Fires of Mastery (The Tale of Azaran Book 3)

by Zackery Arbela

  So Segovac did his best to learn. It was apparent within the first day that he would need allies if he was to locate his friend. The One had led him to Telascar's door, that was a start. But the rest he would have to figure out on his own and that mean enduring the irritable looks on the servants faces as he spoke in halting Hadaraji, many visibly wincing as he said some word wrong or made a grievous error in grammar.

  But he was learning. A facility with languages was one of the things the Rhennari looked for when recruiting novices. Aelen's Folk were long sundered from one another. Eburrean's found it difficult to speak with the men of Cavarag, who found the tongue of Aulercam baffling (and none even tried to make sense of the various dialects spoken by those savages in Betasea.)

  But the Rhennari had to learn them all, if he was to communicate with his brethren in other parts of the North. And if a man could learn to speak the various dialects of Aelen's Folk, he could learn the languages of other lands as well. And desperation was a goad to learning - after three months as a slave on Tereg, Segovac was as fluent in the islanders tongue as he would ever be. Teregi was similar to Hadaraji in so many ways, close cousins if not quite sisters. It gave him a place to begin. Many of the words were the similar, the grammar was the same, or close enough that the differences were cosmetic. When he heard one of the servants complain, "The savage has the accent of a Corsair!" he knew he was following the right path.

  Telascar asked him to stay indoors, and for a few days Segovac complied. But soon he became restless and with his command of the language improving, he went out into the city. Telascar protested, but eventually gave in with a sigh. "My ancestors will curse me if I let a Rhennari of Eburrea get knifed on the streets of Kedaj!"

  "I survived for three years as a captive on Tereg, friend Telascar."

  "Tereg has nothing on the worst this city can inflict on a man. At least take two of my servants with you. For your own protection, and my peace of mind."

  Segovac did not object. The next morning he for a walk, his face hidden by a cloak, two porters from Telascar's trailing behind and stifling heavy yawns. The street outside his house was empty at this hour, but as Segovac walked down the traffic increased. Women with empty jugs on their shoulders, on their way to the nearest well or rainwater tank, gathering around to exchange the morning's gossip. Vendors opening up stalls or strolling down the narrow streets with trays hanging off their chests, bellowing their wares, selling everything from knives to brass trinkets to spices. At one street corner Segovac stepped aside to let a knife grinder pass, pushing a heavy round stone before him. Doors opened and women appeared with armloads of cutlery, waiting patiently while he ground their edges one by one.

  The timber and stone houses of his homeland did not exists in this city. Here everything was made from bricks made from mud and sea water, strengthened with straw, and walls of pounded earth, all covered with thick layers of white lime that had a pristine brilliance when first dried, but which quickly attained a brownish color once the dust had done its work.

  For the dust was everywhere in Kedaj. Brown and yellow, kicked up by countless sandled feet and hooves, hurled up in clouds behind wagon wheels, filling the streets in clouds as the sea breeze blew in. It clung to everything, filled the street with its musty odor. Kedaj may have been the queen of all cities, the self-proclaimed Jewel of Hadaraj, but to Segovac it was the City of Dust. After getting a face full of the stuff, whipped up by a cart rumbling past, he wondered if the sea would not do this place a favor and flood the streets, if only to clear the air.

  Kedaj. Even the Eburreans had heard of the place. Many cities clustered along the southern and eastern shores of the Middle Sea and of these Kedaj had long been the greatest in size and power. A bastion of wealth and power, to which all nations came to do homage and trade. Walking its streets, Segovac could see the truth of this - so many people in one place. The stronghold of Bellovac could disappear into a single district of their place without anyone the wiser. Otossa, which had seemed a large city to his eyes when he first saw the place, was a rude village compared to this. How could these Hadaraji stand it? Living shoulder to shoulder, cheek to jowl, the air so filled with the sound of their voices that the rest of the world was drowned out. And they filled the streets, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

  Segovac had set out towards the pyramid of the Royal Palace. The path led him to one of three great marketplaces within the walls, the Enclosure of Simuur. The narrow streets winding between high walls were replaced by narrow paths moving between brightly colored tents and stalls. The air was thick with perfume, incense, sweat and piss. Laborers cursing under their loads shoved their way past men and women examining the wares on display, while merchants bellowed their wares, straining to be heard above one another.

  "A silk coat for my lord!" one man declared as Segovac passed by his booth. "Dyed in vermillion! Yes, you will look fit for the royal court!"

  "Spices for the gentleman! Nutmeg to flavor his bread! Saffron and pepper for his meat!" A merchant waved his hand across small cloth bags laid out in neat rows on trays, while a pair of guards armed with clubs stood to the side, glaring at any would-be thieves.

  "Swords! Made from the finest steel of Kedaj! Daggers, blades of every kind." A man raised a sheathed blade above his head. whipping it free so the polished edge could reflect the morning light. The small crowd gathered before him cheered at the sight. "Sharp as the edge of Tashta's Ax, may the Red Goddess strike me down if I lie! One stroke and your enemies head will part like this!"

  An assistant tossed a melon into the air. The weapons merchant swung the blade in a gentle arc, slicing the fruit into perfect halves with almost no effort. Both pieces fell into the dust, where a pack of grubby children immediately swarmed over them. The merchant continued his oration, ignoring the scrum going on below. "An edge fit for any warrior!"

  Segovac watched the children for a moment. Several of the smaller ones went flying back, one a blood nose. Two large girls were the winners each bearing away a melon half, now smeared with dirt and filth, while several others gave chase. The losers of the fight curled on the ground for a moment, one of them weeping bitter tears. They they saw Segovac watching them and as one took to their heels, disappearing into the crowd.

  Segovac glanced back at the porters. Both men shrugged. To their eyes it was something so ordinary as to be unworthy of notice. But it was something Segovac saw. And as he went through the market he saw more of it. Beggars shuffling through the crowd, faces thin and gnarled from want, many pointing to their mouths and croaking in lieu of actual words. Clustered in corners and nooks, clutching their knees or lying sprawled on their ground, many with blank, open mouthed expressions, clutching clay cups or flasks. The people of the city did not see them, but they still had an effect, if only to explain the large number of armed guards standing watch, many reacting to the presence of an outstretched hand with a flurry of blows and curses.

  The market grew more diverse the further he went into the marketplace. In one section were knots of men wearing tan-colored robes and turbans dyed a sky blue, their faces veiled save for a strip for the eyes. A few were barefaced and bareheaded, dickering with the locals, and showed themselves to be kuyei much like those in Eburrea, though this lot was taller in size, their skin a darker shade of red, more like old blood than copper, their cheek bones tattooed with various esoteric glyphs. He later learned they were tribesmen from the deserts to the south, men of the sands and sun-blasted wastelands, who would on occasion deign to visit the cities of the coast, sometimes to trade incense gathered from rare desert shrubs, other times to make war. This lot was here on business, but did not look pleased about it.

  Nearby were men of another sort, humans in checkered coats and baggy trousers stuffed into knee-high boots, their dark beards long and curling down their chests and decorated with chains and gold pendants, their eyes underlined with kohl. They spoke to one another in a guttural tongue, their hands never fa
r from the dog-leg shaped knives thrust through their belts. Talking with them were men from another land, far to the east beyond the steppe, clad in knee-length tunics of green and black and caps with long curling feathers on top, their skin parchment yellow, their eyes brilliant shades of blue or purple. Both sides spoke to each other in Hadaraji, trading bundles of one thing for bundles of another. Outlanders all, and all watched their surroundings with fear, intent on leaving this city the moment their business was complete. Kedaj was no place for them to linger.

  The tents and stalls ended abruptly in a wide open space in the north end of the market. Soldiers in mail coats patrolled its edges, armed with swords and short whips. The area was enormous, easily three hundred yards across, and crowded. It was divided roughly into three parts, each area marked off from the other by the people clustered in it. In the southern part were wooden pens, much like those used to hold livestock. Only these were full of slaves. Men, women, and not a few children as well, huddled on the ground, their arms and legs bound with iron fetters. Nearby was a stone platform, onto which groups were led by stout attendants for auction. The atmosphere was raucous and noisome.

  "My lord!" A man tugged at his sleeve. The porters closed on, one of them glared at the fellow, causing him to back away with an apologetic look. "This way, my lord! I see you are a man of taste and discernment! "

  Segovac where he was pointing. A large black tent was set on across from the block. Men were going in and out and he heard voices shouting out bids. The entrance cleared and for a moment he caught a glimpse of the inside, where a young girl wearing nothing was led onto the auction block and forced to turn about, raising her hands above her head, her face face downcast.

  "Rare pleasures, my lord! If you have coin to spend..."

  Segovac's fist stuck him in the face. The man fell to the ground, then stood back up, clutching his bleeding nose and cursing him incoherently. Segovac approached him, his eyes filled with sudden fury. "Begone, filth," he growled in Eburrean.

  The man glared back, as the porters closed in, both men bunching their large fists. "Barbarian scum," he sneered, spitting on the ground and scurrying away.

  Segovac turned away from tent, feeling nauseated. He pushed past the slave market crowd and walked straight into another, this one clustered around several stone platforms in the middle section of the north end. Several held wooden stocks, occupied with miscreants of one sort or another, whose crimes did not merit death. All were stripped naked before being locked in, their faces and bodies marked with filth hurled by those below. Many also had fresh whip marks on their backs, blood trickling down their skin. Nearby was another platform with a stone whipped post in the center. A bloody man was tied to it, slumped down on his knees, head bowed and red from the neck to the buttocks. His back was a mess of shredded flesh and exposed bone. Behind him a pair of soldiers took turns with a whip, while a third counted out each stroke in a bored tone. "Five and seventy-two...five-hundred and three...five hundred and seventy-five...no, four...curse it, I lost count again! All right, take a rest, we'll start again at five hundred and seventy.'

  "What difference does it make?" said one of the soldiers, lowering his aching arm with relief. "He passed out somewhere around three hundred and fifty."

  "Orders is orders. Two hundred lashes for each weight of gold owed, which comes to twenty-four hundred strokes of the whip."

  "Hey, I think he's dead."

  "A small mercy then. Still gotta lash him. Then haul the body out to gate for hanging."

  "Waste of time if you ask me..."

  Segovac looked away. He was no stranger to cruelty, but two thousand or more lashes seemed a bit excessive. Even the Ghelenai would have just cut a man's throat.

  He continued on, headed past the flogging block. One of the porters then stepped before him. "Sir," he said, "not this way!"

  "Why?" Segovac asked.

  The porter pointed ahead by way of response. A great mob of beggars, vagrants and worse were streaming into the northern most part of the market, following a pair of small wagons. They let out a great wailing as the wagons stopped and a pair of city officials clambered into the backs.

  "One at a time!" they yelled, reaching down and fling small packets wrapped in brown cloth at at the mob. "A gift from your King to his subjects! One at a time...hey, back off!"

  "More!" the crowd shouted. "Give it to us! We hunger for it!"

  "Calm down!" shouted the officials, flinging armloads of the stuff. "One at a time! Only take one at a time, or there won't be enough for all!"

  But their words were drowned out by the mob. Filthy, lice ridden and desperate for every was in those wagons, they pressed in closed, more streaming in, the late arrivals fighting their way to the front. Each packet landing in the scrum became a prize to fight over, fists and feet flying and shouts of pain and rage rising, adding to the racket. The mob closed in on the wagon, hands reaching for the packets, grabbing them from the officials hands. One man began to climb onto the wagon and was knocked back by the official standing there. "Wait your turn!" he shouted.

  The mob howled, unwilling to listen. As one they surged in, swarming the wagons, the officials pulled off and disappearing from sight. The horses pulling the wagons panicked and tried to run, but the mob swarmed them as well, pulling the beasts down in their eagerness to get the cargo, the beasts screaming in pain as they reared up and then fell back. A moment later the wagons collapsed under the weight of so many, men and women screaming in pain and frustration.

  Whistles sounded around the square. Squads of soldiers rushed in, laying into the mob with whips and then with swords. Many beggars ran the sight, clutching fistfuls of packets and often fighting with one another as they one. Segovac stood there for a while, watching as the disturbance was broken apart, soldiers lashing and cutting at anyone who remained. Many bodies were left behind and the ground was slick with blood and worse.

  A vagrant stumbled past Segovac, falling to a knee and dropping a brown packet clutched to his chest. He cursed, tried to pick it up, then saw the porters advance on him. With a cry he scurried away, hunched over and moving quickly despite his emaciated form. Segovac watched him, then bent down and picked up the object he dropped. A small cloth bag, tied at the top with a bit of straw. He pulled it open. Inside was a mass of white flakes, enough to just barely cover a thumbnail. He caught a hint of the sickly sweet smell from those farms outside the city.

  Segovac looked at the porters, raising the packet. "What is this?" he asked with some hesitation.

  The porters glared at the stuff. "Filth," one said.

  "Poison," said the other.

  A mystery. Segovac wrapped it back up and slipped it into a pocket. He looked towards the palace. More soldiers were entering the market, blocking his path and filled the streets around it. They were turning people away.

  "We go back," he said.

  "They call it the Tears of Shishara." Telascar tapped the white flakes, separating them one from another. "I never thought such a thing would pass through the doors of my house, Rhennari. I forgive you this only because of your ignorance. You will oblige me by not doing it again."

  "I apologize for any unintended insult. Satisfy my curiosity now and there will be no need to run the risk in the future."

  Telascar picked up a small wooden spoon and pulled one of the flakes away from the rest, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "It is a powerful narcotic. Mixed with wine or water and drunk, the effect is supposed to be similar to that of a sexual climax, extended over the course of hours. Such pleasures do not come without cost though. After one dose, the afflicted will desire another, and another. He will ruin his health, drain his wealth and sell his own family into degradation to feed this most pernicious habit. And he will not be alone - perhaps one third of the city is part of that miserable fraternity. When the Tears hold them, they are idle and lolling in the street, when it is gone they beg, steal and commit all manner of outrages."

  Telascar picked
up a water jug and filled a cup halfway. He dumped the flakes inside and vigorously stirred with the wooden spoon, then walked to a window with the cup in hand and hurled the contents and container both outside.

  Segovac considered this. "One third of Kedaj's people are rendered useless by this? Why does the King stand for it?"

  "The King," Telascar responded grimly, "bears the blame for it. It is by his will that this filth infects the city."

  Segovac picked the water jug and filled another cup. He drank from it, lost in thought for a moment. "This morning," he said, "I was in the market square. Men from the palace were with a wagon handing these out to the people."

  "The porters told me. There was a riot. It was not the first time."

  "The King gives this to his own people...the lowest of the low, I assume. They fog their minds with it, and thus remove themselves as threat. Clever, very clever, he spares himself them threat of an uprising."

  "Unless the supply is cut off." Telascar sat back down. "Which might happen, if this drought continues. And it will continue, because the Tears of Shishara is the cause of it."

  Segovac looked down at the water in his cup. Odd that something so common could be so valuable. "I saw the farms where they grow this, outside the city. It's odd, now that I think it...the land surrounding them was barren. Only the places where this grew were fertile."

  "And they won't stay fertile for long. The shamma plant, whose sap is the source of the Tears, is a greedy beast. It drains the land on which it is planted within three seasons, turning fertile fields to dust. The King uses this to his advantage, forcing his enemies to grow it on their land and ruining them." Telascar shook his head. "Until ten years ago, no one had heard of the Tears. Then one day it was here...no one knows how it arrived, thought here are rumors that a foreign envoy brought it as a gift. A noble lord...can't remember his name - he'd held estates along the coast that were ruined by Corsair raids. He grew the shamma and sold the drug as a way to recoup his losses. And it worked...for a while, enough so that other lords did the same. Until they saw the effect it had on their land and tried to stop. But by then many among the poor were addicted and the King forbade them to stop, ensuring the supply and ruining his enemies at the same time. Now half the farmland around Kedaj is barren. Only the estates owned by the King himself, along with those of his close friends still grow crops, and they aren't enough to feed everyone in the city. Some food is imported...the fishermen are growing rich from the prices they charge for their catch. The Tears keeps dissent to a manageable level."