Epic Of Ahiram (Book 1) (13 page)

“All the Black… Ashod is willfully willing to risk everything we have built until now for one boyish boy?” asked Kwadil. “This is incredibly incredible and incredible in the most incredible manner. What else did he say?”

“About the boy? He said he needs military training to teach him how to control his temper. The Temple must have destroyed Baher-Ghafé to be rid of him.”

“This boy is her brotherly brother, you say?”

“Yes. Hoda would have done anything for him.”

“And how old is he?”

“He just turned twelve today. He is a wiry boy with curly, brown hair and big, hazel eyes. Why do you ask?”

“I will be traveling everywhere in Fineekia. If he managed to escape, I might be able to recognize him.” Syreen nodded. “Well, let us hope your friend is well. Do not lose hope hopelessly. It is all the more urgent that I speak with Foosh then.”

“The heating conduits are straight ahead,” she said, handing him a candle. “You cannot miss them. Follow them in a straight line, and they will lead you to the ruins of the Temple to the unknown god. Balid’s tent is standing in the main plaza, a few feet away from these ruins. You should have no difficulty whatsoever reaching it.”

“Thank you most thankfully, dear child.”

“By the way, Master Kwadil, Foosh’s husband, Balid, he does not know…”

“No, he is blissfully blissful and blissful blissfully that his wife is a leader of the Black Robes. Balid is a friendly friend of mine, and his congenially congenial, innocently innocent personality opens some doors for Foosh and prevents others from being closed. Now child, if Karadon has managed to safely save your friend, he will go into hiding for four to six weeks or six to four weeks. You must bravely bear this timely time with patiently patience and strength. Otherwise, the Temple might find out, and our operational operation will be most compromisingly compromised.”

“You have nothing to worry about, Master Kwadil,” said Syreen. “You have trained me well.”

Kwadil nodded and walked away. His great mind focused on the question at hand: should he have told Syreen about the boy he found on that deserted beach? Jendhi, the doctor, had told him the boy screamed the name of his sister, “
Hoda, Hoda
.” Clearly, the boy matched Syreen’s description.
But
, Kwadil reasoned,
if Ashod is willingly willing to mount a full rescue mission, then the boy must be importantly important, so it stands to reason that the
T
emple would be willingly willing to destroy the Black Robes to get him back. Now, thus far, and not one day further, the surviving survival of the clandestine organization hinged on the
T
emple’s need of a conveniently convenient scapegoat to hide its dirty deeds, and the Black Robes served this purpose admirably. Their purposeful purpose is to save lives and protect the innocently innocent, but we are not readily ready no readily in most readily fashion to face a full blown assault by the High Riders
.

Kwadil quickly made up his mind; the boy must be sent faraway from Fineekia, and he knew just the place to send him
. His sister, should she survive, will think him dead in the most deadly manner. It is regrettably regrettable and regrettable most regrettably, but cannot be helped.

“A hero, a hero,” muttered Balid, inspecting the deserted plaza of Byblos for the umpteenth time. He held back his red turban, preventing it from falling. “I may be a carpet merchant, but I can tell a true hero from a fake one, like a silkworm smells a good apple from a rotten one. This Arfaad is a butcher, my dear Foosh. I have not forgotten what he did in Alep.”

“Are you trying to have us arrested?” whispered his wife. “Hurry and get back in.”

“Tell me something, my dearest Foosh,” continued the expansive man, while adjusting the large turban on his head and pulling down the golden, silk caftan that stubbornly wedged itself in the ripples of his flesh. “Do you believe what we heard?”

“And what are you going to do about it?” replied Foosh, a petite woman with long, scruffy hair held in place by a web of hairpins so complex it defied the wisdom of the gods. She was svelte, fast on her feet, and always elegant, thanks to her husband who could afford a pair of expensive seamstresses from the fashionable city of Atlant. Foosh was five-feet two-inches tall, and he towered over her at six-feet two-inches, a difference others may have noticed, but not Balid. He was deeply in love with his wife, and knew he could always count on her to enliven their tent and their guests with her refined and simple taste. Balid looked at Foosh appreciatively. She wore a gray, buttoned blouse with a bow collar over a deep-blue, accordion-pleated, long skirt. Her narrow face with blue eyes, high cheekbones, and long neck, was slightly out of proportion from the rest of her body. Still, her soft, round eyes and quick wit gave her all the charm that the wife of a carpet merchant needed to help her husband, while keeping her sanity. She wondered what Balid would do if he knew she was a member of the Black Robes
. He would have a
conniption, no doubt
,
and then he would convince every member of the organization to buy a carpet.
She repressed a smile and continued:

“I suppose you would like to give a piece of your mind to the priestess, hmm…? ‘Your Honor, Arfaad is the butcher of Alep?’ Hmm…?”

“Are you insinuating that this Arfaad is a real hero?” he asked, hurt. “Maybe you are unhappy with a carpet merchant, or maybe you do not like my carpets. Yes, yes, my dearest, let the truth come forth. We have been married for twenty-seven years, and in all these years, you have not told me, not even once, that you liked my carpets. These carpets have been sold in royal palaces in seven kingdoms and in faraway lands. They are the best you will find from the golden shores of Mitani to the majestic cliffs of Lurca.”

“You have never been to either place,” pointed out Foosh, while setting the table. Balid had not yet noticed that the lamps inside their richly furnished tent were burning brighter. Comfortable cushions now surrounded the low table. “Besides,” she continued with a broad smile, “the children are growing, the horses are fed, and we have food for tonight.”

“Ah, my beautiful Foosh, your words are like honey and your smile like nuggets of gold from on high.”

“May you be preserved from harmful harm,” came a voice from behind.

Balid turned around and opened his expansive arms. “Master Kwadil, we were getting worried.” He lifted the dwarf up and hugged him as though he had just found his long-lost child.

“Put him down,” protested Foosh. “He cannot breathe.”

Kwadil laughed. “Your strength has not left you, my friend. It is my pleasing pleasure and pleasure most pleasing to stand in your presence.”

“The feeling is all mine,” exclaimed Balid, rubbing his hands. He enjoyed Kwadil’s friendship, but enjoyed Kwadil’s purse even more. “I am delighted by your presence amongst us, friend. You brighten our light and make the stars of heaven shine forth in the midst of our tent.”

“Balid, you mistake my dwarfitude for your clientele,” replied Kwadil with a smile. “The lasting last time you sung sweetly and sweetly sung this song to my ears, my purse became lightly lighter and my canopy was graced with two carpets so magnificently magnificent that they were magnificent beyond magnifying compare.”

“Ah, the royal Beluuch and the lush Bokhara. How long has it been since that fateful day?” asked Balid, with a misty voice.

“Thirteen years ago, right after the eventful events and events so eventful in Alep,” replied Kwadil.

“Time flows like memories on the shores of the past… But tell me, how long did these carpets of mine last you?”

“I do not know. I sold them for twice their price to a princely prince of the Marada.”

“See?” Balid gazed at his wife with a triumphant expression.

“Are you going to keep our guest standing by the door all night, or will you offer him a seat?” asked Foosh, with a wry smile. Balid motioned Kwadil toward the comfortable cushions, then he slipped his feet into his sturdy, leather mules and stepped outside to inspect the plaza. Despite his keen eyes, he saw no one and went back inside.

“The curfew is effective,” he said, fixing his gaze on Master Kwadil.

“Hurry please, the food will grow cold,” Foosh reminded them.

Balid removed his shoes and they washed their hands in bowls of fresh, rose-scented water and moved to the table where they relaxed on comfortable cushions. Kwadil examined the food, paying special attention to the olives: Some were black and some were green. Some were laid on a bed of mint leaves, while others sat on the edge of a plate surrounding a white sauce. Kwadil picked up one marinated, green olive with a mint leaf and caught sight of his friend staring at him. He placed them in his mouth and shook under a silent chuckle.

One green olive means Kwadil requires extraction of one young boy,
understood Foosh.
The mint leaf implies that the extraction is urgent
.

“You are wondrously wondering and wondering in the most wondrous of ways,” explained the dwarf to his friend.

“What’s so wondrous about my wondering?” asked Balid.

“How I made it here despite the curfew, yes? I gave the deadly servants of the high priestess a bribing bribery and a bribery most bribing,” explained Kwadil, who lied as any good dwarf would when fortune or friends were threatened.

The high priestess wants someone dead,
interpreted Foosh.

“And they accepted?” questioned Balid.

The High Riders were reputed for refusing all forms of bribery. The reality was a different matter.

“It is the feasting Feast of Light,” retorted Kwadil, “and during the feasting feast, these soldierly soldiers act like boys who do not mind a bit of dangerous danger.”

I see, the high priestess wants a boy dead,
continued Foosh.

Seeing his friend thoroughly confused, Kwadil added in a conspiratorial tone, “You see, it was importantly important to see you today and no later than tomorrow.”

Foosh glanced at Balid. His blissful expression reassured her.
Good.
He is not aware of the hidden message—the high priestess wants the boy dead. He must leave tomorrow.
The message was now complete.

“By the highest heavens,” began Balid, “Master Kwadil, you make absolutely no—”

“This food is excellently excellent as usually usual and in no other ways,” interrupted the dwarf. “My dear Foosh, remind me to ask you for your recipe. This zaja is so good that I would travel hundreds of miles on a raging sea for her. If I did not know better—and I do—I would say, my dear Foosh, that you are a dwarf daughter of dwarfs.”

“That’s a dish of
zghazti,
” corrected Balid. “We haven’t had any
zaja
since our last trip to Tanniin,” he added, rubbing his large belly.

Balid is right,
thought Foosh.
Is Kwadil serious?
She saw him eye her without blinking.
He is serious. I see: most likely, he wants us to take the boy to Tanniin, and as usual, he must have a compelling reason
.

“Now, now, my friend,” continued Kwadil, “these are extraordinarily extraordinary times we are lively living in. Yes, yes, indeed, extraordinary in the most extraordinarily of ways. Let us now feast on these wonders placed before us, for tomorrow is another day, and who knows what the sun might bring with him. Is it not true that the stone that was moved tonight may reveal a gem by the morrow?”

Stone, gem… He wants this boy trained and formed… Of course. Commander Tanios is in Tanniin, but why?
wondered Foosh.

Balid, for his part, felt a familiar irritation creeping up on him. Dwarfs were known for their peculiar manner of speech. Every object had a gender: The sun was a “him” and the moon a “her”. A pebble was a “him” and a boulder a “her”. There was no discernable pattern, but a dwarf would be quickly offended if you used the wrong gender, particularly when speaking of stones and gems. Balid carefully avoided the entire subject, confining himself to carpets. To make matters worse, dwarfs were known to mingle two or more unrelated issues in the same sentence. Talking to a dwarf was an exercise in diplomacy.

“Life is full of wonders,” continued the unflappable dwarf, “and she who is patiently patient and wisely wise, in due time, will reap good things from the fruits of her labor.”

He will explain later,
sighed Foosh.
How predictable.

Balid, who was trying his hardest to make sense of his friend’s words, perked up when he heard Kwadil say “she.” A carpet was feminine in dwarfish (but a collection of carpets, masculine) and this was all he needed to steer the conversation toward more pleasant and remunerating shores: Pointing at his most expensive carpet, which happened to be hanging behind his wife, he intoned, “She is most welcomingly welcoming and welcoming most welcomingly, and so softly soft yet durably durable that she will be a wonderfully wonderful addictive addition to your luxuriously luxurious tent. More zaja?”

It was Kwadil’s turn to be thoroughly confused. He leaned over and whispered loudly in the carpet merchant’s ear: “Balid, this is zghazti, not zaja. More importantly, are you trying to sell me your wife?”