The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-11

“It shall be even as you say,” abu Saar replied, eyeing the money sacks with evident relish. “Was there anything else you required of me at this time?”

Shammara started to shake her head, but Prince Haroun straightened up and appeared to awaken. “Tell me about the Princess Oma,” he said. “Is she really as beautiful as they claim?”

“Princess Oma is the incarnation of all the graces, Your Highness,” abu Saar said. “Her face is as the moon on its fourteenth night, and her dainty hips sway like stalks of wheat in a summer breeze. Her eyes are as twin pools, clear and calm, and her voice rivals the turtledove. She is a skilled dancer and plays the lute, flute, and drums. She comes from a fertile line and will, I’m sure, provide you with many sons.”

“That’s fine, I’m sure,” Shammara said, cutting off the recitation before abu Saar could bore them any further. “Don’t worry, Haroun, I’ve already established she’ll make you a good wife. You just leave these details to me.”

“As you say, Mother,” Haroun pouted, and returned to picking at his face.

Shammara turned to the ambassador. “You may leave us now, O worthy intermediary, with our gratitude for performing your offices so well. Please send our highest respects to your esteemed master.”

Tabib abu Saar bowed once more and, as his eunuch guide gathered up the money pouches, left the room through the door to the secret passages. The eunuch went with him to show him the way back to the more public parts of the palace.

When abu Saar was gone, Shammara turned to her son. “Are you pleased, Haroun?” she asked.

“Yes, Mother.” The boy’s whining voice was something less than enthusiastic.

“I’m doing all of this for your benefit, you know. You should rightfully be king. My family is one of the noblest in Ravan; you’re not the offspring of some baseborn snippet like that usurper Ahmad. You should show the proper gratitude for all I’ve done.”

“You’re right, Mother,” Prince Haroun said, trembling slightly as he looked at her. “I’m sorry I pouted. I just wanted everything with Princess Oma to be perfect.”

“It will be, my darling, it will be. Have I not guaranteed it? Have I not made everything come true for you exactly as I said I would?”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Now, in honor of our victory today I’ve bought a surprise for you: a new slavegirl.”

Haroun’s normally sleepy eyes widened with delight. “Really? Oh thank you, dearest of all mothers. Where is she?”

“I had her brought down to your special room. She should be waiting for you now.”

Haroun jumped up with excitement from his chair, kissed his mother on the cheek and started to race from the room.

“Haroun!” Shammara called after him.

The boy froze and turned to face her. “Yes, Mother?”

“Do be more careful, dear, and try to make her last a little bit longer. The slave merchants are becoming more reluctant to deal with me, and their price keeps going up.”

“Yes, Mother. As you wish.” And then Haroun was gone from the room, his footsteps echoing loudly as he raced down the hall outside.

Shammara sighed as she watched him leave, and rose with a liquid movement. Haroun was far from all she could have wished for as her son—but he was her son, and she would see him seated on the throne of Ravan. It was his destiny and hers, and no more needed to be said.

Chapter 7: The Police

As ordered by the regent, the police of Ravan began an immediate search for the stolen reliquary urn. Their commission was to search every house, every building, and every person until the urn was found—but the diligence of their search depended very much upon the person and place.

The early stages of the search totally ignored the homes of the nobles and the wealthy on the northern side of Ravan. These were people of substance, after all; they would never stoop to such a wicked and blasphemous deed. If the urn were not found elsewhere the elite members of Ravan’s society would be politely requested to allow a search of their premises—but everyone doubted that would be necessary.

At the middle class houses, the police knocked and explained the nature of their business, that the regent had ordered this search to rid Ravan of the heretical taint. Police would wander through the homes and stores looking in all rooms, opening all doors, checking all cupboards and containers large enough to hold the missing urn. The police were efficient but civil. If any of the officers were impolite, no one complained.

Of course, no one ever complained about anything the police did. The wali considered complaints tantamount to admissions of guilt in some matter or another, and it usually didn’t take him long to extract from the complainer a confession to some unsolved crime. If nothing else, this policy led to a low rate of unsolved crimes within Ravan.

In the poorer districts of the Holy City the police seldom bothered with such niceties. Homes would be entered without warning, wardrobes would be emptied upon the floor, boxes and chests would be broken open and their contents scattered to make certain the urn was not there. It was the poor, after all, who were most likely to spawn a thief and murderer such as the man who broke into the Royal Temple, so it stood to reason they were all guilty—if not of this crime, then of some other one equally sinful if not as notorious. Indeed, police did recover some stolen merchandise from the homes of small-time thieves, half of which was kept as their discovery fee. But the precious urn itself eluded their grasp.

The search continued throughout the day and well into the evening. Rumors spread among the residents that a major hurricane in police garb was sweeping through the city, and these rumors caused a panic even in those people who knew they were innocent of any wrongdoing. The mere sight of officers approaching was sufficient to make people flee their homes. This meant less resistance and the police could search the houses far more thoroughly, seldom leaving anything untouched or whole. But still the urn was not found.

It was well after sunset when a squadron of police reached the caravanserai behind the King’s Bazaar. This was a place where some of the wealthier traders stayed, and normally might have been exempt from the worst of the searching—but the police were now feeling frustrated by their lack of success and were willing to vent that frustration on others. The guests in the caravanserai were all foreigners, strangers to Ravan, and that in itself made them suspects no matter how wealthy they were.

Jafar al-Sharif was sitting on a bench by the fountain in the central courtyard, practicing his art. The dust of the day’s traffic had settled and the fountain murmured softly, adding welcome moisture to the cooling air. As the sun set, the torches began to provide more of the light, and the intimacy of the flickering glow aided Jafar’s task. People had come to splash water on their dust-lined faces and stayed, captured by the artistry of a master storyteller. Gradually they crouched, sat, or leaned on walls around the courtyard, turning from traveling strangers into an audience. Street urchins also came to be hypnotized by the tales. It was a small audience, to be sure, but Jafar was hoping one of the merchants from the less “sophisticated” cities where storytelling was still revered might give him a few coins in appreciation or, better yet, know of some household opening where a storyteller might be welcome. Jafar and Selima were quite prepared to leave Ravan if they could find steady employment elsewhere.

Jafar was telling one of his favorite tales, the story of King Khaled and the warrior maid of the Altai, and had just reached the scene where the king sees his opponent without armor for the first time and realizes she’s a woman. At that moment the police came storming through the caravanserai gate and started going to the doors of the lower floor rooms to check their contents. The urchins screamed and fled at their first sight of the police, knowing just how much trouble those officers could cause. One of the merchants went up to the captain of police indignantly and said, “What are you doing, O disturber of an innocent evening?”

The captain gave him a hard look. “My men and I are searching for a thief and a murderer, a man who stole a relic from the Temple of the Faith last night. Those who are innocent have nothing to fear from us.”

Some of the police had opened the door to the storeroom containing this merchant’s wares, large bales of cotton fabrics, and were laughing as they pulled the bolts of fabric apart in their search. The merchant started to protest, but the police captain gave him a hard jab in the midsection with his truncheon and the unfortunate trader fell to the ground, gasping.

Selima sat down on the bench next to her father. “I’m frightened,” she whispered, taking care that the police not hear her. She believed, with some justification, that their knowledge of her fear would only make them more overbearing and destructive. No one could live on the streets of Parsina without seeing the violence and cruelty of the police.

“Be of good spirits, Selima,” Jafar comforted her with a broad sweep of his hand. “You heard what he said. We’re innocent, we have nothing to fear. Even if they toss all our worldly possessions around the courtyard, it will take but a few minutes to pick them up again. The one advantage of being poor is you have so little to lose.”

One of the policemen did indeed enter the tiny room under the stairs where Jafar and his daughter currently lived. After just a moment he came out and conferred quietly with the captain, who went into the small room with him to see something for himself. The two men emerged again and the police captain called out, “Who lives in this room by the stables?”

Still trusting in his innocence to protect him, Jafar al-Sharif stood up and approached the officer. “I do, O most noble of police captains. How may I, a humble storyteller, help…?”

The police captain looked to his men. “Seize this man at once! He is the thief we seek.”

Two large, well-muscled men grabbed Jafar’s arms. At first the storyteller was too stunned even to struggle. “Me? Surely there must be some mistake. I’ve never even been to the Temple of the Faith. I’ve stolen nothing in my life but kisses and glances.”

“Liar. I have the proof right in my hand.” He held up the piece of fabric Jafar had found in the street. “This is the very altar cloth the thief used to wrap the relic when he escaped from the temple. It even has a holy inscription stitched around the bottom. Do you still protest your innocence?” The captain was positively sneering with superiority.

“Let him go,” Selima cried, beating her tiny fists at one of the officers holding her father. “He is innocent. He but found that cloth this morning and brought it home as a present to me.”

“And who is this vixen?” the captain smiled, turning to admire what he could see of Selima’s beauty.

As the truth of what must have happened began to dawn in Jafar’s mind, his heart fell like a rock in a garden pool. With the stolen property undeniably in his possession, he had little chance of convincing the captain of his innocence. His only hope would be to stand before a cadi and plead the facts in the case, hoping Oromasd would grant him justice in this holy city.

In the meantime there was further peril as his beloved Selima risked being taken herself merely for being his daughter. Jafar had heard too many stories of prisons and dungeons, and knew that must not happen to her.

“Run, Selima, run while you can!” he called. “I’m lost, they’ll never believe me. Save yourself, whatever you do.”

Selima stood frozen with indecision. She wanted to help her father, yet she knew his advice was good. The conflicting emotions threatened to tear her soul in two.

While she stood immobile, another policeman grabbed her tiny wrist and held it in a tight grip. Selima shrieked and tried to pull free, but found she could not. All her struggles managed to accomplish was to tear her milfa away, leaving her bare-faced in public.