The Complete Parsina Saga

Volume I: SHRINE OF THE DESERT MAGE-14

Even if that were so, however, Hakem Rafi still could not lose. If Aeshma possessed even one-hundredth of the power he claimed, Hakem Rafi would still become a wealthy and powerful man. He could scarcely be in a more desperate situation than he already was; the risk would be worth the taking.

Of far more concern to the thief was the problem of controling Aeshma once he’d been freed. Pent up as he was now within his tiny urn, the demon was all honey and rosepetals, soft and promising. Hakem Rafi had heard other prisoners make exaggerated promises to their jailors in exchange for freedom, promises they had no intention of keeping. Hakem Rafi would have to find some way of forcing Aeshma to keep his word after he’d been released.

In all the stories and songs he’d ever heard, there were strict rules that governed the practice of magic, even by the druj who followed the way of destruction and the lie. Supposedly not even they, superb liars though they were, could swear falsely in the name of their lord. Before Hakem Rafi opened the urn, he would have to make Aeshma swear in the name of Rimahn, the power of darkness, purveyor of the lie, that he would act as slave to Hakem Rafi and obey him in all matters.

The wording of that oath would have to be thought out most carefully, as well. Demons were notorious for finding ways to circumvent their agreements while holding to the letter of their oaths. Hakem Rafi would have to take steps to ensure that Aeshma would not simply kill him the instant he was free, before the thief gave him any orders to obey.

These were matters of serious thought, and Hakem Rafi knew he would have to consider them well before doing anything. Right now there were more immediate problems requiring his attention. The urn could not be opened within the walls of Ravan, meaning Hakem Rafi would have to find some method of getting his treasure past the city gates. As it was now well past sunset all five gates would be locked tight for the night. There were undoubtedly other, secret, paths in and out of the city but Hakem Rafi, a stranger to this town, knew them not. He would have to wait for daybreak and try the official routes then.

Meanwhile he had the night to pass as safely as he could. The police search had been called off for now, but there were still too many officers in the streets to make him comfortable, and he had no money to stay at a caravanserai or tavern for the night. If he could only get some sleep and avoid being captured, he could be the most powerful man in all of Parsina by this time tomorrow night.

Roaming through the now-quiet streets, he found an old house that was boarded up and empty. Hakem Rafi broke through the window and curled up to sleep on the bare floor in one corner. Hunger, cold, and loneliness were no strangers to him. Tomorrow they would be banished forever, but he decided he could endure them for one night more.

***

The problem of leaving Ravan proved much more difficult than Hakem Rafi had imagined. Shortly after dawn he woke and walked down to Peasant’s Gate to be there as it opened—but to his dismay he saw that a thorough search still was going on. Though the police thought they’d caught the thief last night, they knew the urn was still at large. The thief could have had one or more accomplices who might spirit the urn out of the city. Now that Hakem Rafi knew the urn’s importance, he knew why the police were making such a major effort to reclaim it.

Every person attempting to leave the city through Peasant’s Gate was stopped and subjected to a thorough search of his person. If he had any belongings with him, they were summarily opened and pawed through to make certain the missing urn was not there. One angry merchant, with a whole train of camels and many bales of merchandise, was being delayed while every item of his cargo big enough to contain the urn was systematically inspected by the callous guards. The merchant railed furiously at the officers, cursing them and their families for six generations in ways that even impressed someone as accomplished in the art as Hakem Rafi, but the police stubbornly went about their task with grim determination.

Hakem Rafi turned away from the southern gate without bothering to approach it. He could think of no way to hide the urn that would pass the inspection being given by the police and enable him to take it out of the city. And if he couldn’t take it out of the city, all the promises Aeshma gave him were as empty as the desert wind.

He traveled around the city, stopping at Beggar’s Gate, Merchant’s Gate, and River Gate, all with the same result. The police everywhere were being extraordinarily diligent in their search for the missing urn, checking the baggage of everyone—rich or poor, great or small—who left the city. Hakem Rafi knew that if he waited too long the police would find out that the culprit they apprehended yesterday was not the one with the urn, and they would start looking for him again. He had to be out of the city before then, but he despaired of ever leaving while the gate inspections were as thorough as he’d seen them.

With a sense of deepening gloom he approached Palace Gate, which he assumed would be the most tightly controlled of all. But as he traveled up along the King’s Bazaar he encountered a growing climate of confusion and anarchy. There was an unusual percentage of soldiers, even for this quarter of the city; men, horses, camels, and asses were moving here and there with no sense of order. Hakem Rafi could barely fight his way through the mob to draw near the gate which, he saw, was being as closely guarded as the others.

The confusion, though, intrigued him. Wherever there is chaos, there the skillful thief finds his opportunity. Something important was going to happen here, and Hakem Rafi was curious to find out what it was.

A young man in the livery of a royal servant dashed past, and Hakem Rafi reached out and grabbed his arm. “Forgive me, O servant of royalty, but may a humble citizen ask what is the cause of all this commotion?”

The young man tried to shake the grip, but Hakem Rafi held him tightly. “Prince Ahmad is preparing to make a journey,” he said, hoping that answer would satisfy his captor.

The thief’s appetite for information was only whetted by this tidbit. “Where is he going?”

“He leaves at first light tomorrow for Marakh with his entourage, to marry his fiancée Princess Oma, O detainer of busy people.” The young man gathered his strength and yanked his arm free of the other man’s grasp. With an indignant snort he continued on his intended errand, leaving a thoughtful Hakem Rafi behind him.

This coincidence could be the answer to his prayers. Tomorrow morning, Prince Ahmad would leave with his caravan. There would be aides and guards and servants and slaves, and all their baggage and supplies, plus gifts for the king of Marakh and assorted other trappings of a royal entourage. The guards at the gate would not dare stop the procession to search it for the missing urn; and even if, by some mischance, they did look, they would not be able to tell this urn from the other treasures the prince and his party would carry with them.

Hakem Rafi laughed. Prince Ahmad himself would provide the means for his departure from Ravan and would give Hakem Rafi the chance to open the urn and sample the riches Aeshma had promised him.

As the day wore on, Hakem Rafi watched closely the progress of the entourage, observing how it was assembled and who would be part of it. A number of the palace guards were apparently scheduled to accompany the prince. Most of the guards knew one another and talked among themselves, but there was one guard who held himself aloof and did not join in the camaraderie of his fellows. This was a man only slightly bigger than Hakem Rafi himself. The thief estimated he could easily fit within the guard’s clothing and armor—and with the guard as distant as he was from his fellows, they would not likely see through his impersonation.

Thus, as the afternoon drew to a close, did Hakem Rafi devise his plan to kill the guard and take his place. He watched his quarry carefully as the man busied himself with loading trunks into carts and saddlebags onto the pack animals, but never did the guard stray far from the public street until just after the sun set. Then, as a new shift started working, the soldier nodded to his relief and walked away down the bazaar. Hakem Rafi followed stealthily after him like a shadow of the night.

The soldier walked along the main street for a while, then turned off into a side street. Hakem Rafi’s hand went to the hilt of the blade at his belt, but before he could make his move the soldier entered the door of a well-lighted tavern. Hakem Rafi cursed under his breath, but resolved not to let his target escape. Gathering his courage, he too entered the tavern.

The common room was bright and cheerful, lit by a heavy wrought-iron chandelier with dozens of blazing candles suspended from the center of the ceiling. The walls were neatly plastered with painted frescoes along the edges. Low circular tables were spaced about the floor, each circled by solid wooden benches. A roasting pig was turning on a spit over a flame in one corner of the room. The air smelled richly of cooked meat, unfortunately reminding Hakem Rafi that he had not eaten in two days. He’d been able to quell the pangs of hunger until now, but the precious aroma of the meat made his hunger burn anew, rekindling his resolve to accomplish his goals.

The tavern was moderately crowded. There were a number of soldiers seated at the various tables, and even more ordinary citizens—mostly respectable looking merchants and tradesmen of the middle classes. The particular soldier Hakem Rafi was interested in took a seat to one side of the room, near the roasting pig. Again he stayed to himself and ordered a glass of wine.

Hakem Rafi took a seat by himself at the other end of the tavern, a position from which he could watch the actions of his quarry without being particularly noticeable himself. When the waiter came by to ask for his order Hakem Rafi explained that he was waiting for a friend and they would order together when he came. Meanwhile his stomach was grumbling at the ill treatment he’d given it and the promised food his nostrils had foretasted.

There was a balustrade along the corridor to the second floor, and from time to time a young woman—possibly the innkeeper’s wife or daughter—came out and looked across the crowd below. She wore but the sheerest of milfas for modesty’s sake, and her face was quite lovely. As her eyes scanned the room, Hakem Rafi noticed that she looked particularly at the guard he was chasing—and that the guard returned the gaze. After a while the woman disappeared again, but not before Hakem Rafi had developed a plan to win his wish.

Sidling over to the soldier, he sat down on the bench next to him and said, “My mistress is lovely, is she not?”

The guard, startled, looked at him cautiously. “Who are you?” he asked.

“I am but a servant of she who waits upstairs. She saw you gazing at her and signaled me silently to speak to you.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong,” the soldier insisted defensively.

“Of course not,” Hakem Rafi soothed. “There is no sin in looking at beauty. My mistress herself has done it, when she looked down at you. She has charged me with asking you, O noble soldier of our illustrious prince, if you would be so kind as to honor her with a more private meeting upstairs.”