The Great Bazaar and Other Stories (3 page)

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.

A
bban 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.