The red marble walls stretched on far into the horizons, emblazoned in the red sun that glared overhead. The crack of whips, rising and falling in harmony, supplied a dread symphony to the convoy as they entered Shayhar Talash. A city where people came to regain what had been lost, always for a price beyond paying.
Ahzaan peered out from under the silk canvas, gray eyes wide open. The city was overwhelming, the wailing of women in grief, the anguish visible on the faces of grown men as they flogged their own flesh in repentance, the ground damp with its undertaking of soaking up the grief of thousands and the entire mosaic covered with blood. Everywhere that eyes could see, seeping though the expanse of the monolithic city, was the blood color.
“It is said of Talash, that if you stretch your arms out, you can feel grief, pain and sorrow on your palms.”
So unexpected were the words of his guardian at this late hour that Ahzaan reflexively covered himself in his chaadar and pretended to be asleep. Then slowly realizing the futility of his actions, he came out from under the cover.
“I did not realize you were awake, Dahda.” Ahzaan replied, all the while conscious that he couldn’t stop rubbing his palms.
“Do not take my words so literally, Zaan. It was merely a metaphor, when you become my age it’s considered charming to speak in riddles,” the old man said, as a grin spread across his face “It makes us seem wise.”
Ahzaan studied his Dahda, in a way that he had oft done over the past month. His blue turban wound tightly around his head so that nay a strand of hair was visible. Twin needles for a mustache, followed by an equally pointed beard extending only from his chin. Only the gray eyes embedded in the bronze visage hinted at kinship with the dark-skinned boy.
“Yes, you do go after your mother, for the better as well.”
“Must you…” Ahzaan started with a gentle hint of temper behind his words.
“Hoho! But I must, for you are my charge and even your thoughts should not be private to you.” The old man cut Ahzaan off.
Ahzaan sighed and snuggled back is his cushions. The old man seemed to be enjoying himself greatly at the discomfort he had caused. ‘I know better than to tangle myself in this web’, Ahzaan thought, ‘he’s just being an old fool, laughing at jokes and games between us that only he understands.’
A mithai was offered as a token of truce, one of the soft, yellow crumbly ones that Ahzaan loved. He knew bribery when he saw it, but that did not reduce its temptation. He thought carefully about the implications and lessons that could be woven into this seemingly benign gesture, and was glad that it came to him as easily as it did.
“The giver and taker of bribe shall both…” Ahzaan began.
“…find their way to Talash.” The old man completed for Ahzaan, even if those were not the words Ahzaan would have used.
“Let us not speak more of that for now, here more than any other place, mind what you know, Zaan. Here take this; I would not have my goody box assaulted at night because you regretted your decision, made in good sense though it was.”
Nibbling on the treat Ahzaan once again peered out at the city through a slit in the canvas, they were closer to the heart of the city now. The air was humid and moisture clung to people like a second skin, yet the mourners seemed too pre-occupied to notice. Even here, in the heart of the central bazaar, red was all around; thin curtains hung over shop entrances more to indicate a perimeter rather than block vision, the turbans worn by the Lal Tajirs, the most prominent trading guild of Talash, even the vials in which they sold their fragrances, Ityr.
There were shops lined on both sides of the Ghum Rah, the central road which led straight to Ansu Mizaar and exited the city at its eastern gates to continue its journey through the Raakh. The road was four wagons wide, yet so cramped it was at this hour with the passage of bodies that it appeared impossibly narrow. Presently, the convoy turned off the Rah, and onto one of the smaller rastahs indicating an end to a journey which had taken over two Chand Mahs, lunar months.
Ahzaan was pleased to realize that he had picked up so much of the Bedouin speech; it had been one of few things that had helped ease the passage of time while traveling through the desolate, barren landscape its inhabitants had aptly named the Ashes. But ashes need to be off something, something grand that has been reduced to nothing…what could possibly have been grand out here, at the edge of the world?
He never got the chance to complete his thoughts, as the convoy came to an abrupt halt. A moment later, harsh voices rose outside and were answered with equal warmth; Ahzaan recognized some of the words because he had heard his Dahda use them. Tajir Zaban, Trader’s Tongue, a language used exclusively by the trading guilds and almost never in public, something had gone very seriously wrong here. Turning around Ahzaan saw that his grandfather was not on his takht and seizing the opportunity Ahzaan crept outside the caravan to get a better look.
The caravan had come to a stop a few lengths away from a non-descript, large square building. The barely noticeable, pale blue banner extending from it gave it away, to the discerning eye, as an Aasmani warehouse. A small band of dismounted, camel-riders, in red cloaks, blocked the way to the warehouse. And even though they wore no visible weapons, Ahzaan had learned that the Bedouin robes they wore could conceal much.
Ahzaan focused on one in particular, he was thin of build, unlike the others, and wore a red turban; it was his voice that Ahzaan had heard inside the wagon. The trader, who Ahzaan quickly named Koyla, after his coal black eyes, was in the middle of what seemed a particularly venomous phrase, judging from the contortions of his face. Then his eyes focused on Ahzaan and bore threw him.
“Is that him? Is that the nuisance? It is, I believe.” Koyla slurred out his words.
“Do you have a mind to keep your tongue, sir?” the voice that spoke the words was measured, and fully conveyed the threat which was thinly woven. “Because if you do, I would recommend that you mind it.”
Now that Ghazal had entered the fray, the chances of this affair ending in violence had gone up exponentially yet the words still brought a smile to Ahzaan’s face; Ghazal was his man. A poet at heart, the artistry of his word and sword, was of much renown. Looking at him now, with the hilt of his sheathed Shamsheer in one hand, there was little doubt that he could back-up his words with action.
Koyla took two steps back, to seek comfort in the numbers of his entourage. Then having regained some confidence he spoke again.
“Are you threatening one of the Lal Tajirs in their own city? By the law of the Talash I could have your head for this!”
Any response Ghazal was apt to provide, would have graduated this matter beyond words. So it was fortunate, Ahzaan thought, that Dahda spoke when he did.
“And accusing one of the Blue, speaking the Tajir Zaban in public, violating the Quaidah, what would Talash’s law suggest for these offences?”
For a moment Koyla seemed at a loss for words, but he recovered quickly, eyes darting from side to side he slurred: “Dasahs, you’re name is well-earned, yet your cunning will avail you not here. Forget words, I have living proof of your deceit. You have smuggled a Mua’zin into Talash under the cover of a trader’s caravan. You know well the penalty for such deception, I believe.”
“You have the advantage then, for I know not your name. But the boy is in my care, and if I am correct.” And the tone of his words suggested that he knew he was “the trader’s law is still above others in this city.”
The words seemed to signal an abrupt end to the debate. Koyla signaled to his men and they turned around and started to mount up again. But before leaving he smiled at Dasahs and said: “Not all is, as you left in Talash, Fox. Be mindful that if the boy were to show up on the slave market, I would know…and it would not end as easily as it has for you, in the past.”
With that he turned and left, it was only at the end of the Rastah that he turned around and added: “The name is Heiwan, you will remember it.”
It was not a question.
