he attempted to put a foot in the stirrup she shifted away from him. He tried again, with the same result. After the fourth try, the animal handlers were laughing.
“Don’t bother. She’s refused to carry injured scouts before.” Rostam chuckled. “One whiff of Nikita’s ointments and she won’t let you leave the herd.”
Shahin laughed along with them as he moved back towards Kamari’s head. “You’re a smart one then, aren’t you?”
Kamari snorted and shook her mane.
“Yeah, I thought so.” He chucked the mare’s nose playfully. One of the other men tossed his shirt back while a third led the animal to the horse pen. “We’ve still got some time. Shall we bring out one of the heifers?”
The camel they selected today was a young, spirited female. On the first day he had worked with her she had decided he was an excellent playmate and might be an acceptable rider. But, if they could convince her to cooperate, she was one of the most intelligent and agile camels. She greeted Shahin with a headbutt to the chest, and he bit back a groan.
“All right, girl. Let’s see what you can do.”
* * *
Around the dinner fire that night Shahin already knew which muscles would be sore in the morning. After putting the heifer through her paces both in and out of the saddle he had Kamari brought back out so the two animals could work together for a little. Then after lunch Esha’s brother Korshed tested his endurance and agility. Two hours in, Shahin wished he could use the horse’s diagnosis and take the rest of the afternoon off. He was improving, but he knew very well he still had a long way to go. The trip from the depths had taken its toll on him, and a good portion of what Korshed thought he should eventually be able to do in the saddle was unfamiliar. At least they didn’t expect the show to be ready before the end of this Carnival, he thought.
Dinner that night was spit-roasted meat with fragrant rice steamed in a pot in the fire and the ever-present dried fruits. Skins filled with fig wine or mare’s milk were being passed around. About half the women, and some men, would mix the two. Shahin had yet to decide if the concoction was worth drinking; either was tolerable on its own.
He sat with Esha and relaxed in their small circle of men more comfortable around animals than people.
On the other side of the fire a young woman arrived, a drunken local almost tripping over her heels. She was hunched forward, her head held just high enough to let her beseech help with darting eyes from the caravan. She sat down with the people who, Shahin presumed, were her family and turned her back on the drunkard, but he did not let up. The drunkard even went so far as to lean over her shoulder and whisper in her ear. Without thinking Shahin was on his feet in the company of several of the caravan men. They formed an imposing circle around the stranger. The man reeked of brandy and barley wine.
“Is he troubling you, Seirya?” A younger man with strong shoulders and
delicate fingers posed the question.
“Sepehr!” She smiled up at him.
Shahin and another man from the circle lifted the drunkard by his upper arms. They pivoted to haul him out of the camp. The interloper looked at Shahin with bleary eyes.
“Wha’cha doin’? I wasn’t hurtin’ ‘nything. Jes’ tryin’ ta talk t’a pretty girl.” The stench of his breath made Shahin’s nose wrinkle.
“The ‘pretty girl’ doesn’t want to talk to you, though. Where do you think you are, a kalabazaar?” Shahin kept his voice low and quiet, and he hoped it sounded neutral.
“Come on. We can’t have you getting lost on your way out, now.” The man on the other arm spoke quietly as well, but there was a distinctly hard edge to his voice. They started walking.
The stranger relaxed his muscles, becoming dead weight in their hands as they half-dragged him through the camp. Finally two other men grabbed his ankles. With a swing and a heave through the carnival gate the man was ejected from the camp. He landed sprawled on his belly in the dust, and as he rose the group of caravaners walked back toward the cookfire. Shahin paused a moment at the gate to look over his shoulder at the sot in his fine cloth.
“These are good people. They are entertainers. Their men are not panders, their women are not prostitutes, and if this is all you know of decorum you are not a man.” Shahin did not remain to hear if the lout had a response.
* * *
Mid-morning two days later, Korshed approached Esha as he and Shahin were working with Kamari and nodded toward the man in the ring. “I need to borrow him.”
“Trouble?”
“Perhaps.”
Esha raised his fingers to his lips and whistled. Shahin had finally coaxed Kamari to carry him around the ring rather than back to her pen, so he wheeled the mare around and trotted over to where Esha was waving for his attention.
Advent of Ruin (The Qaehl Cycle Book 1) Page 4