Under the Crimson Sun

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Of course, one could also end that thought with “him” and it would remain accurate. Tova Belrik always found something to scream at him about. He married her in order to solidify a merger between his family and the Hakran family. The Belriks had always bred the finest crodlus in Raam, and the Hakrans ran the best stables. It seemed a natural match—at least to Vas’s father and Tova’s parents.

  Vas, being a teenager at the time, didn’t really have any say in the matter. Marrying who you chose to marry was a privilege of the lower born. As a scion of one of the wealthier families in Raam, Vas did as he was told.

  As a result, Vas had more wealth than he knew what to do with, and could pretty much do as he pleased, so he could hardly complain … much.

  Tova had commensurate wealth. Their parents’ plan was a good one, and the newly merged Belrik-Hakran stable had grown to the point where they had no real competition anymore, and their monopoly on Raam’s crodlu trade allowed the Belriks to live a life of luxury.

  In that, they were a rarity in Raam these days. As Vas rode through the thoroughfares, he looked past the bodyguards walking alongside him on all sides (the streets weren’t safe, after all) and saw houses that had been burned out, once elegant and beautiful structures that had been badly damaged by civil unrest, businesses that had closed their doors permanently. Once mines had provided alabaster and gemstones enough to keep the higher castes wealthy and the lower castes employed, but the mines had dried up, as had the land.

  The Belrik and Hakran families remained wealthy because people always needed crodlus. Of course, many of them needed those crodlus to get away from the depressed nightmare that Raam had become …

  Still, the Belriks had staff and slaves to run things—some of the best crodlu handlers in all of Athas worked for them—so they had very few responsibilities of their own.

  Which meant that Vas could indulge himself and head to the marketplace. It was one of the few places in Raam that was still worth going to.

  Once he got through Tova’s screed on the subject of riding out on a family crodlu, anyway. “That’s merchandise!” she’d scream. “What if it gets hurt?” she’d bellow. “That could cost us dearly!” she’d yell.

  Not that it was an issue. They had enough coin to choke a crodlu, after all.

  There were times when he wondered why she even spoke to him. It wasn’t as if he sought out her company. Their marriage’s sole purpose was to facilitate a business deal. At some point, they’d have to have children, which would require them to actually sleep in the same bed for once, but they were young and had plenty of time. Vas kept himself busy with an assortment of concubines who were well compensated for the privilege, and he knew that Tova had a few men of her own that she used for the same purpose.

  What Vas really needed was a distraction—an adventure of some sort. Something to get him out of the wretchedness that Raam had become.

  Not permanently, of course. Abalach-Re, the sorcerer-queen, may well have retreated from the public eye, her templars may have stayed hidden in their towers, the population of the city-state may well have halved in the past decade, but Raam was still Vas’s home. He would never leave forever.

  But a vacation would truly make his heart sing.

  The red sun beat down on Vas’s scarved head as the crodlu sauntered down the road, its clawed limbs easily gaining purchase in the cobblestones. The beast of burden’s head was lowered, its beak grazing the stone as it ambled along.

  Every three months, there were traveling merchants who set up shop at the bazaar on Aggas Way just outside the city-state’s walls. Once, when Vas was a youth, the bazaar was held monthly inside the city, but the merchants no longer felt safe, and came only once a season—many only made the journey once a year. Changed times had transformed the walls of Raam from a defense from the world outside to a prison for those inside. Traveling merchants did not trust the mansabdars, those cutpurses who served as Raam’s police, to protect them inside the walls—and given the rampant corruption amongst Raam’s alleged protectors, Vas could not blame them. Most merchants preferred to sell their wares from a location that allowed them an easy escape from potential trouble.

  Behind Vas and his bodyguards, several of his slaves came along on kanks with his coins and some food and water. On one of the kanks rode Cristophe, who had been Vas’s tutor growing up.

  It was usually an all-day trip, and when he wanted to take a lunch break, he preferred to do it near Aggas Way so he could spend as much time as possible at the bazaar. So he brought enough food for him, Cristophe, and all the slaves and bodyguards to eat.

  The first few hours proved frustrating.

  First there was the jeweler with a series of pieces all made with orange and red stones.

  As soon as Vas brought the crodlu to a halt, the merchant started in: “Lovely necklaces, sir. Or perhaps a brooch? These are fire gems, sir, they truly are, straight from the caves of Under-Tyr. Make your wife look prettier than ever, they will.”

  Cristophe peered at the merchant from over his long, aquiline nose with his rheumy blue eyes. “The caves of Under-Tyr produce gems that are green and black. These look more like stones from the Estuary of the Forked Tongue, from which red and orange rocks are fairly commonplace.”

  Vas’s smile increased in inverse proportion to the frown that grew on that of the merchant. Most people hereabouts knew little of the southern lands, but Cristophe was well traveled in his youth.

  “Sorry,” Vas said, “but even if they were from the caves of Under-Tyr, I’m afraid that nothing could make my wife look even remotely pretty.”

  Next was the spice merchant. Generally, spice merchants were hard on the nose, as they often carried a variety of spices that did not necessarily go well together—but the variety was crucial to a merchant’s success. This one, though, seemed to go out of his way to put the most incompatible spices next to each other, and Vas was unable to keep his nose from wrinkling.

  “Finest spices from Balic. Can’t get these anywhere else.”

  As they went by, Cristophe named five different places where he could get spices from Balic. “And none of them would make my eyes water.”

  Then there was the stonemaker.

  “I’ve got the finest pestles you’ll ever see. Never crack, never wear out. Specially treated with my own formula to keep it looking shiny.”

  Vas just looked at him. “Do I look like I use a pestle?”

  The merchant smiled. “Fair enough, sir, fair enough. Perhaps a jewelry box for the wife or daughter? Or a candle holder? Specially treated with my own formula to keep it looking shiny—never wear down or get scorch marks. Or how about a cutting surface for your cook? Specially treated with my own formula to keep it from wearing down.”

  Vas considered. “The notion of stonework that wears down more slowly is appealing.”

  “Not more slowly, sir, but never at all.”

  Letting the hyperbole go, Vas continued: “But the design of your work is so—so—I’m sorry, I can’t quite put my finger on the proper word.”

  Cristophe scowled. “I believe the word you’re grasping for is ‘dull.’ ”

  Grinning, Vas snapped his fingers in mock joy and said, “Yes! Dull. I’m sorry, but I’ve seen plain rocks in the wastes that have more aesthetic value than your wares.”

  The morning continued in that disappointing regard, as Vas’s entourage made a slow circuit of the northern end of the bazaar.

  He was pleased to see that the damned textile merchant who tried to pass off burlap as raw silk last season wasn’t around. Vas had seen to that woman’s ruination in very short order. Nobody cheated him, and certainly not twice. He would have been less than amused if that woman—Lyd was her name, he remembered—found a way to get back in good graces with the bazaar’s administrators.

  He took a break for lunch, hoping that the south side of the bazaar would prove more intriguing than the north. He and Cristophe dined in companionable silence. In truth, Vas h
ad little to say to the man once he was no longer Vas’s tutor. He only kept the dried-up old fool because he kept the merchants honest.

  Once the slaves cleaned up after lunch, Vas mounted the crodlu, nudged the carapace with his sandaled foot, and started to saunter forward. The mount didn’t have a name; the crodlus they bred were always sold to people who paid quite a bit in order to retain the privilege of naming the creature for themselves.

  It was rare for crodlus to respond to their names—they generally only acted when physically prompted by a kick to the side or a yank of the reins—so Vas was more than willing to provide that extra service for his customers.

  It was also rare for people to bring their mounts into the main passages of the bazaar. Said passages were scarcely wider than the crodlu was, and his presence on a mount disrupted the foot traffic.

  Not that he cared all that much. He was one of the Vizier caste, the highest born in Raam, and one of the few among that number who made his own trips to the bazaar. Partly it was out of boredom, partly it was due to not trusting the slaves to find the best merchandise at the most reasonable price, but mostly because he enjoyed himself.

  What was the good of being one of the higher castes if he couldn’t enjoy himself?

  Besides, even if he went on foot, he needed Cristophe and the slaves to remain on the kanks—which fit more efficiently in the passageways, admittedly—in order to carry what he bought. Most of the merchants would deliver, of course, but Vas didn’t even trust his own people to get things right, and he’d bought them himself. He for damn sure wasn’t trusting some stranger hired by a merchant to deliver the goods with any efficiency. Since most of the merchants spent the bulk of their energy trying make Vas spend more than he wished, Vas especially didn’t trust them to even deliver the right item. And often the delivery would be made after the bazaar ended by locals hired for the purpose, the merchants themselves long gone, so Vas had no recourse if mistakes were made.

  One of his favorite things was to watch the changing expressions on the faces of people when his bodyguards encouraged them to move out of the way of his sauntering crodlu. They often went from outrage at being harassed to fear at the sheer size of his bodyguards—Vas had no idea what their names were, but they’d been part of the Belrik family’s security detail since Vas was a teenager—to reluctant respect when they saw the quality of the bridle on the crodlu, not to mention the finery Vas himself was wearing. Like all those of his caste, he wore silk robes to denote his station, and whenever he went out in public, he made sure to wear the brightest of those robes. If he was traveling farther into the harsh lands outside Raam’s borders, he would naturally sacrifice finery for practicality, but while in the bazaar, he wanted to display himself.

  The ones who weren’t intimidated by the bodyguards were generally cowed by Vas’s obvious wealth and status. The power wielded by the bodyguards was direct, but the power implicit in Vas’s wealth was far more devastating.

  Besides, on Athas you were used to physical hardships. It came with being alive. But to be able to destroy someone with a gesture or a command? That was what truly brought fear to the hearts of Athasians.

  Vas loved it.

  He was not loving the bazaar, however. The south side proved no better than the north, with either the poor quality of merchandise or lies from the vendors that were easily torn through by Cristophe.

  Until he reached the end of the southern passage.

  It was the biggest of the tents that had been set up. Fully three tables of merchandise were spread out in front of it, arranged with each perpendicular to the other, but allowing the vendors—of which there were only two visible at that moment—access to all three from behind.

  All the other merchants had, at best, one table, and many had only the back of their carriage. That group, however, had an entire setup, and quite a diverse selection of material to sell.

  On one table was a collection of spices, another had textiles, and the third had an assortment of decorative items.

  Vas dismounted the crodlu and peered at the carriage behind the tables. It was an impressive vehicle, a two-crodlu puller that could hold all the items on the tables, as well as space for at least three or four bunks—maybe more, if they used hammocks.

  “Impressive setup,” he said to the older man, a stoop-shouldered elf. Next to him, an elderly human woman was talking to some dwarf peasant or other about a set of containers.

  “Oh, thank you very much.” He smiled, showing the usual perfect teeth of an elf. “I could say the same to you. It is a rare thing indeed to see a man of your standing grace the bazaar with his presence.”

  Vas frowned. “Do not attempt to flatter me.”

  The elf shrugged. “I’m not—I merely describe you. I assume that you do not trust underlings to purchase your wares for you, and furthermore that you will be taking anything you purchase back with you on those kanks that you have cluttering up the thoroughfare.”

  “And this concerns you?” Vas’s tone was more than a little arch.

  Holding up both hands, the elf said, “Oh, it’s none of my concern. I merely hope that your stopping at my humble stand means you might possibly wish to make a purchase. If you do not, then I will bid you adieu.” He took a small bow at that.

  “I like you,” Vas said. “You’re as insincere as every other miscreant in this bazaar, but I prefer your approach. More style.”

  The elf took another bow. “Thank you. I am Torthal Serthlara, and this is the Serthlara Traveling Emporium. My wife Shira, our family, and I travel about Athas in search of goods we may bring to other parts of Athas. For example, these spices are from several different regions.” He picked up a small bell jar that was labeled in a script Vas didn’t recognize. “This is a sleeping draft from one of the eastern elf tribes. The winds will howl that far out, you see—can keep you up all the night long. This spice—they call it feresh—will dissolve in any liquid, and can be very handy if you need some rest.”

  Vas was unimpressed. “My apothecary has many sleeping drafts already.”

  “Yes, but these are designed for elves. Forgive me, but your people have less of a constitution than mine.” He indicated the human woman, Shira, who was still talking with the dwarf. “My marriage has taught me that.”

  Just as Vas was about to tell Serthlara to back off and stop trying to push the sleeping draft, the elf did so unprompted. “If you have any questions about any of the merchandise, please don’t hesitate to ask.” He grinned. “If I don’t know the answer, I promise to make something up that will sound quite convincing.”

  Vas barked out an involuntary laugh. “Very well.”

  Before too long, it became clear that the spices were nothing special—most were, like the feresh, of elf origin, and Vas had never been impressed with their goods—but the textiles caught his eye. He saw several bolts of Tyr silk and some linens from Balic. Cristophe verified that they were genuine—not fakes like that Lyd woman tried to peddle to him the previous season.

  Looking up, Vas wanted to ask Serthlara about the textiles, but the merchant had joined his wife to continue talking to the dwarf.

  However, just then a very attractive woman walked toward him from the other side of the table. She had slight tapers to her ears, and the high cheekbones one would expect from an elf, but her eyes were too small, her shoulders too broad. Her eyes, though, were the same sea green as Serthlara’s. She wore two layers of linen that wrapped around her trim figure, but made sure to display her cleavage. Her arms, bronzed from the crimson sun, were decorated with a row of gold-colored bracelets—at least a dozen on each arm—but which did not clatter like the soft metal. Not that it could’ve been gold. If the people owned enough gold to decorate two arms, they wouldn’t need to live like that. Her thick brown hair was tied back and intertwined with silken strips that created an attractive latticework that also no doubt kept it out of her face.

  Speaking in a lilting, lovely voice that reminded Vas at once of
his favorite concubine and of the gentle flowing of the water in the templar castle’s fountain, she asked, “May I help you, sir?”

  Her words brought Vas up short. He hadn’t realized it until the woman used the word, but Serthlara had never once used the honorific “sir.” Yet his tone had been far more respectful, closer to sincere than any of the other merchants, who dropped a “sir” in between every phrase.

  “I’m guessing,” he said, “that you’re the daughter of Serthlara and Shira?”

  She smiled. She had not inherited her father’s teeth, sadly, and the smile fell quickly in any case. “Yes—I’m Karalith.”

  Offering her hand in the same manner as the women of the Nawab and Vizier castes, Vas accepted it on instinct and kissed it at the middle knuckle, just the way Cristophe taught him. That also impressed—usually you didn’t see merchants who were even aware of the traditions of the nobility, much less practiced them. “I’m Vas Belrik.”

  Karalith slowly and gently pulled her hand back. It was, Vas had noticed, far more callused and rough than the hands he usually kissed, with uneven fingernails and scars of varying ages. “Welcome to the Serthlara Traveling Emporium, Vizier Belrik. You have a question about the merchandise?”

  “How much is the Balic linen?” he asked, surprised once again at her knowledge of Raam customs. The merchants in the bazaar could generally tell that he was from a higher caste, but usually only those who lived there knew to use the honorific—never mind knowing which one to use.

  Nodding her head, Karalith said, “Impressive. I think you’re the first Raami to recognize Balic merchandise on sight. Most of the peoples of your city-state are less—well, refined.”

  Vas was pleased that he could impress her as she did him, and for that reason, he was willing to forgive her use of “Raami,” a term used only by outsiders, and considered an insult by the locals.

  But before he could express that, Cristophe interjected: “So’s he. But I lived in Balic, so I trained him. Lived lotsa places, in fact. Why—”