Desert Wind

by Charlotte Boyett-Compo

Beaming, the sergeant-at-arms puffed out his chest. “I am privy to most of what happens in Ojani. What do you wish to know, Captain?”

  “Tell me about Alara Ramseur and—” Halim leaned toward the other man, man to man, soldier to soldier “—give me the true lay of the land regarding her.”

  “She’s mad,” the sergeant-at-arms stated. “Touched, the old ones say.”

  “Truly mad or does she just pretend to gain sympathy at the loss of her husband?” Halim wanted clarified.

  “Oh, she was crazed long before Devrim disappeared, Captain. You could see her dancing amongst the graves on a winter’s night at the solstice. She just isn’t right in the head.”

  “That’s what I had heard,” Halim admitted, “but I wanted to hear it from someone I thought would give me the real scuttlebutt.”

  “I’m your man, then, Captain,” the sergeant-at-arms said. “Just ask me whatever you like.”

  Halim nodded and clapped the man on the back. “Good man,” he said. “Now tell the commandant I’m here.”

  The sergeant-at-arms strode quickly to the commandant’s door, knocked twice then opened the portal to announce Captain Evren’s arrival.

  “Good!” came a voice from inside the room. “Show him in!”

  Halim took an instant dislike to the commandant as soon as he laid eyes on the oily man. There was a false sense of cheer gleaming on his pockmarked face, and the hand he thrust out felt clammy and damp. It was all the Asaraban captain could do not to run his hands down his robe to wipe off the feel of Zaganos’ flesh.

  “And you must be the Oceanian sea captain,” Zaganos greeted Aposolides. “Please, gentlemen sit down. Sit down!”

  Tucking himself into a very uncomfortable chair for a man of his size, Halim attempted to casually cross his legs but the chair was too small and that annoyed him. He was forced to sit there with his feet planted firmly on the floor while the commandant lounged in his own oversized chair.

  “Might I ask why you have graced our humble port with your august person, Captain Evren?”

  Halim wanted to roll his eyes at the words but managed to tamp down his temper. He unbuttoned the pouch at his waist and pulled out the divorce papers that had been drawn up in Oceanian. “I believe you will find these in order.” He handed them to the commandant.

  Zaganos took the papers but laid them down on the desk and folded his hands atop the pages. “May I offer you gentlemen some refreshment? A cup of tea or coffee perhaps?” he asked jovially.

  “No thank you,” Halim said, nudging his chin toward the document. “The papers will need your seal.”

  The commandant glanced down at the document. “All in good time. I assume you wish to see the prisoner.”

  Halim’s scowl would have been a warning to anyone who knew him well. He was not a man who suffered fool easily and he considered the man across from him more than that. “I need your seal and signature on those papers,” he grated. “Now.”

  His face flooding with color, Zaganos fumbled in his robe for his spectacles so he could read the papers.

  “Your signature and seal on the last page,” Halim stressed, having no patience for the man to peruse the papers. “I am in a bit of a hurry here.”

  The commandant found his spectacles and jammed them on his greasy face. Not even bothering to look at what he was signing, he turned to the last page, wrote his name with a flourish on the line provided for it, opened his desk drawer, took out the official seal, turned a candle onto the paper to drop wax there and then applied the seal to the hot wax.

  “I take it these are extradition orders?” Zaganos inquired, handing the papers back to Halim.

  “Extradition orders?” Halim repeated. “No, they are divorce papers.”

  The commandant blinked. He looked from one man to the other. “I don’t understand.”

  “Divorce papers,” Halim said in a tone that suggested he was dealing with the village idiot, “are written up by lawgivers to dissolve a marriage between a man and a woman.”

  “Well, yes,” Zaganos agreed. “I know what the papers are but who are they for?”

  Halim pried himself out of the too-small chair and adjusted his robe as Aposolides stood up. “For the woman I came to give them to, naturally,” he snapped. He nodded to the commandant. “I will be aboard ship when the harbormaster returns with her. Have her see me there and I will give these to her.” He motioned the Oceanian ahead of him toward the door.

  “Who?” the commandant inquired, scrambling up and hurrying around the desk. “Who do you mean? Please, gentlemen, enlighten me. I am in the dark here. What woman do you seek?”

  Halim sighed audibly. “Alara Ramseur,” he declared.

  The commandant came to a stumbling halt. “Alara?” he repeated.

  “Like I said,” Halim snarled. “I’ll be on the ship. Have the harbormaster escort her there and I’ll give the papers into her safekeeping.” Halim reached out to open the door.

  “But don’t you want the prisoner?” Zaganos queried. “Didn’t you come here to pick him up?”

  With a disgusted snort, Halim spun around to glare at the commandant. “What the hell are you babbling about, man? What prisoner?”

  “Ramseur,” the commandant said, looking perplexed. “Devrim Ramseur.”

  “Oh, for the love of Alel! I already have the man, fool!” Halim growled, and yanked the door open.

  Captain Aposolides had to hurry to catch up with Halim for that man was walking with his shoulders hunched forward, his hands doubled into fists at his sides.

  “Idiot,” Halim labeled the commandant as he stomped through the reception room and jerked the outside door open with a bang. “Useless moron!”

  The Oceanian reached out to put a hand on Halim’s shoulder but the other man angrily shrugged it off. He had to resort to shouting the Asaraban’s name to get Halim to halt.

  “What?” Halim bellowed, spinning around to pierce his new friend with blazing eyes.

  “If we have Devrim Ramseur in Oceania,” Aposolides said reasonably, “who do they have imprisoned here?”

  “How the hell would I know and why the shit should I care?” Halim hissed. He started to stride off again but the Oceanian took hold of his arm to sty him.

  “Halim!” Aposolides snarled. “Who do they have here?”

  Drawing back his balled fist, Halim intending to strike the Oceanian but George Aposolides was a levelheaded man—of a calmer nature than Halim Evren—and caught that first heavy fist in a strong, steely grip. “Who do they have here?” he repeated, trying to break through Halim’s anger.

  Opening his mouth to curse Aposolides, Halim stopped, the third question spoken in an urgent tone finally breaking through to him. The Asaraban captain’s eyes flared. He searched Aposolides’ face. “No,” he said. “It can’t be.”

  “Don’t you think you’d better check?” Aposolides asked.

  Halim angrily shook his head. “No, I saw him die.”

  “Are you sure?” Aposolides asked in a sensible tone of voice. “Are you absolutely, one hundred percent sure of that?”

  Grief twisted Halim’s broad face. “What are you trying to do to me, George?”

  “All I’m asking is for you to be sure the man they are holding prisoner here is not someone else,” Aposolides said. “That’s all.”

  For a long moment Halim just stared at his friend then turned his eyes back to the fortress. The two guards were standing at the portal but there were far enough away they could not have heard the conversation between Halim and Aposolides. The Asaraban stood there—undecided and annoyed—then stalked back to the guards. “Who,” he snarled at them, “is the prisoner you have here?”

  “Which one?” the older of the two guards asked. “We brought in Avram Ben-Nezell last night for public intoxication and—”

  “Who else?” Halim yelled at the top of his lungs.

  The guard looked puzzled. “No one, Sir, other than Ramseur.”

  Halim ground
his teeth, speaking around the constriction. “Which Ramseur?”

  “Devrim, Sir.”

  “And how long has he been incarcerated here?” Halim snapped. “A year? Two?”

  The two guards exchanged a look. “More like a few weeks, Sir,” the younger guard replied.

  Halim’s forehead crinkled. “And where was he before that?” He turned to point up at the mountain. “In his village in the mountains?”

  “Aye, Sir,” the guard said. “For about four months, I reckon.”

  “Ever since he washed up on shore,” the other guard added.

  Aposolides saw Halim’s face pale and reached out to clamp a steadying hand on the man’s shoulder. His friend’s mouth was working but no sound was coming out so the Oceanian asked what he felt Halim was trying to. “And everyone believes this man who washed up on shore four months ago is Devrim Ramseur?”

  “Well, aye. We know him, Sir. He’s from our village. We grew up with him. Of course he is Devrim,” the guard answered.

  Halim turned his face toward Aposolides but he was still unable to speak. There was a stricken look hovering over the Asaraban’s rugged face.

  The Oceanian captain was looking into Halim’s eyes when he asked the guards, “Does this man have tattoos on his wrists? Old lash marks on his back?”

  “I don’t know anything about tattoos. As for the lash marks, I know he has old ones and new ones too, now,” the guard replied.

  That last sentence snapped Halim’s head around and he glared murderously at the guards. “What do you mean new ones?” he queried in a low, deadly voice.

  The guard shifted uncomfortably beneath the lethal look aimed his way. “He got twenty lashes when he was arrested,” the guard said, trying not to tremble at the low, inhuman growl coming from the Asaraban. “And thirty more last evening, but I don’t know what he did to deserve those.”

  Halim slowly turned his face to Aposolides. “It had better not be him, George,” he said. “It had better not be him.”

  “Let’s go take a look,” Aposolides advised. “If it isn’t, it isn’t, but if it is…”

  “If it is, I’ll kill somebody,” Halim swore. He gave the guards a withering look. “Open that gods-be-damned door, boy!”

  The guard jerked open the door and barely had time to move aside before the burly captain plowed through the opening like an enraged bull.

  Shuffling papers on his desk, not having heard the conversation outside the prison walls due to the thickness of the main door, the sergeant-at-arms looked up as the two men came toward him, a smile on his face until he saw the savage look on Halim Evren’s.

  “Take me to the prisoner,” Halim ordered.

  Not having to ask which one for he knew no one was interested in old Avram, the sergeant-at-arms reached behind him and unhooked the heavy ring of keys hanging from a peg. “T-this way, Sir,” he said, and walked quickly down a long corridor to the right of his desk.

  It was all Halim could do not to bellow at the top of his lungs. As he strode close behind the sergeant-at-arms—nearly trampling on the poor man’s heels—his face was a horrible mask of anger, but his eyes were filled with a dread that had his bowels feeling loose.

  “Keep a calm head, Halim,” Aposolides advised.

  “Don’t tell me what to do!” Halim shot back.

  The corridor down which the three men passed was dark and dank and smelled of rotting fish. Slimy water dripped down the rock walls to create the malevolent odor and pooled in places along the uneven floor.

  “By the gods,” Aposolides said, taking out his handkerchief and covering his nose. “How can anyone stand the stench?”

  In such a foul mood, his heart pounding furiously, his blood running thickly through his veins, Halim was unaware of the smell. He was totally focused on the man scurrying ahead of him and nearly slammed into the sergeant-at-arms as that man stopped at an iron-banded door and fumbled one of the keys into a lock.

  “Hurry the fuck up!” Halim snarled.

  The sergeant-at-arms nodded, very afraid of the hulking man behind him. He pushed open the door. “Please be careful, Captain Evren,” he said, reaching out to take a torch from the wall beyond the door. “These stairs can get very slippery.”

  There was utter darkness on the serpentine stairs that led down to the dungeon of the fortress. Thankfully the steps were plenty deep for a good-sized man’s boots and were not cut so steeply into the stone. The farther down the sergeant-at-arms led them down the winding, twisting stairs, the worse the odor became—the stench so bad it finally registered on Halim.

  “How many men die from that malodorous stink?” he barked. “Such a miasma can not be healthy for your prisoners.”

  “It was believed by many that such odors caused the Plague back a thousand years ago,” Aposolides commented.

  “Get this place cleaned,” Halim ordered the sergeant-at-arms. “Do you hear me?”

  “Aye, Sir,” the little man said.

  They had come to the bottom of the steps and it seemed far too hot for being that far down in the ground.

  “Where the hell is the ventilation down here?” Halim questioned.

  “There is none, Sir,” came the answer.

  “No wonder it stinks,” Aposolides observed. He was bringing up the rear and had stepped into something slick and slimy, nearly losing his balance. The stench of offal—of human waste—assailed him even through the fabric of his handkerchief. “You’ve a privy overflowing somewhere, man.”

  Whimpering, the sergeant-at-arms led them down another corridor lined with barred cells on either side.

  “He’s been a’groaning all night, Sayeed! Why don’t you do something for the lad?” an old man who was standing at the bars of one cell, his hands wrapped around the iron, asked as they passed. “Ain’t right to treat a man like that!”

  The farther down the row of cells the men traveled, the hotter it became.

  “Why the hell is it so hot down here?” Aposolides complained.

  “We are right under the boilers,” the sergeant-at-arms said. “The boilers vent into this section of the fortress, but they’re turned off at night.”

  “Making it cold as a witch’s teat in here!” the old man yelled out to them.

  It was to the last cell on the right the sergeant-at-arms led them. He held the torch high so they could see the prisoner inside.

  “Open the fucking door!” Halim shouted. He snatched the torch out of the trembling man’s hand.

  With a frightened whimper, the sergeant-at-arms stabbed at the lock several times until he managed to get the key in. He pulled open the door and stepped back quickly, hanging on to the bars as though his legs were about to give out beneath him.

  Aposolides reached out to take the torch from Halim. Their eyes met in the flaring light and the Oceanian gave his new friend an encouraging smile.

  Halim took a deep breath and entered the cell.

  As Aposolides came into the cell—holding the torch high—he heard a groan and realized it was coming—not from the man on the floor—but from Halim. Someone was lying on his belly on the damp, stone floor with his face turned to the wall, his body pressed as close to the crease where wall met floor as he could get, his arms beneath him in such a way it seemed he was trying to protect his privates. His bare back was a crisscrossed mass of fiery red welts and open cuts up and down the battered flesh. Dried blood had run down the man’s sides and was pooled around him. Across his rump was a long rip in the loose fabric of his white cotton pants and a dark reddish-brown discoloration stained the rent material.

  “Merciful Alel,” Halim whispered. He seen more than his share of men who had been flogged—had punished a few himself—and he knew the hand of a master whip’s man when he saw it. Whoever had applied the lash to the man on the floor had done a thorough job of it.

  “Is it him, Halim?” Aposolides asked quietly, sensing the need to spur his friend to action.

  Halim shook his head as though
to clear it of whatever gruesome thoughts were intruding and took several more steps into the cell. He tore his attention from the destruction of the prisoner’s back and stared at the dark, matted hair on the man’s head that fell forward to obscure his face. He took another step then twisted around to look at Aposolides.

  “George, I…” he began, pain flooding his gaze.

  “You have to be sure, Halim,” the Oceanian captain told him. “You can’t leave until you know for a certainty it is him, and even if it isn’t, we can’t leave a man down here suffering like that.”

  Nodding miserably, wishing he were anywhere else but in that foul-smelling cell, Halim took another step and hunkered down. The smell coming from the prisoner was overwhelming. It was a combination of sour sweat, urine, feces and spent blood.

  Halim put out a trembling hand then drew it back to cover his mouth. He squatted there for a long time until he dredged up the courage to ease his hand to the tortured man’s shoulder.

  A pathetic moan came from the wretch on the floor and it was all Halim could do not to get up and run. A part of him did not want to see the face of the prisoner while another screamed at him to hurry before it was too late.

  “George,” he whispered, his voice no louder than a breath before he tried again. “George, bring the torch closer.”

  Aposolides stepped closer and lowered the torch.

  As gently as he could, with as much patience as he could muster, Halim eased the back of the man on the floor toward him, pulling carefully and with infinite caution.

  The long sweep of dark hair fell from the man’s profile. A piteous groan filled the cell—a low, keening sound of such misery, such agony it would haunt the dreams of the men who heard it for the rest of their lives.

  “No,” Halim said, staring at a profile he had seen many, many times over the years. “No.”

  “It isn’t him?” Aposolides inquired.

  “No,” Halim repeated. He was bracing the prisoner’s shoulder so that as little of his ravaged back as possible would touch the floor.

  “I’m sorry, my friend,” Aposolides said. “We should…”

  “No!”

  The bellow of fury, of absolute rage, of unrelenting sorrow came roaring up out of Halim Evren like molten lava. He threw his head back and roared to the heavens.