**********
4. Slave's Fate
**********
(Early Summer, 1176)
One-Eyed
Wadja's estimates were accurate. At Hakkan's command the caravan diverted
southwards to the great eastern highway where they joined an ambling procession
of other caravans and camel trains funnelling their way towards the desert
stronghold. Thankfully for Rabbit and the other slaves, they reached the qasr
before the sun hit its apex.
Qasr Ghazna was a fearsome sight. Its towering curtain walls rans
for hundreds of cubits in pentagonal shape around the various structures
encircling its giant wellspring; inns, taverns, tanneries, butcher shops and
bakeries, blacksmith forges, kilns, paddocks, barracoons, barracks, a temple
and five watchtowers.
Soldiers inspected each caravan at the qasr gates then demanded a
toll relative to its contents in exchange for entry. Hakkan tried haggling with
them, but they did not buckle. As the only water source for a day's ride in any
direction Qasr Ghazna was a key checkpoint in Tehraqi trade and her soldiers
knew it. He was forced to pay an even steeper tax than the headman of Tangrys
claimed thirty silverlings per head. Rabbit watched from the wagon as
a seething Hakkan ordered two of his men to pay them before the caravan could
pass.
The qasr was overflowing with activity in its tightly packed streets
patrolling soldiers marched by bartering merchants and hammer-armed smithies
as oaken carts offloaded goods at market stalls. Smoke and sweat scented the
air, air alive with a cacophonous blend of shouts, bleating, cheering, and
neighing. After the windy silence and whip cracks of the desert, Rabbit found
the sudden overabundance of sound almost deafening. He was not permitted to
suffer it long.
As soon as the caravan was safely inside the qasr walls, Hakkan
split his men into three groups with three tasks. One third (led by Mehmoud)
would take the wagons to the wellspring to water the horses and refill their
gourds and waterskins. The second (led by Wadja) would take the slaves to the
barracoons for the night. The third (led by Hakkan himself) would resupply on
weapons and rations in the market. They would regroup at the Dragon's Breath
tavern at sundown for some well-earned roasted chicken and barley beer.
Rabbit and two Kushwari slave girls were spared the barracoons and
forced to serve drinks at the tavern instead. Hakkan's men had a ribald night
but there was tension amongst him and his captains specifically between
Hakkan and Mehmoud. Rabbit did not notice as he struggled to avoid both men
throughout the festivities, not until later that night when the captains
retired to their shared room above the tavern. As usual they brought Rabbit
along as their cupbearer and as usual, he alternated between them with a wine
ewer provided by the house. The conversation was heated.
"Hakkan. I say we board `till dusk and march overnight," said
One-Eyed Wadja. "We'll lose half a day, but it will be easier on the cattle."
Typically, Tehraqi caravans travelled at night (for its cooler
temperatures) and camped during the day. Until now Hakkan's caravan had done
the reverse largely to avoid bandits and desert predators, as well as to hone
his men's endurance for future excursions. But even he in all his
pig-headedness saw Wadja's logic.
"Agreed," yet the slaver seethed. "1500 silverlings this has cost
me. We've NEVER needed to resupply here. NEVER. This was a waste of time and
money."
Mehmoud, as Rabbit saw, seemed to be aware that Hakkan was sore with
him. "A loss it might be, but we'll recover it thrice over once we finally sell
this stock. Only two days march to the next oasis town and after that one more
day before Qazyr. We are almost there."
"1500 silverlings..." Palpable anger lurked beneath the flat tenor of
Hakkan's voice. "...One THOUSAND... five HUNDRED... silverlings. Do you know what
that is, Mehmoud? That is one EIGHTH of what it took to raise this
campaign. That is one FIFTH of my current coffers and nearly HALF of what my
men are to be paid. That is what your blunder has cost me."
Mehmoud frowned. "My blunder? How mine?"
"What is not your idea to poach these weak slaves from
Kushwar?" said One-Eyed Wadja. "I warned against it, did I not? I said we
should wait out the summer to raise more money and men, sail to Jafara in the
winter, and then return with quality stock fresh and ready for the
planting season. And yet here we are."
"Why do you always see only the
negative? With the money we make from these Kushwari we can fund that journey
twice over!"
Hakkan sneered at him. "There is no we,
Mehmoud. Once we have sold these slaves at Qazyr, you no longer have a place in
my caravan."
Mehmoud's shoulders sank. "...What? But..."
"You can keep your sword and zorse, but I'll be taking from your cut
of the profits to help recoup my losses. 20 silverlings shall be your pay."
And then to Mehmoud a quiet fury of his own was born. "You promised
me 300 for this..."
"With the way this has all gone... be grateful I have not divorced
your head from its shoulders."
They all kept their weapons with them even as they retired for the
night. Mehmoud's sickle sword sat in its leather strap lulling about the ground
by its curved edge. Abana froze where he stood when, in a moment that could
have become extremely bloody, Mehmoud reached for it. A sneering Wadja reached
for his dagger but a smirking Hakkan did not budge. His war axe stayed where it
was nestled between his stool and his wine cup.
"...Are you man enough, Mehmoud?"
Silence filled the room... and rage. Rage on all sides. With his hand
hovering over his sword's grip, Mehmoud was close enough to strike Hakkan down
with a single swing. He was close enough...
...but instead he spat at the bald man's ankles.
"May Mnenomon damn you," he said. The smaller man shot up to his
feet and stormed out of the room. The cedar wood door juddered behind him.
Rabbit watched Hakkan smirk as though watching a spoilt child abandon his toys
in protest. Even his allies were nothing to him.
The more Rabbit saw of the Tehraqis... the less he liked.
**********
(Late Winter, 1179)
Governor
Ganu's private chambers were as richly dressed as the rest of Umayyah-khamat.
Its walls were draped with expertly embroidered tapestries, earth-coloured silk
sheets and mounted ram's skulls alongside other private adornments from all
over the known world; Jamaran stone idols and Northlander silverwork platters,
ceremonially-woven Kushwari talismans and jadestone Xianese jade stone
magatamas, Nyssinian scythe swords and antique Abyyabid axe heads treasures
of both war and trade. It was as much a trophy room as it was a private
dwelling.
`Lavish,' thought Abana of Hafiz,
`but all of it has a blood price. How typically Tehraqi.'
The room was centred by a gigantic four
poster bed made of solid ironwood oak and dressed in Xianese silk sheets. It
was surrounded by miniature table stands each bearing a separate delicacy for
the evening one for dates, one for cheese, one for peaches, one for cinnamon
buns, one for red wine, one for white wine, and so on. More than one person
could eat and drink.
The cedarwood door swung open. Abana
forced a smile onto his face as a delighted Governor Ganu strode in on sandaled
feet. He was dressed as a Tehraqi nobleman ought to be (extravagantly) in his
calf-length, gold-embroidered ebony tunic, but Ganu also wore something quite
particular to him a broad cheetah-skin sash clasped by a silver broach set
with an amber gemstone in its centre a defiant tribute to his slave mother's
Jamaran lineage. Abana wondered if that mother would yet love the man her son
grew up to be.
The governor took a seat upon the
reclining chair positioned beneath the room's latticework windows. Beyond them
was a balcony that overlooked the massive stone garden forecourt of
Umayyah-khamat. Without ushering, Abana carefully poured some wine into a
golden goblet encrusted with rubies. He gave it to Ganu.
"And for yourself?" He said.
Abana shook his head. "I cannot partake,
my lord. I have talents in two dances, and both are better performed with a
clear head. But please... avail yourself."
Ganu smiled and took a sip. "You were
magnificent today. The other dancers were talented indeed but your movements...
so sublime. Where were you trained?"
`In the pit of hell,' he thought.
"Hafiz, my lord. Our town has a tradition of dance dating back to ancient
times. Many of our women were called to perform for the Bans of Kushwar in
their day."
"Women," Ganu scoffed. "Now there
is a foul brood. Weak-willed and false of heart in all things... fit for whelping
our pups and little else. I'd settle for better company than your Bans desired..."
Tehraqis had a way of commodifying their
desires and as well as their distastes. Ganu was no different. He ordered Abana
to come over to him.
Lustfully.
`Forgive me, Maliq,' thought the
dancer. Abana did not join Ganu upon that cushioned reclining chair (there was
no room to as the governor spread his legs wide) but instead knelt to his
knees. The boy pressed his small hands against both those thick thighs,
massaging them in smooth, subtle circles before sliding up to Ganu's hips.
Abana held Ganu's gaze with a well-practiced smile as his hands disappeared
into the folds of Ganu's tunic and untied the dyed loincloth hidden beneath it.
The fabric peeled away like a banana skin and a stiff seven inches of warm hard
flesh sprung free. Abana pushed Ganu's robes back until he could see it for
himself.
If nothing else the governor was deeply
gifted between the legs, blessed with a tumescence much like the rest of his
frame thick and demanding. Abana closed his mouth around its head and watched
Ganu's eyes roll back into his skull.
**********
(Early Summer, 1176)
Rabbit
dreamt awful things that night. With a mouthful of blood and smoke he strode
through seas of mud in pursuit of some distant goatherd's hovel. A cruel,
father-shaped silhouette threatened to break his bones with his club if he
dared find his way out of the mud. And try as he might he could neither reach
the hovel nor free himself from the muck. It simply grew thicker and deeper
until it slowly swallowed him whole.
Rabbit's eyes shot open. He gasped and
panted for air. Sweat coated his skin. When he moved to wipe it off with a
cloth, he found a set of golden teeth glimmering at him in the darkness.
Mehmoud wrapped his hand around Rabbit's mouth before he could scream. The boy
then went still as a corpse as the older man drew a knife from its leather.
"Stay silent," said the slaver. "Make a single sound and I will
bleed you like a goat. Do you understand?"
Rabbit nodded yes.
There was a rope and cloth hanging from his belt. Mehmoud shoved the
cloth into Rabbit's mouth (muzzling his frightened whimpers) then bound up his
wrists tight with the rope before hauling the boy up to his feet and dragging
him away. With the candles and hearth's fire snuffed, their tavern lodgings
were pitch black. Rabbit could not see more than a cubit in front of him.
Somehow Mehmoud was unfazed. He punted opened the door and pulled Abana down
the stairwell to the tavern floor where Hakkan's men were all passed out drunk,
snoring and flatulating. Mehmoud led the way through their throng to the tavern
doors and slowly slipped out with Rabbit onto the streets.
Silent and lowly lit by ensconced torchlight, the streets of Qasr
Ghazna were eerily calm that night. Only a few of its soldiers were on patrol
most were sequestered in the barracks or standing guard by the central keep. Mehmoud
ran with Rabbit down a back lane behind the tavern and headed east for the
stables. They ducked behind a haystack to avoid the small contingent of guards
positioned there but once they moved on Mehmoud dragged Rabbit sixty paddocks
down to his beloved zorse, Bahman.
The boy winced as the slaver heaved him up and slung him over the
zebroid's rear like a slaughtered deer. A bloated waterskin warbled next to his
head enough water to last two people for three days of hard riding.
"I've paid off a few of the guards," said Mehmoud, as his fingers
stumbled to adjust the saddle. "They will open the gate and allow us to escape.
My plan was always to buy you when we got to Qazyr, but thanks to that pig
fucking bastard Hakkan we have no choice but to flee. I'll take you to with me
to Tehraq, little rabbit. You'll love the city..."
Mehmoud mounted up, fixed his feet into the stirrups, and rode
Bahman out of its stall towards the hay-strewn yard beyond. The powerful beat
of the zorse's hind legs rocked Rabbit to and fro. He was so terrified he might
fall off the back that he shut his eyes and held on for dear life until the
steed stopped.
He opened his eyes again.
Along the road ahead they were cut off by an axe-armed Hakkan, a
sword-drawn One-Eyed Wadja, and five of their men armed with recurve bows and a
full stock of arrows in each of their hip quivers. All were on
horseback.
"Damn you!" Mehmoud drew his
sickle sword in response. "Damn you to hell and back, Hakkan!"
The tattooed slaver grinned. "Did you really think you could cheat
me, boy? Put down that sword. Get off your horse. Give me that slave. Do that
and maybe... just maybe... I'll let you live."
There was no way out. With Hakkan and his men were in front and the
stables were behind it was hopeless. Rabbit watched Mehmoud shake with rage at
his former friend until opened his hand and let the sickle sword fall out of
it. It clattered against the hey-strewn flagstones. He then climbed down off
his saddle in relent.
Hakkan smirked. "Dzungi."
It was the name of one of his archers. It was also a command.
Dzungi's bow was so taut it groaned audibly in the still night. The whistling
shot that followed was like a desperate gasp for breath and it sunk home
straight through Mehmoud's neck. Rabbit screamed into the cloth in his mouth as
a gout of blood splattered his face. Bahman the zorse buckled. Rabbit fell from
the steed and Mehmoud's glutting corpse landed on top of him. He screamed and
struggled free himself from the larger man's weight, but he was too heavy to
budge. Hakkan, Wadja and the five archers all had a good laugh before they
finally dragged the gold-toothed man off him.
*
Rabbit
never saw someone die before. He had been beaten (and seen others get beaten)
but he never experienced that uncanny sight eyes rolling into the skull and
those blood-soaked death splutters. The boy spent the rest of the way to Qazyr
in a daze.
Hakkan had his archers sell Mehmoud's
corpse to a pig farmer and divided the traitor's goods up amongst them as a
reward. Dzungi took the zorse. The slavers emerged from the Dragon's Breath
tavern (and a few from the local brothels) re-armed and re-armoured to retrieve
the slaves from the barracoons and reform the caravan in the qasr square.
Rabbit was only vaguely aware of being loaded into wagon with the women again
before it set out at twilight.
The journey was smooth after that.
The caravan moved by moonlight with the
stars as their navigation. The Kushwari men took easier to the cooler climes
and for the first-time kept pace with the Jafari slaves (as was One-Eyed
Wadja's plan). They marched until daybreak and camped in the shadow of a crag
until dusk. Another night's march took them to the oasis town of Quwayq, a
small town with its prime water source brooked by carefully cultivated mangrove
plantations. Once their waterskins were refilled and the slaves and horses were
watered, the caravan camped outside of town and slept until sunfall.
From then? One last starlit march
completed their long trek from the Pushan Mountains of Kushwar all the way to
the bustling market town of Qazyr.
Rabbit was half-asleep from the heat when one of the female slaves
nudged his shoulder to coax him awake.
"Take heed, little one," she said. "We are here."
It was the sounds of the city that hit him first creaking tavern
doors, clucking chickens and dog barks, rolling wagon wheels, flocking tarp; all
as the guildsmen strode the laneways with their apprentices and notaries in tow
and rotund merchants hollered at passers-by for audience to their lovely goods.
Ululating priests extolled the greatness of Mnenomon whilst the city watchmen
stamped their sandals through the sandy roads, and woodworkers pounded nails
into planks as sellers and buyers haggled to the last silverling.
Rabbit gasped.
Qazyr was his largest town heretofore seen and the chorus of
commerce was uniform throughout it. In another circumstance it would have impressed
him, if not for the habitual stamp of Tehraqi cruelty that so marred it all.
Everywhere he looked there were slaves.
Slaves of every age, sex and hue slaves
being marched into bamboo cages, slaves chopping wood, slaves washing linen,
slaves being whipped. According to Hakkan (who uttered this to One-Eyed Wadja
and Mehmoud five drunken nights ago) slaves outnumbered freemen 3 to 1 in
Qazyr, and although most brought there were sold to buyers from other cities in
the High East (most notably Tehraq), thousands more were purchased to solely to
serve in the households of the local guildsmen. As Rabbit would one day learn,
the Master of the Slave Guild, Abyad e'Dur, boasted a slave staff of 80 men and
140 women at his private manse. Qazyr, to its core, was built upon the bones of
the slave trade.
The barracoons were on the edge of the city, none too far from the
other livestock paddocks; horses, zorses, goats, cattle, chickens
and pigs due to be re-sold in the central market plaza. Hakkan ordered his men
to herd his slaves into the makeshift caging area, all fifty of them, and there
they were left to ponder, idle, cry and rest.
Sometime later Hakkan reappeared with a wealthy merchant; pointed
toe silk slippers, gold rings on every finger, a flowing multicoloured tunic
striped in black, red and green and a gaudy grin.
Rabbit and the other slaves watched Hakkan present them to the merchant like an
apothecary shilling the potency of his turmeric.
"Fine stock," said the tattooed cutthroat. "Fresh from Kushwar,
watered daily, barely a scratch on them. As is your wont I spared the women the
lash and the road. I am willing to part ways with all of them, Dhabr."
Dhabr the slave dealer eyed the slaves
through the cage's plank. He focused on the women (and Rabbit). "I have a
contact in Jawwaz the steward of the governess's household. He says she is in
desperate need of new staff and I've been seeking closer ties with her for
over a year."
Hakkan blinked. "You mean Governess
Yahya? I heard that she does not keep slaves."
"She doesn't," said Dhabr. "She buys
them, frees them, then permits them to stay with her as servants. How King
Qattullah abides by such sentimentality is beyond me but a woman is a woman.
And business, as they say, is business. What skills do these slaves have? And
do not lie to me, I always have them demonstrate their talents before I put
them to auction."
"I'm glad you asked my friend," Hakkan
pointed to each of them in the barracoon as he and Dhabr strolled by its bars.
"That tall woman over there is Kumara, a good seamstress I took from a paupered
guildsman. The twin girls Abi and Abi'a are both skilled herbalists who learned
under the finest apothecary in Kushwar. The girl with lazy eye is Pumela a
bit ugly but a fantastic cook, your buyers will love her spiced chicken and
rice bowls! The boy next to her we call Rabbit. Fluent in written and spoken
Tehraqi with a good head for numbers and very pretty for those so inclined.
Marara the short woman is a dressmaker and those Jafari girls in the back are
all either washerwomen or wet nurses they have no tongue for Tehraqi, but
they respond well to simple commands and a good slap. Now wait until I show you
the men! They-"
The bald slaver's eyes bulged. That was not
what he wanted to hear. "But Dhabr, those men are-"
"Kushwaris. And
weak ones at that. I am an old hand at this, Hakkan. I assure you that
those... fletchers and bakers would not last fifty days on a plantation. But I am
nothing if not a generous man, so my offer is this 3250 silverlings. 200 per
head for the Jafari men, 150 per head for the Kushwari girls, 120 per head for
the Jafari girls and 100 for the Kushwari boy and you will not be paid until
I inspect them. Take it or leave it."
Abana watched Hakkan's fist quake. The
slaver was twice the merchant's size, but it did not matter in this realm. In
this realm power resided in ledgers and abaci, not swords and whips.
"...Fine," spat Hakkan. "And what do you
expect me to do with the rest?"
Dhabr chuckled. "Set
them free? Chop them up for pig's feed? The choice is yours, my friend!"
**********
(Late Winter, 1179)
Droplets
of sweat ran down a satisfied Ganu's breast and brow. As he reached for a cloth
to wipe himself off, a doting Abana of Hafiz nestled next to him with a silver
platter full of grapes. Abana pulled a broad and saccharine smile as he fed the
Governor with them.
"Did the dance please my lord?"
Ganu grinned. He was still out of breath
his stamina-filled warrior youth long behind him. "If there was anything that
could surpass the one that came before it, it was that. Treasures like you
are wasted in Kushwar."
`And why is that for men like you to
decide?' "You flatter me. It has always been my desire to come to Tehraq
and be in the company of great men."
"You do take to this life well,"
said Ganu. "After King Qattullah's banquet he will give the other governors
their choice of dancer for the right price. How would you like to be my
choice?"
Abana smiled. "Nothing would please me
more, Lord Ganu. Let me be yours."
The lumbering governor cupped the
dancer's chin and snatched a long, hungry kiss from him. "Then so it shall be."
Bitterblack was a tasteless and
colourless poison. It slowly slithered its way through the bodily system and
dispassionately broke it down organ by organ. Somewhere out there was Dhabr,
the former slave trader, on his way home from a successful trip to the Tehraqi
Markets, due to slip into a paralytic coma from which he would never awake.
Governor Ganu would enjoy the same experience three days from now which was
more than enough time to get Abana into the Elephant Palace and finally take
his revenge against Rahab of Mahmun.
**********
(Early Summer, 1176)
They were
kept in the darkness until their eyes burned. They saw nothing. They smelt
nothing except sweat and faeces. They heard nothing except each other's
mournful wails... and then the door unlocked.
Burly Tehraqi men bearing whips
barrelled into the holding cell shouting fiercely for all the slaves to stand
up and face the wall. Their chains rattled in unison like a wave of scraped
iron. Rabbit was amongst them. He did as the others around him did and kept his
nose to the wall as the slave handlers summoned in more domesticated slaves
from without each one with a bowl of warm water and a cloth.
One at a time each new slave was
unchained and stripped naked for the old slaves to wash the dirt and sand and
sweat and blood from their bodies. As their charges were cleaned off the slave
handlers gave them specific orders to adhere to.
"No disobedience," they said. "Speak
only when spoken to! Only move when you are ordered to! Do not look upon your
buyer unless he wishes it! Absolutely no disobedience! Look to these
slaves who now wash you as an example of your conduct! Silence and obedience.
Say it."
The new slaves kept quiet until the
chief handler cracked his whip. "I SAID SAY IT!"
"SILENCE
AND OBEDIENCE," said the Tehraqi-speaking slaves, including
Rabbit (who winced with discomfort as calloused hands roughly scrubbed his
body). One of the handlers suggested separating the non-Tehraqi speakers from
the rest so that the Kushwari and Jafari-speaking bilinguals within the `herd'
could properly elucidate these orders. Rabbit was one of those ordered to
translate their commands to his countrymen. He would never forget the lifeless
looks in their eyes as he explained it all.
Once all the new slaves were washed, dressed
in new attire (dyed beige loincloths) and re-chained, the slave handlers herded
them out of the darkness into a long stone corridor that rose up out of the
earth into a grassless iron paddock roofed over by thatch and lumber.
By Rabbit's count there were thirty-six other slaves with him
mainly women, girls, and a small group of sturdy Jafari men. Rabbit and the men
were kept to the male side of paddock which was surrounded on three sides by
tall ironwood walls the final side consisted of a canopied woodwork stage
where Dhabr the slave dealer stood before an assemblage of buyers. He was too
far away for Rabbit to hear what he was saying, but he did not need many
guesses. Once upon a time a boy named Abana ibn Tawab was taken by his father
to see an auction after their servants ran away. They came home with nothing
because the bids were too high.
Irony is bittersweet.
One of the three slave handlers standing
guard outside of the paddock unlocked the iron door on the male side and strode
in.
"You!" He pointed out one of the Jafari men and kept one hand close
to his whip. "Stand up now!"
The slave looked confused. He did not understand the command until
one of his Tehraqi-speaking kinsmen translated it. The slave stood up. The
handler then grabbed him by the forearm, shoved him out of the cage, and
marched him up the wooden steps to the stage with Dhabr where he was inspected
and sold.
Rabbit's turn came later.
As with the others, a slave handler opened the iron door and dragged
him out of the paddock by the arm. He fought back his tears for all the world
it felt like he was being marched toward the gallows as he was brought up the
auction house steps to Dhabr's side where he was inundated by a sea of gawking
Tehraqi faces. Rabbit froze. Not one glance of pity or shame did he see amongst
the dozens of men gathered beneath that stage only curiosity, lust and dispassionate appraisal.
"And here we have Rabbit, a fine catch fresh from the mountains of
Kushwar! Aside from a slight childhood burn on his right shoulder he is
completely unblemished!"
Dhabr showed them as much.
`...Why...?'
The boy sobbed as the slave dealer ordered him to open his mouth and
show everyone the condition of his teeth. Dhabr span him around to show his
buyers the burn mark, then spun him back around and lifted his loincloth to
show them all the `uncut' condition of his genitals.
`Why is this happening to me...?'
`I AM HIGHBORN!'
A wealthy Jafari merchant raised his hand. "250."
"270," yelled a Tehraqi man behind him. "I offer 270 for the boy!"
Dhabr smirked. "Ah! I have 270! 270 silverlings for the boy we
called Rabbit, but do I hear 290? 290 silverlings for the boy, do I hear it?"
There was a woman amongst the buyers far to the back and veiled in
dark black satin tasselled with gold lace. Her eyes were shadowed with kohl and
her wrists and fingertips ornately decorated with henna a noblewoman.
She raised her hand.
"350 silverlings," she said. "The household of the Governess of
Jawwaz offers 350 silverlings for the rabbit."
Dhabr smirked privately. "What a generous yet well met offer for the
boy of two tongues! Dare anyone bid 380? Does anyone wish to part with a little
more silver to buy themselves such a talented young man with so many potential
uses! 380, anyone?"
A dark baritone called out, "500."
Gasps. The buyers mulled the offer in hushed tones. Governess
Yahya's proxy sharpened her eyes in fury as Dhabr searched the crowd for the
bidder. "Do my ears deceive me or did I hear someone say 500?"
"You did," said the voice. "I did."
The whole crowd of buyers turned to their rear as a mysterious black
robed man emerged from the throng. He was tall to the point of lumbering, a
head taller than the next tallest man in the group once he stood up. He was
dressed from head to toe in pale russet robes like a temple priest but there
was no face beneath his shroud only an smooth ivory mask with an oddly carved
mouth; one corner curled up like a `smile' and the opposite corner curled down
like a `frown'.
"500 silverlings," rumbled
his voice. "I bid half-a-thousand for the Kushwari boy you call Rabbit."
Dhabr was stunned. This was not going the way he planned it. "500
silverlings! Do I... do I hear 510? 510 silverlings for the boy?" He looked to
Yahya's proxy for a counter bid, but she offered none only an angry glance at
the masked man outbidding her and no one else dared follow suit.
"Can no one top 500 silverlings? No one? Very well... sold! To the man
in the ivory mask! Now. On to the next slave for sale today. He is a keen
warrior from the distant land of Xian who-"
One of the slave handlers took Rabbit off the stage as his tears
finally started to fall. Yet he could not help but glance over his shoulder at
the ivory-masked man and wonder who it was that just bought him.
*
After the
auction Rabbit was held in his own private cell where he languished for over a
day as his title deeds were drawn up. It was a small cell six paces wide, six
paces long and just high enough for a man of moderate height to stand. Hay and
mice droppings riddled the floor. There was little to do except think and
scratch his flea bites. Mostly, he slept. That was what he was doing when his
new master came for him. Sleeping. Sleeping until the iron bolts unlocked and
the wooden door swung open. Rabbit's eyes shot open.
The ivory-masked man.
He was too tall by two heads to stand
upright in the cell he had to lower himself to his haunches to meet the boy
at eye level. Rabbit shivered and not from the cold.
He had never been so scared in his life.
"Fear does not become you,"
claimed the monk-like giant. "Do you know who I am?"
Rabbit shook his head.
"I am Rahab of Mahmun..." he leaned
closer to the boy. "And you? What is your name?"
"R-Rabbit..."
Rahab chuckled. "...No. That is not your
name. Your name is..." There were no eyes beyond the eyeholes of that ivory
mask only a swirling black void swallowing Rabbit whole as he gazed into it. "...Abana!
Abana ibn Tawab of Hafiz... grandson of the legendary paladin Fouzan ibn Mushegh...
is that not so...?"
`How...?' Abana trembled. `How
does he know my name...?'
Rahab tilted his head. "How do I know
your name? Are those your thoughts? A Seer sees thoughts as well as acts. He
even sees the histories that birth them. I am a Seer. I am Rahab of
Mahmun. And you... Abana ibn Tawab of Hafiz... now you belong to me."
**********
* 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).