For all that he was prepared, it shook him to hear the familiar sound of dama singing the end to curfew ringing out over the streets of Fort Rizon. Arlen looked up, seeing the newly built minarets rising above the wall of the inner city, surrounding what had been the great Holy House of Rizon. He wondered if the Krasians had already begun to decorate it with the bones of the fallen.
He watched as the city around him woke and came to greet the day. The Krasians came first, women and khaffit opening their kiosks and pavilions for a day’s business. Soon after, when most of the returning Sharum had found their beds, the chin began to appear, opening their businesses as customers, Rizonan and Krasian alike, began to clog the narrow streets.
Soon, it began to feel achingly familiar, even as his sense of discomfort grew. The shouts of vendors, filled with exaggerations and outright lies, the noise and stink of livestock mixing with the smells of cooking food, meat and spices that made his mouth water as vendors displayed everything a buyer could want, and many they did not even know existed.
He had loved the Great Bazaar of Krasia, and it seemed a lifetime since he had wandered its maze of streets.
But you’re not in Krasia, he reminded himself, seeing the differences, now that he had absorbed the familiar. Here, a group of dal’ting were followed by Rizonan men who carried their purchases like slaves. There, a pair of Rizonan women walked in the hot sun with their heads and faces wrapped in coloured veils. Everywhere, vendors called their wares in their native languages, but also in broken Thesan or Krasian, and buyers did the same. Already, a pidgin was forming, melding words from both languages with gestures, much like the trade language Northern Messengers used when visiting the Desert Spear. Arlen understood it instinctively.
A dama walked slowly by, watching the activity. An alagai tail hung from his belt in easy reach. Vendors and shoppers alike gave him nervous looks and a wide berth, but Arlen was in black, and simply gave a nod the dama returned casually before returning to his inspection. Arlen had no doubt that the whip would soon be put to use, if for nothing other than a warning to others.
This ent how it’s supposed to be.
Abban did not need to look up when the dal’Sharum entered his office. Only one of his men wore black, and Abban did not need to raise his eyes past ankle level to know when his drillmaster darkened his door — something that had never happened in the bazaar. Qeran despised the place.
‘You were not invited, warrior,’ he said, dipping his electrum pen into the inkwell and continuing to write in his ledger.
The Sharum said nothing, pulling the door closed behind him. Abban saw the feet of his two kha’Sharum Watchers appear at his back. They moved with utter silence on the soft carpet, one holding a short metal club, and the other the handles of a garrotte. As they moved to strike, Abban finally allowed his eyes to rise. He did so love to see his investments pay off.
The Watchers were from different tribes, one Nanji and the other Krevakh. Anywhere else in the world, the two men could not have been in the same room as each other without shedding blood.
But tribe meant nothing to Abban’s hundred. He was their tribe. He wondered sometimes if, three thousand years after Ahmann’s reign, the Haman tribe might endure. Had not Nanji and Krevakh been men once, serving at the side of Kaji?
He snorted. Haman? If Ahmann was truly the Deliverer, it should be the Abban tribe. That had a nice sound to it.
The men struck as one body, the first swinging his club at the meat of the newcomer’s thigh, a blow meant for maximum pain and surprise, but minimum damage. While the Sharum recoiled, the other would move in, catching him from behind with the garrotte and allowing his partner open access to attack. Abban had seen them do the dance several times now, and never tired of it.
But the dal’Sharum surprised him, moving as if he had known the men were there all along. He was baiting them, Abban realized as the stranger slipped his leg away from the club and threw his head back just in time to avoid the garrotte. He came back up fast with a punch the Krevakh barely parried in time and a kick that the Nanji managed to turn aside with his wire, though he failed to catch the ankle as it retracted.
The dal’Sharum had a chance to slip the shield onto his arm, but he didn’t bother, leaving it slung over his back. He twirled his spear like a dama’s whip staff, parrying a club blow from the Krevakh, then spinning to strike the Nanji in the kidney. It came back and caught the Krevakh across the face before the Nanji finally caught it in his loop. He pulled, trying to yank the weapon from the man’s grasp, but the Sharum thrust at the same time, breaking the Nanji’s hold and slamming the butt of the spear hard into the centre of his chest.
As the Nanji dropped, the warrior turned to face the Krevakh fully. The kha’Sharum regarded him coolly, but pressed the hidden button on his club that extended a sharp, poisoned blade. The dal’Sharum attacked, but the Krevakh parried it smoothly and came in hard.
A moment later he was lying on the floor, gasping for air. It happened so fast that it took a moment for Abban’s eyes to catch up to his mind. The warrior had sidestepped the blow and put an elbow in the Watcher’s throat.
Abban hesitated. He had not thought it possible that any single man could defeat his Watchers, much less a common dal’Sharum. Thankfully, he was prepared to handle far more than a single man. He reached under his desk for the hidden bell rope that would bring a dozen kha’Sharum rushing into the room.
‘Please don’t do that,’ the newcomer warned, pointing at Abban with his spear. His voice was a rasp, but it had a familiar ring to it. ‘The more people you send running in, the more likely someone will get seriously hurt.’ He gave Abban a look so intense the khaffit had to suppress a shudder. ‘And I assure you, it won’t be me.’
Abban swallowed deeply, but he nodded, slowly lifting his hands into the air. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘Abban, my true friend,’ the man said, dropping the rasp from his voice. ‘Do you not recognize your favourite fool? This is not the first time you’ve seen me in a Sharum’s blacks.’
Abban felt his blood turn to ice. ‘Par’chin?’
The man gave a slight nod. One of the Watchers let out a slight groan, struggling to put a knee under himself. The other was climbing shakily to his feet.
‘Out, both of you,’ Abban snapped. ‘Your salaries will be docked for incompetence. Wait outside and make sure my friend and I are not disturbed.’
As the men stumbled out the door, the Par’chin closed it behind them. He turned, removing his turban and veil. Beneath, his head was shaved clean, covered in hundreds of tattooed wards. Abban drew in a breath, covering his shock with a booming laugh and his customary greeting. ‘By Everam, it is good to see you, son of Jeph!’
‘You don’t seem surprised.’ The Par’chin looked disappointed.
Abban came around his desk as fast as his crutch would allow, slapping the Par’chin on the back. ‘Mistress Leesha hinted that you were alive, son of Jeph,’ Abban said. ‘I knew then this “Painted Man” could be no other. Would you like some couzi?’ He moved to the delicate porcelain couzi set on his desk. The drink was still illegal in Everam’s Bounty, but Abban displayed it on his desk openly now. After what had happened to Hasik, who would dare say a word? He poured two cups, holding one out to the Par’chin.