Mary Herbert - City of Sorcerers

“He’s got a bad headache, but his clan healer said he’ll be fine.” The Dangari’s face saddened as he added, “The horse snapped its leg; we had to kill it.”

Lord Athlone laced his fingers thoughtfully and said to Koshyn, “Are you thinking of riding out there tomorrow?”

The Dangari chief gave a slow smile. “Of course. Late afternoon, after the council meeting. I thought I might bring some strong men and shovels.”

Athlone returned his smile. “I know some others who might be interested in a little digging.”

“There you are, lad,” Koshyn said, slapping his young companion on the shoulder. “Your wrong turn may be propitious after all.”

Pleased, the rider sat a little straighter on his stool and grinned at his chiefs approval.

The men were still discussing the mound and its strange location when the clan horns were blown a few minutes later. The call was to signal the sunset and the changing of the outriders who rode guard on the grazing herds.

Sayyed rose to his feet. “My lords, if you will excuse me,” he said. “It’s time to make my prayers.”

Both chieftains nodded farewell, and Sayyed cook his leave. He walked across the broad open space in front of the chieftain’s home and passed in among the felt tents that comprised the large Khulinin encampment. Automatically his feet stepped down slightly onto the bare path that led from the center of the camp. Whistling, he wove his way past playing children, cooking fires, and a few tethered horses coward his own home.

Two large dogs and a smaller shaggy one lying beside his tent saw him coming and bounded to their feet to bark a vociferous greeting. A lamb and two goats bleated hungrily from a small pen by the entrance. In a wicker cage hanging on an awning pole, a small owl with a splinted wing blinked at the sudden noise and ducked its head down into its shoulders in annoyance.

Without even looking in the tent, Sayyed knew his wife Tam was not there. She would have been out in an instant at the sound of all of that barking and bleating. He shook his head and quieted the dogs before he pushed back the wolfskin flap and stepped inside.

Sayyed glanced around. He was right; the tent was empty except for another large white dog nursing a litter of puppies on Tam’s favorite rug. He found his prayer rug by his pallet and hurried out to find an open spot where he could recite his prayers in peace.

Although he had been with the Khulinin for many years and had adopted most of their customs, there were still a few habits from his youth in the Turic tribes that he had refused to give up. He still wore a burnoose under the traditional cloak of the clans. He still carried the long, curved blade he had earned on the eve of his manhood ceremony. And he still prayed twice a day to his god.

The clans worshipped four deities—Amara, mother of life and birth; her sister Krath, goddess of fate and the darker passions; Sorh, god of death; and Surgart, god of war—but they were not usually fanatical about it and had not tried to force Sayyed to give up his belief in a single god. It was a tolerance that Sayyed deeply appreciated.

Finding a quiet place in the meadow not far from the edge of camp, Sayyed spread out his small rug, knelt, and bowed low to the south where the tribes of his father believed the holy city of Sarghun Shahr was located. As the quiet words of the evening prayers flowed from his lips, the peace of the moment filled his mind and the familiarity of the ritual gave him comfort.

He hadn’t quite finished though, when he suddenly felt disquieted. Something had changed. His peaceful solitude had been interrupted by something or someone. He rose to a kneeling position and turned his head to see Tam standing behind him. She was waiting for him to finish, but her foot was tapping the ground and her hands were tightly clasped as if trying to hold in her impatience. Sayyed closed his eyes to shut her out for a moment longer, shifted to ease the stiffness in his legs, and finished the final chants of his prayer. Then he slowly pushed himself to his feet.

I’m growing too old, he thought wryly as he stretched and worked the pain from his knees. He had barely time to roll up his rug before Tam grabbed his arm and hustled him back through the camp toward the Goldrine River and the bazaar on the other side.

Sayyed went along willingly, although he wondered what she was up to. In spite of her obvious hurry, Tam hadn’t said a word to him. Of course, Tam rarely said anything to anyone. A difficult, sometimes cruel childhood had driven her behind walls of silence that even a loving marriage and maturity had not completely broken down. Sayyed looked across at her lovely, fine-lined features, at her enormous eyes outlined by black lashes and delicate eyebrows, at her mouth pulled to a firm line by determination, and he thought that she had the most expressive face he had ever seen in a woman. She did not need to talk; she could say almost anything she wanted with her face, her gestures, and her body.

Now she was radiating excitement. Her face glowed pink and her eyes sparkled. She rushed on past the camp and down to the temporary footbridge that spanned the river to reach the bazaar. Her long black hair braided with bright ribbons danced a jig on her back.

Sayyed was pushed to keep up with her as she fairly flew across the narrow bridge to the opposite bank. He chuckled to watch her. Knowing Tam, she had probably found another bird or animal held by one of the numerous merchants that came to the clan gathering. While most women shopped in the bazaar for fabrics, spices, jewelry, utensils, or pottery, Tam prowled the shops looking for animals being misused or abused by the traveling merchants. Whenever she found one, she would acquire the animal and either set it free or add it to her growing collection of four-legged charges.

This time she didn’t seem to be angry, Sayyed noticed, so if it was an animal she wished to show him, it was probably in good health.

They hurried on into the marketplace of booths, stalls, and stands that sat on the east side of the Goldrine River. Every year merchants from the Five Kingdoms to the north and the Turic tribes to the south came to the gathering bringing goods from many lands in exchange for the clans’ livestock, horses, saddles, rugs, woven work, jewelry, and handcrafts. The bazaar was a busy place and open from dawn to dusk.

Sayyed hadn’t been to the bazaar yet this year, but Tam didn’t give him a chance to look around. Without slackening her pace, she hustled him to a large, richly caparisoned booth on the far edge of the bazaar.

The booth was spacious by any standards, with a roof and walls of brightly painted canvas. One entire wall was rolled up, allowing the breeze and customers to enter. A banner identifying a merchant from Pra Desh hung above the entrance.

It was obvious the owner of the booth did not specialize in anyone ware. There seemed to be a little of everything from all over the civilized world crammed into every available space. Bolts of fabric crowded clay pots and rare glass vessels on shelves; swords and dried herbs hung from the roof; children’s toys, helmets, and rugs filled the countertops. There was barely room to turn around.

Sayyed’s eyes narrowed. What in the world had Tam found here? He followed her into the interior and waited as she walked up to the proprietor and tapped his arm.

The merchant, a huge, pale-skinned Pra Deshian turned, saw her, and beamed. “So you came back for her! I knew you would.”

Her? Sayyed thought. He watched while the merchant went to the back of his tent and came back bearing a large, well-made crate. The man set the box down on a counter in front of Tam and stood back, a smile of satisfaction on his broad face.