The Eye of the Hunter
Page 49
When they located the yardmaster, Aravan spoke with him to arrange for the boarding of the camels. As with every other encounter in this realm, the Man nervously eyed the companions, noting the strange eyes and the huge one’s size, readily agreeing to anything that this Djinn asked of him. “Jamal, Jamal,” the yardmaster called. Two young Men popped out from the large tent nearby. “Dabbir matrah liddwâbb!” The young Men ran forward to care for the string of camels, though Aravan stopped them long enough for the companions to take from the cargo what they would need in the city.
As Gwylly retrieved the knapsack with his clothing and a few personal items, he looked about, noting that the helpers were just as afraid of the five as the yardmaster seemed to be.
While Aravan spoke further with the yardmaster and gave him a few silvers, the young Men unladed the rest of the goods and tack, stowing all in a small tent to one side, then led the beasts away.
At last Aravan returned to the other four. When they were well away from the ears of the lot workers, he said, “The best caravansary seems to be the Green Palm. Taking up residence there strengthens our pose as northern merchants seeking trade agreements. If dealing with the merchants of the city fails to bring us the knowledge we seek, we can move to the Golden Crown, a low to middling inn in the less elegant quarters of the city, where information can be had for a price.”
Aravan looked at each of them, receiving nods from all. “The Green Palm it is, then.”
As they approached the gate through the city wall, Gwylly asked, “Aravan, the yardmaster called ‘Jamal, Jamal,’ to get his helpers to come to take away our camels. Yet I thought that Jamal means camel. Why would he call out ‘camel, camel,’ to fetch the young Men?”
Aravan laughed, then replied, “Gwylly, they deem we are demons. And thou must never let a demon know thy rightful name, else he will steal thy soul. To keep a demon, then, from knowing a loved one’s Truename, call out ‘Jamal’ instead.”
Gwylly smiled at Aravan’s answer, and on they strode toward the entryway into the city, a high and wide portal through a bulwark made of massive blocks of cut stone, red rock quarried from the mountains above. The wall itself rose vertically some twenty feet, and it had a wide overhang to thwart all but the best of climbers. Laid back against the stone blocks were great ironclad gates, a huge beam set to fall into place should there be a need to defend the city against invasion. In all, the wall and portal were the most formidable barriers the five had yet seen; not even Pendwyr had defenses such as these.
At the gates, a crowd of complaining people were lined up—the Women veiled, the Men bearded and turbaned—clamoring for entry into the city but held up by guards in red fezzes ornamented with long black tassels, the warders closely questioning each of those who were inbound, although people leaving the city seemed less hindered. The five fell in behind the crowd, Urus towering above everyone. The Man just ahead turned to protest the wait, saying “Mâ bhibb id— Waugh!” He leapt aside, his hand outflung in a warding gesture. Others turned to see what was amiss—and as if parted by a sword, the way before Aravan and Riatha and Gwylly and Faeril and Urus suddenly became empty of people, a corridor opening to the fore.
Laughing, Aravan led the way, and the five walked to the watchmen posted at the gates. Clearly, they, too, were shaken by the visages of the Djinnain and the zrâr Djinnain and the huge Afrit, yet in spite of their superstitions they stood firm.
Behind the five, the corridor closed again, the crowd surging closer, but not too close, clearly torn between their strong desire to enter the city and their equally strong desire to flee.
Beyond the gates and inside the city, others turned to look as well. Some hurried off, others stepped quickly into buildings, still others simply stood and stared. Gwylly noted one Man in a yellow turban and tan cloak who came forward to look closely, then turned and ran swiftly away, jostling through the crowds.
Gwylly tugged at Faeril’s sleeve and pointed, saying in Twyll, [“If they are all as is that fleeing Man, then how will we ever get to talk to the people of this town?”]
She shook her head. [“I know not, love.”]
The captain of the watch, a small, rotund Man with a golden crescent on his fez, came and spoke to Aravan in the Kabla tongue. The Elf in turn translated to his companions in Sylva what he and the captain said, and Gwylly, lifted up by Urus, translated the words into Baeron.
[“What is your business in Nizari?”]
[“We are merchants from the far northern lands and come to strike trade agreements with the merchants of Nizari.”]
[“And your names…?”]
Aravan smiled, his white teeth glistening. [“Shall we trade names, Captain, thou and I?”]
Gwylly laughed as he translated this last to Urus.
[“Harrumph, it will not be necessary. Where will you be staying?”]
[“We have heard that the Green Palm has much to offer. Hast thou another suggestion?”]
[“The Green Palm is a caravansary noted for its elegance. Many merchants stay there. You have chosen well. I will send an escort with you to show you the way.”]
[“Most kind of thee, Captain.”]
The Captain glanced up at the scarlet citadel. [“You know, of course, that you must obtain the Emir’s permission to trade within Nizari. In fact, any and all trade agreements made within his emirate need his approval.”]
[“Naturally, Captain. Naturally.”]
The captain turned from Aravan and called out, “Jamal, Jamal!” Gwylly whispered into Urus’s ear, and the big Man and the wee Warrow broke out in laughter.
In moments, escorted by two guards, they were on their way through the winding streets of the city, the red brick roads twisting this way and that, lanes and alleyways shooting off at odd angles, jinking ’round sharp corners to disappear beyond seeing, the whole of it a maze, like runs in a rat’s warren. Wending among buildings, they saw for the most part that red tile and brick and ruddy stone made up the structures, giving the city its crimson hue.
Up long stairways and down they went, past merchants’ shops and through bazaars, along alleys reeking of garbage and sewage, across open squares, past community wells, among dwellings rising high to either side. And everywhere they went there was noise—shrieking children at play; arguing, haggling storekeepers and customers; strident mothers shouting for sons and daughters; drovers cursing pack camels, the beasts hronking in return; merchants hawking their wares—the city awash in a hubbub.
Too, they passed minarets, the slender towers seemingly fallen into ruin, loose bricks lying about upon the ground at the foot of the abandoned spires. And Faeril thought she could see that the cupolas at the top had suffered damage.
And all the time they traveled, southerly they fared, in the general direction of the citadel. At last they came to a more elegant section of the city, the streets wide and straight, the shops uncluttered, the dwellings large and spacious, the noise a subdued murmur in the distance. Here, too, were small city plazas where trees grew—acacia and fig and others—with benches in the shade below.
At last they came to the Green Palm, a large, three-storey inn behind a low wall. Through an open archway they went, entering a courtyard filled with date palms. To one side stood a brick stable for horses.
The city-guard escort led them through arched doorways and into an elegant foyer, where they were met by the hotelier. “Welcome…Green Palm. I talk good Common, yes?”
* * *
“I say, Faeril, did you get the idea that the manager was expecting us?” Gwylly held his foot above the suds and vigorously scrubbed it with the soft brush. “I mean, without a by-your-leave he began speaking to us in Common, even before he could have seen we were not native to this region.”
Faeril nodded, soaping her hands and face. “Perhaps the gate captain sent a runner ahead…but why would he?”
Gwylly shrugged, ignoring the fact that Faeril’s eyes were now closed against the sting of soap. “Here, love, let
me do your back.”
* * *
It was mid-afternoon when Gwylly and Faeril emerged from their chambers and made their way downstairs to the tea room. There they found Aravan sitting alone, sipping tea and eating small slices of date bread.
“Where is everyone?” asked Gwylly.
“They all ran,” said the Elf, smiling. “Six merchants when I walked in, but they left…hurriedly.”
“No, I meant Riatha and Urus. Where are they?”
Aravan laughed. “They are no doubt in their room, Gwylly, making up for lost time.”
“Oh,” murmured Gwylly, glancing at Faeril, and both Warrows blushed simultaneously.
Faeril climbed up into a chair and helped herself to some of the bread. Glancing about at the empty tea room, she asked, “How are we ever going to ask questions concerning the disappearances, concerning Baron Stoke, if everyone runs when they see us?”
“Oh, wee one, everyone doesn’t run.”
Faeril and Gwylly both cocked an eye.
Aravan gestured over his shoulder. “One of the guards who escorted us here is posted out front, across the street. The other guard is in the alleyway behind. In the entrance hall at a desk sits a Man who seemingly writes, yet he has not jotted one word but instead watches all comings and goings. On the occasions when I have passed through, he studiously looks away.”
“Why?” asked Faeril and Gwylly simultaneously.
“Why? I know not. Yet heed: we are being observed, wee ones. Watched. As if someone wishes to keep track of our whereabouts.”
Faeril settled back in her chair, a pensive frown on her face. But Gwylly looked about. “Say, what’s a fellow got to do to get served around here?”
* * *
Prior to sundown, a force of fifty Men, dressed in maroon uniforms with gold turbans and gold sashes and armed with curved tulwars, marched into the Green Palm. The jemadar in charge found his quarry of five in the inner courtyard gardens. Approaching Aravan, he bowed and spoke in the Common tongue. “My master, the Emir of Nizari and all the lands beyond, bids you welcome to his Realm. He asks that you join him for dinner.”
Aravan turned to the others, speaking in Sylva, a tongue not likely to be understood by the jemadar. [“I deem it is the Emir who is behind this spying on us. Why? I know not. Regardless, what say ye to this invitation?”]
Gwylly rapidly translated Aravan’s words into Baeron for Urus.
Urus replied in the same tongue, Gwylly now translating into Sylva. [“I say we go. Firstly, given this armed force, we can hardly refuse. Secondly, who better than the Emir to speak of the ‘disappearances’ in his Realm?”]
Gwylly nodded his agreement even as he translated the Baeran’s words.
Aravan looked at each in turn, receiving like nods, then he turned to the jemadar. “We are honored to accept. Yet we are ill prepared. Our clothing is yet being laundered.”
The jemadar smiled. “Raiment will be provided. If you would follow, please.” His words were not a request.
Amid an armed escort, up to the scarlet citadel marched the five, Faeril and Gwylly trotting to keep pace. They came to the crenellated wall, twice the height of the city rampart. Midway was located another massive steel-plated gate. Through the portal and into a red-stone courtyard they went, and Faeril gasped, for the building before them was enormous, its sides and dome clad with scarlet marble. A huge portico ran more than half the width of the frontage, tall crimson columns supporting the ornate roof. To left and right were other buildings, dwarfed by the main structure, and except for the stables nearby, what these other buildings housed was beyond knowing, though Faeril surmised that some were barracks while others held places of crafting: smithies and armories and carpenter shops and leather shops and the like. Yet she caught only a glimpse of these other buildings, for across a red-stone courtyard and up the steps they tramped, entering through an ogee-arched doorway, its onion-shaped vault mimicking the form of the great dome capping the building above.
They were escorted in through a high-vaulted gallery and across a marble floor, up a broad, curving staircase and along wide carpeted corridors, passing by wood-panelled doors, some closed, others open, the chambers beyond containing offices of state or collections of art objects or ornate rugs and gilded furniture. The companions were taken finally to two separate bathing rooms, the females to one, the males to another.
* * *
An hour later, bathed, perfumed, and clad in silks and satins, Riatha and Faeril veiled, the five were escorted to the Emir’s private dining hall. But ere they entered the guarded door, the major-domo said, “You must leave your weapons here, for except for his personal guard, arms are not allowed in the presence of the Emir.”
Urus glanced at the others, then said, “These weapons are never out of our reach. However, we will submit to peace-bonding them.”
The major-domo was adamant. “This is not permitted. Long past did an Emir allow such, and he did not live to see the light of morning. You must leave your weapons here.”
Urus spoke in Baeron. [“If it comes to it, the Bear can fight while all others retrieve their arms.”]
Gwylly translated into Sylva.
Aravan stepped forward, his crystal spear in hand, a dark look on his face. His teeth ground together, and he gritted at the major-domo, “Heed, this weapon and the others are precious to us. Touch them not! If aught happens to any, it will be thou who will not live to see the light of morning.”
Reluctantly, one at a time, each gave over his weaponry—crystal spear, starlight sword, silver and steel throwing knives, steel and silver bullets and sling, iron morning star—all placed on a long mahogany table down the length of which ran a broad strip of red velvet fringed at the ends.
The shaken major-domo had backed away while the five disarmed themselves, but still Riatha turned to the Man, ice in her silver-grey eyes. “Instruct these guards to ward these weapons as they would their own Emir, else there will be Hèl to pay.”
The major-domo stuttered out commands to the guards as Aravan carefully listened. The Elf then nodded to the others, and finally they came into the presence of the Emir.
* * *
The dining chamber they entered was enormous—some thirty paces long by twenty wide. Red velvet drapery covered the walls, a golden fringe along the top and bottom edges. The floor was marble, deep red and shot through with filaments of gold. The arched ceiling above was the reverse of the floor: gold streaked with red. In the very center of the room was a long, low, gilt platform set with dishes and cutlery and laden with fruits and breads and meats. On the floor about were scattered satin pillows.
At the head of the table sat the Emir. A large, portly Man, he was, and dressed in gold-trimmed black silk. Black was his hair and his close-cropped beard, and dark eyes looked out from beneath black brows. His skin was pale and his hands soft, his fingers pudgy. At his left side and slightly behind sat a youth, a smooth-cheeked boy, his clothing black-trimmed gold, the reverse of the Emir’s. Ranged along the walls to left and right stood ten guards, five to each side, while behind the Emir stood four more.
As the five entered, the Emir looked up from his conversation with the boy, the Man’s eyes intent upon his guests. Led by the major-domo, the companions paced across the floor, stopping some five steps from the Emir. Flourishing an elaborate bow, the major-domo said in his flawless Common, “Most Exalted, your guests.”
Following Aravan’s lead, the five bowed stiffly from the waist, forgoing any embellishments. The Emir smiled at them, yet Faeril noted that Aravan’s fingers silently signalled
“Welcome, travellers, to my Kingdom.” The Emir’s words in the Common tongue were but slightly accented. “It is long since I have set these eyes upon Elven Folk, and never have I had the honor of entertaining your Kind.” He gestured at the pillows strewn to either side.
“Please, be seated, for I am famished, and though it cannot compare to your Elven dishes, still, honeyed quail awaits us.”
Not only was there quail upon the table, but sliced roast oxen and mutton as well; three kinds of soups; a variety of stewed vegetables; pomegranates and dates, fresh peaches, oranges from Thyra, white grapes, and other succulent fruits; and sweet breads and cakes.
Faeril wondered just how she could possibly eat with this gauzy veil across her face, but then she saw Riatha unfasten hers, and so the damman did likewise, smiling at the Emir.
Throughout the meal, the Emir kept up a string of inconsequential chatter, asking after their travels, surprised that they had crossed the Erg from Sabra—“…for it is told that the central Karoo is cursed…”—and inquiring as to what their purpose was in coming to Nizari, and what they might wish to obtain in the city for trade in the North.
The boy at the Emir’s side served his master, sampling each dish ere passing it on to the Prince, the Emir ever watching the youth closely for any reaction to the food before tasting it himself.
Throughout the meal as well, Aravan danced a complex dance of conversation, circling slowly but ever closer to what they wished to know. The Emir laughed at Aravan’s description of their entry into the city, of the crowd’s reaction to his Elven eyes at the gate, of the merchants’ reactions at the Green Palm, the Emir saying, “Ah, but they are an ignorant, superstitious lot.”
Now and again one of the others would join in the conversation, Gwylly telling of hunting with Black, Urus speaking of the reach of the Greatwood.
But it was Faeril who brought an unexpected comment from the Emir: “I noted,” she said, “when we came through the city, that the minarets were abandoned, fallen into ruin. Can you tell us what happened?”
The Emir looked at the damman and then turned to Riatha. “Your daughter and son, madam, are a delight, and full of curiosity as are all children.”