12 Street of Beggars

THE CITY OF SHAMAR was thousands of years old, if one believed the Havari. Its walls gleamed in the desert sun. Whitewashed buildings hugged the curtain walls and crammed the narrow streets within, which all met at a broad central plateau. There sat the zorast temple, once the Al Qasr or seat of the Havari King.

Lush gardens surrounded the palace with fountains and dozens of maidens and young men in sheer clothing. They carried golden platters of olives, melon, grapes, and the finest figs, not to mention goblets of chilled wine. The zorasts were not so pure of heart as to deny themselves the dead king’s hospitality. Or, so the tale went among the beggars of Shamar.

Sat in the red dust of the Street of Beggars, an outlander dreamed of those platters and goblets of wine. The skin of Wither’s lips had cracked and was bleeding, though it was the least of his concerns. His throat felt as though he’d swallowed a rusty blade. This beggar knew he’d never get to see the palace. He would’ve settled for a cup of tepid water.

The locals beat him with switches of bamboo if he reached out a hand. He’d tucked his right one beneath his armpit, the welts aflame. It was the turn of his left, which already bore three fresh marks. Persistence usually paid off. His face had received a few blows, when he’d had the audacity and the throat to speak. Being an outlander, he was the lowest, and received the harshest of treatment. If they learned he was Tharoni, they would kill him. Oh, the Havari bought slaves, but many of their own had ended in slavery to the Tharoni. Memories in the desert were long.

To the north of the city lay a high mountain range. The ocean swelled to the east, but there were no ports this far south and east of Pethram. Further south and west there waited parched earth, rocks, and mesas. The Moral Desert became Gomorrah; sand for three thousand miles south and half as wide. If he could leave, he had nowhere to go.

Though his frame was skinnier, Wither’s white hair had grown and his beard was filling out. It gave the false impression of health, and the zorast acolytes had not come for him. They made their rounds every week with their Necros guards, looking for the weakest. They called it a mercy. He often wondered if they were right.

Within its walls, Shamar was a seething pit of hollering traders, herders, artisans, slavers, whores, bleating animals and screeching birds of every colour and description - the hot stink of civilisation. Spice, silk and alum traders, slave traders, and moneylenders shared the streets with metal and leather workers, bread makers and soiled-aproned butchers whose bloodied wares seethed with flies. It was a turgid mass of sweat, noise, and greed.

A shadow loomed over Wither. He flinched from habit, but the expected blow never landed. The shadow didn’t move. It gave his blistered skin a little relief from the sun, but the air was too hot, his skin too damaged.

‘I know what you did,’ said the stranger, a female voice. Odd, since women didn’t speak to slaves in Shamar. It was a stoning offence. The accent wasn’t local, but unfamiliar and neutral. ‘Those slavers you buried, all twelve of them ... a Havari patrol discovered them last night. Scavengers had been at the bodies but their clothing identified them. Their own hadn’t bothered to bury them, although they did send out scouts. Three are here and, not to mention the Havari, they are seeking you.’

Whoever she was, she seemed to want a reply. He waited in silence. None of what she told him mattered. Tharoni didn’t forgive or forget. He no longer cared. He’d hold his head up when they came.

‘Any outlander they find will end up dead by nightfall, but they know to look for a Tharoni. You should have killed them further away. I suppose you took the opportunity when you could. A pity if you died, now ... Wither.’

He tried to make out her face, but saw a silhouette. ‘What ...?’ The words stuck in his throat.

The stranger knelt before him and the sun returned to blind. After the blessed shade, he found the brightness unbearable. He cast a ruined arm across his forehead, squinting at the woman who continued speaking. ‘You are an outlander, but you are much more. I know you, everything about you. Once named Gratalan or Grat to your friends. The forgotten son of Tuldal Vanthyr. An ancient family, disgraced and destroyed.’

The beggar shook his head, the effort making him dizzy. Bells rang in his ears. Death wasn’t far off.

The woman thrust a bladder filled with water into his damaged hands. She helped him as he began to drink. ‘No, sip it. Gulp it and you might die despite my efforts, which would irritate me. We shall be friends you and I.’

‘Who are you?’ he managed, after lowering the bladder, wondering if anything other than the cool water mattered.

‘You can call me, Striga.’

She pulled the bladder away and he winced at the pain in his throat. He didn’t care. The cool wetness was both satisfying and wondrous.

‘Come with me,’ she said, and gripped him beneath the arms, hauling him to his feet. He swayed and his legs buckled. How long had he sat there in this spot? Weeks, or was it months?

The journey by ship from Twinport to Pethram, chained in the water-logged hold, was like the raving memories of a lunatic. Never mind the torturous trek across the desert. It was after that he’d found the opportunity for escape. Striga was right, there had been no earlier chance, his captors vigilant. Ironic, his escape had seen him enslaved in a different manner on the streets of Shamar where they’d intended to sell him. He’d hoped for Tharonis, but they’d had other ideas. Without coin, food or water, the streets were the only place left.

None of the Havari who strode past in their colourful silks glanced at them as Striga took him into the city. Wither didn’t know where they were going and was surprised to discover he didn’t care. If he died, surely the location didn’t matter. Well, he supposed, anywhere was better than where he’d been sitting.

The sweaty, heaving throng sucked them deep into the press of humanity. As the darkness closed, he felt the woman lift and carry him like a boy in his mother’s arms. Strong, whoever she was, although he doubted if he weighed much. He laughed at the image as his mind drifted into blessed unconsciousness.