by Paul Haven
A split second later and the entire pack was racing away after him, the roar of the crowd moving with it like a wave rolling over the beach.
Oliver let out a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed him from behind and spun him around. It was Zee.
“Look!”
A dark figure was moving toward them through the crowd, the fans parting as the man approached. A moment later, the crowd around Oliver and Zee opened up, and the two boys found themselves face to face with one of the largest human beings they had ever seen. He was the size of a vending machine, with a heavy beard and thick arms that looked like they could lift a house.
The man had a long scar across his forehead and a black patch over his left eye, the same color as his wide shalwar kameez. Just behind him stood a small girl, her face almost entirely hidden behind a black scarf. The crowd pressed their hands to their hearts and bowed their heads in respect.
“I hear you are looking for Hamid Halabala?” said the man, his gaze direct and his voice as deep as thunder. “Well, you have found him.”
Oliver and Zee stared dumbstruck at the huge man. He was too big to take in all at once. Zee was the first to speak, his voice tense and guarded.
“Mr. Haji has told us of your bravery,” he said, placing his hand over his heart. “And of your knowledge of important things.”
Halabala nodded.
“Indeed, Mr. Haji is a very dear friend,” he said. “But I fear he is a friend in trouble. Come, you must follow me at once.”
A lump the size of a walnut had formed in Oliver's throat and his knees shook beneath him. This sort of thing never happened in New York!
Oliver looked over at Zee for reassurance, but for once his friend was genuinely stunned. He was staring at the ferocious scar that ran across Halabala's forehead, crossed under the patch covering his left eye, and finally disappeared under the dark hair of his beard.
Were they really going to go somewhere with this man? What if Mr. Haji had been wrong about confiding in him? What if the gargantuan Halabala was the very reason the carpet salesman had been so nervous in the shop the day before?
“Uh, I don't know,” said Oliver. “My parents are really expecting me home about now. Maybe we should take a rain check.”
Suddenly, the girl at Halabala's side stepped forward and drew back her scarf. She was about the same age as Oliver and Zee, with piercing emerald green eyes and soft olive skin. Her brown hair hung loosely over her forehead, and she stared at the two boys with an intensity that was at once mesmerizing and alarming.
“I hear you are looking for Hamid Halabala?” said the man, his gaze direct and his voice as deep as thunder. “Well, you have found him.”
She was the most beautiful thing Oliver had ever seen.
“You little fools!” she spat, her fists clenched at her sides. “My father is here to help you. Now come with us before it is too late.”
“My daughter, Alamai, and I live just over there,” said Halabala, gesturing toward one of the ruined buildings near the buzkashi field. “You will be quite safe.”
The lump in Oliver's throat fell into his stomach, where it promptly sprouted wings and tried to flutter away. He wanted to tell Alamai Halabala that he wasn't a fool at all. But when he tried to speak, all that came out of his mouth were a few incomprehensible syllables.
Zee could hardly do any better.
“I—I—I—I—I mean, I—I mean, we,” he began, before finally regaining his composure. “We're entirely in your hands.”
“Follow me, then,” said Hamid Halabala. “I have already told your driver you would be late in returning.”
“How did you know we had a driver?” Oliver asked.
“A good soldier sees the entire battlefield,” said Halabala. And with that, he turned and walked away, the crowd stumbling over itself to make room for him.
Alamai fixed her gaze on the two boys standing before her. Her eyes met Oliver's for barely a second, but it was long enough for Oliver to realize that she wasn't particularly impressed with what she saw. She pulled the black scarf over her head, turned on her heels, and followed her father through the crowd, without so much as a word.
amid Halabala led the way to a five- story building east of the playing field. Half of the top floor had been blown away during the war, and the door to the front entrance of the building was long gone, probably burned as firewood during one of Balabad's fierce winters. Most of the windowpanes were missing.
The stairway leading up to Halabala's third- floor apartment was dark, and the wooden railings had been stripped. The door to the apartment itself hung loosely off its hinges.
“It is not much,” said Halabala, pushing the door aside carefully and bending down so as not to hit his head on the door frame. “But it is home.”
Oliver and Zee took two steps into the apartment.
There were no chairs or other furniture, just a red carpet with pillows placed around the edges. A door on the wall across from them opened out onto a small balcony, where the Halabalas had set up a makeshift kitchen.
On the left- hand side of the room were two thin foam mattresses propped up against the wall, one small and the other long and wide. To the right, a dark hallway led off to the bathroom.
It was a long way from the ul- Hazais’ grand backyard, and a really, really long way from Oliver's old apartment building back on Eighty- fourth and Riverside Drive.
“You are my honored guests,” said Hamid Halabala with a bow. “Please, sit down.”
Oliver and Zee took off their shoes and placed them carefully by the door, as is Baladi tradition. They sat cross-legged on the carpet, so close together that their knees touched. Halabala took his place across from them, his girth filling most of the rest of the room.
Oliver looked around for Alamai, but she had silently disappeared.
“I hope you are not uncomfortable in my home. This used to be a nice apartment,” said Halabala, holding his hands out wide and allowing himself a sad smile. “Things have not been the same since I lost my wife in the war.”
“I am very sorry for your loss,” said Zee, slipping off his sunglasses and putting them down beside him. He stuffed his gold chain inside his shirt.
Halabala shook his head.
“We have grown used to loss in Balabad,” he said. “But let us turn to more pressing matters. You have come about a mystery, and you think I might have some of the answers. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” said Oliver.
“We are trying to help my father,” added Zee.
“Yes, I know,” said Halabala. “Mr. Haji told me of the conversation you overheard. You are a good son to try to help your father, but curiosity is a double- edged sword. Some things are best left unknown.”
“That is impossible, I am afraid,” said Zee, shaking his head. “We must do what we can.”
“And we want to help Mr. Haji,” said Oliver. “Since you said he was in trouble, too.”
Halabala placed his hands together, with his elbows resting on his knees. He looked from Oliver to Zee, sizing them up just as his daughter had done a half hour earlier.
“The Brotherhood of Arachosia,” he said, letting the words settle over the room.
“Do you know what it is?” whispered Zee.
“I know, and I don't know,” Halabala said carefully.
“What in the world does that mean?” asked Oliver. Balabad could be so frustrating at times!
“Patience,” said Halabala, leaning back on his hands. “I know enough to be certain that the information you seek is wrapped up in the story of the life of King Agamon.”
“Agamon?” said Oliver. “Isn't he the one who had the great big carpet?”
“The very same,” said Halabala. “Though Agamon himself never laid eyes on that carpet.”
At that moment, Alamai returned from the balcony carrying a large tray filled with food. There was a heaping plate of rice with bits of carrots and raisins, a bowl
filled with coriander- spiced meatballs, a fried eggplant dish, cubes of tasty- looking chicken, and two pieces of flat bread, each as long as Oliver's arm.
“My dear Alamai takes very good care of me,” said Halabala with a chuckle. “She prepared this for us all this morning. I hope it is pleasing to you.”
Alamai placed the tray down on the carpet and sat down next to her father. She was not wearing the black scarf over her head anymore, and she looked even more beautiful in the dim apartment, as if what little light there was had somehow concentrated on her face.
Oliver felt his cheeks flush. He hoped it wasn't noticeable.
“Mr. Halabala, I am even more confused than when we arrived,” said Zee. He ripped off a piece of bread and used it to scoop up one of the meatballs.
Hamid Halabala popped a cube of chicken kebab in his mouth and licked his fingers. He patted Alamai lightly on the head.
“All I know of this Brotherhood are whispers,” he said. “But I can tell you about King Agamon, and perhaps that will help you learn more.”
Oliver leaned forward and spooned some rice and fried eggplant onto his plate. It was delicious. From the looks of the apartment, the Halabalas didn't have a lot of money to spare. They must have spent a week's wages on this meal alone. The thought filled Oliver with shame at how mistrustful he had been. He fiddled with the cuff of his jeans. Of course, Alamai was disgusted with him after his pathetic display at the buzkashi field!
Oliver wanted to apologize, but Hamid Halabala was talking and it would have been rude to interrupt.
“Let us begin at the beginning,” said Halabala. “For that is where one must always start if one is to learn anything useful.”
Halabala's deep voice had a way of capturing a listener's ear, and his one good eye grew wide every time he made a particularly interesting point. Oliver, Zee, and Alamai gobbled up the food and listened attentively.
“Agamon was the most secretive king that Balabad has ever had. He trusted no one completely, not even his seven sons. He shared his heart only with his closest friends and advisers, but he shared different parts of it with each of them. No two people knew the same thing. Nobody was allowed to see the entire puzzle.”
“He sounds a lot like my father,” said Zee.
“Perhaps,” said Halabala. “This is the way of many great men. Cunning is how Agamon rose to power, and secrecy is how he survived there for so many years. Had he not been so secretive, he may never have achieved the things that he achieved. Had he not been so cunning, he might never have saved the people of the small valley where he was born.”
Halabala looked from Oliver to Zee and back again.
“A valley… called Arachosia,” he said.
“So that is what Arachosia means!” said Oliver.
“But why have I never heard of it?” asked Zee.
“Probably because Arachosia as such does not exist today,” said Halabala. “It was once a tiny but thriving little kingdom tucked deep in the Gengi Mountains. So deep, in fact, that its exact location has been lost to history. For centuries the valley dwellers lived untroubled by the outside world. They were a peaceful people who sought no battle with neighboring tribes, and through skill and a good deal of luck, avoided the blade of even the world's most ambitious conquerors.
“In 325 B.C., Alexander the Great's army camped out in Arachosia for a few nights before moving on. Alexander was a young man and in a rush to get to the riches of India, so he decided there was no reason to conquer a place as small as Arachosia until he returned. As chance would have it, he died before he could get back, and Arachosia was spared.
“Fifteen hundred years later, Genghis Khan's hordes marched through a narrow mountain pass above Arachosia, in 1238, but the people of the valley had been told to extinguish all of their lights, and the soldiers were so afraid of falling that they never looked down. You could say that fortune smiled on the little kingdom.”
“But where does Agamon fit into all of this?” said Oliver.
“Agamon is the man who turned this valley fiefdom into the birthplace of a great empire,” said Halabala. “During the early days of his rule, the valley of Arachosia fell on hard times. A great drought swept the region. The mountain streams that fed the valley dried up. Crops failed, and the livestock on which the people depended starved in the fields. The kingdom was forced to trade carpets and jewels with neighboring tribes so that its people wouldn't starve.”
“Wow!” said Oliver. “That's rough.”
“Through their trade the artisans of Arachosia became known as the greatest in the land. Their jewelry sparkled with beautifully cut emeralds, sapphires, and lapis lazuli, their swords were of the finest craftsmanship. One day, a trader brought a gold goblet made in Arachosia to the palace of the feared King Tol, who had his capital in what is now Balabad City. He took one look at it and decided that he wanted Arachosia's wealth all for himself. He knew that Agamon was weak, and he saw no reason to bother trading with him if he could take his kingdom for himself.
“Tol's army gathered secretly in the mountains around Arachosia. His generals hoped to surprise Agamon with a lightning raid. But fortune smiled on Arachosia once again. As chance would have it, an Arachosian carpet trader who was making his way over the mountain spotted the king's men perched in the hills, and he went straight to Agamon with the news.
“When the king's troops stormed down the mountain the next day, they found the place entirely deserted. There was not a single soul to conquer. More important, there was nothing at all to loot. The villagers had taken every item of value with them, leaving Arachosia as empty as a pauper's cupboard. Tol's men turned their horses around and went home.”
“But how did the Arachosians escape?” asked Zee.
“According to legend, it was Agamon who organized every thing,” Halabala said. “The mountains around Arachosia were dotted with deep caves, some stretching miles underground. Agamon knew his kingdom was vulnerable, so early in his reign he ordered engineers to construct a great labyrinth by connecting the caves to one another. For years, teams dug secretly through the mountainside, building a refuge for Agamon's people. When King Tol attacked, Agamon made sure that all of Arachosia was ready. His people simply slipped away before dawn.”
“That is hard to believe,” said Oliver. “How could an entire kingdom disappear in a single night?”
“As I say, it is a legend,” said Halabala with a shrug.
“The story goes that the people of Arachosia hid in the caves for twenty days and twenty nights, living off dried fruit and grain and water collected from underground streams. But one thing is clear: by the time they reemerged, Agamon's reputation for wisdom, and King Tol's reputation for greed, had spread throughout the land. Tribe after tribe that had suffered Tol's oppression came to Agamon, begging him to lead an army against the tyrant. Within months, they had marched into Balabad City and overthrown the king. Agamon was named ruler of a vast kingdom that stretched from the Gengi Mountains in the north to the dry wastelands of the south. He moved his court to Balabad City, but the people of Arachosia continued to live peacefully in their valley.”
Oliver had never heard such an amazing story.
“Agamon sounds like he was my kind of king,” he said.
“Indeed, he was,” said Halabala. “He was a just leader, but it is no easy thing to rule over so many different tribes. If you are friends with one, another will be your enemy. If you choose the other, there are ten groups waiting to swear vengeance against you. Agamon decided that he could never let anybody know what he was thinking, not even his closest allies.
“And feelings weren't all that Agamon hid,” Halabala continued. “As I said, King Tol attacked Arachosia because he knew it held a great deal of treasure. If there is any truth at all to the legend, the gold and jewels alone would be of unfathomable value today. Agamon is believed to have safeguarded it somewhere, but like Arachosia itself, its whereabouts are not known. Not a single goblet has ever been foun
d.”
“What did Agamon do with it?” Oliver asked.
“Ah, you are a smart boy,” Halabala chuckled. “That is the question, is it not?”
rince Agarullah bent down to retrieve the seven iron keys that Bahauddin Shah had thrown down at his feet. They were heavy bundled together, and they still carried the chill of the Salt Caverns. King Agamon's eldest son ran his finger over the serpents’ heads. One by one, his six brothers took their places at his side in the gloomy tea shop.
“You are my father's most worthy servant,” said the prince. “How can we ever repay you?”
“There is only one way to repay me,” said Bahauddin, getting to his feet. “For the sake of the kingdom, you and your brothers must leave this city and not look back. Where are the horses?”
“They are in the alley behind the shop,” said Agarullah. “They are well rested and ready to go.”
“Good,” said Bahauddin. “And the maps?”
“Right here,” said Agarullah, patting a satchel he held at his side. His brothers followed suit. “We know where we are to go—each in a different direction, but all with a single destiny. We will not fail.”
“You must not,” said Bahauddin. “Only when you have found safety, both for yourselves and for the keys, will your father know his legacy is secure.”
The thunder of distant cannon fire and the crackle of burning wood pierced the darkened teahouse, the muffled moan of a dying city.
“Where is our father?” one of the princes asked. “Is he all right?”
“When I last saw the king this morning, he was preparing his retreat,” said Bahauddin. “I am sure he is safe, and I am sure he is already plotting ways to make these foreigners suffer for their folly. When Balabad is secure again, the king will call you back to his side.”
“Let that day be soon!” said one of the younger princes.
“And you?” said Agarullah. “We cannot just leave you to be captured or killed.”
