by Fuad Baloch
Fear and indecision gripped her now. She was part of this world. Not a spectre watching from a remote distance, but a cog in the giant wheel. Anything she did here, something as simple as fashioning a radio or steam engine, could have consequences she could not foresee.
Where did that leave her?
Think!
She did. Not something that came naturally to her, but something she had to do. Options, that was what she really needed. The men guffawed at the teenagers. Ruma gritted her teeth. If she rushed headlong and got herself into an argument with no easy way out, would that set off a chain that would please the First?
She considered her options.
She could walk away, of course. But even if she became a hermit, how would she really know that wasn’t the act that ended up looking all different when magnified by centuries?
Her head hurt, blood pounding in her temples.
Massive upheavals had happened after the prophet’s death in this age. Knowing the details would have helped tremendously. Another thing she couldn’t do anything about.
Curse you… Curse you, you fracking First!
The Pithrean had done their best to deceive Gulatu. How could she trust the First to not do the same to her? No, she wouldn’t trust him that easily, if ever.
Dread unspooled in her gut. If the Pithrean had brought her over to this world and she refused to listen to him, couldn’t he punish her for being obstinate?
Was she over-thinking things, stopping herself from moving forwards?
Voices grew to shouts.
Distracted, Ruma turned her attention back to the stocky man now advancing menacingly at the siblings. She was reasonably sure no history books would have recorded what happened to these two young traders this day. Looted or not, they wouldn’t even have made a footnote for a historian capturing the city’s history for this day, much less recorded for posterity.
Think! Recall all you know that did happen here!
All she knew was that the prophet’s death had sparked wars of succession. Turbaza had taken over his mantle. Dadua, the prophet’s oldest companion, had eventually taken up arms. To placate the believers, Yasmeen, the prophet’s wife, had ended up marrying Turbaza. Relative peace had fallen upon them, or so Ruma would have assumed.
But the fighting hadn’t really ever died away.
Something she was witnessing first-hand.
How had history turned out? How was she meant to interact with it?
Alf curse it all!
It was all well and good to not want to alter the timeline, but exactly what was she meant to remain away from? For all she knew, her presence had had a part to play in how her world had turned out to be.
At the end of day, all that really mattered was getting out of here, finding a way back to her life, travel as far away as possible from Gulatu Koza, start something new in the Hengoli worlds. If not that, perhaps in Zrivisi space once the civil war concluded.
But she was here. In a now that made no sense!
Ruma wanted to scream out in anguish. Paradoxes had no place in the natural order of things. Science was simple even if it appeared complicated to the simple mind. The universe had inviolable laws that needed to be discovered, investigated, harnessed. Nothing difficult about that. All this thinking of what-ifs was the maddening pursuit of men with too much time.
A scream floated up. The stocky man had slapped the girl, was brandishing the sword at her brother, who had raised both his arms, his face gone pale.
Too much thinking was the root of most evil in the world.
Drawing in a deep breath, Ruma advanced towards the young traders.
Five
Beginnings
“Step away,” she said, shoving her way through the onlookers and advancing towards the tall man and his companion.
If they heard her, they seemed unperturbed. The taller man continued to smirk even as the girl broke out into a sob, one hand pressed against her cheek. Her brother let out a squeal, tried advancing towards her, but the shorter man blocked his way, kicked him in the ribs.
“Stop this, right now!” Ruma growled, pointing her index finger towards the men.
As more eyes fell on her, the excited hubbub first lowered to murmurs, then drained away entirely. The taller man, a merchant most likely, judging by the sleek cut of his tunic and well-kept beard, glared at her. “Did you say something to me, girl?”
Ruma arched an eyebrow, chuckled. “Hard of hearing? Want me to repeat what I said,” she took a step forwards, the fingers curling, “with a fist in your face?”
Someone behind her gasped. Murmurs broke out once more. The merchant’s face darkened. The girl he had slapped rose on shaky feet, shuffled over to join her brother, writhing quietly. The stocky man twirled his dagger round and round, his beady eyes watching the merchant for a cue.
Violence. She could smell it in the air, almost taste it. The thought made her smile. There was something to be said about the simplicity of a physical brawl, of the meeting of limbs and curses. No long-drawn verbal jousts or complex rhetorical plays there. A simple, short affair, the victor emerging as the righteous party.
And quite frankly, right about now, she could do with some of that simple stuff to divert her mind, even if a part of her shouted at her to get away, to not do what the Pithrean had just asked her to do. Something she might have paid more attention to had there not been all this hot blood coursing through her.
“You, walk away!” said the merchant, the voice cold, dripping with scorn.
Ruma exhaled, forced her fingers to unclench. “Never heard of appropriate manners when talking to a woman? What would your Lady say now if she was watching you?”
The merchant guffawed. “Go to your home. Disputes between Alf-fearing merchants are not things you need to bother your pretty mind with.”
Ruma arched an eyebrow. She had no problems fighting, never had, but the past few months spent with Gulatu and his weird, heady mix of pacifism had ended up slowing down her natural inclinations. “Whatever the nature of your dispute, old man, it’s time to call it quits.” She cocked her head to the side, adrenaline pumping through her veins. “In fact, I think it’s only fair that you offer these two an apology for what you… and your dog have done to them.”
“Alf have mercy on your soul,” gasped the old bully, the corners of his mouth twitching. His companion shook his head, took a step towards her, then stopped when the merchant raised his hand. “You go too far!”
“Not at all,” said Ruma, forcing her voice to remain calm. “You dare slap a girl in broad daylight?” She swept her hand at the gaping faces. “In the shade of this gleaming white tower? In front of all these people, and then you point at me as going too far?”
“She’s right!” said someone behind her. An old, wheezing voice. One she didn’t have at her side before. Then again, it wasn’t like she needed men to support her.
More voices rose in agreement. As if sensing the changing mood of the crowd, the merchant took a step back. “Perhaps—”
“No!” said Ruma, stepping forwards. “You’re not going anywhere, not until you’ve apologised.” She paused, then pointed at the upturned contents of the siblings’ cart. “And offered suitable recompense.”
“How dare you!” snarled the merchant.
His companion advanced towards her once more. This time, the merchant didn’t hold him back. Ruma smiled. The bulldog was being unleashed. In his mind, she would be turning to pulp soon, but he’d no doubt rationalise it easily enough. Merchants throughout the ages had a way of easing their consciousnesses—he had warned her, thought himself in the right, and what followed would have been her fault.
Too bad he had no idea how this would turn out.
“You silly Alf-cursed girl!” said the short bastard, raising a hand, the fingers clenched into a fist. “You’re going to be so sor—”
Ruma punched him in the solar plexus. A gentle jab, really, no harder than it needed to be, but enough to set
the man reeling as he collapsed to the ground. On the balls of her feet, Ruma raised her arms, adopting a defensive stance, then, with the fingers of her right hand, motioned for the older merchant to attack her.
The merchant stood frozen to the ground, his eyes wandering over to the flailing figure who was meant to have reduced her to a bloody mess.
“Y-you…” shrieked the beaten man from the ground.
“Get up, Sharf,” said the merchant. “Are you going to let some foreign whore do this to you?”
Shaking his head, the lips curled back in a vicious snarl, coughing and sputtering, Sharf struggled to his feet. Nerves stood out on his forehead. Rage moved him, giving him a temporary boost. Ruma watched him warily. Rage and fury were great allies to have in a fight, but they were equally a liability as well. She had to let the anger consume the man, and then she would strike.
Again, she beckoned him to have a go at her. Sharf spat to the side, then drew another dagger from a pocket in his tunic.
“Hey, that’s enough!” shouted someone behind her without clarifying who that was directed at. More voices joined in. From the corner of her eye, Ruma saw the merchant siblings inch towards their cart.
Snarling, Sharf lunged forwards, the dagger aimed at her abdomen.
Ruma ducked it easily, anticipating the swing of the kick that followed immediately thereafter. Both deflected, she cocked her head to the side, once again motioned Sharf to come at her.
“You ungodly Charlatan-tainted bitch!” shouted Sharf. Then, breaking into a sea of incoherent curses, he slipped into a furious, mad dance of lunges, stabs, and kicks. Ruma dodged the first burst easily, slapping the hand with the dagger each time it came within inches. Then, as she stepped back, her foot caught on a rock. She lost her balance, began falling to the side, her eye sliding off Sharf for a moment.
Spying his opportunity, Sharf kicked her hard in the backside.
The force of the kick altered her trajectory, sent her spinning sideways. Pain throbbing at her rump, she fell head-first onto the dusty ground, wind escaping her lungs.
Sharf growled. She couldn’t see him, wouldn’t have detected where he was had he not been snarling this loud. Ignoring the pain, Ruma filled her fists with sand, then, turning around, threw it in his eyes.
“Argh, you bitch!” howled Sharf. Breaking into a stream of curses and insults, he clawed at his eyes with the spare hand. The taller merchant blinked at the side, his face growing pale.
Ruma rose, forced a grin she didn’t really feel. Narrowing her eyes, she stepped forwards, then kicked Sharf in the groin with all her might.
With a whimpering cry, Sharf flopped to the ground, the dagger falling away from his fingers, both hands falling to his groin.
Ruma shook her head, then turned her gaze towards the merchant as voices broke out all around her.
“—red hair—”
“—colour of the devil—”
Ruma advanced towards the tall merchant, pulling the shawl back over her head. Blood pounded in her temples, her hands shaking. The onlookers were still pointing at her, towards the fallen man who had so easily succumbed to a woman. She marvelled at how little men considered women, even in another day in another age.
“An apology and recompense,” she said.
The merchant licked his lips, righted his conical hat with one hand. His eyes travelled to the figure lying prone behind her. She didn’t turn to see if the man would be rising, confident he’d give himself away the moment he did manage to do that. Instead, she stepped towards the merchant who raised his hands.
“I’ve had a bloody shitty day today,” she said. “Don’t make it any worse.”
Swallowing, the merchant nodded. He reached into the coin purse hanging over his left hip, extracted a fistful of silver coins. “Take it!” he barked, throwing the coins towards the girl.
“And the apology?”
“I…” the merchant began, then trailed away. Pride, always the thing that went last in a fight. Once more his eyes glanced behind Ruma. Then he sighed. “I… apologise.”
“Wasn’t hard, was it?” said Ruma. “Now… scram!”
The merchant cast a baleful look at her, opened his jaw as if wanting to have the last word. At the look on her face, he clamped his mouth shut, turned, and stormed away.
Ruma exhaled, turned around at the onlookers. “Is that what your Alf teaches you? Watching a man assault a girl?” She shook her head, disgusted by their cowardice. “Whatever would your Lady think if she could see you all!”
Angry murmurs broke out as the men looked at each other, their beards swaying this way and that. They acted like sheep thinking themselves lions. And when she showed them the mirror, they didn’t like what they saw looking back.
“Disperse!” she shouted, angered at the way their eyes lingered on her face, at her uniform, at the locks of hair dangling in front of her eyes.
They did. A mass of stinking bodies, the rotten smell barely held by the copious amounts of flower extracts they’d plied on their garbs.
Still panting after the brief but eventful fight, she watched them break out into murmuring groups and walk away. The adrenaline began to fade, the world losing its vivid outlines. Thirst, hunger, tiredness rose in equal measures, all competing against each other for her attention.
What in the seven hells was she doing getting herself mired in the affairs of this world? Isn’t that what the damned Pithrean wanted in the first place?
With the realisation, the misery of her situation resurfaced. She bit her tongue to ward it off.
“My brother and I are most grateful to you, stranger,” came a soft, feminine voice beside her.
Ruma turned right, smiled back at the siblings. “Trust me, it had nothing to do with you.”
“Regardless, Jvad isn’t one to back off easily,” said the girl again, prettier now that she stood closer.
“We will pay you, of course,” said the brother, just as handsome as his sister. “Won’t we, Yenita?”
The sister paused for half a beat, then nodded. “Of course, Sivan. The Kapuri clan never leaves a debt hanging.”
Yenita and Sivan. Not names she had heard before. Commoner names that most likely had done nothing of import during their lives in the past to merit accolades in history.
Safe names.
“Why don’t you break bread with us?” asked Yenita, taking a wary step towards her. “We’ve got plenty of baked beans and potato mash.”
“And dried beef, too!”
“That too,” confirmed Yenita, smiling. Ruma straightened her back. The girl looked even younger than her initial estimate. Seventeen perhaps. Despite her youth, she already had a full figure straining against her tunic and large brown eyes that no doubt would beguile any man. “It would be good to know of your ways…” Yenita paused. “Wherever you are from, Mzi. What’s your name, anyway?”
“Ruma—” she said before clamping her jaw shut. Stupid, stupid! She had to be careful. She still didn’t know what had happened to her or why, but the last thing she needed to do was to become an unwitting pawn for the Pithrean.
“Ruma…” said Sivan, beaming at her. He dabbed at a bloody scratch on his handsome jaw, his dark skin turning to bronze for a second as it caught the sun just right. “That’s a beautiful name.”
Ruma nodded, feeling foolish, lost.
“Um… we’re headed to Fanima,” said Yenita. “All this talk of prophecy is good for business. Pilgrims and contingents from both Blessed Mother Yasmeen and Bubraza would be there. The governors of Salodia and Irtiza will be in charge of holding peace, so it should be safe for business. And when all that many people gather in one small oasis town, we can’t be anywhere else!”
Sivan nodded when his sister finally quietened. He beamed at her. “And we will be there with Andussia’s finest nuts and seeds.”
“Nuts and seeds?” asked Ruma.
“The best!” confirmed Sivan.
“And poisons,” said Yenita.<
br />
“What?”
“The desert snakes like sneaking up. Sprinkle our specially brewed concoction of venoms in dead rats and no more snakes!”
Ruma swallowed.
“Or slip just a tad in someone’s soup—say, someone like Jvad,” said Yenita conspiratorially, “and at worst he can’t step away from the chamber pot for days.”
“Ah,” said Ruma.
“You could… accompany us, you know,” said Yenita, sharing a glance with her brother. “That is, if you are headed that way as well.”
Ruma exhaled. All places were the same for her, all equally confusing. Could this be a good chance to learn a bit about this world even as she planned her exit?
“I don’t have provisions for travel,” she admitted, then pointed at her uniform. “Not even suitable clothing.”
“Nothing to worry about,” said Yenita, still smiling. “You can share mine.”
“I can’t pay my way.”
“Well,” said Sivan, scratching his scraggly chin, “you could… accompany us as our guard. We will have to pay you when we make profit, though.”
Ruma thought for all of six seconds. Then, before the ramifications of all fracking permutations could freeze her, she nodded.
Six
Truth and Falsehoods
Riding a camel was just as awkward as Ruma had feared initially. Far less temperamental than horses, more docile for novices, but still cursed with an awkward gait that brought on severe motion sickness. Ruma swallowed, forced herself to look at the horizon darkening ahead. Seemingly oblivious to her concerns, Yenita and Sivan continued on chattering a few paces ahead, the sister seemingly not bothered by her brother, who was yawning every few seconds now. Did she ever shut up?
