The Great Bazaar

328AR

SUNLIGHT was heavy in the desert. More than heat or brightness, it was an oppressive weight, and Arlen kept finding himself hunching over as if to yield before it.

He was riding through the outskirts of the Krasian Desert, where there was nothing but cracked flats of dry clay as far as the eye could see in any direction. Nothing to provide shade or reflect heat. Nothing to sustain life.

Nothing to make a sane person wander out here, Arlen scolded himself, nevertheless straightening his back in defiance of the sun. He had a thin white robe on over his clothes, the hood pulled low over his eyes, and a veil over his mouth and nose. The cloth reflected some of the light, but it seemed scant protection. He had even slung a white sheet over his horse, a bay courser named Dawn Runner.

The horse gave a dry cough, attempting to dislodge the ever-present dust from its throat.

"I'm thirsty too, Dawn," Arlen said, stroking the horse's neck, "but we've used our water ration for the morning, so there's nothing for it but to endure."

Arlen reached again for Abban's map. The compass slung around his neck told him that they were still headed due east, but there was no sign of the canyon. It should have come in sight a day ago, and harsh rationing or no, they would have to turn back to Fort Krasia in another day if they did not reach the river and find water.

Or you could spare yourself a day of thirst and turn back now, a voice in his head said.

The voice was always telling him to turn back. Arlen thought of it as his father, the lingering presence of a man he hadn't seen in close to a decade. Its words were always the stern-sounding bits of wisdom that his father had liked to impart. Jeph Bales had been a good man, and honest, but his stern wisdom had kept him from traveling more than a few hours from his home for his entire life.

Every day away from succor was another night spent outside with the corelings, and not even Arlen took that lightly, but he had a deep and driving need to see things that no other man had seen, to go places no other man had gone. He had been eleven when he ran away from home. Now he was twenty, and had seen more of the world than any but a handful of other men.

Like the parch in Arlen's throat, the voice was simply another thing to be endured. The demons had made the world small enough. He would not let some nagging voice make it even smaller.

This time he was seeking Baha kad'Everam, a Krasian hamlet whose name translated into "Bowl of Everam," which was the Krasian name for the Creator. Abban's maps said it rested in a natural bowl formed by a dry lakebed in a river canyon. The hamlet was renowned for its pottery, but the pottery merchants had stopped coming more than twenty years ago, and a dal'Sharum expedition had found the Bahavans taken by the night. No one had gone back there since.

"I was on that expedition," Abban had claimed. Arlen had looked at the fat merchant doubtfully.

"It's true," Abban said. "I was just a novice warrior carrying spears for the dal'Sharum, but I remember the trek well. There was no sign of the Bahavans, but the village was intact. The warriors cared nothing for pottery, and thought it dishonorable to loot. Even now, there is pottery left in the ruins, waiting for any with the courage to claim it." He had leaned in closely then. "The work of a Bahavan pottery master would sell for a premium in the bazaar," he said meaningfully.

And now, Arlen was in the middle of the desert, wondering if Abban had made the whole thing up.

He went on for hours more before he caught sight of a shadow creasing across the clay flats ahead of him. He could led his heart thudding in his chest as Dawn Runner's plodding hooves slowly brought the canyon into view. Arlen breathed a sigh of relief, reminding himself that he ignored his father's voice for a reason. He turned his horse south; the bowl came into sight not long after.

Dawn Runner was grateful when they rode down into the bowl's shade. The hamlet's residents had apparently shared the sentiment, because they had built their homes into the ancient canyon walls, cutting deeply into the living clay and extending outward with adobe buildings indistinguishable in color from the canyon and invisible from any distance. A perfect camouflage from the wind demons that soared out over the flats in search of prey.

But despite this protection, the Bahavans had still died out. The river had gone dry, and sickness and thirst had left them vulnerable to the corelings. Perhaps a few had attempted the trek through the desert to Fort Krasia, but if so, they were never heard from again.

Arlen's initial high spirits fell with the realization that he was riding into a graveyard. Again. He drew wards of protection in the air as he passed the homes, calling out "Ay, Bahavans!" in the vain hope that some survivors might remain.

Only the sound of his own voice echoed back to him. The cloth that had served to block sun from windows and doorways, where it remained at all, was ragged and filthy, and the wards cut into the adobe were faded and worn from years of exposure to harsh desert wind and grit. The walls were scarred by demon claws. There were no survivors here.

There were demon pits dug in the center of the village to trap and hold corelings for the sun, and blockades running up the steep stone stairways that zigzagged in tiers up the canyon wall to link the buildings. They were hastily built defenses, put in place by the dal'Sharum not to defend the Bahavans, but rather to honor them. Baha kad'Everam had been a village of khaffit, men whose caste made them unworthy of the right to hold spears or enter into Heaven, but even such as they deserved hallowed ground to lay to rest, that I heir spirits might be reincarnated into a higher caste, if they were worthy.

And there was only one way the dal'Sharum hallowed ground. They stained it with their blood, and the black ichor that flowed through coreling veins. They called it alagai'sharak, meaning "demon war," and it was a battle waged every night in Fort Krasia, an eternal struggle that would go on until all the demons were dead, or there were no more men to fight them. The warriors had danced one night's alagai'sharak in Baha kad'Everam, to sanctify the Bahavans' graveyard.

Arlen rode around the blockades and down to the riverbed, a mighty channel that now held only a muddy, buggy trickle of water. Some thin vegetation clung stubbornly to the water's edge, but further back the stalks of dead plants jutted, choked with dust and too dry to rot.

The water collected in a few small pools, brown and stinking. Arlen filtered it through charcoal and cloth, but still looked at the water doubtfully, and decided to boil it, as well. Dawn Runner nibbled at the bits of weed and prickly grass while he worked.

It was getting late in the day, and Arlen looked at the setting sun resentfully. "C'mon, boy," he told the horse. "Time to lock ourselves up for the night."

He led Dawn Runner back up the bank and into the main courtyard of the village. With little rain or erosion, the demon pits, twenty feet deep and ten feet in diameter, remained intact, but the wards that had been cut into the stones around them were dirty and faded. Any demon thrown into one of the pits now would likely climb right back out.

Still, the pits gave some security. Arlen set up his portable circles right between the adobe walls and one pit, limiting the path of approach to his camp.

Ten feet in diameter, Arlen's portable warding circles were composed of lacquered wooden plates connected by lengths of stout rope. Each plate was painted with ancient symbols of forbiddance, enough to shield him from every known breed of coreling. He laid them out in precise fashion, ensuring that the wards lined up correctly to form a seamless net.

He drove a stake into the clay inside one circle and looped rope around Dawn Runner's legs, hobbling the horse and tying it to the stake with a complicated knot. If the horse struggled or tried to bolt when the demons came, the ropes would tighten and hold it in place, but Arlen could free the knot with but a tug, dropping the loops and freeing Dawn Runner instantly.

In the other circle, Arlen made his own camp. He laid a fire, but did not yet set spark to it, for wood was precious this far out, and the desert night would grow bitter cold.

As he worked, Arlen's eyes kept drifting up the stone steps lo the adobe buildings built into the walls. Somewhere up I here was the workshop of Master Dravazi, an artisan whose painted pottery had been worth its weight in gold while he lived, and was priceless now. One original Dravazi, lying forgotten on the potter's wheel, would likely finance his entire trip. More would make him a very rich man.

Arlen even had a good idea of where the master's workshop lay from his maps, but as much as he wanted to go and search, the sun was setting.

As the great orb settled below the horizon, the heat leached from the clay flats, drifting skyward and giving the demons a path up from the Core. An evil gray mist rose from the ground outside the circles, coalescing slowly into demonic form.

As the mist rose, Arlen began to feel claustrophobic, as if his circle was surrounded by glass walls, cutting him off from the world. It was hard to breathe in the circle, even though the wards blocked only demon magic, and fresh air blew across his lace even now. He looked out at his rising jailors, and bared his teeth.

Wind demons were the first to form, standing about the height of a tall man at the shoulder, but with head fins that rose much higher, topping eight or nine feet. Their great long snouts were sharp-edged like beaks, but also hid rows of teeth, thick as a man's finger. Their skin was a tough, flexible armor that could turn any spearpoint or arrowhead. That resilient substance stretched thin out from their sides and along the underside of their arm bones to form the tough membrane of their giant wings, which often spanned three times their height, jointed with wicked hooked talons that could cleanly sever a man's head when they dived.

The windies took no notice of Arlen, as he was set back against the adobe walls and had yet to light his fire. As they solidified, they set off towards the riverbank at a run. Their stunted legs offered little grace on land, but as they shrieked and leapt from the edge of the bank, the cruel elegance of their design became apparent as they spread their enormous wings with a great snap and swooped upwards, flapping just a few powerful strokes before soaring into the gloaming in search of prey.

Arlen had expected to see the sand demons that haunted the dunes of the Krasian desert rise next, but the twilight showed the mists thinning already, forming only a last few wind demons.

Arlen perked up at this. Though corelings would hunt and kill most anything, their true hatred was for humanity, and they were sometimes reluctant to leave ruins once the inhabitants were dead, in case more humans were one day drawn to the site. Unaging, demons were nothing if not patient, and could lie in wait for decades or more.

It was only natural for the windies to continue to materialize here. The canyon cliffs provided an ideal takeoff spot, and they could soar far and wide in the night to seek out prey. But land-bound sand demons had no such luxury, and Arlen could find no sign of them in the area. Sand demons hunted in packs known as storms, and it seemed that some time in the last twenty years, the storm had moved on in search of other prey.

Arlen stood and began to pace impatiently as he watched the last of the wind demons go, looking up at the adobe buildings, calculating. If he kept low, it was unlikely a wind demon would spot him on the cliff walls. Even if one did, he could retreat into the adobe buildings. The windows and doorways were too narrow to admit windies unless they landed, and wind demons on land could be easily tripped or outrun. There was still no sign of sand demons; their size and coloring would stand out in the adobe village.

And One Arm wouldn't arrive for hours. If he was quick...

Don't be stupid. Wait for dawn! his father's voice snapped at him, but Arlen had seldom listened to it before. If he'd wanted to live a safe life, he would have remained in the Free Cities, where most people went from womb to pyre without daring to step outside a wardnet.

Arlen had been outside in the naked night many times, specially in Fort Krasia, where he was the only outsider ever to dance alagai'sharak. This time, though, there were no dal'Sharum warriors at his side to help him if something happened. He was on his own.

Nothing new there, Arlen thought.

He lit a slow-burning fire at the center of his circle, so he might easily find his way back in the darkness, and affixed a torch socket to the end of his spear. He slung spare torches over his back in a loose pack he hoped would soon be full of Bahavan pottery. Finally, he took up his round shield, painted with the same defensive wards as his circle, and stepped over the barrier.

As he left the circle, Arlen took what felt like his first full breath since sunset. He knew it was all his imagination, but it seemed as if the air tasted better outside the circle, cooler and sweeter. It felt good to reclaim a bit of the world corelings took from man each night.

He made his way to the stairs, moving the torch this way and that, carefully scanning for any sign of demons, always ready to defend or flee.

It was a difficult climb. The steps were irregular, with some too narrow to put his entire foot upon, and others where it was several paces to the next step. Sometimes the path was nearly level, and other times it was a steep slope. He imagined the Bahavans had very strong thighs.

To make matters worse, the dal'Sharum had ransacked most of the lower tiers for materials to build their blockades. Broken pottery, furniture, clothing; anything not built into the walls was piled on the streets to slow any corelings on the way to Krasian ambushes that threw them over the narrow side-wall and down into the pits below.

Arlen ducked low, using the cover provided by that wall as he climbed and glanced warily out into the night sky. Wind demons could drop like silent stones from a mile in the sky, snapping their wings open at the last instant to sever a man's head, snatch him in their hind talons, and take back off without ever touching ground. He had no doubt one could pick him off the walls if it spotted him before he caught sight of it.

By the fifth tier, the blockades ended and the homes seemed intact, but Arlen continued to climb despite the burning in his thighs. Master Dravazi's workshop was said to be on the seventh tier, for there were seven pillars of heaven, and seven layers to Nie's abyss.

Arlen tried to fight back a giddy smile as he gained the seventh tier and saw the master's name carved into the archway of a large building. He scanned the area again, but there was still no sign of sand demons, and the wind demons seemed to have flown far off into the night.

A ragged curtain hung in the doorway, likely meant more lo hold back the ever-present orange dust than for privacy or security. There was no need for such in a hamlet as small and isolated as Baha.

Arlen eased up to the doorway, pushing the curtain aside with the edge of his shield and thrusting his spear into the darkness. The torch cast flickering light over a room filled with pottery.

Arlen choked, hardly believing his eyes. The work lay slacked, prepared for a trip to market some twenty years ago that had never come to pass. The pottery was covered in orange dust, making it the same color as the walls and floors of the buildings, but it seemed intact, even after so much time. He readied out a tentative hand, and his fingers left lines in the dust, revealing smooth lacquer and brightly-painted designs that shone in the torchlight. One room, and it contained more riches that he could possibly carry!

He dropped to one knee, setting down his spear and shield to remove the backpack. He scanned the smaller vases, lamps, and bowls, deciding what to take. He would carry a few pieces back to his circle to examine while he waited for dawn to come, and then return for the rest.

He was sliding a delicate vase into the pack when he heard the rumble. Thinking he had dislodged something and the stack of pottery was about to topple, he grabbed his spear and brought up the torch.

But there was no sign of teetering pottery, and the rumble sounded again, this time almost a growl, a few guttural "r's" floating in the darkness.

Forgetting the pottery, Arlen snatched up his shield, slowly turning towards the sound. A sand demon must have followed him into the room, stalking as quietly as it could, but unable to quell the animal instinct in its throat.

Arlen turned a slow circuit, holding his torch out far and scanning the room, but there was no sign of any demon. He gave a sudden start and glanced upwards, but there was nothing above waiting to drop on him. He shuddered and forced himself to keep looking.

He almost missed it, but for another faint growl that came while his torch happened to be in the right place. It seemed a plain adobe wall at first, but then part of the wall... shifted.

There was a demon there. Even staring right at it, the coreling was almost invisible. Its armor was the exact orange of the clay, and had the same rough texture. It was small, no bigger than a medium-sized dog, but it was compact in a way that spoke of powerful bunched muscle, and its claws left deep grooves in the adobe walls. Arlen had never seen the like.

The coreling wriggled slightly, tamping, and then gave a great roar as it uncoiled and launched itself at him.

"Night!" Arlen screamed as he put up his shield, wondering if the wards would even hold against this new breed of coreling. Wards were picky like that, each made to block a specific type of demon. There was some overlap, but nothing to gamble one's life upon.

Magic flared as the demon struck his shield, knocking Arlen over, but even as the wards activated, Arlen knew they would not hold forever. No demon should have been able to touch his shield at all, but this one held on tenaciously against the force of the magic trying to repel it.

The demon was heavier than it looked, but Arlen got his weight under the shield and lifted, driving hard into the adobe wall. The coreling's claws lost purchase with the impact, and the magic, still pushing hard against the prone demon, flung Arlen backwards instead. He landed in the pile of pottery, smashing much of the priceless artwork.

"Corespawn it!" he cursed, but there was no time to lament, for the demon hurled itself into the pile, scattering clay shards everywhere. Arlen was jabbed and cut from all sides by the jagged clay bits as he tried to put his feet under him.

He managed to get his shield up as the clay demon leapt at him again, but the demon dug its claws in deep and pulled so hard that the leather straps around Aden's forearm snapped, and the shield was pulled from his grasp. He stumbled frantically backwards, trying to get away from the creature before it could untangle itself and come at him again. It would be a long run back to his portable circles without his shield, and from what he had just seen, there was no guarantee his circles would even hold the creature back.

The demon leapt again, but Arlen had his spear up, stabbing the creature right in the center of its chest. It was a powerful blow from a fine weapon, but even the weakest coreling had armor enough to turn a speartip. The point failed to pierce, but the demon took the torch in its face, knocking it from its socket. Arlen shoved hard, throwing the demon back, and in the flickering light, he saw it stumble awkwardly, momentarily blinded by the light.

"Come on, then!" Arlen shouted, goading the demon as he edged towards the door. It leapt at him one last time, still dazzled, but Arlen was ready for it. Snatching the door curtain, he caught the clay demon up in its crusted and dusty folds, gripping the ends tightly as the coreling struggled. The curtain tore from the rod as Arlen pushed out the door and to the stair ledge, throwing the demon over. Still tangled in the curtain, its roars were muffled as it fell to the courtyard far below.

Arlen rushed back to snatch up the torch. He left his pack where it lay, along with his broken shield and spear, and hurried back out to the stairs. He was about to head down when a scrabbling sound vibrated in the air. He looked at the adobe walls going up the cliff face, and felt his stomach churn as they came alive with clay demons.

Gonna get'cherself killed one of these days, Arlen heard his father say, but at that moment, he had neither time nor inclination to disagree. He turned and ran down the steps as fast .is his legs could carry him.

Moving faster than he could see his footing in the flickering torchlight, Arlen took steps several at a time, but it wasn't enough. There were demons ahead of him as well as behind. He must have climbed right past them on the way up, oblivions. As he came towards a landing, a pair of clay demons bounded around the corner from the tier below, talons tamping down as their muscles tense to spring.

Arlen had no way to arrest his downward motion when they appeared, so he did the only thing he could think of and rolled right over the edge of the wall.

The drop was a good ten feet, and he landed heavily on his side on the steps of the next tier. The demons gave chase, but Arlen shoved his pain aside, bounced to his feet, and ran on.

The demons were fast, but Arlen's legs were longer, and desperation gave him blinding speed. As much from memory as from sight, he dodged around the Krasian blockades, suddenly thankful that the dal'Sharum had torn apart the lower levels for fodder.

A demon dropped onto him from above, talons digging deep into his back as its teeth sank into his shoulder, but Arlen hardly slowed. He shoved the torch in the demon's face and threw himself backwards into the cliff wall, blasting the breath from the creature and breaking its hold. He grabbed the coreling and threw it at another pair hurtling down the steps at him.

Using the bright torch to drive demons back, Arlen ran on. He fell twice, twisting his ankle badly once, but both times he was back up and running before the pain registered. Behind him, it seemed as if the entire cliff face had become a swarm of roaring demons.

He leapt over another wall to avoid the last infested landing and sprinted for his campfire, only to find the clay demon he had thrown over the cliff trapped in the middle of his circle. The height and cloth wrapping must have protected it from the wards on the way in, but the creature now clawed madly at the wardnet in its desperation to escape, sending spiderwebs of white magic through the air.

Unable to use his own circle, Arlen ran on to Dawn Runner's. A clay demon blocked his path, but as it leapt at him, Arlen dropped his torch and grabbed it in both hands. The demon's sharp scales cut his hands and he caught a blast of its rank breath in his face, but he pivoted sharply, using its own energy to hurl the creature into one of the demon pits in the courtyard.

There was a shriek as Arlen dove into the horse's portable circle, and the wards flared brightly as a wind demon struck the net. The coreling was hurled back and would have gone into the same pit as the clay demon had it not spread its wings in time to catch itself. It shrieked at him again, revealing rows of teeth in the light of the wards.

But Arlen wasn't safe yet. The clay demons surged at him in a wave, dozens of them charging the circle. The wards flared as the demons tried to cross the line, stopping them short, but the clay demons were not hurled back as they should be. Magic shocked through their snub bodies and they howled in pain, but still they dug their claws into the clay and inched forward against the press. Arlen moved around the circle, kicking them back from the net, but it was an impossible task to maintain for long, and it was still early in the night. Sooner or later, the clay demons would get through. Dawn Runner knew it too, the beast struggling hard against the ropes.

But then a roar sounded that dwarfed even the cacophony of the clay demons, and One Arm bounded into the courtyard. The rock demon was fifteen feet tall from horn to toe, covered in a thick black carapace that could not be harmed by anything short of the most potent wards.

Jealous as ever, the giant coreling swept the clay demons aside with its good arm like a man might sweep autumn leaves, clearing a path to Aden's circle. It roared at any clay demon foolish enough to draw close, killing more than a few of its smaller cousins before they took the message to heart.

Arlen had crippled One Arm in their first encounter, almost ten years gone. Little more than a boy at the time, he had severed the behemoth's limb more by accident than design, but One Arm was immortal, and as incapable of forgetting as it was of forgiveness.

Every night, One Arm rose in the place it had last seen Arlen, and followed his trail. No matter how many rivers Arlen swam or trees he climbed, the great demon always caught up to him in a matter of hours, running more swiftly than any horse. Tireless, thirstless, its only thoughts were of vengeance.

The rock demon hammered at Arlen's wards, illuminating the entire river bowl with magic as it attempted to take its revenge, but Arlen knew his rock wards well, and there was little chance that One Arm would succeed. Still, as he sat back, staring up at the enraged creature, he felt no comfort at the unexpected rescue from the clay demons. He knew that sooner or later, the mighty rock demon would catch him on the wrong side of the wards, and then he would likely wish the clay demons had gotten him.

But for now, he flung the demon an obscene gesture and dug into Dawn Runner's saddlebags for his spare herb pouch and bandages.

He had become quite good at stitching up his own skin.

JUST BEFORE DAWN, as the sky began to lighten, Arlen was startled awake by frantic shrieking. A light sleeper by necessity, he leapt up, shaking off slumber like a blanket. One Arm had already sunk back down into the Core, as had all the wind and clay demons save one.

The coreling trapped in Arlen's main circle smashed hard against the wardnet, clawing at the web of magic, but it was unable to pass. The wards might not be wholly attuned to clay demons, but when a coreling was surrounded on all sides by a complete circuit, the net's power was increased manifold.

The horizon brightened further, and Arlen watched the demon's last moments of existence with great interest. In the growing light, the creature looked a little like an armadillo, with segmented plates of orange armor along its back and powerful stub legs covered in thick, sharp scales and ending in hooked claws. Its blunt head was shaped like a cylinder, able to butt with tremendous force, which it demonstrated repeatedly as it smashed vainly against magic walls of its prison.

Rays of light began to reach the dry riverbed, and the coreling screamed in pain, though the canyon walls still kept it in shadow. It wouldn't be long.

In desperation, the demon became insubstantial, disintegrating into an orange mist that filled the circle. But even its dematerialized form was unable to escape. There was no path to the Core in the clay floor inside the wardnet, and it flowed towards the edges of the circle, but crackles of magic held it at bay, shivering through the mist like lightning dancing through a cloud.

The mist flowed around the circle, trying again and again to find a hole in Arlen's tight net. Even in its disembodied st ate, Arlen could taste its desperation and fear, and he tensed with excitement. Demons were ail-but immune to mortal weapons. The only guaranteed way to kill one was to trap it in a warded circle and wait for the sun, a task that often took as many humans with it as demons.

Finally, the sun rose high enough to reach the far side of the river, and Arlen could see sparks catching in the orange cloud like kindling. Suddenly, there was a flash of intense heat as the mist ignited, setting the very air on fire. Arlen felt the rush of vacuum; his eyes dried out and his cheeks reddened, but he could not have looked away if his life depended on it. For all that demons had taken from the world, Arlen would never tire of seeing one pay the ultimate price for its evil.

He searched his campsite after the demon flame expired, but most of his gear had been torn apart and smashed by the demon, or else burned when it ignited the air. He had spares of the most irreplaceable items in Dawn Runner's circle, but that one dead demon was going to end up costing him most of his profit from selling the pottery.

If there was even pottery left to sell. Arlen rushed back up the stairs to Master Dravazi's workshop, and as he feared, almost every piece was cracked or shattered. He searched the rest of the adobe buildings and found a great deal of pottery, but it was sturdy and utilitarian. The Bahavans, dependent on trade to survive, had wasted little of their artistry on ornamenting the pieces they used themselves. He would be lucky to even cover his losses.

Still, despite the pain and loss, Arlen rode out of the canyon with his head high. He had seen someplace no one had visited in over twenty years, braved its demons, and would return to tell the tale.

One of these days, your luck won't hold, his father's voice reminded him.

Maybe, he thought back to it, but not today.

ABBAN LIMPED THROUGH the great bazaar of Fort Krasia, the Desert Spear, leaning heavily on his crutch. He was a large-bellied man, but his lame leg would not have been able to support him in any event.

He wore a yellow silk turban topped with a tan felt cap. Under his tan suede vest he wore a loose shirt of bright blue silk, covered in thread-of-gold scrollwork, and his fingers glittered with rings. His pantaloons, the same yellow silk as his turban, were held up by a jeweled belt, and the head of his crutch was smooth white ivory, carved into the likeness of the first camel he had ever bought, with his armpit resting between its two humps.

The bazaar sprawled for miles along the inner walls of the city. There on the hot, dusty streets were seemingly endless kiosks, tents, and pens, showcasing food, spices, perfume, clothing, jewelry, furniture, livestock, pack animals, and anything else a buyer could possibly want.

Much like the Maze outside the walls, designed to let the dal'Sharum trap and kill any demon attempting to get into the city, the bazaar was designed to trap shoppers and put them off balance as the vendors descended on them. The dazzling array of goods and the aggressiveness of the sellers weakened the resolve and loosened the purse strings of even the most difficult to please shopper, and apparent exits from the district were more often than not dead ends as the ever-shifting kiosks blocked through-passage of the street. Even those familiar with the twists and turns of the bazaar found themselves lost from time to time.

But not Abban. The bazaar was his home, and the sound of shouted haggling was the air he breathed. He could no more get lost in the bazaar than the First Warrior get lost in the Maze.

Abban was born in his family's tent, right in the center of the bazaar. His grandmother had served as midwife, and Abban's father, Chabin, had kept their kiosk open to customers even while his wife howled in the back. He couldn't afford to lose the business, especially if there was to be another mouth to feed.

Chabin was a good man, Abban remembered, a hard worker trying to provide for his family even though his cowardice had made him unsuitable as a warrior, and the clerics had found his faith lacking.

Denied those two vocations, the only callings considered suitable for a Krasian man, Abban's father had been forced to bend his back each day, toiling like a woman. He was khaffit, a man without honor, and the paradise of Everam would forever be denied him as a result.

But Chabin had shouldered his burdens without complaint, turning a minor kiosk of substandard trinkets into a bustling business with clients as far away as the green lands to the north. He had taught Abban about mathematics and geography, showing him how to draw words and to speak the tongue of greenlanders so that he could haggle with their Messengers over the goods they brought to trade. He taught Abban many things, but most of all, Chabin had taught Abban to fear the dama. A lesson provided at the cost of his own life.

Dama, the clerics of Everam, were at the highest echelon of Krasian society. They wore bright white robes that could be spotted at a distance, and served as a bridge between man and Creator. It was within the rights of the dama to kill any tribesman below their station, instantly and without fear of reprisal, if they felt that the man was disrespecting them or the sacred laws they enforced.

Abban had been eight when his father was killed. Cob, a Messenger from the north, had come to the kiosk, buying supplies for his return trek. He was a valued customer and a vital link to the flow of goods form the green lands. Abban knew to treat the man like a prince.

"Damaged one of my circles on the trek in," Cob said, limping with the aid of his spear. "I'll need rope and paint."

Chabin snapped his fingers, and Abban handed his father a small pot of paint while he ran to fetch the rope.

"Damned sand demon bit off half my foot before I could retreat to my spare," Cob said, showing his bandaged foot.

Distracted by the sight, neither Chabin nor Cob had noticed the dama passing by.

But the dama had noticed them; particularly that Abban's lather had failed to bow low in submission, as was required of a khaffit in the presence of a cleric.

"Bow, you filthy khaffit!" the dal'Sharum escorting the dama had barked.

Chabin, startled by the shout, had whirled around, accidentally spilling paint onto the dama's pristine white robe.

For a moment, time seemed frozen, and then the enraged dama reached over the counter and took hold of Chabin's hair and chin, twisting sharply. A crack, like the sound of wood breaking, resounded in the tent, and Abban's father fell over, dead.

It was over a quarter century since that day, but Abban still remembered the sound vividly.

When he was old enough, Abban had been forced to try his hand at being a warrior, that he might not share his father's shame. But though his Chabin's caste was not hereditary, Abban had proven just as weak, just as cowardly. He was still a novice when the brutal training crippled him, and he found himself cast out as khaffit.

Abban nodded at some merchants as he passed their kiosks. The vendors were mostly women, wrapped head-to-toe in heavy black cloth, though there were other khaffit like him, as well. They, like Abban, were easily distinguishable in their bright clothes, though all wore the plain tan cap and vest of their caste. Apart from khaffit, only women wore bright, colorful clothing, and they only when alone with their husbands or other women.

If the merchant women felt contempt at the sight of Abban the khaffit, they knew better than to show it. Though he shared his father's weaknesses, Abban had inherited Chabin's strengths as well, and the family business had grown every year since Abban had taken the reins. Offending him invariably meant a loss of business, as the fat khaffit had connections and ongoing deals throughout the bazaar and in cities hundreds of miles to the north. The bulk of trade from the green lands came through Abban, and any who wanted access to the valuable exotic merchandise kept their disdain to themselves.

All except one. There was a shout from across the street as Abban came to his own pavilion, and he looked with disgust at the competitor who hobbled towards him.

"Abban, my friend!" the man called, though he was anything but. "I thought I recognized your bright womanly clothes coming down the street! How is business this day?"

Abban scowled, but he knew better than to offer a rude response. Amit asu Samere am'Rajith am'Majah was a dal'Sharum warrior, as far above Abban the khaffit as a man was above a woman, and while it was not technically legal for a dal'Sharum to kill a khaffit without just cause, in practice, there would be little or no repercussion if one did.

This was why Abban had to pretend that the occasional carts of goods that vanished from his possession had never existed, much less been stolen, even when he knew it had been Amit's people who took them.

Amit was a recent addition to the market. A sand demon had bitten the meat from his calf in battle, and the wound had festered. Eventually, the dama'ting had no choice but to amputate. It was a grave dishonor to be crippled in battle but not die, but since he had managed to trap the offending demon before the rising sun, Amit's place in the afterlife was assured.

Unlike Abban, Amit was clad from head to toe in black, as befitted a warrior, his night veil loose around his neck. He still carried his spear, using it more as a walking staff than a weapon these days, but he kept it sharp, and was quick to threaten with it when aroused.

A man in warrior black attracted attention in the bazaar, since it was, for the better part, the near-exclusive domain of women and khaffit. People tended to move carefully around him, frightened to approach, so Amit had tied a bright orange cloth beneath the head of his spear to signal his status as a merchant and to draw the eyes of potential customers.

"Ah, Amit, my good friend!" Abban said, his face filling with a look of warm, welcoming sincerity practiced before thousands of customers. "By Everam, it is good to see you. The sun shines brighter when you are about. Business is well, indeed! Thank you for asking. I trust things go well in your pavilion also?"

"Of course, of course!" Amit said, his eyes shooting daggers. He looked ready to say more, but he noticed a pair of women who had stopped to examine one of Abban's fruit carts.

"Come come, honored mothers, I have far better fare across the way in my pavilion!" Amit said. "Would you rather buy your goods from a soulless khaffit, or one who has stood tall in the night against the demon hordes?"

Few could refuse him when it was put that way, and the women turned and headed towards Amit's pavilion. Amit sneered at Abban. It was not the first time he had stolen Abban's business thusly, and likely it was not the last.

There was a hissing in the general din of the market then, and both men looked up. The sound was a warning from other vendors that dama approached. All around, merchants would be hiding wares that were prohibited under Evejan law, such as spirits or musical instruments. Even Amit glanced down at himself to see if he had any contraband on his person.

A few minutes later, the source of the warning became clear. Led by a young cleric in full white robe, a group of nie'dama, novices in white loincloths with one end thrown over their shoulders, were collecting bread, fruit, and meat from the market. There was no offer of payment for what they took, nor did any vendor dare ask. The dama grazed like goats, and there was nothing a merchant who valued his skin dare say about it.

Remembering his father's lesson, Abban bowed so low when the dama appeared that he feared he might tip over. Amit noticed, and smacked Abban's crutch with the butt of his spear, braying a laugh as Abban fell in the dust. The dama turned their way at the sound, and Abban, feeling the weight of that look, put his forehead down and groveled in the dirt like a dog. Amit, conversely, simply nodded his head to the dama in respect, a gesture the cleric returned.

The dama walked on after a moment, but Abban caught the eye of one of the nie'dama, a skinny boy of no more than twelve years. The boy glanced at Amit, then smirked at Abban kneeling in the dust, but he winked conspiratorially before following after his brothers.

And to make matters worse, that was the precise moment the Par'chin arrived.

Being caught groveling in the dirt was never a good way to begin a negotiation.

ARLEN LOOKED SADLY at Abban kneeling in the dirt. He knew the loss of face hurt his friend more deeply than a dame's whip ever could. There were a great many things that Arlen admired about the Krasian people, but their treatment of women and khaffit was not among them. No man deserved such shame.

He looked away purposefully as Abban hauled on his crutch to regain his feet, staring intently at a cart of trinkets he had no interest in. When Abban had righted himself and dusted off, Arlen led Dawn Runner over as if he had just arrived.

"Par'chin!" Abban cried, as if he had just noticed Arlen himself. "It is good to see you, son of Jeph! I take it from the laden horse you lead that your journey was a success?"

Arlen pulled out a Dravazi vase, handing it to Abban for inspection. As ever, Abban had a look of disgust painted on his face before he even had a good look at the object. He reminded Arlen of old Hog, the owner of the general store in Tibbet's Brook where he had grown up. Never one to let a seller know he was interested until the haggling was done.

"Pity, I had hoped for better," Abban said, though the vase was more beautiful than any Arlen had ever seen in Abban's pavilion. "I doubt it will sell for much."

"Spare me the demonshit, for once," Arlen snapped. "I almost got myself cored over these pieces, and if you're not paying good coin for them, I'll take them elsewhere."

"You wound me, son of Jeph!" Abban cried. "I, who gave you the very maps and instruction that led you to the treasure in the first place!"

"The place was full of strange demons," Arlen said. "That drives the price up."

"Strange demons?" Abban asked.

Arlen nodded. "They were snub and orange like the rock," he said, "no bigger than a dog, but there were hundreds of them."

Abban nodded. "Clay demons," he said. "Baha kad'Everam is infested with them."

"Night, you knew?!" Arlen cried. "You knew and sent me there unprepared?"

"I didn't tell you about the clay demons?" Abban asked.

"No, you corespawned well didn't!" Arlen shouted. "I didn't even have proper wards against them!"

Abban paled. "What do you mean, you didn't have wards against them, Par'chin?" he said. "Any fool child knows about clay demons."

"If you were born in a ripping desert, maybe!" Arlen growled. "They told me the same thing in the corespawned Duke's Mines after I was almost cored by a pack of snow demons. I should take this whole load north to Fort Rizon, just to spite you!"

"Oh, there's no need for that, Par'chin!" a voice called. Arlen looked up to see a dal'Sharum hobbling across the street to them. He didn't know the man, but it was no surprise the man knew him. Most dal'Sharum had at least heard of the Par'chin, if not met him directly.

By itself, chin meant "outsider," but in practice it was an insult, synonymous with "coward" and "weakling." It was a title even lower than khaffit. "Par'chin," however, meant "brave outsider," and it was a singular title belonging to Arlen alone, the only greenlander ever to learn the ways of the Desert Spear and stand beside dal'Sharum in alagai'sharak.

"Allow me to introduce myself," the stranger said in Krasian, gripping forearms with Arlen in a warrior's greeting. He didn't speak the northern tongue as Abban did, but unlike most other Messengers, Arlen spoke the Krasian tongue fluently. "I am Amit asu Samere am'Rajith am'Majah," the man said. "Tell me how this pathetic khaffit has failed you, and I will better anything he has offered."

Abban grabbed Arlen's arm. "Tell him you stole pottery from hallowed ground, Par'chin," he said in the Northern tongue, "and we'll both be staked out before the city gates as night falls."

"Khaffit!" Amit barked. "It is the height of rudeness to speak some barbarian tongue in the presence of men!"

"A thousand apologies, noble dal'Sharum," Abban said, bowing low and stepping back so the other man could not trip him again.

"You don't want to deal with the likes of this pig-eating half-man," Amit said to Arlen. "You have stood in the night! Dealing with khaffit is beneath you. But like you, I have demon ichor on my hands. Twelve, did I help see the sun, before losing my leg!"

"Ah," Abban muttered in Arlen's language, "the last time I heard him tell it, it was only a half dozen. He must be adding to his count still."

"Eh, what was that, khaffit?" Amit asked, not understanding, but knowing it was likely an insult.

"Nothing, honored dal'Sharum," Abban said, bowing smugly.

Amit smacked Abban's face. "I told you before you were being rude with that savage grunting!" he barked. "Apologize to the Par'chin!"

Arlen had had enough. He stamped his spear, rounding on the merchant angrily. "You would ask a man to apologize for speaking my own language to me?!" he roared, shoving Amit so hard he fell to the ground. For a moment, the merchant's eyes hardened and he gripped his spear, ready to leap to the attack, but his eyes flicked to Arlen's strong legs, and then to his own stump, and thought better of it. He bowed his head.

"My apologies, Par'chin," he bit off the words as if each one had a foul taste. "I meant no insult."

The caste system cut both ways. Amit had greeted Arlen as a fellow warrior, and warriors had their own pecking order: strong to weak. His peg leg put Amit at the very bottom of that order. To a strong warrior, he was only a small step above khaffit himself. It was no wonder Amit had chosen to make the bazaar his home.

Arlen pointed his spear at Amit. "Think twice before you insult my homeland again," he said, keeping his voice low with menace, "or the next time the dust of the street will be dampened with blood."

He meant no such thing, of course, but Amit need never know that. Dal'Sharum required a show of strength, if they were to respect you.

Abban took Arlen's arm and hurried him into his pavilion before the incident had a chance to escalate further.

"Hah!" he cried, when they were inside and the heavy tent flap closed behind them. "Amit will make me suffer a month for seeing that, but it will be worth every insult and blow."

"You shouldn't have to tolerate such treatment," Arlen said for what felt like the thousandth time. "It's not right."

But Abban waved him away. "Right or wrong, it is the way of things, Par'chin," Abban said. "Perhaps they treat my kind differently in your land, but in the Desert Spear, you might as well ask the sun not to shine so hot."

It was cool in Abban's tent, and his women came over immediately, taking Arlen's dusty outer robe and his boots, giving him a clean robe to sit in. They piled pillows for the men and brought out pitchers of water and bowls of fruit and meat, along with steaming cups of tea. When they were refreshed, Abban produced a small bottle and two tiny clay cups.

"Come, Par'chin, drink with me," he said. "Let us calm our nerves and start our meeting anew." Arlen looked at the tiny cup dubiously, then shrugged and took a sip.

A moment later, he spit it back out, reaching frantically for the water jug. Abban laughed and kicked his feet.

"Are you trying to poison me?" Arlen demanded, but his anger dissipated when Abban held up his own cup and drained it.

"What in the Core is that foul brew?" he asked.

"Couzi," Abban said. "Made from distilled fermented grain and cinnamon. By Everam, Par'chin, how many casks of it have you lugged across the desert without having a taste?"

"I don't drink the merchandise," Arlen said. "And for the ledger, it tastes more like a flame demon's spit than cinnamon."

"It can double as lamp oil," Abban agreed, smiling. He refilled Arlen's cup and handed it to him. "Best to drink the first one quickly," he advised, refilling his own cup, "but by the third, all you'll taste is the cinnamon."

Arlen threw back the cup and nearly choked. His throat burned like he had just drank boiling water.

"This is a corespawned drink," he choked, but allowed Abban to fill his cup again.

"The Damaji agree with you, Par'chin," Abban said. "Couzi is illegal under Evejan law, but we khaffit are allowed to make it to sell to chin?

"And you keep a little for yourself," Arlen said.

Abban snorted. "I do more business in couzi here than in the green lands, Par'chin," he said. "It takes only a small bottle to make even a large man's head swim, so it is easily smuggled under the darnel's noses. Khaffit drink it by the cask, and dal'Sharum bring into the Maze to give them bravery in the night. Even a few damn have developed the taste."

"You don't think it'll cost you in the next life, selling forbidden drink to clerics?" Arlen asked, draining another cup. Already, it was going down smoother.

"If I believed in such nonsense, I would, Par'chin," Abban said, "so it is well that I don't."

Arlen sipped at the next cup, his throat numb to the burn now. He savored the taste of the cinnamon, amazed that he hadn't noticed it before. He felt as if his body were floating above the embroidered silk pillows he rested upon. Abban seemed similarly relaxed, and by the time the small bottle was empty, they were laughing at nothing and slapping one another on the back.

"Now that we're friends again," Abban said, "may we return to business?"

Arlen nodded, and watched as Abban rose unsteadily to his feet, stumbling over to the Bahavan pottery that his women had unloaded from Dawn Runner and brought inside. Of course, Abban's face immediately fell into one of practiced neutrality as he prepared to haggle.

"Most of these are not Dravazi," he said.

"Wasn't much in the master's shop," Arlen lied. "Besides, we still need to discuss your lack of candor regarding the dangers of the trip before we talk coin."

"What does it matter?" Abban asked. "You walked out unscathed, as always."

"It matters, because I might not have gone at all if I had known the place was infested with demons I didn't have proper wards for!" Arlen snapped.

But Abban only scoffed, waving a hand at him dismissively. "What reason would I have had to lie to you, son of Jeph?" he asked. "You are the Par'chin, the brave one who dares to go anywhere! Had I told you of the clay demons, it would only have strengthened your resolve to see the place and spit in their eyes!"

"Flattery ent gonna get you out of this, Abban," Arlen said, though the compliment did warm his couzied mind a bit. "You'll need to do better."

"What would the Par'chin have me do?" Abban asked.

"I want a grimoire of clay demon wards," Arlen said.

"Done," Abban said, "and free of charge. My gift to you, my friend." Arlen raised his eyebrows. Wards were a valuable commodity, and Abban was not a man free with his gifts.

"Call it investment," Abban said. "Even plain Bahavan pottery has value. A little hint of danger to make a buyer feel lie's getting something rare." He looked at Arlen. "There's more in the village?" he asked.

Arlen nodded.

"Well," Abban said, "there's no profit in you getting killed before you can haul it back."

"Fair enough," Arlen said. "But still, how can you just offer something like that? Aren't books of warding forbidden for you to even touch?"

Abban chuckled. "Most everything is forbidden to a khaffit, Par'chin. But yes, the damn consider warding a holy task and guard the art closely."

"But you can get me a grimoire of clay demon wards," Arlen said.

"Right out from under the dama's, noses!" Abban laughed, snapping his fingers under Arlen's nose. Arlen stumbled drunkenly, falling back onto the pile of pillows, and both of them laughed again.

"How?" Arlen pressed.

"Ah, my friend," Abban waved an admonishing finger at Arlen, "you ask me to give away too much of my trade secret."

"Demonshit," Arlen said. "Your map to Baha was off by more than a day. If I'm to trust my life to these maps and wards you give me, I want to know the information is good."

Abban looked at him for a long moment, then shrugged and sat back down beside Arlen. He snapped his fingers, and one of his black-clad women brought another bottle of couzi. She knelt to fill their cups before bowing low and leaving them. They clicked cups and drank.

Abban leaned in close. "I will tell you this, Par'chin," he said quietly, "not because you are a valued client, but because you are my true friend. The Par'chin has never treated this lowly khaffit as anything but a man."

Arlen scoffed, refilling their cups. "You are a man," he said.

Abban bowed his head in gratitude and leaned in close again. "It is my nephew, Jamere," he confided. "His father was dal'Sharum, but died while the boy was still in swaddling. The father's family had little wealth, so my sister returned to my pavilion, and raised the boy here in the bazaar. He recently came of age and was taken to find his life's path, but he is scrawny, and the dal'Sharum drillmasters were unimpressed with him. His wit, however, impressed the dama, and he was taken as an acolyte."

"He was one of the nie'dama in the market today?" Arlen asked, and Abban nodded.

"Jamere may be a cleric in training," Abban said, "but the boy is utterly corrupt, and has even less faith than I do. He will happily copy or steal any scroll in the temple if I tell him there's a buyer and share the profits."

"Any scroll?" Arlen asked.

"Anything!" Abban bragged, snapping his fingers again. "Why, he could steal even the maps to the lost city of Anoch Sun!"

Arlen felt his heart stop. Anoch Sun was the ancient seat of power of Kaji, the man the Krasians worshipped as the first Deliverer. Three thousand years earlier, give or take a few centuries, Kaji had conquered the known world; the desert, and the green lands beyond, and united all mankind in war against the corelings. Using magical warded weapons, they slaughtered demons in such great numbers that for centuries it was believed that they had won, the corelings were extinct, and the night was free.

But it was a fleeting victory in the great scheme, as everyone now knew. The demons had retreated to the Core, where none could follow, and they had waited. Waited for their enemies to grow old and die. And their children. And their children's children. Immortal, the corelings had waited until the surface of the world had all-but forgotten their existence. Until demons were nothing more than myth, and the ancient symbols of power that man had used against them were forgotten bits of folklore.

They had waited. And bred. And when they returned, they took back all they had lost and more.

The basic wards of forbiddance and protection had been found in time to save a few pockets of humanity, but the ancient combat wards of Kaji, wards that could make a mortal weapon powerful enough to bite into demonic flesh, were lost. Arlen had spent years searching ruins for a sign of them, but had yet to find a hint of evidence that they had even truly existed, much less the wards themselves.

But if they were anywhere, they were in Anoch Sun. When the Krasians prayed, they knelt to the northwest, where the city was supposed to lay. Arlen had looked for the lost city twice before, but there were thousands of square miles of desert in that direction, and his searches had felt like looking for a particular grain in a sandstorm.

"You get me a map to Anoch Sun," Arlen said, "and you can have the lot of Bahavan pottery for nothing. I'll even go back with a cart for another load, on my own coin."

Abban's eyes widened in shock, then he brayed a laugh and shook his head. "Surely you know I was joking, Par'chin," he said. "The lost city of Kaji is a myth."

"It isn't," Arlen said. "I read of it in the histories in the Duke's Library in Fort Miln. The city exists, or did, once."

Abban's eyes narrowed. "Let us say you are correct, and I could procure this," he said. "The Holy City sacred. If the dama ever learned you went there, both our lives would be forfeit."

"How is that different from Baha kad'Everam?" Arlen asked. "Didn't you say looting the ruins for pottery would mark us both a death sentence if we were caught?"

"It is as different as night and day, Par'chin," Abban said. "Baha is nothing, a camelpiss hamlet full of khaffit. The dal'Sharum danced alagai'sharak there to hallow the graves of the Bahavans only out of obligation to Evejan law, to allow its inhabitants a chance to be reincarnated into a higher caste. Besides, there is Dravazi pottery in every palace in Krasia. The only notice a few new pieces added to the market will draw will be from eager buyers.

"Anoch Sun, on the other hump, is the holiest place in the world," Abban said. "If you, a chin., were to desecrate it, every man, woman, and child in Krasia would cry for your head. And any artifacts you returned with would draw many questions."

"I would never desecrate anything!" Arlen said. "I've studied the ancient world my entire life. I would treat the find with more reverence than anyone."

"Simply setting foot there would be a desecration, Par'chin," Abban said.

"Demonshit," Arlen snapped. "No one has been there in thousands of years, a time when Kaji's empire extended over my people's lands as well as yours. I have as much right to go there as anyone."

"That may be, Par'chin," Abban said, "but you will find few in Krasia who will agree with you."

"I don't care," Arlen said, looking Abban hard in the eyes. "Either you get me that map, or I take the Dravazi pottery north and start selling my northern contacts' goods to other vendors in the bazaar."

Abban stared back at him for some time, and Arlen could practically hear the abacus beads clicking in his friend's head as he calculated the loss of Arlen's business. There were few Messengers willing to brave the dangers of the Krasian desert and its people. Arlen came to the Desert Spear three times as often as other Messengers, and he spoke the Krasian tongue well enough to take his business elsewhere.

"Very well, Par'chin," Abban said at last, "but be it upon your head, if it comes back upon you. I will deal in no Sunian artifacts."

That surprised Arlen, who knew Abban was not one to turn down any chance at profit.

A fool's a man who knows better and does the thing anyway, his father's voice said.

Arlen pushed the thought aside. The call of the lost city was too great, and worth any risk.

"I'll never breathe a word of it," he promised.

"I will get a message to my nephew this evening," Abban said. "There is a lesser dama who comes to me for couzi each night, and he carries messages to the boy in exchange. He will reply tomorrow telling us how long the texts we require will take to copy, and where and when to meet him to make the exchange. You'll have to come with me to that, Par'chin. I won't smuggle a map to Anoch Sun through my tent."

Arlen nodded. "Anything you need, my friend," he said.

"I hope you mean that, Par'chin," Abban said.

"WE'LL NEED TO wear these," Abban said, holding up black dal'Sharum robes. Arlen stared at him in surprise. Even though he sometimes fought beside dal'Sharum in the Maze, Arlen was not allowed to wear the black, and Abban...

"What will happen if we're caught wearing those?" he asked.

Abban took a swig of couzi right from the bottle and passed it to Arlen. "Best not dwell on such things," he said. "We'll be doing the exchange at night, and the robes should hide us well in the darkness. Even if we are seen, the night veils will add a measure of disguise, so long as we outrun any who see us."

Arlen looked at Abban's lame leg doubtfully, but made no mention of it. "We're going out at night?" he asked. "Isn't that forbidden under Evejan law?"

"What about this Nie-spawned transaction isn't, Par'chin?" Abban snapped, grabbing the couzi bottle and drinking again. "The city is well warded. There hasn't been a demon on the streets of Krasia in living memory."

Arlen shrugged. "Makes no difference to me," he said.

"Of course not," Abban muttered, taking another pull of couzi. "The Par'chin fears nothing."

They waited for the sun to set, and then slipped into the black warrior robes. Arlen admired himself in one of Abban's many mirrors, surprised to see that with a bit of makeup around his eyes and his night veil drawn, he looked just like any other Krasian warrior, if a few inches shorter.

Abban, on the other hand, would not withstand close scrutiny. He was tall like a warrior, but without his crutch, he leaned heavily on his spear, and the bulk stretching the robes about his midsection was most unlike a warrior's lean form.

It was full dark when they opened the tent flap and looked outside. In the distance, Arlen heard the signal horns of the dal'Sharum and the reports of their artillery, and longed to fight beside them.

Anything is safer than that, the voice in his head said, and for once, Arlen agreed. Alagai'sharak was a beautiful madness, but without the combat wards of old, it was madness nonetheless. But the way of the north, cowering behind wards each night, was no saner. One way killed the men's bodies, and the other, their spirits. The world needed a third choice, but only the wards of old could give it to them.

They rode a small camel cart to their destination. The camel's feet, as well as the wheels of the cart, were wrapped in cushioned leather for silence, and whispered in the dusty sandstone streets. They dared no light as they crossed the city, but the stars in the desert were bright, and the flashing of the wards in the Maze was like lightning, illuminating everything for a moment at random intervals.

"We meet Jamere at Sharik Hora, the temple of Heroes' Bones," Abban said. "He cannot venture far from the acolyte cells."

Arlen weathered a moment's guilt. Mammoth Sharik Hora was both temple and graveyard, the entire structure built from the dal'Sharum who had died in alagai'sharak. The mortar was mixed with their blood. Their bones and skin composed the furniture. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of warriors had given their lives for its ideals and their bodies for its walls and domed ceiling.

There was no holier place in Fort Krasia than Sharik Hora, and here he was, sneaking in the night to steal from its walls. Like Baha kad'Everam. Like Anoch Sun.

Is that all I am? Arlen wondered to himself. A grave robber? A man without honor?

He almost asked Abban to turn back. But then, he thought of the huge temple, and how the dal'Sharum could not even fill the seats anymore, because of their endless war of attrition. All because a group of Holy Men hoarded knowledge. The Tenders of the northland were much the same, and Arlen had never hesitated to ignore their rules.

They're only copies, he told himself. Ent stealing, just forcing them to share.

It still ent right, his father said in his head.

They left the cart in an alley two blocks away, and went the rest of the way on foot. The streets were utterly deserted. As they approached the temple, Abban tied a bright cloth to the end of his spear, waving it back and forth. After a moment, a similar cloth was waved from a window on the second story.

"That way, quickly," Abban said, hobbling towards the window as fast as his lame leg would allow. "If they catch Jamere out of his cell..." he left the thought unfinished, but Arlen could easily imagine the rest.

As they put their backs to the temple wall, a thin silk rope was slung down from the window. The boy who slid down it may have been skinny, but he moved with the fluid grace of a warrior. The dama were masters of the brutal Krasian art of weaponless combat known as sharusahk. Arlen had studied the art with its greatest teachers amongst the dal'Sharum, but while it was only part of a warrior's overall training, the dama devoted their lives to the practice. Arlen had never seen one of them actually fight—no one was fool enough to attack a dama—but he saw how they moved, always in perfect balance and awareness. He did not doubt that they were masters of killing men.

"I've only a moment, uncle," the boy said, pressing a leather satchel into Abban's hands. "I think someone heard me. I need to get back before I am seen, or they perform a bido count."

Abban produced a pouch that clinked heavily with coin, but the boy held up his hand. "Later," he said. "I don't want it with me if I'm caught."

"Nie's black heart," Abban muttered. "Get ready to run," he told Arlen, handing him the satchel.

"I'll give the money to your mother," Abban told Jamere.

"Don't you dare!" the boy hissed. "The witch will steal it. I'll come for it later, and you had best have it ready!"

He went and gripped his rope, but before he could begin to climb, a flickering light blossomed in the window above, and there was a shout as the rope was spotted.

"Run!" Abban whispered harshly, using the spear to hop along at an impressive pace. Arlen followed, and when a white robed dama stuck a lamp out the window and spotted them, the boy came hurrying after, muttering Krasian curses too fast for Arlen to follow.

"You there! Stop!" the cleric cried. Lights began to blossom in the temple windows, and the dama leapt from the window, disregarding the rope entirely. He hit the sandstone street in a roll, heading right for them even as he exhausted the fall's momentum. He got back on his feet in a moment, sprinting hard after them.

"Stop and face Everam's justice!" he screamed.

But all three of them knew that "Everam's justice" meant only a quick death, and wisely ran on, turning a corner and breaking the cleric's line of sight momentarily.

Abban was slowing them, huffing as he hobbled on his spear. He stumbled suddenly, falling to his knees and dropping his spear. He looked at Arlen with frantic eyes.

"Do not leave me!" he begged.

"Don't be an idiot," Arlen snapped, grabbing his arm and hauling the fat merchant upright.

"Get Abban to the cart," Arlen told Jamere. "I will delay the dama."

"No, I'll do it," Jamere said. "I can..."

"Mind your elders, boy," Arlen said, shocked to hear one of his father's phrases pass his own lips. He grabbed the boy's arm and propelled him towards Abban. The boy looked at him as if he were mad, but Arlen glared at him and he nodded and tucked himself under Abban's arm.

Arlen slipped into a shadow, his black robes making him invisible in the night, and slung the satchel over his shoulders. If anyone was caught with the evidence, let it be him.

Right fix you've gotten yourself into now, the voice in his head observed.

The dama came around the corner at a run, but still he was ready for Arlen's ambush, ducking smoothly beneath a circle kick that would have blown across his solar-plexus. The dama rolled by, then straightened suddenly, his stiffened fingers striking Arlen in the wrist.

Arlen's hand went numb, and his spear fell away from his nerveless fingers as the dama dropped low and spun to sweep his legs. Arlen threw himself backwards, tumbling until he could spring back to his feet. The dama came at him hard, a white-robed specter of death.

They met on even footing and traded furious blows. For the first few moments, Arlen thought he might have a chance, but it quickly became clear the dama was only taking his measure. He twisted sharply away from one of Arlen's kicks, pivoting back to punch Arlen hard in the throat.

It was not like having the wind knocked out of him, which Arlen had experienced many times. This was like having the wind trapped within him, its means of egress and replenishment cut off. He choked, staggering, and the dama turned almost lazily into the kick to his stomach that forced the breath back out of his damaged windpipe with a blast of agony and sent him flying onto his back in the street.

Arlen could hear other dama approaching from Sharik Hora, and see the flicker of their lamps. He struggled to rise as the damn coldly advanced upon him.

"Who were your accomplices, servant of Nie?" the dama asked. "Tell me the names of the lame one and the boy and I will grant you a quick death."

Arlen tensed to attack again, and the dama laughed. "Your sharusahk is pitiful, fool. You only prolong your pain."

Arlen knew the man was right, he was the superior fighter. But combat was more than perfection of art. Combat was doing whatever was required to win.

He grabbed a fistful of sand from the street and flung it into the dama's eyes, kicking hard at his knee even as the cleric cried out and clutched his face. There was a satisfying crack, and the dama dropped screaming to the ground.

Arlen staggered to his feet, running after Abban and the boy. The were on the cart now, and Arlen leapt aboard just as Abban whipped the camel and the beast galloped away.

Behind them, half a dozen clerics gave chase, all carrying lanterns and moving with the same impossible grace and speed.

Abban whipped the poor camel raw, and slowly they began to pull away, as the beast reached speeds no man could match. Arlen dared to think they might escape when they hit a pit in the road and one of the cart's two wheels shattered. All three were thrown to the ground, and the camel stopped, the heavy beast laboring for breath.

"To the abyss with you both," Jamere said. "I'm not dying for a chin and a khaffit." He leapt to his feet and ran towards the dama.

"Mercy, masters!" the boy cried, falling to his knees before them. "I was but a hostage!"

Arlen didn't stop to stare. "Get on!" he shouted, shoving Abban at the camel as he produced a wicked knife to slice the leather harnesses that held the beast to the broken cart. The moment it was free, he stuck one foot in the stirrup, grabbed the saddle horn, and slapped the camel hard on the rump with the flat of his blade. The beast gave a great bray and broke into a run, leaving the cries of the dama behind.

"TAKE THE BOOKS and go at first light, Par'chin," Abban said. "Leave the city, and I will bribe the gate guards to swear you've been gone for a week."

"What about you?" Arlen asked.

"I will be better off with you and the evidence long gone," Abban said. "Jamere will tell them he could not see our identities with the night veils in place, and without proof, a few well-placed bribes will divert any inquiry."

Arlen nodded, and bowed. "Thank you, my friend," he said. "I'm sorry to have caused you so much trouble."

Abban clapped his shoulder. "I am sorry, too, Par'chin. I should have better warned you about the dangers of Baha kad'Everam. Let us call the account settled." The shook hands, and Arlen headed out into the night.

At dawn, he returned to his hostel, pretending to be returning from alagai'sharak. No one questioned this, and he was able to retrieve his possessions and escape Fort Krasia before most of its inhabitants left the undercity. The dal'Sharum at the gates even lifted their spears to him as he left.

As he rode, he clutched the precious map tube. He would go to Fort Rizon and resupply, and then, he would find Anoch Sun.

THERE WAS A hissing in the bazaar, as the merchants warned of approaching damn.

Abban hurriedly drew back into his tent, peeking through the narrow gap in the flaps as a group of black-clad dal'Sharum warriors appeared, shoving people aside as they escorted a group of furious looking damn and a young, skinny acolyte. Abban's fingers tightened on the canvas as they marched up the street, stopping in front of his pavilion.

Amit came limping up to them, the crippled dal'Sharum bowing his head slightly. "Have you come for the khaffit, finally?" he asked one of the warriors. "Whatever you think he has done, I assure you it is the least of his crimes..."

He was cut off, as the dal'Sharum struck him across the face with the butt of his spear. Blood and teeth exploded from the merchant's mouth as he fell to the dust. He tried to rise, but the warrior that had struck him leapt around behind him, putting his spear under Amit's chin and his knee into his back, pulling hard to choke Amit's head upwards to look at the dama and boy.

"Is this the one?" the lead dama asked the boy.

"Yes," Jamere said. "He said he would kill my mother, if I did not obey."

"What?!" Amit gasped. "I've never seen you before in my...!" Again the warrior pulled back on the spear, and his words were cut off with a gurgle.

"Do you recognize this?" the dama asked, holding up the spear Abban had dropped in the street, tied with the bright orange cloth he had used to signal Jamere. "Do you think us stupid? It's no secret you wear a womanly orange kerchief on your vestigial weapon, cripple."

"Dama, see here," a warrior cried, leading a camel from Amit's pen. "It's been whipped recently, and wears leather pads on its feet."

Amit's eyes bulged, though it was hard to tell if it was from incredulity or the continually choking spear at his throat. "That's not my...!" was all he managed to cough.

"Tell us who your accomplice was," the dama demanded. The warrior at Amit's back eased the choking spear so he could answer.

Gone was all the smug superiority from Amit's voice, the security in his position in this world and the next. Abban listened carefully, savoring the pathetic desperation in his rival's voice as he protested his innocence and begged for his life.

"Tear the black from him," the dama ordered, and Amit screamed as the warriors took hold of his robes, ripping at them until the crippled man was lying naked in the street. The dal'Sharum took his arms and pulled back on his hair to ensure he made eye contact with the dama, who knelt before him.

"You are khaffit now, Amit of no lineage worth mentioning," the dama said. "For the short, painful remainder of your life, know this, for when your spirit leaves this world, it will forever sit outside the gates of Heaven."

"Nooo!" Amit screamed. "It is a lie!"

The dama looked up at the warriors. "Confiscate everything of value in his pavilion," he said, "and bring it to the temple. Use his women, if you like, and then have them sold. Put any sons to the spear." Amit howled, thrashing against the men who held his arms until one of the warriors clubbed him in the back of the head with his spear, dropping him senseless to the ground.

The dama looked down at Amit in disgust. "Haul this filth to the Chamber of Eternal Sorrow," he told the dal'Sharum, "that the Damaji might take their time in flaying the skin from his misbegotten bones."

Abban let the tent flap fall and retreated into his pavilion, pouring himself a cup of couzi.

A few moments later, the tent flap rose and fell again.

"The Par'chin nearly broke Dama Kavere's knee," Jamere said. "He wants more than couzi to account for it."

Abban nodded, expecting as much. "You were supposed to volunteer to stall Kavere when I stumbled, not the Par'chin," Abban reminded.

Jamere shrugged. "He beat me to it," he said, "and would hear no protest."

"Well don't let it happen again," Abban snapped. "The Par'chin is valuable to me, and I would be most displeased to lose him."

"Do you think he'll find Anoch Sun?" Jamere asked.

Abban laughed. "Don't be stupid, boy," he said. "Those maps have been copied and re-copied for three thousand years, and even if they still manage to point him the right way, the lost city, if it even exists, is buried deep beneath the sands. The Par'chin is a good-hearted fool, but a fool nonetheless."

"He'll be angry, when he returns," Jamere observed.

Abban shrugged. "At first, perhaps," he began.

"But then you'll wave some other ancient scroll in his face, and he'll forget all about it," Jamere guessed, stealing a swig out of Abban's couzi bottle, not bothering with a cup.

Abban smiled, giving the boy the various bribes he would need when he returned to Sharik Hora. He watched Jamere go with a mix of pride and profound regret.

The boy could really have been something, if he wasn't set to waste his life as a dama.