“Yet here you are,” said Tirdad, spreading his hands. “And you seem to be faring well enough, all things considered. Would that I had such brio in my later years. I wake up ready to rest as is.”
Adur-mah grunted at that. “Only goes downhill from there.”
“So, about Ecbatana?”
“Oh, yes, Ecbatana. Simple enough, really. It is home, and has been my base of operations for longer than most have been in the trade.”
Tirdad inclined his head. “I’ve heard it’s a fair place to call home. You’ll have to show me around.”
“I will do more than show you around, friend. Once you have shared the road with a person, a traveler’s bond is tied. My house is your house.”
To be expected, as it was customary to offer lodging and food to even the newest of acquaintances. “I’ll take you up on that offer,” said Tirdad. Then, as if it’d just come to him, “Oh, it’s actually something of a coincidence you’re a merchant. My friend and I,” he gestured to Shkarag, which reminded him to check on her condition. The half-div was staring in their direction, probably eavesdropping, and seemed to have gotten her breathing under control. He offered yet another tapered smile. “Anyway,” he went on, “my friend and I tend to pass the time discussing our adventures, and we’ve been butting heads over one in particular. You see, we were charged with unravelling the mystery around this merchant’s missing shipments, because he was convinced divs were involved. Turned out as mundane as you might expect: his consignees were smuggling the goods away and running off with the profit.”
The merchant smacked his lips disapprovingly. “Whatever happened to honour?”
“Yeah,” said Tirdad, pressing through the unwelcome tide that came with the mention of honour. “What baffled us about those shipments was why he even bothered with some of them. I mean, why would a person ship clutches and clutches of eggs such a distance that they’ll be rotten and fly-riddled by time they arrive?” He took a swig of liquor, and offered it to Adur-mah, who accepted with a salute. “She thinks it’s on account of your peers being fools one and all—a mistake at best. I don’t believe it.
“Much as he was getting played for a fool, I’d wager there’s more to it than that,” said Tirdad. “The market must have its secrets, even if I don’t know them.” He folded his arms and reclined against a tree. “You’re the expert here, so do you mind settling the bet once and for all?”
The merchant took enough contemplative draws from the canteen to drain it, then peered inside and gave it a shake. “Some theories you have there,” he replied. “And reckon either could be true. But here is what I think.” Adur-mah leaned in, glancing left and right as he did and sidling closer. “I think this merchant of yours was craftier than he let on. If you would have had the stomach to dig through all those rotten eggs, you might have found hidden missives.” He tapped his temple and wagged his eyebrows. “Stumbled upon some clandestine network backed by the Stinking Spirit himself, and you were none the wiser.”
Tirdad caught a breath in his throat. He regarded the old merchant through narrowed eyes. “What?”
He waited, holding onto that breath and expecting a grin to break Adur-mah’s grave countenance. The permanent squint that had obscured the merchant’s eyes parted enough for Tirdad to see them clearly; they were grey, mirthless as drought. Without another word, Adur-mah settled in for a nap.
Tirdad remembered to breathe, rationalizing that it was probably the fancies of a senile old man too long in the sun and shaken by brigands, but he couldn’t ignore the feeling that there had been an ominous undercurrent.
VII
A ridge incised the sky like a crocodile skulking beneath the surface, its plates a tacit warning. Barren and crimped, its slope shored up a fortress city that girded the lower reaches. Mudbrick ramparts, honeyed by the setting sun and bordered in a luxuriant pattern, extended from the mountain. Ray was all angles—its stern façade upset only by the squat towers that flanked a vaulted gate, and the rounded parapets too merry for their imposing height.
From beyond its walls, Tirdad turned around to peer through a crowd of faces, behind which a lone castle interrupted the horizon as if it awaited a duel with the citadel commander. It brought Chobin to mind. His family manned that castle, and was responsible for the defense of the entire province. He hoped the marzban fared well.
Pressed close by the crowd, there hung the lemon-yellow of Shkarag’s scarfed head. To her side, a pair of bushy eyebrows. “Figures we arrive during Tirgan,” he said, leaning in and raising his voice to be heard over the clamour. “The festival will do us some good, though I would’ve liked to rest first.”
“By time we are through the gate it will have passed,” said Adur-mah. “Never seen them so spooked as to keep it within the walls. Your—uh, that Ashtadukht really put the fear of divs in them.”
Tirdad appreciated his discretion. The last thing they needed was for all these people to turn on him. This brought his attention to the half-div at his fore. While her nearness permitted him only the top of her head, the death grip she’d applied to her spear told him everything he needed to know about her mood.
He frowned at that faded scarf. During the scorching two-day walk it took to arrive, they’d spoken less than usual. Hardly at all, actually. He’d wager it was a mix of the heat and brooking an unwanted travelling companion, but she’d only half-heartedly bemoaned the merchant’s presence, likely because she grasped his part in their quest.
As they’d drawn near to Ray, farms, trees and the shade they threw grew abundant—thanks chiefly to the qanats that had been tunneled into the water table to irrigate otherwise unproductive fields. With that came civilization. More concerned with getting rid of the horses than playing the market, they’d pawned them off for a bargain and wine—all of it profit at any rate.
“Oh,” he said, taking out his wineskin and edging back a bit to offer it to the half-div. “This might help.”
The scarf first tilted, then canted. Shkarag pried one hand from her spear, which surely creaked in relief, and grabbed the wineskin. She tucked it under her scarf to down it all in one long series of gulps, then handed it back. If she said anything, it was drowned out by the noise.
A rider approached from the direction of the castle, visible only because everyone had been made to leave their mounts outside the city for the duration of the festival. When the lone rider neared, Tirdad’s mood was lifted. Chobin, sporting a regional tunic whose straps were decorated with plum and magenta circles, and a brooding frown besides, broke into the crowd.
A head taller than most everyone there, Chobin spotted him soon after, and brought his horse over. “Hah!” he exclaimed, grinning and extending a hand. “Knew you’d come crawling back to me sooner or later. Where’s your lover? Leave the goat fucker already?”
Tirdad shook his head, indulging in a grin of his own and clasping the marzban’s forearm. “I don’t know how you manage to be so casually jovial and insulting, but you do it well. As for Shkarag, she’s here.” He inclined his head toward her, where she stood a bit less stiffly, eyeing her boots. Giving the horse an affectionate pat, he went on. “I guess the rules don’t apply to you, huh?”
“Not here,” Chobin confirmed. “To your benefit I might add. Let’s go.”
With that, he continued through the crowd, the three following in the wake of his horse and through the low, vaulted arch of the gate. More and more, the sounds of the festival took shape. Carefree laughter joined the spirited santur, the strum of the lyre, the hand drum’s subtle appeal to the rhythm of the heart, the shouting and carrying-on that rose and fell as merrymakers all thrived on a melody both sweet and rousing.
Tirdad glowed. By Ohrmazd, he loved festivals. The gateway opened to the wide main thoroughfare, framed by mudbrick buildings accented with an ecstatic display of many-coloured plaster murals and stucco reliefs, their entrances a line of vaults that wafted a host of smells as diverse as a nightingale’s song. Regularly, a do
me would surface to grace the skyline like hillocks rolling over a plain.
Ropes bisected the thoroughfare at intervals to allow rope-dancers to spin overhead, entertaining the children with a feigned wobble now and then. Tirdad grabbed the first wine ewer he came across, choosing to forego both moderation and a proper drinking vessel. He downed it gustily, which had his head craned back and directed his gaze to one such dancer. She swayed and undulated, her four plaits fanning and swinging with every movement, and sprightly though she was in her flowing gauzy dress, she still dredged up sour memories of his cousin. Looking away, he took a few more draughts of wine.
“Shkarag?” he said, only just noticing her absence. Fortunately, he had no trouble finding her scarf. She’d stopped in front of a crimson tent to leer at it suspiciously. “Running off already?” he asked. “And to a tent like that no less. You know the so-called sorcery they practice in there is just for entertainment? All gears, illusions, and banging on metal. Oh, and obtuse answers. I’m told that’s an important part.”
She canted her head, but offered no reply.
“Well, obtuse answers do seem to suit you.” He stared as she did, and only then did he notice a small bird perched atop the tent. “Ah, a snowfinch is it? So that’s what’s got your attention.”
Shkarag’s eyes darted up and down. She faced him, inclining her spear as he so often did with his pommel. “Won’t run off. Your goat fucker is.” She threw one last wary glance at the bird before limping off toward the horse.
Tirdad knotted his brow, and though his thoughts were hampered, it came to him that there’d been a snowfinch in her illusion, and years before that, a bickering snowfinch and magpie. She’d described their dispute as marital then, sweeping her hand over the ground in doing so. No surprise then that it unsettled her.
“Wonder where the magpie’s gone?” he pondered. Tirdad shrugged and caught up with Chobin, who had turned around in his saddle to train bemusement on the planet-reckoner.
“Fuck are you doing staring at a bird?” asked the marzban.
Tirdad offered the ewer. “Shkarag had paused to look at it,” he explained as if it were obvious.
Chobin took a long draw of wine, went to wipe his mouth on his sleeve, but stopped just shy of staining it. “Thought that was her thing,” he said. “Disappearing, absurdity, generally being a nuisance.”
“Never called her a nuisance.”
“Didn’t have to. Listen to one of your tales and it’s mighty obvious that skink-slicker is a nuisance. And that’s treading lightly.”
Tirdad turned to address her, but drew up short of it. She had an inquisitive stare trained on him, and her cant was decidedly less sharp than usual. It listed ever so slightly.
“Skink-slicker,” she said, the nebulous list swaying. “What’s a . . . skinks should just decide. Just—” She waved her spear, and it was a good thing the street wasn’t nearly as packed as the gate. “Sit down and have the . . . take the vote like some, like some . . .” She trailed off, nodding sharply. She glared at Chobin. “Skinks should stop straddling the fence. Either you’re a šo-lizard skittering . . . šo-skittering lizard, or a šo-slithering snake. Pick a side. Hayk can’t play the field forever, cozying up to Hrom then Iran then Hrom then Iran. Someday skinks will find themselves staring down the spear of a snake—” She punctuated the eventuality by thumping the ground with the butt of her spear. “And either they get rid of those measly arms or they take up arms.”
Tirdad looked down. She hadn’t bothered with a ewer. Instead, she was dragging around one of the large glazed jars used to transport and store wine. He rubbed his face, more amused than exasperated.
“Skink-slicker,” she mouthed. “Skink-slicker. What’s a skink-slick—oh.” She redoubled her glare. “Never fingered a skink. Never had those too-tiny toes curling while I—” Shkarag heaved as if to vomit.
“We’ve only just arrived and you’ve drunk yourself sick,” said Tirdad.
“Learn some moderation,” Chobin censured light-heartedly. “Not like you’re a div or anything.”
Her grimace was plain behind the scarf. “Not the wine. To slick a—” She heaved again.
“Hah!” belted Chobin. “Would you look at that. Never thought I’d see the day when one of her ilk is disgusted.”
“Rare indeed,” said Tirdad, scanning the area as he did. The jar didn’t seem to be drawing any undue attention, which could change when she next hefted it for a drink. He wasn’t worried about her taking it—wine ran freely during festivals. What he didn’t want was a display of her strength in broad daylight.
Naturally, that was when she strained to lift it. Tirdad hurried to put on a show by slipping his shoulder under the jar. As he stood there watching her drink, it came to him that if anything, her display only helped them to blend in. They probably appeared a regular pair of partygoers to those around them.
She drained it summarily, then sat it down, giving him a funny look as she did. “Can heft fine without you.”
“And I can do much without you. Doesn’t mean your help isn’t welcome.”
“So,” said Chobin, “much as I’d like to watch while the two of you buzz around one another just shy of threshing, I must tend to the family.” He directed his attention to Tirdad. “Don’t drink too much. We’re hosting an impromptu wrestling tournament, because no one told me they wanted one until I left the castle. Should compete.”
Tirdad shook his head, patently disappointed. “I’m afraid not. Ribs aren’t fully healed, and we had a couple rows on the way.”
Chobin lifted his brows. “A couple rows, huh? Go figure. Here I’ve been cooped up with the folks. Speaking of, weren’t you travelling with Adur-mah?”
“Yeah. Must’ve lost him in the crowd. You know him?”
“Done the city a few favours. Frankly, I’m surprised to find you travelling with another star-reckoner so soon.”
“He was waylaid by bandits, so Shkarag and I intervened and offered an escort.” Tirdad smiled at a passing festival-goer, an exceptionally ordinary-looking young woman who he recognized but didn’t know why. He made to greet her when it hit him. “Wait. What’d you call Adur-mah?”
“Star-reckoner?” The marzban dismounted, relinquishing his horse to an attendant. He straightened his tunic, checking the sleeves for wine. “Hear he’s more of a merchant these days, not that I keep up with his affairs.”
Beetle-browed, Tirdad cast over his shoulder as if the star-reckoner would be right behind him. He wasn’t, of course. Only Shkarag, listing against her spear, and the crowd besides.
The missives. He swallowed; his chest and throat grew tight; his mind raced. The missives. He thought he was being clever coaxing something out of the old man, but he’d been a blundering fool. The missives. The planets loomed closer, as if they could sense his rising panic and were poised to take advantage.
“Tirdad.” It was Shkarag. She’d clasped his forearm, and trained a knowing gaze on his. For a time, its flitting was confined to searching. For what, he didn’t know. But she must’ve found what she was looking for, because she soon listed once more into her spear as if nothing had happened, watching the crowd but wearing the unfocused stare of inebriation.
“Coming?” asked Chobin.
“Yeah.” Tirdad said as much, but he lingered a moment to concentrate on the celestial theatre. What little he could sense was a mirage well beyond the horizon, distorted much like the setting sun in its final window. That mirage carried the tempered whine of steel too guarded to ring. The planets were nowhere to be found. “Yeah,” he said again, finally falling in step with Chobin.
“Well, I am due for a beating,” said the marzban. He gestured to the stump-like citadel, which occupied a slate further up the mountainside. There, it crested another mudbrick wall of rounded parapets, as if leering down at all the strangers come to its city. “Care to join?”
“No.”
Chobin flashed a full-toothed grin. “Escort me then? Haven’t s
een your sturgeon-kissing mug in months.”
Indulging his friend, Tirdad waved the marzban forward. “Escort only. I want nothing to do with your family’s affairs.”
At that, Chobin’s grin grew more toothsome. Tirdad accompanied him up a flight of stairs that’d been carved into the side of the slate, which were hemmed in by the sheer-walled citadel to his left and an increasing grade to his right.
While he had a wealth of material, Tirdad didn’t have time to strike up a conversation before they reached the height of the stairs. The gate, vaulted and squat like its outer cousin, sat ajar. In it stood a man who bore a striking resemblance to Chobin, but older than Tirdad by a few years. The planet-reckoner lowered his head and put his hands over his chest deferentially—even when he had belonged to a House it had paled in comparison to this noble family.
“Father,” said Chobin.
He knelt to kiss the man’s feet and hands as etiquette bade, before his father embraced his head. The intimacy of their greeting made what followed all the more striking. Before Chobin could fully put his feet beneath him, his father snatched a staff that’d been propped against the gate and began whaling on the marzban.
Tirdad glanced up enough to see Chobin taking his beating with a grin plastered on his face, then back down again. This is what he’d wanted to avoid.
Fathers all had their unique approaches to instilling in their children the traits they valued, but this was unorthodox at best. Tirdad assumed as much, anyway. His father had died young, which placed him under the wing of the head of the House. As such, Ashtadukht’s father had raised him as his own, and he had been among the gentlest of men.
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