by Peter Grant
2
The sun was barely over the horizon when Taghri’s eyes opened. For a moment he wondered where he was, until he remembered the events of the previous day. He swore for a moment, realizing that no matter how comfortable the bed and how safe the surroundings, his military instincts, honed over a decade’s campaigning, would not allow him to sleep late. He threw back the covers, rose, and used the chamberpot to relieve the pressure in his bladder. He rang for a servant, stretching luxuriously. A maid scurried in, blushing as her eyes fell on his hard, muscular figure, hidden only by a well-worn pair of plain white drawers. He ignored her reaction.
“Empty that”, he said, gesturing to the chamberpot, “and bring water for a hot bath. Where can a man get a good shave and haircut around here?”
“The barber in the next street is well spoken of, sir,” she replied, bending to pick up the chamberpot.
“Very well. I’ll go there after breakfast.”
As she let herself out, he grinned at the sight of the four large trunks against the far wall. His arrival with the captured galley, a hundred freed slaves, and the First Daughter of a nearby city-state, had caused a sensation. The port police had escorted the former slaves to a couple of empty barracks, where they’d be fed, clothed and checked for disease. Hastily summoned from his office, the Port Captain had bowed low to Gulbahar, and summoned a litter and an escort to carry her to the palace of the Governor. He hadn’t so much as glanced at Taghri, which suited him just fine.
He’d sent an idler to fetch a clerk from the nearest ship chandler. The clerk had hastened over, noted his order, and departed with money in his fist. He’d sent back four large trunks, each so big it needed two porters to carry it. Taghri had filled them with the loot from the captain’s cabin. He’d taken advantage of the hustle and bustle of getting everything and everyone else sorted out, and led the porters down the gangplank to the quayside without being delayed by harbor officials. Following the chandler’s recommendation, he’d made his way to the Peacock Inn. Two silver coins had procured him the best available room, and a very satisfactory supper.
The maid returned, bearing the emptied and cleaned chamberpot, followed by two servants carrying a wooden bath. They set it in the corner of the room, and more servants emptied buckets of hot water into it until it was half-full. The maid brought towels and soap.
“The caravanserai sent over your pack horse, sir,” she informed him as servants carried in the well-wrapped bundles he’d loaded on its pack saddle. “It’s in the stable. I’ll bring up your packs.”
“Thank you,” he acknowledged. He’d be glad to put on clean clothes, even though they were not his best. Those had been in the saddlebags of his riding horse, and must surely have been stolen by the fleeing raiders. He grinned to himself. He’d made a much better than fair exchange, loot for loot, so he wasn’t about to complain.
He washed and dried himself, heedless of the water he spilled onto the flagstones. The maid would clean it up, and earn a generous tip in the process. He dressed in a shirt and shalwar trousers, both loose-fitting to allow air to flow around his body, offsetting the heat. Next, he pulled on calf-length stockings and his riding boots, which had been cleaned and polished by the inn staff overnight. He used the remaining hot water to wash the last of the blood off his scimitar. He dried the blade, oiled it, then sheathed it on his sword belt, balanced by a dagger on the other side. He donned the belt, and covered it with a sash. A plain ghutra over his head completed his attire.
He hired porters to carry three of his trunks, and sold all their contents before lunch. The silk and satin hangings and bed covers, and the cushions and rugs from Sidi’s cabin, proved to be very attractive to the tailors, clothiers and other merchants of the port. He also sold the pirate’s jewelry, much of it doubtless stolen, and his copper and silver drinking, dining and coffee services. After the bargaining was over, he was richer by more than a hundred gold diracs, enough to keep a man in comfort for a few years, if he didn’t waste it – and that didn’t take into account the rest of his loot.
The locked trunk in the captain’s cabin had contained a large leather satchel holding hundreds of gold, silver and bronze coins from several states, plus much of the jewelry he’d just sold. There had also been an odd-looking knife, its steel black with some sort of discoloration. From the moment he’d laid eyes on it, he’d been sure it was the source of the tingling he’d felt when he first touched the trunk; but he had no idea why. There was something very strange about it… some sort of emanation.
For now, the knife and the satchel were in his fourth trunk, in his room at the inn. Thanks to the affluence and expectations of its usual guests, it was well guarded against thieves.
He had no sooner returned to the inn for lunch, having the porters take the now-empty trunks back to his room, than he was accosted by a man wearing official livery. “You are Taghri, former Ra'id in the army of the Sultan?”
“I am.”
“The Governor has heard of your actions yesterday, sir. He bids you attend his audience at the ninth hour tomorrow morning, to give your account of what happened, and receive his thanks.”
Taghri blinked. For the Governor to publicly thank a mere commoner, even a former military officer, in a formal, open audience, was unusual. “Ah… please convey my thanks and respects to the Governor. I’ve never been to his palace. How shall I find the audience chamber?”
“The major-domo will see to it that you are escorted there, sir.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
The innkeeper had listened with interest to the exchange. Taghri turned to him as the messenger departed. “My best clothes were lost to the raiders yesterday. Where’s a good place to buy some, suitable for a Governor’s audience?”
“There’s Tawfic. He caters to rich merchants and important officials, but he’s expensive.”
“Are his clothes worth what he asks for them?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “For all that I do well here, I still can’t afford them, so how should I know?” They grinned at each other. “Trouble is, if he knows you need them quickly, he won’t let you haggle much. He’s a canny trader, that one.”
“I’ll just have to pay dear, then. It’s only for one outfit, after all.” Taghri patted the bulging pouch at his waist, from which he’d just paid off his porters. “Luckily, I had a good morning’s trading. Where do I find Tawfic?”
“His is the first and largest emporium at the main entrance to the souk. Sir, I advise caution if you go there. A well-filled purse like that will attract the attention of every thief and pick-pocket. Do you have a guard?”
“Am I likely to need one?”
“I fear so, sir. You’re clearly a man who can defend himself and his goods, but you’re alone, and you don’t have eyes in the back of your head.”
“I’ll have to do without one today, but I’ll hire one or two this afternoon.”
“Be careful, sir. Men who serve only for money are seldom loyal. They’re too easily bribed by those with more money.”
“You’re right, of course. Where do you put up your guests’ guards and servants?”
“I’ve a separate building for them, sir, at the back, beyond the stables.”
“Very well.” He took a silver stater from his purse and laid it on the counter. “I’ll have several here in time for supper. Make sure quarters are ready for them. I’ll inspect them myself.”
The innkeeper scooped up the coin. “Yes, sir! I’ll see to it at once.”
“Where’s the city’s Temple of Hobal?”
“In the eastern quarter, sir.” He gave quick directions.
“Too far to walk. Where can I hire a horse?” Another thing to buy, he made a mental note. The pack horse simply won’t do. I’m going to be judged in this city by how I present myself.
“We keep a few for our guests’ use, sir.”
“So much the better, then. Have the best one saddled ready when I’ve eaten.”
He deposited most of his morning’s earnings in the trunk in his room, took out the strange knife, wrapped it in a spare ghutra, then headed for the Temple of Hobal. The god of war was followed by most soldiers, for obvious reasons, just as most sailors gave their allegiance to the god of waters, Suhal. He knew that former soldiers down on their luck could often be found at Hobal’s temples, standing stiffly against the forecourt walls in a silent plea for alms or employment. They would not beg aloud; that was forbidden in the sacred precincts.
It took him almost half an hour to reach the temple, walking and trotting the horse through crowded city streets. At last he turned the animal into the walled compound, dismounted, and handed its reins to a man wearing the robe of a postulant of the Order of Hobal.
“Put it in the shade under an awning, and water it,” he requested. “I’ll be a while.”
“That’ll be one daram, please, sir.”
That was a high price for temporary stabling, but he supposed the temple had to pay its bills, just like everyone else. He fished for a bronze coin in his purse, and handed it over. “I need to see a priest, and I’m looking to hire a few former soldiers as personal guards. Where do I start?”
“Speak to the Brother on duty in the entrance hall, sir.” The postulant gestured towards the gate leading to the forecourt, and the building beyond it.
“Thank you.”
Crossing the forecourt, he counted five men, presumably former soldiers, standing against the western wall, taking advantage of its shade as the sun sank lower in the sky. Two were talking to each other in low voices, and glanced at him as he entered the gate, but the other three simply stood and stared straight ahead. All seemed to be in their late twenties or thirties, some with hair already turning gray. They wore civilian clothes, mostly old, worn and patched, but clean. He nodded with inward approval. These men had kept their pride.
As he stepped into the airy coolness of the foyer, with its high arched ceiling, he saw the usual statue of Hobal in the center of the open space, standing high and proud on a pedestal, spear in his right hand, shield over his left arm, crowned with lightning bolts. He snapped to attention in front of the statue and peeled off a perfect salute, right fist slapping his left chest, his boots coming together with a stamp and a snap of leather on leather, and bowed his head in silence. He held the pose for a moment, then relaxed.
“I have not seen you here before, fellow believer,” a voice said quietly from his right. He looked in that direction, to find a Brother wearing the habit of the Order looking at him. He was standing with an older man, who was dressed in well-worn but clean clothing, similar to those standing outside, but with only one shoe. His left foot was missing, replaced by a peg-leg.
“I’ve only just arrived in Alconteral, Brother. I came in with the caravan yesterday, plus a little detour via galley.” He couldn’t help smiling.
“By galley? Are you Ra'id Taghri?”
He blinked. “I’m surprised you know of me, Brother.”
“By now the whole city knows of you, sir! I’m Brother Nagi. The caravan guards spread the tale of your exploits, the galley slaves you freed have done likewise, and the Princess Gulbahar has been singing your praises to the Governor and his household. I fear Abu Reis will speak less well of you, when he learns that you killed his youngest son.”
“I don’t know that I did. I dealt with two raiders at the caravan, one with my pistol, another with my scimitar, and killed one and wounded two others at the beach, but I don’t know who they were.”
“The one you shot was Sidi. The caravan brought in the bodies of the dead attackers, and he was identified by the former galley slaves. The garrison has sent out patrols to hunt down the survivors, but some of them are sure to escape, and carry word of their defeat back to Abu Reis.”
Taghri couldn’t help a savage grin. “That might not be wise. He has the reputation of disliking bad news, and taking that out on those who bring it.”
The Brother and his companion laughed. “True, sir,” the older man said, offering his hand. “I’m Hadi, former Sergeant-Major of the Second Regiment of Foot in Hasah.”
They exchanged a soldier’s grasp, wrist to wrist. “Your reputation goes before you, Sergeant-Major. I’ve campaigned alongside the Second Regiment. They’re a good unit, and have your name on the Scroll of Honor at their base. Didn’t you win a gold arm ring for your courage at the Battle of Garnat, fifteen years ago?”
“Aye, sir, I did. I should be wearing it while in the Temple, I know, but I had to pawn it and my other arm rings, more’s the pity. Times are hard – but never mind that. Didn’t you win the same award in a skirmish at Khor last year, sir?”
“Yes, I did, but I took a bad wound there, too, and was laid up for eight months recovering from it. I’m not sure the arm ring made up for that!” They laughed softly together. “I left the Army last month, and came here to seek my fortune in other ways.”
Hadi nodded sympathetically. “I suppose you reached as high as you could go, sir?”
“Yes. A squadron should be commanded by a muqaddam, but because I’m a commoner, I couldn’t be promoted to that rank. I led my own squadron anyway for two years, thanks to the indulgence of my commanding officer, but that was very irregular. It couldn’t go on forever.”
“Well, we’re honored to have you here, sir,” Brother Nagi told him. “It speaks well of your faith that you came to the Temple so soon after your arrival, to pay your respects.”
“I haven’t always been the most diligent of believers, Brother, but I do my best. I need to see a priest, please. I need advice about something that may involve… well, let’s just say that I need someone with spiritual discernment to advise me about this.” He lifted the ghutra-wrapped knife in his hand. “Also, I need a few personal guards, trustworthy men who can handle weapons. I thought this would be a good place to start looking for them.”
Nagi nodded to the man next to him. “I’ll take you to a priest, sir. After you finish with him, I think the Sergeant-Major would be the best person to help you choose your guards. We’ve learned to respect his judgment of men, here at the Temple. He’s been very useful to us.”
“I’ll be glad to help, sir,” Hadi confirmed.
“Very well. If you don’t mind waiting a short while, I’ll be back soon.”
“Of course, sir.”
Brother Nagi led Taghri to a waiting-room and offered him a seat. “I’ll be back shortly with one of our priests, sir.”
He was as good as his word. He returned within a few minutes, with an older man wearing the silver sash of a senior priest over his robes. “This is Kahin Raza, sir. He’s the deputy Prior of this temple.”
“Thank you, brother.” Taghri bowed respectfully. “Good afternoon, Kahin. My name is Taghri.”
“We have heard of you. You are welcome at the Temple of Hobal. How may we serve you?”
“I found this knife aboard the pirate galley I captured, Kahin. It felt… I can only say that it felt odd the moment I laid eyes on it. It made my skin tingle to touch the trunk that held it. In fact, because of that, I don’t want to touch it directly, so I’ve used a piece of cloth to handle it, every time. It feels… this may sound stupid, but it feels almost as if it radiates something. I’ve never known anything like it before.”
The priest’s face had stiffened as he listened. “May I see it?”
“Yes, of course, but please be careful, Kahin.” He handed him the knife.
“I shall. This is my business, after all.”
The Kahin unwrapped the knife and examined it carefully. Taghri noticed that he, too, did not touch it directly, but only through the cloth.
“You were right to treat this with caution,” Raza said slowly. “This is an altar knife, used to consummate sacrifices offered to a god. The symbol carved into the pommel tells me it belongs – or once belonged – to a Temple of Kokat, the goddess of chaos and uncertainty.” He gave a short, sharp laugh. “Not a comforting goddess to those of us
with an orderly military mind.”
Taghri blinked. Kokat was regarded as capricious rather than evil, upsetting the normal routine of life. It was rumored that she and her followers took delight in disrupting the lives of those who incurred their displeasure, in ways perverse, obnoxious, occasionally downright dangerous, and often very amusing to everyone except the victim whose pride or vanity was being rudely deflated. A wise man went out of his way to avoid the goddess, and strove never to give offense to her followers.
“How did it come to leave its temple?” he wondered aloud. “I thought sacrificial knives were never to be removed from the altar of the god they serve.”
“Yes, we observe that rule at our altar. This must have been stolen. As to how it ended up aboard a pirate galley, we may never know. It speaks well of your discernment that you did not touch it. It is imbued with a power I do not understand, and therefore do not altogether trust.”
“I wonder if that’s why Sidi Reis made such bad decisions recently, leading to his death? Was it the Goddess’s influence muddling his thinking?”
“It would not surprise me. If so, the rest of his family should be cautious. Kokat is a goddess who knows how to hold a grudge. One death in punishment for such sacrilege may not be enough to satisfy her.”
“What should I do with the knife, Kahin?”
“It should be returned to the custody of its Order.”
Taghri sighed. “I don’t like the thought of entering the Temple of Kokat.”
“In your shoes, I wouldn’t either, but it seems the task has been set for you. If you wish, I’ll write a letter to the Temple, saying that I advised you to bring the knife to them. That may help to alleviate any… displeasure they may feel at such a powerful symbol being handled by outsiders, no matter how carefully.”
“Thank you, Kahin. I’ll be grateful.”