Caravan Camp, Walls of Kyros

Nasra was an old man with greying hair, but he moved like he was younger, being trim and fit. His face was weather-beaten, and when he smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

Kershi had not been sold by Nasra, but the boy had seen him selling slaves before at the market.

“Nasra!” Musa was smiling too, and everyone looked happy to see the merchant. Kershi didn’t understand it, because Nasra had sold Musa to Vaha three years ago.

Kershi did not think he would be happy to see the man who had sold him. Whenever he thought of the man, there was a sick feeling in his stomach and his heart always beat faster while he squelched the urge to run away.

But Musa and Nasra were hugging now.

Hugging.

“Maha!” And Nasra kept saying Musa’s name wrong, but Kershi was beginning to think Musa was actually Maha, like Bibos was actually Kershi, though the old man had never said what his Before name was no matter how many times Kershi had asked.

Heba didn’t seem to think anything was wrong, either.

She said something in rapid Ersai, though the Ersai was strange; Kershi couldn't really understand it. He could make out some words, but they were arranged wrong.

And…they were holding each others' hands now, and laughing, which was the same as hugging, anyway.

Kershi inched away. Were they being friendly so Nasra would sell them to someone nicer this time?

There was another possibility, but Kershi…didn't think that was it.

But he didn’t want to think badly of his friends.

Maybe it wasn’t too late to run away. Living on the street was better than living with another Vaha, wasn’t it?

Except it was too late now.

“And who’s this?” Nasra turned his cheerful, friendly smile on Kershi, turning to say something to Maha in that same, strange Ersai. Kershi could manage some Ersai himself, but he was out of practice, and Nasra spoke it fast. Really fast.

“Kershi!” Musa waved him over. Heba smiled, encouragingly, and Kershi glanced at the guards who were stationed around the caravans. They wouldn’t grab him if he ran now, right? Except they were all looking at him now, since Musa was talking in a loud, happy tone that wasn’t like him at all.

“Kershi, Kershi! Come here, boy. It’s okay, really. Promise. Come on, Kershi! Come.” Musa was all smiles now, too as he continued gesturing, but Kershi still hung back. Nasra simply slapped Musa on the shoulder and ambled over.

Nasra smiled and squatted in a friendly way that reminded Kershi very strongly of the crazy man who had burned down the compound. He had the same sort of smile–it looked sweet, but it couldn’t be trusted.

“And you are Kershi! Maha told me all about you. You’re a brave one, aren’t you? Most boys your age wouldn’t climb into a burning building. I wouldn’t, either!”

Kershi licked his lips. “I didn’t want to. But I thought…” He had thought everyone had been stuck inside, because the crazy man had barred all the doors before lighting the place on fire. How could he stand it if everyone died because he’d run off like that liar surgeon and his assistant?

Nasra’s smile only widened. “Modest, too.” He put his hand on Kershi’s shoulder and began to guide him toward his own tent. In quiet panic, Kershi threw a glance at Musa over his shoulder, but the older man only smiled encouragingly. Heba had already turned away to chat with one of the guards, seemingly completely at ease.

How could she be at ease?

They were surrounded. By men with swords, outside the walls!

And Nasra was dragging Kershi into a tent.

He tried to dig his heels in. “Musa–”

“You’ll be fine, Kershi! Just answer Nasra’s questions honestly and you’ll be just fine!”

“But Musa–” Kershi did not like the way his voice cracked, but it couldn’t be helped.

Nasra only laughed, pulling him into the tent.

Mahdi waved, and then the tent-flap closed, cutting him from view.

Kershi stared, open-mouthed.

It wasn’t like the inside of a tent at all. It was like a real room, just round: there were beautiful patterned rugs on the floor, and lamps hung from the poles that held the tent up. Something smelled really good, like the incense Kershi’s mama used to use when she prayed. There was a small desk and chairs made of some dark wood that looked smooth to the touch.

It was nice. Really, really nice. It was the nicest place Kershi had ever seen, and he couldn’t believe it was a tent.

Nasra hadn’t stopped smiling. He gestured to a seat, and Kershi didn’t understand what he wanted until the merchant laughed and said, “Take a seat, Kershi.”

“Um.” Kershi glanced down at himself. He was very dirty. Then he glanced at the chair. It was very clean, to the point that it was possibly gleaming.

Nasra only chuckled. “Really, Kershi. Take a seat. Either one.”

Kershi made his way gingerly to the nearest seat and…perched on it. There was a really nice rug or throw or something over the back and chair, and he did his best to keep from touching it. He’d get it dirty.

“Are you hungry? You must be. I think we have some rice left and we can make up a skewer for you.”

Kershi felt his mouth suddenly water. A skewer? With meat?

Nasra only nodded, then poked his head out the flap to speak to whoever was there, before coming back to settle in the other chair.

“You should really make yourself comfortable.” He was still smiling.

“Um,” Kershi said again. Nasra only leaned into his own seat–and yes, it did look very comfortable.

“Don’t worry about the linens. We wash them once we get back.”

“Back?”

“To Heliopolis.”

Oh.

Nasra was still speaking. “Yes, I think you’ll like Heliopolis much better than Kyros. More to do, more to see, and more opportunities for a brave, enterprising lad like you.”

“Um.” That was a compliment, right? “Thank you?”

Nasra only laughed, then poured him a drink from an amphora. It smelled and looked like wine, which was something Sama had warned him against drinking more than once. ‘It makes you stupid,’ she’d always said, but Sama wasn’t here and Kershi was very thirsty.

He grabbed the cup before he could change his mind and chugged, only to cough helplessly as his eyes watered. It sloshed out of the cup and most of it ended up on his shirt.

Great. He was going to stink all the way to Heliopolis, now.

Nasra seemed amused, handing him a square of cloth. “Perhaps I should not have given you wine. First time?”

Still coughing, Kershi nodded. It was disgusting. Why did people drink that stuff? For fun? Ew.

Nasra picked up a canteen and poured it into the cup. Kershi sipped. Water. That was better.

“Well, Kershi,” said Nasra, once Kershi had drunk his fill, “Maha told me all about what happened today, but I’d like to hear it from you.”

Kershi blinked at him. “Why?” It would be boring to hear it all again, wouldn’t it?

Nasra only smiled again. “Because Maha didn’t see everything, and I’d like a more complete picture.”

“Oh.” But why did that matter? Was Nasra mad that one of his customers was no longer around? But he looked perfectly cheerful.

“Uh…well…” He thought of Sama again, and blurted, “Vaha hurt Sama and no one would stop him.”

“...Who?” Nasra looked confused, and Kershi suddenly realized he hadn’t wanted that bit of the story at all. He was asking about the fire.

“Uh…I mean…” Kershi scratched his head. “I don’t know where to start.”

“How about from this morning, then?”

Kershi nodded. “Okay.” He took a deep breath, and began.

“–and so I followed him into the sleeping room and he said he’d get a surgeon later, except Sama was in a really, really bad way, so I said I’d get the surgeon. Anyway, he gave me Jaadi’s purse and–”

Nasra raised his hand and Kershi stuttered to a stop. “Did he tell you what his name was?”

“Um, which ‘he’?”

“The crazy one.” Nasra seemed particularly amused by this description, though Kershi was not sure why.

“Oh. Yes. He said his name was um, Farhad. But the other two called him ‘Lucky.’”

Nasra raised an eyebrow, though he did not look particularly surprised. “Farhad? Are you certain?”

“Uh…yes?” Kershi was pretty sure he was remembering it right. “And the one-eyed one was called ‘Klus’? Or something like that. And the red-haired one was ‘Pitee.’” But Nasra didn’t seem very interested in the last two at all.

Nasra was smiling again, and he looked very, very pleased.

Someone poked their head into the tent. “Food’s done.”

Kershi’s belly growled, but he was too hungry to feel bashful. His mouth was watering already at the smell. It smelled perfect, just perfect, and when the tray was set on the table he grabbed a skewer and stuffed the meat into his mouth before anyone could object, eying Nasra carefully in case he had to run, real quick. But Nasra only smiled and poured more water into Kershi’s cup, patting him on the shoulder when he coughed on a stray piece of meat he hadn’t chewed properly.

“There, there. Eat slowly, Kershi, you’ll choke. There’s more for you once we’re done. You won’t be hungry in my care.”

Oh.

Kershi eyed the merchant, chewing and swallowing quickly. “Am I yours now?”

Nasra blinked at him. “Pardon?”

“Well, we ran away. So we’re runaway slaves. I guess you can’t return us ‘cause they’re all dead, but does that make you our new owner, then?” Kershi wasn’t really sure how that worked, but if the food was always this good, it wasn’t a bad thing, right?

Nasra looked startled. “Your new owner? Well—I hadn’t planned on it, no.”

Kershi gulped down water so he could swallow his latest mouthful. “But I’m a hard worker. You can ask anyone. I don’t mind walking all day, either.” Nasra didn’t seem mean, but who was to say his new owner would be the same? Musa and Heva liked him, so surely that meant he was a nice master?

Most masters didn’t give their slaves meat. Maybe on feast days. But not just because.

Kershi could do a lot worse than Nasra, and if Maha and Heva thought kissing his butt was a good idea, then Kershi would do it, too.

Nasra’s expression grew serious. “Tell me something, Kershi. Do you like being a slave?”

No. “Yes.”

His eyebrows rose again. “Is that so?”

“Um. Yes.”

“So don’t want to be free anymore? You want to go back to being someone’s slave?”

“I…” Well, so what if he was a freedman? Food wasn’t free, and once the weather turned he’d freeze on the streets. That was if Kershi managed to avoid the bigger boys or a gang. What if he got caught and sold again, or…

Well, there were lots of bad things that could happen on the streets. Really, really bad things.

So being a slave was safer. Usually.

“Honestly, now, lad. I won’t get angry no matter how you answer, but you have to understand I promised Maha I’d do my best for you. If you really want to be a slave again, we can arrange it, though I can think of a thing or two that’d be better for you. But that’s up to you. So answer honestly.”

Kershi stared at his feet. “I don’t want to be free if I have to live on the streets. Sir.”

“You won’t have to. What would you like, Kershi?”

Kershi stared at him blankly, not really understanding the question. “I want Mama and Sama to be alive again and I want to go home.” Mama would have liked Sama a lot, he was sure.

But there was no use in wishing for things. Magic wasn’t real, anyway. There was no such thing.

Nasra’s expression softened. “I am sorry, Kershi. But I can’t bring your mother or your friend back. The dead are gone, I’m afraid, and all we can do is remember them as we keep on living. I meant, what would you like to do? You’re a clever lad, so I think you could be trained to do some sophisticated work, but if you prefer to toil with your hands, we can place you somewhere more suited.”

Place him? But he had said Kershi didn’t have to be a slave. Who’d take him without owning him?

“I don’t really understand, sir Nasra.”

Nasra tapped his chin with his fingers. Abruptly, he asked, “How good is your Ersai?”

“Uh…I can speak a little bit? But you and Musa talk really fast. I can manage if its slower.”

Nasra nodded. “Well, you have plenty of time to improve it. It’ll be a month or so before we’re back in Heliopolis. Why don’t you stick close and help me with this and that? Might help you make up your mind.”

“Oh. Of course, sir.” Now this was even more confusing, but Kershi wasn’t about to complain. Maybe Nasra would keep him if he was useful—the man was obviously rich.

Kershi put more food in his mouth and chewed. Nasra was only looking at him thoughtfully, and eventually Kershi became nervous. “What happens if my Ersai doesn’t get better?”

“It will.”

“Um. But what if it doesn’t? Does that mean…?”

Nasra only smiled again, soothingly. “No, no, of course not. But Kershi, you are a child of Er. Every man ought to know his mothertongue, don’t you agree?”

Well, no. What was the point of learning even more Ersai? Mostly, people spoke Illosian. Heru had always preferred Ersai, but even he, old as he was, had been able to switch back and forth.

But there was no point in disagreeing with Nasra.

“Yes.”

Nasra clapped Kershi on the back. “Exactly!” He smiled. “You’ll learn quick. We have some songs that are just perfect for practicing. How about that?"

At Kershi’s blank stare, Nasra smiled and began to whistle a tune.

Kershi had heard it before. It was a popular song, as far as he knew, though he couldn’t remember the words. Even so, he found himself humming along.

“Ah,” said Nasra, “so you know it!”

“Mama used to sing it, sir.” Sheepishly, he added, “But I don’t remember the name or the words.”

Nasra clapped him on the back. “Well, that first one’s easy,” he said, smiling. “It’s called ‘Er Eternal.’”

“Oh.”

Nasra only ruffled Kershi’s hair, which embarrassed the boy because it was dirty. Soot dislodged and fell to the rugs, but Nasra didn’t bat an eye.

“Um,” said Kershi, eyeing the rapidly darkening rugs, “sir Nasra—”

“Not to worry, Kershi,” he said. “Just think about what I said, hm? What you’d like to do.” He paused, then added, “and we’ll speak in Ersai from now on.”

“Yes, sir Nasra.”

“Such good manners, too.” Nasra lifted his hand from Kershi’s head. “Well, off you go, then. I think you ought to find Maha—he said he wants to visit the bathhouse before we leave tomorrow. I’ll have Kema and Rozka take you.”

A bath? At the bathhouse? Kershi definitely didn’t want to miss that. “Yes, sir Nasra!” He bounced to his feet, then paused, looking at the empty dishes. “Should I take them out?”

Nasra only laughed and waved him away. “Take them where? Do you even know?”

“Um…I could ask?”

Nasra shook his head, looking both pleased and amused. “No, no. Go find Maha. Off you go, lad.” He waved his hand as he said ‘go’, and Kershi went, looking for Musa as the tent flap closed behind him.

He was feeling lighter than he had all day, sooty and tired as he was. “Musa!”

The old man waved Kershi over. There was an entire gaggle of men and women, and Kershi realized they were all going to the bathhouse together.

“Had a nice chat with Nasra?”

Kershi nodded. “He said I can work for him until Heliopolis, but I have to learn Ersai.”

Musa clapped the young boy on the shoulder. “Good! You’ll learn a useful thing or two, and I know just the man who’d take you.”

Really?

Kershi smiled, and it felt like the first time in weeks. Musa chuckled and ruffled his hair, then put his hand on the boy’s shoulder to guide him as they made their way back into Kyros—but this time, they stuck to the main streets.

He was free. Kershi was free, and if he worked really, really hard, he would stay that way and have a job. A real job, with someone nice that Musa liked.

As they walked toward the bathhouse, Kershi found himself whistling.

Er Eternal.

What a nice song.

Eirian Quarter, Neva's Butcher Shop

The boys were asleep. Neva stood looking down at his sons for perhaps the third or fourth time now; he did it despite himself, grateful that he would never have to risk losing them now that Heru and Vaha were dead.

The Faravahar were gone; those that had not died had fled, and Neva did not think they would be returning to this particular district, Erian or no.

It was a great relief, though they had paid a heavy price.

He made his way quietly down to the shop, walking through the dark without a candle. He didn't need one; he knew the shop like the back of his hand.

The altar to Anahita still held the sticks of incense from earlier that day. They had burned down and extinguished; he lit a lamp so he could see, then set to work cleaning the altar.

It didn't take long. He poured out lotus wine and placed new sticks of incense around it, one for each man dead: Kouha. Daru. Sani. Kamhi. Aksha...

The list continued until he reached seven.

Seven men. A heavy price indeed, but, if Neva were perfectly honest...

This was not nearly as terrible as it could have been. It could have been more. It could have been all of them, or most of them.

It could have been a dark day, but instead it had been one of celebration; celebration because now they were free, but also because they were alive. There would be days of mourning ahead, but today? Today they had not died by the sword, or by the flames, and Neva was very, very glad some crazy Illosians had stopped by at Mahdi's for breakfast.

The gods worked in very strange ways.

Afterwards, he went back upstairs and looked at his boys again, who were their own little miracle each; he went to bed, staring up at the ceiling and thinking: thank you.

What else was there to say?

Eirian Quarter, Mahdi's Tabakh

‘Kles couldn’t remember when he’d fallen asleep, but he jerked awake, twitching at some half-remembered dream sometime before second watch; he didn’t need a water clock to know anymore. The time was just there, in his bones, telling him to wake up and man his station.

‘Cept he had no station, ‘cause he was retired now. Honorably discharged, on account of getting a fucking Sander spear to the face, gods-damned goat-fuckers.

He shifted, too hot with Pitie’s weight on him.

Idiot had rolled over onto him again.

With a sigh, Askles shoved the sleeping man off him; he didn’t have long to fall, since they were both sleeping on the floor of Mahdi’s little taverna. Still, Pitie made a satisfying thwacking noise when he landed on the rushes, though he didn’t wake; he just snorted like a pig, stirring once, then went right back to snoring.

Go figure.

‘Kles ran his hand through his hair, grimacing. His mouth felt fuzzy, like something had died in it, which weren’t all that surprising—they’d feasted and drunk right past first watch.

Water. He needed some water.

Slowly, he gripped a table leg and stood. Damn, that knee was sore, though 'Kles thought it'd be good again in a week or two. He took a slow, halting step. The inside of the shop had been cleaned out already—no bodies, anyway—and the rushes on the floor were new. ‘Kles couldn’t even smell the blood anymore, and he suspected Mahdi and his boys had given the place a damn good scrubbing while they’d been taking care of business—Mahdi’s business.

‘Kles went as quietly as he could. His head spun the way it did when he had too much wine, but he was still careful not to step on Pitie as he made his way behind the counters.

Most taverna had a jug of water somewhere. He just needed something to drink, then he’d go right back to bed. Well, sleep. The floor was comfortable enough with blankets, anyhow.

Lucky the moon was bright. Light spilled from the high windows, the wooden shutters doing little to keep the moonbeams out. If ‘Kles squinted, he could pick out the shapes of the jugs and things on the counter in the way the shadows fell.

Ah ha. There. ‘Kles unstoppered the jug and sniffed. Yup. Water. He brought it to his mouth and drank, gulping eagerly; he only stopped when the water did.

Huh. That hadn’t been much. But it had been enough to clear his mouth a bit, though his head still pounded.

He made his way slowly back to the little pile of blankets.

‘Kles would never say so, but it was good that Pitie was sleeping right next to him. The nights had gotten chillier, and the fire beneath the counter had been banked already. They’d settled down as close to the stone as was practical, but it was still nice to have someone warm next to him, even if that someone stank and snored like a greasy pig.

The coins in his belt clinked softly against each other, and ‘Kles grinned despite himself.

Damn, what a day. ‘Kles hadn’t gotten so damn bloody since the last time he’d gone Sander-killin’, and that had been five years ago, though—

Ha. ‘Kles settled back down and pulled the blanket back up.

They still had it, huh?

Because, well, damn. Who would’ve thought two crippled veterans and a blockhead could clean out a filthy den of gangsters?

Not ‘Kles.

He touched his eye, remembering his close call.

If Pitie hadn’t been there—

Well. If Pitie hadn’t been around, ‘Kles wouldn’t have been, either, and Lucky wouldn’t have been so lucky now, would he?

His grin broadened.

Maybe they could take those fucking bandits up at the fort. Lucky’s plan weren’t that bad, and he wasn’t half so crippled as ‘Kles had thought he’d been, not with the way he’d jumped up and down the tables—

‘Kles sat up, suddenly wide awake.

The tables. Lucky had been jumping up and down on the fucking tables.

“Pitie.” Askles yanked the blanket off his slumbering friend.

Pitie only grunted and whined, curling up around himself as the cool air hit his skin.

“Pitie. Pitie!”

The freckled man only continued snoring.

Askles smacked him on the shoulder and Pitie jumped, sounding just like a cat that’d gotten its tail under a sandaled foot.

“Shhh! Pitie!”

“What the fuck, ‘Kles? What’s yer problem now?” Pitie was hunched over, holding his shoulder protectively. “I weren’t sleeping on yer side.”

But Askles didn’t care about that. Not now.

“Pitie.”

“Yeah?”

“Lucky. Lucky was jumpin’ on tables. Lucky.”

“Yeah? So?” Pitie yawned. “Lucky likes jumpin’ around. He’s a big ol’ kitty cat."

“Pitie.” Askles gripped his friends arm. “Remember how I got this?” He pointed to his face.

“Yeah.” Pitie’s face was in shadow, but Askles could hear the frown in his voice. “Were real bloody and shit.”

“Yeah. I got real fuckin’ bloody, and so did Lucky.”

Pitie’s silence was full of confusion.

“Right. ‘Cause his horse threw him and he…”

“Broke his knee. Pitie. His knee. It went off sideways. He retired, same as me.”

Pitie’s silence grew thicker.

“But, ‘Kles…he…”

“He was jumpin’ on tables today. Skulking around hallways. Lucky.”

‘Kles reached out and gripped Pitie’s shoulders. The man squirmed a little, but ‘Kles held fast, hissing out his words in a low, urgent voice: “Pitie. How the fuck is he runnin’ and jumpin’ on tables? He was crippled. Crippled.” The bone-saw had taken one look and shaken his head. Lukios hadn’t been able to run, never mind jump, for five fucking years. He could hobble around a bit and maybe even walk half-way fast if he had a walking stick, but the man was damn proud and never used one. Eventually, he’d learned to limp as little as possible and pretend, but ‘Kles knew he ran the Pride from horseback, knowing better than to lead with his sandals on the ground.

Aristos did the footwork for him. It had been like that for five years.

So how the fuck was Lucky running around now, like he’d never had his knee bashed in?

Pitie sounded confused. “He got better?”

“You heard the bone-saw. He was lucky to walk again. Said he might not. ‘Member?”

Pitie went silent again. “’Kles,” he said, very slowly when began speaking again, “You don’t mean…”

“Pitie.” ‘Kles dropped his voice even lower. “You were right.”

“’Kles.”

“You were right. You were fucking right the first time.”

“’Kles.” This one was higher pitched, nervous.

“It was her. Pitie. You were right. It was her. Ba'an. She's a—”

“’Kles.” Pitie gripped ‘Kles’ arms, glancing around the quiet taverna like there were people listening in the walls. “You gotta be quiet. We can’t let people hear—he said he wouldn’t bring a witch here. He said. He wouldn’t fuck one. That’s what he said. He said so.”

“Right,” ‘Kles muttered. “He said.”

“Lucky wouldn’t lie to us, ‘Kles.” Askles stifled the urge to shake the man. Anyone who’d met Lukios twice knew the man was a damn good liar—only Pitie still believed everything that came outta his mouth.

But Lukios never lied mean—not that ‘Kles knew, anyway. ‘Kles wouldn’t have nothing to do with him if he did.

There was only one conclusion that made any damn sense.

“She witched him,” ‘Kles said, finally. “Just like you said.”

Even in the wan light of the moon, ‘Kles saw Pitie’s eyes widen ‘til he could see the whites all around ‘em. Askles felt his mouth harden into a line.

Lucky had lied to them, and there was only one reason that made sense.

“She witched him.”