Tales Of Grimea (7 page)

Hwosh went over to the room’s right corner,
returning to the rich stew with multiple bowls. He knew that it
wouldn’t be just the two of them eating today. When he was done
spooning food into about five, he heard a murmur behind him,
followed by a shuffling sound. “Accepted, uncle,” he stated in a
ritualistic manner.

“Who knows?” answered Salim Qamar with a
voice just as creamy as the stew. Hwosh turned to him just in time
for the man to raise a hand and offer, “Me and you both, my child.”
He was well aware of Hwosh’s opinions on religion, and hadn’t
wanted the official response used on a nonbeliever.

While Hwosh got the table ready for them,
Salim went over to the outside door, tugging at his long frizzy
beard as he went. “Children, I have four today!” he shouted to no
one in particular, and then went back inside, leaving the portal
with its peeled array of bright paints ajar. In less than a minute
four children burst through the door, one almost smacking her head
against its traditional metal studs. Noncommittally, Hwosh sat down
on one of the rugs with his plate while Salim asked each of the
children about his or her day. “Sufian,” he called out finally to a
boy hanging back from the rest. “I heard your father came down with
yellow cold. Is that true, child?” At that Hwosh’s ears perked, for
that was the same disease that had claimed his own parents years
back, setting him on course to meet with Salim.

“…Yes, dad. He’d been working on northern
plum district, and a yella got him…”Uncle Salim looked at Sufian in
sympathy for an instant or two, but when he knelt down to look him
in the eye, he said, “Boy, I’m not that old yet. I’m still a young
man, call me uncle.” The boy nodded bravely, and the man added, “I
have some leftover medicine for the infection, you can have it if
you want.” The boy’s astonished face made his response clear for
all to see, and he rushed out the house to tell his family of the
good news. Salim grumbled to himself for a second about men not
being sensible around scorpions, and Hwosh could foresee him going
to find another child to feed in a few minutes. The old man hated
letting food go to waste.

Halfway through the meal, Salim went out to
find someone else. While he was gone, the girl who had almost
knocked herself unconscious looked Hwosh in the eye and flatly
stated, “Uncle Salim doesn’t let the kids eat with strangers.”

Her glare was about to get accusing when
Hwosh relented, admitting, “Yes, I’m one of his Baneen.” She
grinned at that and all four remaining children suddenly became
more open to the warrior’s presence here. After a few minutes,
however, they realized that Hwosh’s clumsy attempts with them were
more than an act and began to lose interest. This was fine with the
black haired man, as his awkwardness with children made him usually
prefer to be as far away from them as possible. Still, there was a
young one who persisted in wanting to hear about Hwosh’s latest
adventure, a blonde thing with dark eyes. His earnest face was
pointed towards the man, while he told his story, like a Regalian
crossbow. Under such duress, Hwosh was barely able to stammer
through the admittedly slightly exciting tale of serpents and
summer heat and Worg ambushes, but it seemed satisfactory and the
little boy nestled unwanted into his lap for a nap just before
Salim came back, dragging a rag wearing mess of a child by the
ear.

“This one,” exclaimed he, “thought her clever
fingers could steal from me!” Hwosh could tell that the man’s mirth
was barely containable. This had less to do with an innate sense,
and more to do with the man visibly hopping from foot to foot. “Let
me go,” she shouted, “you old towel wearing child and potato loving
coot, or I’ll stab you in the eye!”

Hwosh grimaced at the insult. One of the
children’s spoon’s dropped. Even Salim gave her a look. “Do you
mean that I like to eat children with potatoes?” he wondered
patiently, perhaps hoping for the best. The blonde child in Hwosh’s
lap woke up and looked around with bleary eyes.

“No,” she answered, putting a tongue out, “I
meant that you like to-“ an old hand clamped on her mouth at the
last possible second, thankfully.

“Child,” reprimanded Hwosh, although he
didn’t really mind profanity himself. “Do you have any idea who you
just insulted?” A confused look came over her then, and she shook
her head, sending dusty yet still remarkably dusty red trestles
flying. “A thief should always check prospective prey for signs of
danger or fealty,” he said in a deliberate manner, letting each
word hang for an instant, “especially when that sign of danger is
an obsidian claw pin.” The muted girl went deathly pale then,
turning slowly to look at where, sure enough, the older bald man
with the seemingly innocent beggar look had a black brooch at his
neck, holding the folds of his white robes in place. That brooch,
with its three clawed paw, told anyone and everyone exactly who the
man was, as well as who his older brother might be.

Uncle Salim took his subdued would be
assailant off to literally have her mouth cleaned with soap. Hwosh
knew that particular punishment.

When uncle Salim finally came back, today’s
lunch guests had already bid their leave and left presents for him.
The old man never wanted compensation for his meals, but
painstakingly gathered trinkets and flowers were not to be
returned. This time, one of them, the sharp minded little girl -who
was the oldest at twelve and was called Shireen, the merchant had
boasted- even drew him a picture on a piece of parchment. It
depicted a better groomed likeness of him serving people food in a
wonderful golden city with a large content smile on his face. Even
his robe was whiter in the picture than in real life. The man eyed
the drawing fondly for a few seconds, before pocketing it somewhere
within his robe. The two ate in silence, with Salim dismantling his
food with usual speed. As always, Hwosh marvelled at the
deliciousness of their meal, and he knew it wasn’t due to any
particular skills the white bearded man boasted. Salim just made a
point out of buying the best ingredients possible.

With the meal done, Hwosh pointed at the Worg
still lying near the doorway. “Twenty for that one?”

“Business, first, eh?” murmured Salim whilst
standing up and giving the beast a cursory glance.

“Uncle, I sat here for hours playing with the
children you brought, and knowing you I may stay for dinner too.
There’ll be time for a chat.”

Salim chuckled. “Hah! I wouldn’t call what
you did playing. You’re better with a sword In your hand and simple
leather around you.” Hwosh conceded the point while the man who
practically raised him for fifteen years checked the Worg’s pelt
for injuries, claws and fangs for sharpness, and even opened its
mouth wide, huffing at the hideousness of breath but taking a long
look at a poison gland situated at the back end of its lolling
barbed tongue. “Aye, twenty’s fair enough,” concluded the old man,
rising to his feet and coming over to sit by the warrior. “So, how
fares the youngest of my charges?”

Hwosh smiled at the question. “Still the same
as last week, uncle. It was a long hunt, but nothing to fuss over.
As long as you’re careful and set up enough traps and distractions,
catching a Worg one on one isn’t too difficult.”

“That’s not what I meant, child,” said Salim,
a frown forming on his face. Hwosh usually never saw him frown,
even when the man was frustrated with his lack of understanding
when it came to people. The old man started playing with his pin
absentmindedly. “Have you been eating well? New girl in your life,
that sort of thing?”

“Yes, uncle, everything has been going great.
No girls, of course,” at that, uncle Salim looked slightly happy,
although he didn’t repeat his advice about people taking their time
to find someone worth the time and commitment once more. He had
drilled that lesson deep into Hwosh, and had taught him to never
hurt a girl, nor hurt himself using one. Hwosh was very glad for
the lesson, yet didn’t think he needed to hear it for the three
hundred and seventy fifth time. “I go out to eat with Percy and
Adra more often than not at the inn near his room.”

Contrary to Hwosh’s hopes, Salim stirred on
the stretch of rug he was seated upon and said, “Relationships and
marriages should be between two people who can respect one another
beyond pretty faces and slippery tongues; don’t feel pressured to
rush things. Anyway, where does good old Persillius live? I need to
meet that one; you’ve not told me of friends very often.”

“Same building, north from Themra, in the
poorer part of mulahatha, Third Street from where it starts.”
Despite Lor having newly started naming and numbering its streets,
people still pretended it didn’t and used the old ways. To them, it
only had districts. This often lead to confusion, for people were
forced to rely on directions such as, “turn left three times, then
go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too
far.”

Uncle Salim perked up at the description and
got to his feet, perhaps inspired to have his pre sunset
dragonfruit. “I know the place,” he mostly shouted from the other
side of the room, where he was apparently rummaging through a great
deal many pots, if Hwosh was any judge. “Doesn’t Murata work there?
That man can slice things like you’ve never seen, my boy. And his
gambling! He used to do that on the side, you know. To get there
from Themra, you go north for a minute, turn left three times, then
go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too
far.”

“Yes, uncle.”

“It’s good to see you taking responsibility
for yourself and living alone, my child,” said Salim after having a
sip of Themra’s water, “But I want you to know that if you ever
need anything, I will be here for you.”

For a second, Hwosh said nothing. This was
the usual thing uncle Salim said to all his Baneen whenever they
came by to visit. All of them were fiercely loyal to him, and these
orphan’s connections and aid turned out to be extremely useful in
turn. Most of them, Hwosh included, owed the man their life and
rarely bade anything of him in turn.

Then a question popped into his mind, and he
looked over to where the thief girl was eating her stew sullenly.
Uncle Salim got the hint and told her to go eat in his room. After
a second of hesitation and another look at his brooch, she went.
She wouldn’t know that uncle Salim had little to do with his
brother illegal activities, and certainly thought that disobeying
the man meant incurring the wrath of
mikhlab,
Saif’s
claw.

“Uncle,” Hwosh whispered at length, “I know
how business works, but this has been weighing on my mind…” No
answer came, although a sigh told the warrior his uncle knew where
this was going. “Why such a large Worg, and from that particular
area?”

Salim went over to his room and closed the
door, perhaps startling the crimson haired girl trying to eavesdrop
from within. “Thieves have sharp ears,” he explained. For a while,
the only sound present was him scratching at his bald scalp,
perhaps hoping to avoid the question. “When it comes to people, you
are as thick as can be, Hwosh,” he stated simply, almost even
managing a chuckle, “but you’re critical, smart and analytical in
nature. I’m sure you’ve figured that one out by now.”

“Worg poison,” breathed the warrior
distastefully. The stuff wasn’t popular, and for good reason. “Is
it Saif who wants it?”

“That I can’t say, and I don’t know what it’s
for. However, the only reason to use Worg poison is to get caught.
I’ll give you your money, and an extra few Regalians to warn your
friend, Persilius Verde. Make him leave the city within a month. As
for me, I’ll consider rearing up our little thief, there, god
willing.” His smile returned at her mention, and Salim pointed
mischievously at the door. “I think I have one more in me yet.”

After catching up on many little nothings,
Hwosh left Salim’s house with a heavy heart. It was dark outside,
and he felt as if within an island of light. Within this district,
only uncle Salim’s area of influence could afford lighting. It was
the old man’s dream to make life better for the downtrodden here,
and so he began a chain of charity a long time ago: He would pull
the closest families to his house out of poverty and provide them
with jobs, on the condition that they gave to charity as often as
possible. It began with one house, then ten, and now his circle of
good was growing faster than ever before. Hwosh could see, within
the light cast by starbeetles trapped in glass, faces content with
life and willing to believe in others. When that light begins to
fade, their faces would be once more plunged into bitterness.

Added to that particular system, uncle Salim
had his Baneen to show for. It was amazing that such a saintly man
could have such a wicked one for a sibling, for Saif Qamar was the
father of Lor’s undisputed kings of underground and crime, the
Miklhab. Uncle Salim avoided talking of Saif for the most part,
perhaps out of disappointment.

At Themra, Hwosh took a right towards the
north part of town, then almost chuckled when he absentmindedly
found himself facing a small water fountain shaped like a cat. He
retraced his steps and was knocking upon Percy’s door shortly
thereafter.

“Come in, buddy,” answered a sly voice,
sounding much younger than its owner had any right to claim being.
Hwosh pushed the door open with a grimace. “I wish you wouldn’t do
that,” he grumbled at Percy, who was standing over a book in his
blue robe.

Unlike Uncle Salim, Persillius Verde had
somehow managed to keep most of his long hair firmly on his head.
It ran down him in straight lines, ending at his midsection, just a
little longer than his equally greyish blonde beard. Percy was
rapidly approaching his seventies and looked it, due to laughing
lines wreathing his face like a proud circlet. Like Hwosh’s foster
parent, this man here was lanky and thin. Hwosh reckoned he could
crush Percy’s hip in his grip, if he so chose. His neighbour
laughed then, acting as childish as always. “Do what?” he asked
innocently.