The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-12

The sound of his daughter’s cries moved Jafar to action. With a strong, sudden wrenching motion he pulled himself away from the policeman holding his left arm. Twisting slightly, he kicked at the groin of the man who’d grabbed Selima. That man, by quick movement, warded off the kick without receiving its ill effects, but in doing so let go his grip on Selima.

Free again, the girl did not hesitate, but ran as fast as she could toward the gate of the caravanserai. Other policemen in the courtyard tried to catch her, but desperation lent speed to her feet and she dodged around and between them. Before anyone else could touch her she was out the gate and fleeing down the street. Several officers gave chase, but soon lost her in the growing gloom of night and the twisting back streets of the city.

Jafar al-Sharif received a severe cudgeling from the truncheons of several officers for his interference in their work. But even through the pain that clouded his eyes, his soul felt at peace. “Selima escaped,” his thoughts repeated within the cradle of his mind, and that phrase was like a blanket to his troubled spirit. No matter what might happen to him—and in police hands, much could happen—Selima was still free. She was a clever girl, she would not let herself be captured.

His only concern was that she’d make some foolish attempt to help him, thereby jeopardizing her own liberty. Jafar al-Sharif knew that his only hope would be to find a righteous cadi and argue his case convincingly—and, to judge from his experience so far, he was growing increasingly doubtful of finding any righteous men within the Holy City.

***

Hakem Rafi the thief had spent most of the day asleep. He’d returned from his adventure of the night before to the tumbledown caravanserai near the city’s southern wall where he lodged. As the proprietor was asleep, Hakem Rafi slipped in and stole a bottle of wine, which he took to his dingy room and proceeded to empty in celebration of his marvelous prize. The thief drank himself into a stupor lying on the straw pallet that served as his bed, clutching the jeweled urn to his bosom as though it were a beloved concubine, its radiance in harsh contrast to the grimy surroundings.

He awoke, if such it could be called, in late afternoon as the sun’s rays were tinged with that peculiar saffron glow that occurs each day at one specific moment of time. His head ached from the wine and his body ached from his stiff posture. His tongue was fuzzed and his eyes smarted as though a swarm of flies had crawled over them. But even as he woke, he knew he still held his precious urn.

Slowly he tilted his neck to look at it as it rested against his chest. Even taken from its glamorous home and beautiful surroundings, it was a breathtaking sight. He could see the gold showing a little more now between the stones, the smooth polished yellow of it, gleaming as though from the inner recesses of his deepest dreams.

And there were the jewels themselves, diamonds and emeralds each big enough to choke one of those fat jewelers down in the King’s Bazaar. The sharp edges and smooth planes of each facet reflected hidden worlds of barbaric splendor, promising sensual delights to last a thousand thousand days and nights. Each gem was a separate pool in which Hakem Rafi bathed his dirty soul, pools of green and white that grabbed any light available and seemed to throw it back magnified a thousandfold.

Hakem Rafi placed the urn gently down beside his pallet and rolled over onto his stomach so he was staring straight into it. The beauty dazzled him, hypnotized him, caught him in a nameless whirl of fantasy. A chuckle came from the thief’s throat, deep and raspy, and echoed to the very corners of the room and back again. The urn belonged to him, to Hakem Rafi, and with it came the power of….

Of what? His mind stopped suddenly at that point like a man tripping over a doorsill while entering a house. The power of what?

Wealth, that was what he meant. The urn represented untold riches, and with wealth came power. That was what he must have been thinking. Wealth and power were his. He would be Hakem Rafi the thief no longer. From this day forth he would be Hakem Rafi the gentleman, the lord, the nobleman. Perhaps he could find some small realm and buy an army to conquer it. Then he could be Hakem Rafi the king.

Or why stop there? Why not Hakem Rafi the emperor? The world was his for the taking, now that he held the urn.

The sound of breaking dishes downstairs brought him back to reality. Despite his physical condition, the reflexes he’d developed over many years as a thief stood him in good stead. He leaped quickly from his pallet on the floor to the door of the room and peered out to see what was happening.

Police had invaded the courtyard downstairs and were rifling through the lower rooms first, showing no great concern for decorum or personal property. As the caravanserai’s landlord and tenants looked on, the officers tore the place apart looking for something—and Hakem Rafi had a good idea what they were after.

He was not Hakem Rafi the emperor yet, and if he ever hoped to be he would have to get away from here very quickly. He couldn’t leave by the door, but Hakem Rafi had long ago learned to plan for just such contingencies.

He had to wrap the urn again for its protection. He was sorry now he’d discarded the altar cloth, but there was other fabric available. Tearing strips of cloth from the bottom of his kaftan, he wrapped his treasure carefully and tucked it once more into his capacious pocket. That done, he set out to make his escape.

He’d chosen this room specifically for its window that overlooked the roof of the one-story house next door. It was but a short drop from the sill to the roof, and from there he moved across the flattened surface hoping the gathering twilight would hide him until he could be well away.

There were more police out on the street, however, and one of them spotted Hakem Rafi as the thief darted across the rooftop. While many people fled at the approach of the police, few did it across the roofs in so experienced a fashion. Giving a cry to alert his fellows, the policeman began to follow Hakem Rafi’s path along the street. From this point, the chase was on once again.

Some policemen poured out onto the street to cover the ground level of the neighborhood. Others rushed out from the caravanserai’s windows onto the roof where Hakem Rafi had gone. Their hope was to cut off his escape along the roofs as well as on the ground.

Hakem Rafi ran as though possessed by a demon, his hangover forgotten in his fear. He leaped from rooftop to rooftop with great agility. Each leap was hard enough for the chronically underfed thief, but agonizing for the police grown fat on bribes and wine. One very fat old captain followed gamely roof after roof. Hakem Rafi nearly fell after hearing the crash he made on a roof behind him.

He turned to see how close his pursuers were, then led them toward a stable he’d visited a few days before while stealing a saddlebag. The ground-level pursuers cursed all thieving servants of Rimahn as they had to struggle through the angry camels and horses. The thief was thrilled with his strategy and spurted across the center rib of the roof.

He had just reached the long wall beside the place when the fat captain jumped onto the very rotten roof. He crashed through and landed on a pregnant camel who proceeded to bite him and complain loudly enough to be heard over the rest of the chaos. The pursuers split as some stayed to rescue their captain and, as Hakem Rafi had hoped, he gained even more ground in the confusion.

He ran today as he had never run before, for now he was not merely running away from something; there was a vast reward at the end of this trail, if he could keep his freedom, and Hakem Rafi was determined the treasure would be his. No force in all of Parsina would deny it to him, he vowed, and on he ran.

At last he came to the end of the row of houses, and the gap across the street to the next row was too wide for any man to leap. With the pack of policemen approaching across the rooftops behind him, Hakem Rafi had no choice but to drop to the ground and take his chances once more on the open streets.

He landed almost on top of one officer racing along the buildings to capture him. The man grabbed him as he landed, but Hakem Rafi delivered him a massive punch that sent the officer reeling backward against the wall, and the thief regained his balance and ran on. The gathering darkness would be his friend, as it ever was for thieves and murderers.

There were some few people still about in the streets at this hour, but Hakem Rafi pushed them rudely aside as he ran and no one seriously impeded his path. The byways of Ravan were still largely a mystery to him; he wished briefly he were back in Yazed, where he knew the twist and turn of every street and alleyway, and where he knew the houses of people who would shelter him for a price. But in Yazed, he reminded himself, there were no treasures such as the urn that weighed in his pocket. If one wanted high rewards, one had to risk great dangers.

His already dirty kaftan became streaked with his sweat and the dirt thrown up by his feet. The urn banged against his leg and he felt the gems starting to cut through the cheap fabric. Even though it made him more noticeable, he gathered that part of his robe into a pouch and held it up by his waist. His bare legs were cooler and could move even faster. His throat felt as though one of Rimahn’s daevas had blasted it with red-hot sand, and his breath came in torturous gasps as he ran for his life and his dreams.

He dodged through the streets in the southeast quarter of Ravan for an hour, with the sounds of pursuit falling farther behind. Fate seemed to guide his steps and took him safely at every turn, until at last he came to a dead end. His nose told him where he was even without light. He had reached a khandaq, a sewage sump for this neighborhood where the ditches at the sides of the streets carried the local wastes.

Hakem Rafi was breathing through his mouth, and even so the atmosphere of the khandaq made him gag and threatened to overwhelm him. The thief moved cautiously forward, nearly stumbling from exhaustion but mindful of the treacherous footing and not wanting to fall into the sump in the darkness. There was no thought at all of returning the way he’d come; though he’d put some distance between himself and his followers, any retracing of his steps would place him in immediate jeopardy. It would be better to put his faith in the powers of the khandaq; the air would be equally noxious for the police here as it was for him and they’d be unlikely to stay to give the area a thorough scrutiny. Hakem Rafi eased his way around the lip of the sump pressing tight against the retaining wall. He found a spot out of immediate sight of the street leading in here and held still. He muffled his mouth with the edge of his robe to stifle the echoes of his gasping.

In the distance he could hear the footsteps and voices of policemen coming closer. He had gotten so far ahead of them that they were unsure which way he’d gone and their search had become more random—but nonetheless their steps were taking them down the street that led to the khandaq.