by Paul Haven
“I'm not sure, but it would make sense,” said Zee.
“So maybe the Brotherhood of Arachosia is a brotherhood of keys,” Oliver whispered.
Zee nodded.
“Perhaps,” he said. “And that would mean that my father was the keeper of one of them.”
“This is so unbelievable,” said Oliver. He glanced down at the heavy key in Zee's hand. “Aren't you going to tell him you took it?”
“Are you kidding?” Zee shouted. “Now be sensible. That would be suicide. If I were lucky, lucky, they'd send me to a military academy for the rest of my life. No, there has to be another way.”
Zee reached beneath the bed, grabbed his sneakers, and started to pull them on.
“Let's go see Mr. Haji,” he said. “He knows a lot more than he let on the other day. If somebody is trying to steal this key, he might have some idea who it is.”
“Haji?” said Oliver. “But he freaked out when you just mentioned the Brotherhood. What will he do when he hears about that key?”
“Probably freak out again,” said Zee, tying his shoelaces in tight double knots. “But I can't just go back to my father and tell him what I did. Not without at least finding out what Haji knows, and whether he can help us.”
Zee held the gold chain up to his neck and clasped the latch shut. Then he slipped the big iron skeleton key under his shirt, put on his sunglasses, and walked over to the bedroom door.
He turned to face Oliver.
“Are you coming or what?” Zee said.
Oliver grabbed the bill of his baseball cap and pulled it around backward.
“Okay,” he said. “Let's do it.”
he closer Oliver and Zee got to Mr. Haji's place, the surer they were that the carpet salesman would be able to tell them something about the key and why somebody might want to steal it. They were in big trouble, after all, and no matter how nervous he might be, it was completely unacceptable in Baladi culture to turn away a friend in need. He had to help them.
Aloona Street was bustling with shoppers, but as the two boys pushed through the crowd toward Mr. Haji's shop, they were surprised to find the lights off and the door locked.
There was a sign taped to the window on a piece of ripped cardboard. A short message scrawled across it read, in English and Baladi: CLOSED FOR THE HOLIDAYS.
“That's strange,” said Oliver. “Mr. Haji never mentioned he was going away for any holidays, did he?”
“Not to me,” replied Zee. “To be honest, I didn't think Mr. Haji took holidays. He'd miss out on too much business.”
Zee rattled the door handle, but it was locked. Oliver rapped on the glass.
“Hey, Mr. Haji! It's us. Are you there?” he shouted, but there was no response.
“Where in the world could he be?” mumbled Zee. He peered both ways down bustling Aloona Street. It was as chock- full of shoppers as always, but there was no sign of the carpet salesman anywhere.
“Stay here for a second,” Zee said. He crossed the street to talk to a young fruit vendor who had set up shop across the street. They spoke quickly in Baladi, and there were lots of hand gestures, the last of which looked a lot like the kind you make when you're trying to shoo away a dog. After a minute, Zee came back to Mr. Haji's front door, looking angry and a little concerned.
“What did he say?” asked Oliver.
“He said he had no idea about Mr. Haji, and he told me not to bring problems on his head by involving him in somebody else's business,” Zee said slowly.
“That's not very friendly.”
“It certainly isn't,” said Zee.
Oliver cupped his hands together and pressed his face against the glass door of Mr. Haji's shop. He could see the faint outlines of the stacks of carpets and the piles of throw pillows inside, rising up from the floor like tombstones in the darkness. He could see the electric fan, which was rotating slowly from side to side, pointlessly pushing air around the empty room.
“It sure looks like he left in a hurry,” said Oliver. “It's not like him to waste electricity.”
“Yeah,” said Zee, who had pressed his nose against the glass next to Oliver. “And I think the radio is still on.”
Suddenly, Zee gasped.
“Look at that!” he said, banging against the window with his finger.
Oliver peered deeper into the shadows, until he spotted something next to the fan.
“What is that?” he asked.
“Those are Mr. Haji's prayer beads,” said Zee. “Haven't you noticed him fiddling with them every time he gets nervous? Mr. Haji never goes anywhere without those beads.”
Now that Zee mentioned it, Mr. Haji did always have the beads in his hand, Oliver thought. They were his talisman and his security blanket.
Oliver turned and looked at Zee, who stared back at him in silence.
For Mr. Haji to be separated from his prayer beads could mean only one thing.
The carpet salesman had not left his shop by choice.
“issing!” said the voice. “What do you mean, miss-
Suavec stood in front of the table in the dark, airless room, his cold eyes focused on his boss and his meaty hands pressed together in agitation. There were six skeleton keys on the table, tied together by a thick cord.
“It wasn't there,” said Suavec. “It wasn't where it was supposed to be. We don't know what happened. It isn't possible.”
“You're darned right it's not possible,” said the man at the table. There was no refinement in his voice this time around, just a seething anger and a creeping panic.
“We will find it, sir,” said Suavec, holding his palms out in front of him. “I assure you. We will do what we need to do to find it.”
“Six keys,” the man said slowly. “Six very special keys, a giant carpet, and an indispensable old guide. We have bribed Baladi police and government ministers. We have made millionaires of burglars around the world. We have broken enough laws to land ourselves in jail for about five hundred years.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Without that last key, everything we have achieved is useless,” said the man, slamming his fist down on the table so that the keys jumped up with a clank. “I have come too far to tolerate mistakes like this. Do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir,” said Suavec. “Perfectly, sir.”
He rubbed his crooked nose with his hand.
“We do have a lead,” Suavec offered. “There is a policeman on my payroll who was at the house this morning. He interviewed Mr. ul- Hazai after the break- in, and he swears on his pension that man believed he had really lost something valuable. He wasn't acting. That man thinks we got the key.”
“How can that be?” said the voice. “Unless… somebody else has taken it.”
“Exactly,” said Suavec.
“But who? That shifty servant Hassan? I never trusted him. Could he be double- crossing us?”
“I don't think so,” said Suavec. “We questioned him pretty, uh, forcefully this morning before we put him on the bus north, and he insisted he had no idea where the key is. Besides, Hassan would have no motive for taking the key. He wouldn't know what to do with it, and it would have no value to him.”
“Well, who then?” said the voice. “Who else had an opportunity?”
“Only one other,” said Suavec. “The younger ul- Hazai. The boy named Zee. Hassan said he has been acting strangely for several days. He has been snooping around at night, spying on his father, and he and his American friend have been out to Maiwar to speak with a strange man, a hero of the civil war who I'm told is considered an amateur historian of sorts.”
“Where are they now?” the voice demanded.
“We are looking everywhere, sir,” said Suavec. He gestured toward the corner of the room. “Perhaps our guest would know.”
There was a faint sound of something stirring in the darkness, a rustle of rope against concrete. A crumpled figure was trying in vain to push himself off the floor.
“Ah, you ar
e awake,” said the man at the table. He grabbed a lantern off the floor, rose from his chair, and walked slowly toward the corner of the room, until he stood just inches from the squirming body on the floor.
He bent down and pulled the lantern in close, so that the light from the flame danced off his pale, unsmiling face.
“My dear Mr. Haji,” the man said slowly. “You have no idea how pleased I am to make your acquaintance.”
e fool ourselves if we believe that the world we live in is the one that was meant to be. That history is somehow inevitable. The truth, thought Bahauddin Shah, is so different. A left instead of a right, a shout instead of a whisper, a parry instead of a dodge. It is chance that has put us where we are, and chance that rules our future.
At least, that is how Bahauddin felt as he watched the sun peek over the mountains at the dawn of a day he never thought he would see. He sat up and pulled the bits of hay out of his beard. He rubbed his face with his hands.
The air was still fresh with the night's chill, and a few of the brighter stars still hung in the sky. Bahauddin swung his legs over the side of the donkey cart and stared down at the dirt road passing slowly under his feet. He turned to check on his wife and two children. They were asleep, covered in tattered blankets and damp hay.
Bahauddin thanked God for their safety. Then he shook his head.
He still could not believe he had made it out of Balabad City alive.
After he delivered the keys to the princes, he made straight for his home to make sure that his family had escaped. He crept from alleyway to alleyway, fearing each turn might be his last. When finally he reached the end of his street, he peered around the corner to look at his house.
What he saw filled him with dread. Flames leapt from the windows and danced off the roof. A group of foreign soldiers stood around the building, watching it burn.
Bahauddin imagined his wife and children perishing in the flames. Consumed by rage, he pulled his small dagger from its sheath, determined to die killing those who had slaughtered his family.
He raised the dagger over his head and was about to jump out of the alley, when a strong hand grabbed him from behind and dragged him backward into the shadows.
“There have been enough deaths in the city for one day,” said a gruff voice. “Do not add your own to the toll.”
It was Marjan, Bahauddin's neighbor and trusted friend.
“Your family is safe. I will take you to them,” the man whispered, leaning down low. “They are at a farmhouse outside town. Come quickly.”
Bahauddin stared at the man.
“Trust me, my old friend, for I would rather die than fail you. We must make our way to the edge of the city. I know people who will help us.”
Marjan had been as good as his word.
The two men reached the farmhouse after midnight, and a few hours later, Bahauddin and his family were making their way north in the back of the donkey cart, anonymous travelers in a stream of refugees.
Bahauddin stretched his arms over his head and looked out at the ragtag travelers on the road alongside them, their eyes vacant and their bodies bent with grief. It was an unbearable sight, but Bahauddin consoled himself with the knowledge that the princes were probably a hundred miles from Balabad City by now, each riding swiftly in a different direction. Agamon would have found safety, too. The king's plan had been to retreat to the east to the tall Ghozar peaks with his most elite troops, and from there organize the resistance.
It was only a matter of time before all of this suffering would be reversed, Bahauddin thought.
There was a faint rustle in the cart, and Bahauddin turned to find his wife and daughter stirring under their blankets. His teenage son sat up bleary- eyed. They looked hungry and scared, but they were all safe together, and Bahauddin could not ask for anything more.
There was a crumbling mud- brick inn on the side of the road up ahead, and Bahauddin instructed the driver to pull the cart over so that they could get some food.
The restaurant at the inn was a dismal place, saturated with the smell of stale clothes and farm animals. Bahauddin and his family sat down around a wooden table in the back of the room, crammed in between the other refugees.
Before long, they were sharing a pot of green tea and a few pieces of long Baladi bread. Bahauddin hadn't eaten a thing in more than twenty- four hours, and as the bread settled in his stomach, he felt his strength return.
Bahauddin leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. He rolled his neck from side to side and let the tension drain from his great shoulders.
That's when he became aware of the conversation behind him.
“It is a terrible thing,” said a male voice.
“Yes, but I hear he died gallantly,” said another. “He died in a manner befitting a king.”
Bahauddin spun around. There were two young men seated at the next table, and by their worn brown cloaks, wool hats, and tough leather shoes, they looked to be horsemen.
“What did you say?” Bahauddin asked. “What did you say about the king?”
“Only that he died a hero's death,” said the taller of the two men. He tightened his hand into a fist. “Balabad will not soon forget the name of Agamon the Great.”
It was only a matter of time before all of this suffering would be reversed.
Bahauddin stared at him in disbelief.
“The king …,” he said, his voice trailing off. “But how? Where?”
“That is the great tragedy of it, friend,” said the other man. “His party had reached the shadows of the Ghozar Mountains. They were just a few miles from safety when the enemy spotted them. They were surrounded by an entire division. There was no escape.”
“The people say they fought to the last man,” said the taller man. “Agamon died with a sword in his hand.”
Great tears welled up in Bahauddin's eyes and he sunk back into his chair. He looked from his wife to his children, then turned his gaze to the crowd of wretched souls who filled the inn. They had lost their homes and their city, and now their leader was gone, too.
Bahauddin thought of the king's seven sons, riding off to the far reaches of the earth. At least they were safe, and so was Agamon's secret. But when would the heirs of Agamon be able to return? When would Balabad be ready for them? And who would show them the way through the Salt Caverns now? If not the king himself, it would have to be Bahauddin, for no one else alive knew the way.
Bahauddin sighed.
The path that lay before him now was longer than he ever could have imagined. For it is a great burden to be the keeper of another man's secret, let alone the secret of an entire nation.
liver and Zee climbed the darkened stairway in silence, the only sound coming from the fall of their sneakers on the crumbling concrete.
Neither of them was particularly thrilled to be making a return visit to Hamid Halabala's grim apartment building, but the moment they spotted Haji's prayer beads on the floor of his shuttered shop, they knew they had no choice. Zee had called for Sher Aga to pick them up, and soon they had been deposited in front of the building on the edge of the dusty buzkashi field in Maiwar.
There was no light at all on the third- floor landing, so it took Oliver and Zee a moment to find Halabala's door. Oliver could hear somebody speaking inside, but he couldn't understand what they were saying. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer, so he rapped again.
“Mr. Halabala!” Oliver yelled. “It's us. Something has hap—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the door jerked back. But instead of staring into the belly of a giant, one- eyed warrior, Oliver and Zee found themselves face to face with a pair of beautiful green eyes.
“My father is praying,” whispered Alamai. “Come in and wait for him to finish.”
Oliver and Zee took off their shoes and tiptoed into the apartment so as not to disturb Halabala. He was kneeling in a corner of the room with his back to them, his hands held out at his side
and his feet tucked around behind.
The boys sat down and watched him go through his ritual. He bowed so low that his forehead touched the small prayer mat he had laid out on the floor, then popped back up with his eyes nearly closed, chanting softly to himself.
When he was finished, he turned around with a smile.
“Back so soon?” he chuckled. “Is it Alamai's cooking, or my company? Either way, you are most welcome.”
“It's Mr. Haji,” said Zee anxiously.
“We think something has happened to him,” Oliver added quickly.
Halabala raised the eyebrow over his unpatched eye. He got to his feet, walked over, and sat down cross- legged next to the boys. He nodded at Alamai, and she slipped off to prepare some tea on the gas stove on the balcony.
“What is it? What has happened?” he said.
Oliver and Zee told Halabala about their discovery at Mr. Haji's shop that morning, about the sign in the window, the fan blowing pointlessly in the dark, and the amber prayer beads lying in a heap on the floor.
As the boys told their story, a look of concern fell over the giant man's face. When they finished, Halabala stroked his thick beard and stared down at the floor.
“It could be nothing,” he said softly. “Mr. Haji is getting older. Maybe he just forgot the prayer beads.”
“And the cardboard sign in the window?” said Oliver.
“We all need a vacation from time to time,” Halabala offered.
“You can't believe that!” said Zee.
“I don't know what I believe,” Halabala replied sternly. “But I do know that you boys need to leave this business alone.”
“How can we do that when Mr. Haji could be in trouble?” Oliver protested. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alamai lingering in the threshold to the balcony, watching them.
Halabala rubbed his hands together thoughtfully and took a deep breath.
“My boys, there is more to the story than this. I will tell you something about Mr. Haji, but only if you make me a promise in return,” he said. “If Mr. Haji needs to be found, it is I who will find him. Not you. Is that understood?”
