Amit was a recent addition to the market. A sand demon had bitten the meat from his calf in battle, and the wound had festered. Eventually, the dama’ting had no choice but to amputate. It was a grave dishonor to be crippled in battle but not die, but since he had managed to trap the offending demon before the rising sun, Amit’s place in the afterlife was assured.
Unlike Abban, Amit was clad from head to toe in black, as befitted a warrior, his night veil loose around his neck. He still carried his spear, using it more as a walking staff than a weapon these days, but he kept it sharp, and was quick to threaten with it when aroused.
A man in warrior black attracted attention in the bazaar, since it was, for the better part, the near-exclusive domain of women and khaffit. People tended to move carefully around him, frightened to approach, so Amit had tied a bright orange cloth beneath the head of his spear to signal his status as a merchant and to draw the eyes of potential customers.
“Ah, Amit, my good friend!” Abban said, his face filling with a look of warm, welcoming sincerity practiced before thousands of customers. “By Everam, it is good to see you. The sun shines brighter when you are about. Business is well, indeed! Thank you for asking. I trust things go well in your pavilion also?”
“Of course, of course!” Amit said, his eyes shooting daggers. He looked ready to say more, but he noticed a pair of women who had stopped to examine one of Abban’s fruit carts.
“Come come, honored mothers, I have far better fare across the way in my pavilion!” Amit said. “Would you rather buy your goods from a soulless khaffit, or one who has stood tall in the night against the demon hordes?”
Few could refuse him when it was put that way, and the women turned and headed towards Amit’s pavilion. Amit sneered at Abban. It was not the first time he had stolen Abban’s business thusly, and likely it was not the last.
There was a hissing in the general din of the market then, and both men looked up. The sound was a warning from other vendors that dama approached. All around, merchants would be hiding wares that were prohibited under Evejan law, such as spirits or musical instruments. Even Amit glanced down at himself to see if he had any contraband on his person.
A few minutes later, the source of the warning became clear. Led by a young cleric in full white robe, a group of nie’dama, novices in white loincloths with one end thrown over their shoulders, were collecting bread, fruit, and meat from the market. There was no offer of payment for what they took, nor did any vendor dare ask. The dama grazed like goats, and there was nothing a merchant who valued his skin dare say about it.
Remembering his father’s lesson, Abban bowed so low when the dama appeared that he feared he might tip over. Amit noticed, and smacked Abban’s crutch with the butt of his spear, braying a laugh as Abban fell in the dust. The dama turned their way at the sound, and Abban, feeling the weight of that look, put his forehead down and groveled in the dirt like a dog. Amit, conversely, simply nodded his head to the dama in respect, a gesture the cleric returned.
The dama walked on after a moment, but Abban caught the eye of one of the nie’dama, a skinny boy of no more than twelve years. The boy glanced at Amit, then smirked at Abban kneeling in the dust, but he winked conspiratorially before following after his brothers.
And to make matters worse, that was the precise moment the Par’chin arrived.
Being caught groveling in the dirt was never a good way to begin a negotiation.
* * * * *
Arlen looked sadly at Abban kneeling in the dirt. He knew the loss of face hurt his friend more deeply than a dama’s whip ever could. There were a great many things that Arlen admired about the Krasian people, but their treatment of women and khaffit was not among them. No man deserved such shame.
He looked away purposefully as Abban hauled on his crutch to regain his feet, staring intently at a cart of trinkets he had no interest in. When Abban had righted himself and dusted off, Arlen led Dawn Runner over as if he had just arrived.
“Par’chin!” Abban cried, as if he had just noticed Arlen himself. “It is good to see you, son of Jeph! I take it from the laden horse you lead that your journey was a success?”
Arlen pulled out a Dravazi vase, handing it to Abban for inspection. As ever, Abban had a look of disgust painted on his face before he even had a good look at the object. He reminded Arlen of old Hog, the owner of the general store in Tibbet’s Brook where he had grown up. Never one to let a seller know he was interested until the haggling was done.
“Pity, I had hoped for better,” Abban said, though the vase was more beautiful than any Arlen had ever seen in Abban’s pavilion. “I doubt it will sell for much.”
“Spare me the demonshit for once,” Arlen snapped. “I almost got myself cored over these pieces, and if you’re not paying good coin for them, I’ll take them elsewhere.”
“You wound me, son of Jeph!” Abban cried. “I, who gave you the very maps and instruction that led you to the treasure in the first place!”
“The place was full of strange demons,” Arlen said. “That drives the price up.”
“Strange demons?” Abban asked.
Arlen nodded. “They were snub and orange like the rock,” he said, “no bigger than a dog, but there were hundreds of them.”
Abban nodded. “Clay demons,” he said. “Baha kad’Everam is infested with them.”
“Night, you knew?!” Arlen cried. “You knew and sent me there unprepared?”
“I didn’t tell you about the clay demons?” Abban asked.
“No, you corespawned well didn’t!” Arlen shouted. “I didn’t even have proper wards against them!”
Abban paled. “What do you mean, you didn’t have wards against them, Par’chin?” he said. “Any fool child knows about clay demons.”
“If you were born in a ripping desert, maybe!” Arlen growled. “They told me the same thing in the corespawned Duke’s Mines after I was almost cored by a pack of snow demons. I should take this whole load north to Fort Rizon, just to spite you!”
“Oh, there’s no need for that, Par’chin!” a voice called. Arlen looked up to see a dal’Sharum hobbling across the street to them. He didn’t know the man, but it was no surprise the man knew him. Most dal’Sharum had at least heard of the Par’chin, if not met him directly.
By itself, chin meant “outsider”, but in practice it was an insult, synonymous with “coward” and “weakling”. It was a title even lower than khaffit. “Par’chin”, however, meant “brave outsider”, and it was a singular title belonging to Arlen alone, the only greenlander ever to learn the ways of the Desert Spear and stand beside dal’Sharum in alagai’sharak.
“Allow me to introduce myself,” the stranger said in Krasian, gripping forearms with Arlen in a warrior’s greeting. He didn’t speak the northern tongue as Abban did, but unlike most other Messengers, Arlen spoke the Krasian tongue fluently. “I am Amit asu Samere am’Rajith am’Majah,” the man said. “Tell me how this pathetic khaffit has failed you, and I will better anything he has offered.”
Abban grabbed Arlen’s arm. “Tell him you stole pottery from hallowed ground, Par’chin,” he said in the Northern tongue, “and we’ll both be staked out before the city gates as night falls.”
“Khaffit!” Amit barked. “It is the height of rudeness to speak some barbarian tongue in the presence of men!”
“A thousand apologies, noble dal’Sharum,” Abban said, bowing low and stepping back so the other man could not trip him again.
“You don’t want to deal with the likes of this pig-eating half-man,” Amit said to Arlen. “You have stood in the night! Dealing with khaffit is beneath you. But like you, I have demon ichor on my hands. Twelve, did I help see the sun, before losing my leg!”
“Ah,” Abban muttered in Arlen’s language, “the last time I heard him tell it, it was only a half dozen. He must be adding to his count still.”
“Eh, what was that, khaffit?” Amit asked, not understanding, but knowing it wa
s likely an insult.
“Nothing, honored dal’Sharum,” Abban said, bowing smugly.
Amit smacked Abban’s face. “I told you before you were being rude with that savage grunting!” he barked. “Apologize to the Par’chin!”
Arlen had had enough. He stamped his spear, rounding on the merchant angrily. “You would ask a man to apologize for speaking my own language to me?!” he roared, shoving Amit so hard he fell to the ground. For a moment, the merchant’s eyes hardened and he gripped his spear, ready to leap to the attack, but his eyes flicked to Arlen’s strong legs, and then to his own stump, and thought better of it. He bowed his head.
“My apologies, Par’chin,” he bit off the words as if each one had a foul taste. “I meant no insult.”
The caste system cut both ways. Amit had greeted Arlen as a fellow warrior, and warriors had their own pecking order: strong to weak. His peg leg put Amit at the very bottom of that order. To a strong warrior, he was only a small step above khaffit himself. It was no wonder Amit had chosen to make the bazaar his home.
Arlen pointed his spear at Amit. “Think twice before you insult my homeland again,” he said, keeping his voice low with menace, “or the next time the dust of the street will be dampened with blood.”
He meant no such thing, of course, but Amit need never know that. Dal’Sharum required a show of strength, if they were to respect you.
Abban took Arlen’s arm and hurried him into his pavilion before the incident had a chance to escalate further.
“Hah!” he cried, when they were inside and the heavy tent flap closed behind them. “Amit will make me suffer a month for seeing that, but it will be worth every insult and blow.”
“You shouldn’t have to tolerate such treatment,” Arlen said for what felt like the thousandth time. “It’s not right.”
But Abban waved him away. “Right or wrong, it is the way of things, Par’chin,” Abban said. “Perhaps they treat my kind differently in your land, but in the Desert Spear, you might as well ask the sun not to shine so hot.”
It was cool in Abban’s tent, and his women came over immediately, taking Arlen’s dusty outer robe and his boots, giving him a clean robe to sit in. They piled pillows for the men and brought out pitchers of water and bowls of fruit and meat, along with steaming cups of tea. When they were refreshed, Abban produced a small bottle and two tiny clay cups.
“Come, Par’chin, drink with me,” he said. “Let us calm our nerves and start our meeting anew.” Arlen looked at the tiny cup dubiously, then shrugged and took a sip.
A moment later, he spit it back out, reaching frantically for the water jug. Abban laughed and kicked his feet.
“Are you trying to poison me?” Arlen demanded, but his anger dissipated when Abban held up his own cup and drained it.
“What in the Core is that foul brew?” he asked.
“Couzi,” Abban said. “Made from distilled fermented grain and cinnamon. By Everam, Par’chin, how many casks of it have you lugged across the desert without having a taste?”
“I don’t drink the merchandise,” Arlen said. “And for the ledger, it tastes more like a flame demon’s spit than cinnamon.”
“It can double as lamp oil,” Abban agreed, smiling. He refilled Arlen’s cup and handed it to him. “Best to drink the first one quickly,” he advised, refilling his own cup, “but by the third, all you’ll taste is the cinnamon.”
Arlen threw back the cup and nearly choked. His throat burned like he had just drank boiling water.
“This is a corespawned drink,” he choked, but allowed Abban to fill his cup again.
“The Damaji agree with you, Par’chin,” Abban said. “Couzi is illegal under Evejan law, but we khaffit are allowed to make it to sell to chin.”
“And you keep a little for yourself,” Arlen said.
Abban snorted. “I do more business in couzi here than in the green lands, Par’chin,” he said. “It takes only a small bottle to make even a large man’s head swim, so it is easily smuggled under the dama’s noses. Khaffit drink it by the cask, and dal’Sharum bring into the Maze to give them bravery in the night. Even a few dama have developed the taste.”
“You don’t think it’ll cost you in the next life, selling forbidden drink to clerics?” Arlen asked, draining another cup. Already, it was going down smoother.
“If I believed in such nonsense, I would, Par’chin,” Abban said, “so it is well that I don’t.”
Arlen sipped at the next cup, his throat numb to the burn now. He savored the taste of the cinnamon, amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before. He felt as if his body were floating above the embroidered silk pillows he rested upon. Abban seemed similarly relaxed, and by the time the small bottle was empty, they were laughing at nothing and slapping one another on the back.
“Now that we’re friends again,” Abban said, “may we return to business?”
Arlen nodded, and watched as Abban rose unsteadily to his feet, stumbling over to the Bahavan pottery that his women had unloaded from Dawn Runner and brought inside. Of course, Abban’s face immediately fell into one of practiced neutrality as he prepared to haggle.
“Most of these are not Dravazi,” he said.
“Wasn’t much in the master’s shop,” Arlen lied. “Besides, we still need to discuss your lack of candor regarding the dangers of the trip before we talk coin.”
“What does it matter?” Abban asked. “You walked out unscathed, as always.”
“It matters, because I might not have gone at all if I had known the place was infested with demons I didn’t have proper wards for!” Arlen snapped.
But Abban only scoffed, waving a hand at him dismissively. “What reason would I have had to lie to you, son of Jeph?” he asked. “You are the Par’chin, the brave one who dares to go anywhere! Had I told you of the clay demons, it would only have strengthened your resolve to see the place and spit in their eyes!”
“Flattery ent gonna get you out of this, Abban,” Arlen said, though the compliment did warm his couzied mind a bit. “You’ll need to do better.”
“What would the Par’chin have me do?” Abban asked.
“I want a grimoire of clay demon wards,” Arlen said.
“Done,” Abban said, “and free of charge. My gift to you, my friend.” Arlen raised his eyebrows. Wards were a valuable commodity, and Abban was not a man free with his gifts.
“Call it investment,” Abban said. “Even plain Bahavan pottery has value. A little hint of danger to make a buyer feel he’s getting something rare.” He looked at Arlen. “There’s more in the village?” he asked.
Arlen nodded.
“Well,” Abban said, “there’s no profit in you getting killed before you can haul it back.”
“Fair enough,” Arlen said. “But still, how can you just offer something like that? Aren’t books of warding forbidden for you to even touch?”
Abban chuckled. “Most everything is forbidden to a khaffit, Par’chin. But yes, the dama consider warding a holy task and guard the art closely.”
“But you can get me a grimoire of clay demon wards,” Arlen said.
“Right out from under the dama’s noses!” Abban laughed, snapping his fingers under Arlen’s nose. Arlen stumbled drunkenly, falling back onto the pile of pillows, and both of them laughed again.
“How?” Arlen pressed.
“Ah, my friend,” Abban waved an admonishing finger at Arlen, “you ask me to give away too much of my trade secret.”
“Demonshit,” Arlen said. “Your map to Baha was off by more than a day. If I’m to trust my life to these maps and wards you give me, I want to know the information is good.”
Abban looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged and sat back down beside Arlen. He snapped his fingers, and one of his black-clad women brought another bottle of couzi. She knelt to fill their cups before bowing low and leaving them. They clicked cups and drank.
Abban leaned in close. “I will tell you this, Par’chin,” he s
aid quietly, “not because you are a valued client, but because you are my true friend. The Par’chin has never treated this lowly khaffit as anything but a man.”
Arlen scoffed, refilling their cups. “You are a man,” he said.
Abban bowed his head in gratitude and leaned in close again. “It is my nephew, Jamere,” he confided. “His father was dal’Sharum, but died while the boy was still in swaddling. The father’s family had little wealth, so my sister returned to my pavilion, and raised the boy here in the bazaar. He recently came of age and was taken to find his life’s path, but he is scrawny, and the dal’Sharum drillmasters were unimpressed with him. His wit, however, impressed the dama, and he was taken as an acolyte.”
“He was one of the nie’dama in the market today?” Arlen asked, and Abban nodded.
“Jamere may be a cleric in training,” Abban said, “but the boy is utterly corrupt, and has even less faith than I do. He will happily copy or steal any scroll in the temple if I tell him there’s a buyer and share the profits.”
“Any scroll?” Arlen asked.
“Anything!” Abban bragged, snapping his fingers again. “Why, he could steal even the maps to the lost city of Anoch Sun!”
Arlen felt his heart stop. Anoch Sun was the ancient seat of power of Kaji, the man the Krasians worshipped as the first Deliverer. Three thousand years earlier, give or take a few centuries, Kaji had conquered the known world; the desert and the green lands beyond, and united all mankind in war against the corelings. Using magical warded weapons, they slaughtered demons in such great numbers that for centuries it was believed that they had won, the corelings were extinct, and the night was free.
But it was a fleeting victory in the great scheme, as everyone now knew. The demons had retreated to the Core, where none could follow, and they had waited. Waited for their enemies to grow old and die. And their children. And their children’s children. Immortal, the corelings had waited until the surface of the world had all-but forgotten their existence. Until demons were nothing more than myth, and the ancient symbols of power that man had used against them were forgotten bits of folklore.