The Great Bazaar and Other Stories (5 page)

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
darnel'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
damn
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 lie'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
damn
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 said 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.

They had waited.
And bred. And when they returned, they took back all they had lost and more.

The basic wards of
forbiddance and protection had been found in time to save a few pockets of
humanity, but the ancient combat wards of Kaji, wards that could make a mortal
weapon powerful enough to bite into demonic flesh, were lost. Arlen had spent
years searching ruins for a sign of them, but had yet to find a hint of
evidence that they had even truly existed, much less the wards themselves.

But if they were
anywhere, they were in Anoch Sun. When the Krasians prayed, they knelt to the
northwest, where the city was supposed to lay. Arlen had looked for the lost
city twice before, but there were thousands of square miles of desert in that
direction, and his searches had felt like looking for a particular grain in a
sandstorm.

"You get me a
map to Anoch Sun," Arlen said, "and you can have the lot of Bahavan
pottery for nothing. I'll even go back with a cart for another load, on my own
coin."

Abban's eyes
widened in shock, then he brayed a laugh and shook his head. "Surely you
know I was joking, Par'chin," he said. "The lost city of Kaji is a
myth."

"It
isn't," Arlen said. "I read of it in the histories in the Duke's
Library in Fort Miln. The city exists, or did, once."

Abban's eyes
narrowed. "Let us say you are correct, and I could procure this," he
said. "The Holy City sacred. If the
dama
ever learned you went
there, both our lives would be forfeit."

"How is that
different from Baha kad'Everam?" Arlen asked. "Didn't you say looting
the ruins for pottery would mark us both a death sentence if we were
caught?"

"It is as
different as night and day, Par'chin," Abban said. "Baha is nothing,
a camelpiss hamlet full of
khaffit.
The
dal'Sharum
danced
alagai'sharak
there to hallow the graves of the Bahavans only out of
obligation to Evejan law, to allow its inhabitants a chance to be reincarnated
into a higher caste. Besides, there is Dravazi pottery in every palace in
Krasia. The only notice a few new pieces added to the market will draw will be
from eager buyers.

"Anoch Sun,
on the other hump, is the holiest place in the world," Abban said.
"If you, a
chin.,
were to desecrate it, every man, woman, and child
in Krasia would cry for your head. And any artifacts you returned with would
draw many questions."

"I would never
desecrate anything!" Arlen said. "I've studied the ancient world my
entire life. I would treat the find with more reverence than anyone."

"Simply
setting foot there would be a desecration, Par'chin," Abban said.

"Demonshit,"
Arlen snapped. "No one has been there in thousands of years, a time when
Kaji's empire extended over my people's lands as well as yours. I have as much
right to go there as anyone."

"That may be,
Par'chin," Abban said, "but you will find few in Krasia who will
agree with you."

"I don't
care," Arlen said, looking Abban hard in the eyes. "Either you get me
that map, or I take the Dravazi pottery north and start selling my northern
contacts' goods to other vendors in the bazaar."

Abban stared back
at him for some time, and Arlen could practically hear the abacus beads
clicking in his friend's head as he calculated the loss of Arlen's business.
There were few Messengers willing to brave the dangers of the Krasian desert
and its people. Arlen came to the Desert Spear three times as often as other
Messengers, and he spoke the Krasian tongue well enough to take his business
elsewhere.

"Very well,
Par'chin," Abban said at last, "but be it upon your head, if it comes
back upon you. I will deal in no Sunian artifacts."

That surprised
Arlen, who knew Abban was not one to turn down any chance at profit.

A fool's a man
who knows better and does the thing anyway,
his father's voice said.

Arlen pushed the
thought aside. The call of the lost city was too great, and worth any risk.

"I'll never
breathe a word of it," he promised.

"I will get a
message to my nephew this evening," Abban said. "There is a lesser
dama
who comes to me for couzi each night, and he carries messages to the
boy in exchange. He will reply tomorrow telling us how long the texts we require
will take to copy, and where and when to meet him to make the exchange. You'll
have to come with me to that, Par'chin. I won't smuggle a map to Anoch Sun
through my tent."

Arlen nodded.
"Anything you need, my friend," he said.

"I hope you
mean that, Par'chin," Abban said.

"We'll need to
wear these," Abban said, holding up black
dal'Sharum
robes. Arlen
stared at him in surprise. Even though he sometimes fought beside
dal'Sharum
in the Maze, Arlen was not allowed to wear the black, and Abban...

"What will
happen if we're caught wearing those?" he asked.

Abban took a swig
of couzi right from the bottle and passed it to Arlen. "Best not dwell on
such things," he said. "We'll be doing the exchange at night, and the
robes should hide us well in the darkness. Even if we are seen, the night veils
will add a measure of disguise, so long as we outrun any who see us."

Arlen looked at
Abban's lame leg doubtfully, but made no mention of it. "We're going out
at night?" he asked. "Isn't that forbidden under Evejan law?"

"What about
this Nie-spawned transaction isn't, Par'chin?" Abban snapped, grabbing the
couzi bottle and drinking again. "The city is well warded. There hasn't
been a demon on the streets of Krasia in living memory."

Arlen shrugged.
"Makes no difference to me," he said.

"Of course
not," Abban muttered, taking another pull of couzi. "The Par'chin
fears nothing."

They waited for
the sun to set, and then slipped into the black warrior robes. Arlen admired
himself in one of Abban's many mirrors, surprised to see that with a bit of
makeup around his eyes and his night veil drawn, he looked just like any other
Krasian warrior, if a few inches shorter.