**********

 

2. Of Sons and Swords

 

**********

 

(Late Winter, 1179)

 

At high noon Dhabr's caravan entered Tehraq by way of its western gate; a frescoed archway secured by 15-cubits high ironwood doors and a small contingent of the elite guardsmen known as the Wahdi. Purposefully distinctive by their peacock-plumed riveted helms and white-gold tabards sown with chainmail; they boasted over 8000 men and were tasked with maintaining order in the city.

Abana of Hafiz knew them well.

During King Gurkhan II's reign the Wahdi ranks drew from the fighting men of recently conquered provinces to weaken potential resistance and strengthen Tehraqi ties – but when the day finally came for his son Qattullah's rule, that policy was supplanted with a more... `practical' system of patronage. Wahdi captains and marshals were taken from cadet branches of the royal bloodline and gifted with lavish households within city limits, fostering superior loyalty (and dependency) to the crown and its holdings. The Wahdi were as corrupt as any other Tehraqis, highborn or low, but their power stemmed from the maintenance of that corruption.

The group of Wahdi defending the gate numbered only eight. As they stopped each passing caravan half of their number conducted searches of every wagon, cart, chest and saddlebag as the master caravaners dropped purses of gold into the tollmaster's coffer box.

The Dancer of Hafiz tightened the silk shawl around his hair and face as one of the Wahdi, a woollen-jawed spearman, passed his camel by with a lusty sneer. Though Abana recognized none of their faces there was no telling who amongst them might recognize him.

"Gentlemen!" Dhabr pulled as bright a smile as was physically possible. "Blessings be upon you for receiving us on this most momentous of days, but there will be no need of a search. Please see this writ of passage as granted to me by her ladyship the Governess of Jawwaz."

It was a thin wrap of parchment bound by twine and sealed with wax. He passed it to one of the Wahdis, who in turn handed it over to the tollmaster to verify its authenticity, which he did, with a frowning sneer.

"As you can see no toll is due nor is any search permissible. But as always Lady Yahya is mindful of the great work the Wahdi do in protecting the king's peace and so she permits me to present you with a gift!" Dhabr clapped his hands twice. Two of his men brought forth a heavy goods chest from a donkey cart and rested it at the tollmaster's sandaled feet – it contained twelve full bottles of finely aged red wine. The tollmaster popped a cork and took a swig – then waved to his men to let them through.

Smiling, Dhabr rode forth with Abana and Maliq and the rest of his caravan closely in tow. They emerged from the western gate onto the lowborn side of the Kazara River, and it remained as foul a midden as Abana remembered it.

Paupers, idlers and wastrels sat chafing in the dry heat of its narrow streets. From its sandstone tenements and tented dwellings floated linen lines and decaying bird traps, long abandoned by the street urchins who hung them. Only a handful of Wahdi bothered to patrol the area but they stopped for neither the sick nor the dying, often only escorting temple novitiates distributing alms to the poor – bread, fruit, fresh clothes, etc.

As Dhabr's caravan passed through the area Abana noticed a glint of malice in the local populace. Some had hoes and sickles nearby, and they were large enough in number to swarm a caravan of that size if they were at all coordinated – but Dhabr's guardsmen kept watchful eyes on them – and a hand none-to-far from their weapons (as did Maliq). But Abana was more distracted by the cross-like symbols he saw painted on certain doors. He asked Dhabr about it.

"There was once a plague outbreak here," he said. "It's been years since the ward was quartered off and few dared come back save for those too poor to live anywhere else. Not a particularly savoury place but well suited to discreet meetings away from prying eyes."

`And therefore, well chosen,' thought Abana. `Thank you, Lady Yahya...'

Abana and Maliq separated from Dhabr's caravan at the centre of the old plague ward where no Wahdi was in sight and the streets were all but empty, save for the beetles and mice. They dismounted the camels and handed the reins of one of the guardsmen who kept the caravan moving eastwards toward their last stop, the great souq of K'luthu.

"Thank you for helping us, Lord Dhabr," said Maliq, in his gruff baritone. "We might not have made it this far if not for your help."

The caravaner nodded. "I merely do as our Lady Yahya commands. She helped me also... a highborn who took pity on a pox-scarred lowborn and made of him what he is today. I do not pretend to understand what is happening here but if it is her wish... then I am happy to help see it done. Gods keep you both."

He took his leave. Dhabr gestured for his men to move out and they followed his commands, coaxing the camels and mules along. Abana and Maliq stood aside in the dusty, empty streets watching them go – until the swordsman leaned into the dancer's ear.

"When did you dose him?"

Abana looked on, still faced. "A day ago, my love. Bitterblack is slow to kill. Tonight, he will develop a fever. Tomorrow he will be paralyzed. The day after that? Organ failure and death."

"Lady Yahya will be displeased – Dhabr was her man and bitterblack is her signature poison, she will know it was us."

"Lady Yahya will not care once I show her this," Abana had a thin black book inside his leather pack. He showed it to Maliq, who opened it and stared blankly at its numbers. Though his reading lessons in Tehraqi had come a long way, Abana had yet to teach him mathematics.

"What is this?" Asked Maliq.

"Dhabr's ledger – an account of his business. He has skimmed off 5% of the governess' profits for the last two years. Once I show her that, I promise you, she will thank us for ridding her of him."

"Had I known you had acquired such a talent for deception and ruthlessness..."

Abana glowered. "...This ruthless city and its deceptive people taught me well."

They waited until the caravan trundled off beneath the baking sun before meeting with their Tehraqi contact at the allotted place – the crumbling scaffold of a tavern house abandoned before even the plague outbreak.

Maliq, keeping a close hand to his sword, led the way in through a broken plank wood door. It was dour inside, save for some lit sconces and a few blades of light piercing through its cracked roof. Old cobwebs swung from rafters stained with vulture droppings. Dusty broken tables and stools laid across the tavern floor shattered into fragments. There were no echoes of drunken revelry, only silence. Silence... and a few shuffling footsteps.

Maliq dove in front of Abana as a squat Tehraqi man swathed in fine velvet robes and a tasselled half-cloak emerged from the shadows. Two tall men lingered in that darkness, obscuring their faces (but not their daggers).

"Magistrate Tayyab?" said Abana.

He nodded. "And you are Lady Yahya's protegee, no? It is a great pleasure to meet you. And your friend?"

Maliq frowned. "I am his protector."

"I supposed. May I also apologize for the ignobility of our surrounds... but as you might imagine conspiracies of this nature require certain... measures of secrecy."

`Measures of deniability more like,' thought Abana. As a man he knew nothing of Tayyab, but as a dancer he knew much of Tayyab's ilk. No Tehraqi ever obtained a position of power in this city without greed, shrewdness, cynicism, and an unquenchable thirst for elevation. And sure enough...

"Forgive my abruptness but before we begin there was the matter of payment?"

`Right on schedule', thought Abana. Payment in this instance was not in silverlings but a thoroughbred bay mare called Sunfire. She was the finest of Lady Yahya's stock long coveted by Tayyab – and the sole price of his compliance. Though the swordsman found the magistrate as loathsome as the dancer did, he withdrew Sunfire's title deed from his satchel and cautiously handed it to one of Tayyab's guards.

The Magistrate grinned. "Wonderful! Now that that is out of the way, let us talk."

"Apologies but there is little to talk of," said Abana. "You know my design, yes?"

Tayyab's smile darkened. Blood was wine to a Tehraqi nobleman. "Indeed. You are here to assassinate the grand vizier of Tehraq, the great Rahab of Mahmun. And on behalf of the governors of King Qattullah I am here to welcome you."

`Then Lady Yahya was right', thought Abana. `The other governors want Rahab gone as well'. "So... we have their backing?"

"Not in the light, of course."

Abana frowned. Here came the caveat. "...Then I take it we can expect no further help from here on out?"

"They `help' you by choosing not to kill you in your sleep," said the Magistrate. "Like or not Rahab of Mahmun is the king's chief advisor and any footprint traceable to your endeavours would put them all in grave danger. Your mistress is also a Tehraqi by birth... she knows our customs."

These men were bastards of the highest order – despotic vultures gnawing at the carcasses their king left in his wake – but they were nothing if not wise. Meeting here in an old plague ward was not merely Lady Yahya's aid in keeping he and Maliq safe... it was to allow the conspirators plausible deniability if their plan should fail.

Abana wondered if the Magistrate knew that those very same governors he stood for would slit his throat in a second to spare themselves if need be.

"The governors mourn her tenure as grand vizier," said Tayyab. "Back then our great king was amenable to counsel and reason... but much has changed since Rahab usurped your mistress. The governors seek a restoration to that orderliness and to that end I was deployed."

"And how can you help us?" asked Maliq.

Tayyab smiled at him. "As grand vizier Rahab is the second most powerful man in the city and his residence is heavily fortified. However! I bring to you a stratagem..."

The Magistrate snapped his fingers. One of his men put a fist to his chest and bowed (the Tehraqi salute) and left to retrieve something collared by the neck and tethered to a spool of rope. A woman. A shivering and blindfolded woman. Abana blinked, half aghast, as the Magistrate's guardsman dropped the girl at his master's slippered feet. Tayyab went on to explain that she was a `procurement' from the recent annexation of Kushwar, said by the former Ban to be one of its six greatest dancers.

"When the king returns home from the Kushwar campaign Rahab will host a banquet in his honour and the six Kushwari dancers will perform for them. You will take this girl's place as one of the chosen six. That will be your way in."

Though Abana mistrusted the way it was so cleanly laid out for him (albeit with Lady Yahya's consent) it was a good plan. Still he could not help but feel pity for the captured Kushwari girl. They stuffed her ears with cotton as well as blindfolding her – clearly, they had plans for her after this.

"And this girl? What happens to her now?"

"A dancer who does not dance has no value," said the Magistrate. "She will dance for me – the other half of my reward."

`Bastard' thought Abana. He was disgusted but not surprised. The Tehraqi people (in large part) worshipped the sun god Mnenomon – master of wisdom and king of his pantheon. According to the high priests of Mnenomon, all Tehraqi women were his `wives' until they came of age and `re-married' a suitable man of her father's choosing, or as it was said in the Book of Mnenomon – no man may seed Mnenomon's soil `til the farmer opens the gate. To symbolize this the Tehraqi woman donned the veil from maturation and was forbidden from laying with any man until her wedding day. But Tehraqi men were a lusty breed – if they could not plough Mnenomon's soil, they could certainly plough that of other gods. Since foreign women like the Kushwari girl and beautiful boys like Abana fell outside of Mnenomon's remit, they were like treasured delicacies in Tehraq.

`Do not worry, little one. I will find a way to help you,' thought Abana. "So be it. What happens now?"

Tayyab grabbed the rope tied to the girl's collar and yanked her up to her feet for one of his guards to take her away. "The girl had residency assigned to her in Butcher's Square. Go there and await a rider in the night – he will take you to the residence of Governor Ganu, who is tasked with preparing the six dancers for the banquet. A word of caution, however. Lord Ganu is one of the few governors who knows nothing of this grand plot of ours. If he divines your true purpose or suspects even the slightest hint of subterfuge, he will execute you – and we will deny any knowledge of your existence."

`I'd expect nothing less,' thought the Dancer of Hafiz. "I understand and I will not fail. Please give my regards to the governors for their generous help."

"Glory to Mnenomon," Tayyab smirked. "And may he grant you his luck. There are dark forces at Rahab's back... killing him will be no small task."

Abana frowned. `No one knows that better than I.'

 

***********

 

(Early Summer, 1176)

 

Abana ibn Tawab spent most of that morning washing the blood out of his namesake's clothes after he and Paja finished butchering all fifty of the dead goats. What meat they couldn't salt, they carried onto their last remaining donkey cart with the intention of selling them at the market of Hafiz – the wool and horns they kept for themselves.

The sun was high when a thunder eyed Tawab mounted the seat of his cart and coaxed his donkey ahead onto the dirt road towards Hafiz village. Hours later, when the sun was low and Abana soaked the last few robes in a soiled bucket, Tawab returned. He led the donkey by its reins with one hand, and two lashed goats with the other. The donkey cart juddered along the way with welcomed new cargo; two full sacks (one of wheat and the other of grain), a bottle of wine, a reed basket full of fruit, and six full jars of what Abana would later learn was salt (to preserve what little of the goat meat they could keep). The boy was elated! But as his father trundled in through the flimsy wooden gates of their property, Abana saw the wrathful look in the older man's eyes and recognized the truth – he had been undersold at market.

"Boy," growled Tawab. "Take these two goats to the pen and water them. I will unload this cart. Quickly now! Be about it."

"Yes, baba."

Abana did as he was told and left the tunic to soak in the bloody bucket. The two does were scrawny for their age and deeply malnourished, it would take weeks to get them healthy enough to produce a suitable supply of milk. Nevertheless, Abana calmly led them by their ropes to the pen where he fetched some fresh water from the well for them to drink.

The sun had set (and the house was full of the scent of mutton) as Tawab, Paja and Abana sat to bowls of stew that evening. The boy and his mother stayed quiet as the father cursed the `swindling' market traders he did business with that day. "Enough meat to feed half of Hafiz and barely anything to show for it. Bastards! Sons of whores! In my father's days we kept those blasted lowborn merchants on a tight leash! Now they prance over their betters as though the world had turned on its head. Curses upon them and the pig-fuckers who sired them!"

Paja frowned. She had always misliked the foulness of Tawab's tongue. "Regrets, husband. They were unkind. Let us pray to the gods that better days are ahead of us."

Tawab sighed. "Paja, get me some water."

His wife nodded, took his empty cup, then left the room to fetch some. When she was out of earshot Tawab cast an eye at his late father-in-law's sword, Jahanshah. Its golden scabbard and bejewelled pommel caught a bright glow from the pit-hearth.

"It is comical," muttered Tawab absently. His eyes never left the sword. "Though Fouzan was disgraced, your mother came from good breeding, and marrying her was the proudest day of my life. I once had... dreams of leaving this land to a steward and taking her to Tehraq where I could become a paladin and restore her family's honour... but instead we suffer in squalor. How can that be fair? What gods would permit this ignobility?"

`He truly is going to sell the sword,' thought Abana. It was the last vestige of their nobility; their pride incarnated. And somewhere inside that cold stone heart of his, it grieved Tawab to sell it.

"Baba," Abana swallowed the lump in his throat as he spoke. "Forgive me... it is not my place, but... are some things not worth the sacrifice?"

Tawab glared at him levelly. "...Are they?"

"You always taught me that a man who cannot provide for his family is not a man, and that we must do all we can to survive. Is that not so? Was that not so?"

Most of the time his father's face was either a grim mask or a furious one. For the first time in perhaps his entire life... he saw a sliver, just a faint scintilla of emotion in Tawab's dark brown eyes. He moved his lips to speak but Paja re-emerged from the pantry with a fresh cup of water for her husband to drink. Whatever he wanted to say in that moment, it was gone the next.

"Slake your thirst, my love." She said.

Tawab offered thanks with a grunt. "I will return to market tomorrow morning... and Abana will come with me."

 

**********

 

(Late Winter, 1179)

 

If the dwelling in Butcher's Square was anything to go by then the governors prepared small but comfortable abodes for the Kushwari dancers. Not a speck of dust matted the stone floor (which was made softer on the feet by finely embroidered rugs) and sheets of lilac-coloured linen hung from the walls as decoration. Next to a mount of throw pillows sat a wine gourd and a platter full of grapes (green and red), a sliced wheel of cheese, and buttered hunks of fried bread. This was not the reception captives typically received in Tehraq. No doubt the governors had other plans for those women after the king's banquet.

Abana of Hafiz tried not to think about it as he lay nestled in Maliq's strong arms. Though a burning hatred dwelt within Abana's heart, it was never tamer than when he found himself in Maliq's embrace; nothing in this world felt more peaceful or safe. Sometimes the hardest thing in the world was letting him go.

But it was almost time.

"I hate to leave you," whispered Maliq.

"You are not leaving me. You will never leave me. But you cannot accompany me to Ganu's residence, my love. Besides, that Kushwari girl... I cannot leave her in the Magistrate's clutches. I need you to free her."

Maliq frowned. "That was not part of our plan, Abana. Cheating one of our few allies could backfire."

The dancer let his delicate fingertips wander the contours of the swordsman's muscled torso until they stopped just shy of Maliq's breastbone. Abana dipped his lips towards the stiff, copper-coloured flesh of his left nipple. Maliq stifled a moan through pursed lips.

"Have faith in me," said Abana. "Once our work is done, we will go elsewhere. North, south, east, west – it matters not... so long as I am with you... and the work is done. I need naught else."

There was indecision in Maliq's eyes (though he did not voice it). It had been there ever since they first set out from Lady Yahya's manse in Jawwaz, the Sanguine Vigil – and it had not abated. Nevertheless, the tall warrior lumbered up from mount of throw pillows and gathered all his discarded clothes and chainmail together. Once dressed he donned one of their lady's many gifts; a sable hooded cloak broad enough to obscure his whole frame and hide his face. He left his two swords Jahanshah and Lion's Claw where they were (with his sword belt) as they were too conspicuous for shadow-walking the tenements of Tehraq – instead he made do with a carefully concealed kidney spike hidden beneath the folds of his tunic. There were two in their possession and Abana had the other; it was poison-tipped and destined for Rahab of Mahmun's heart.

"I do this only for you," said Maliq. "But stray no further from our plan. Once you are moved from Ganu's residence to the Elephant Palace I will come for you. Take no more risks and await me."

Abana ran over to him and kissed him before he dared leave. The sooner this was over the sooner he could finally leave these miserable lands and start afresh with the man he loved.

Abana and Maliq brought their foreheads together for one last embrace before they parted. It would not be for long – but the danger was so great.

"Be careful, my sweet. You are the only thing keeping me on this hell of a world."

Maliq smiled softly. "I have not come this far just to fall now. It is as you said... I will never leave you."

After that the swordsman slipped away as quietly and discreetly as he could. The plywood door clacked shut behind him. Abana gripped his shoulders and shivered. He hated being without Maliq. It felt like being tossed into the cold and the dark. But he did not dwell on it long.

There was work to be done.

The Dancer of Hafiz walked over to the pool of throw pillows and opened his pack. Everything was there. His jars of ochre and henna, his lilac veil and sequin mesh, his ankle bells, castanets and incense. It was everything he needed for his rituals. Abana buckled the satchel and slipped his slight frame inside his own sable cloak. Less than an hour later there was a knock at the door. The rider had come.

Abana exhaled. `Time to go.'

 

**********

 

(Early Summer, 1176)

 

It was a brutally cold morning that day. Abana ibn Tawab recalled that much with alacrity. The mountain winds whistled in through the narrow slit carved into the sandstone as a window and goose-pimpled the boy's skin as he struggled to keep warm beneath his moth-eaten blanket. His mind faded in and out of an uncomfortable sleep marred by visions of clutched fists and sloughing offal. He hadn't slept this badly since he was a child when servants told him horrific fables of ghouls who fed upon yearning and carried off naughty children in night.

A thick hand grabbed his shoulder. Abana jumped (almost screaming) before he saw Tawab towering over him with a flaming torch in the darkness. The boy exhaled.

"Baba," he said. "It's just you."

Tawab eyed him flatly. "Put on your clothes. We are going to Hafiz market."

The boy did as he was told without question. In his mind he wondered why it was necessary to leave this early (would the market even be open?) but upon closer thought he supposed that Tawab found a specific buyer for the sword, one that was like to pay him more fairly for it than the common market traders. His father would not stand to be swindled on Jahanshah like he was on the goat's meat. Once dressed Abana followed him outside into the yard where the donkey had already been hitched to the cart, and there was a long plywood box covered with cloth loaded in the back.

`We are doing the right thing,' reasoned Abana as he climbed into the cart. `We are doing this to preserve our family. Judge us not, grandbaba, your spirit lives on in our hearts. I will become someone worthy of you, I will make you and Mama and Baba proud of me. I will buy back the sword one day, I swear it.'

Tawab passed him the torch and then lumbered onto the seat, taking the reins and whipping the donkey into motion. As the cart rolled away from their homestead and his beloved (and slumbering) mother, Abana held the torch aloft and wondered what he would be if they survived to see another winter. Certainly, he did not want to herd goats for the rest of his life. Could he one day go to Tehraq and be a paladin like his grandfather Fouzan? The thought did appeal to him – but he'd never held a sword in anger his whole life. He knew nothing of swordsmanship or martial prowess. What sort of paladin would he make?

As the donkey card turned onto the highway and trundled west of the valley, Abana wondered why he'd never thought much for his future. As a child Paja oft sung lullabies of their family's former glory and encouraged him to embrace that legacy. "Become a great man, my son, and restore our honour." She spoke less of such aspirations in recent years.

`What shall I be?' thought Abana.

A scholar or a merchant, perhaps? As a boy his mother was the closest thing he had to tutor so he had no proper education, but he could read and write and count (which was better than most merchants according to his father) and although Kushwari was his birth tongue his mother taught him to speak Tehraqi fluently; in that way alone he was better placed than most to succeed in this life.

Abana spent most of his ride to Hafiz thinking in this manner. He did not notice it when his father guided the donkey cart off the dirt track highway onto a rougher side road than wound off into the hillocks overlooking the valley basin. Only when the cart's wheels bucked against the characteristically pebbled ground did it dawn on him that they were going the wrong way. Abana held up the torch a bit higher but it was still too dark to see very much out there beyond the panorama of the mountains.

And then the cart stopped.

"Baba?"

Tawab, cold and silent, climbed off the wagon seat and landed on the crunchy dirt path as a shadowed figure approached them from the left. Abana gasped and swung the torch in that direction to get some light. It was cold and he was scared. He could barely think. As the shadowed man drew closer some cloth was pulled and a wooden box opened. Abana looked down at the noise. The box was empty. Jahanshah was not in there. Then he looked up and sat agape as his father loomed over him with stone cold eyes and an outstretched knobkerrie.

"B-Baba...?"

Tawab frowned at him. "I will not apologize, but... try to understand I am not doing this because I want to."

The blow was swift and sudden. Abana did not feel it when he hit the planks or dropped the torch; nor did he feel himself being dragged off the cart. All went to black.

 

*

 

Hours later he slowly awoke to a wet stone floor beneath his naked feet and the taste of blood on his lips. When he tried to move his hand to wipe it away his wrists did not budge. Scared, Abana opened his eyes and saw why. He was in chains. And when he looked around the room, he saw three dozen more just like him; enchained and scared and beaten and cold and sweaty, huddled up like husks of themselves and wailing into the dungeon's dank dripping blackness.

`Slaves...!' Abana shivered. `Oh no! Oh no!'

 

**********

 

* Hi, thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticisms always welcome, please e-mail me at stephenwormwood@mail.com . If you enjoyed this, please read my other stories on Nifty = Wulf's Blut, The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice and The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi) and The Cornishman (gay, historical).