The Dancer of Hafiz Chapter 4
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4. Slave's Fate
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(Early Summer, 1176)
One-Eyed Wadja's estimates were accurate. At Hakkan's command the caravan diverted southwards to the great eastern highway where they joined an ambling procession of other caravans and camel trains funnelling their way towards the desert stronghold. Thankfully for Rabbit and the other slaves, they reached the qasr before the sun hit its apex.
Qasr Ghazna was a fearsome sight. Its towering curtain walls rans for hundreds of cubits in pentagonal shape around the various structures encircling its giant wellspring; inns, taverns, tanneries, butcher shops and bakeries, blacksmith forges, kilns, paddocks, barracoons, barracks, a temple and five watchtowers.
Soldiers inspected each caravan at the qasr gates then demanded a toll relative to its contents in exchange for entry. Hakkan tried haggling with them, but they did not buckle. As the only water source for a day's ride in any direction Qasr Ghazna was a key checkpoint in Tehraqi trade – and her soldiers knew it. He was forced to pay an even steeper tax than the headman of Tangrys claimed – thirty silverlings per head. Rabbit watched from the wagon as a seething Hakkan ordered two of his men to pay them before the caravan could pass.
The qasr was overflowing with activity in its tightly packed streets – patrolling soldiers marched by bartering merchants and hammer-armed smithies as oaken carts offloaded goods at market stalls. Smoke and sweat scented the air, air alive with a cacophonous blend of shouts, bleating, cheering, and neighing. After the windy silence and whip cracks of the desert, Rabbit found the sudden overabundance of sound almost deafening. He was not permitted to suffer it long.
As soon as the caravan was safely inside the qasr walls, Hakkan split his men into three groups with three tasks. One third (led by Mehmoud) would take the wagons to the wellspring to water the horses and refill their gourds and waterskins. The second (led by Wadja) would take the slaves to the barracoons for the night. The third (led by Hakkan himself) would resupply on weapons and rations in the market. They would regroup at the Dragon's Breath tavern at sundown for some well-earned roasted chicken and barley beer.
Rabbit and two Kushwari slave girls were spared the barracoons and forced to serve drinks at the tavern instead. Hakkan's men had a ribald night but there was tension amongst him and his captains – specifically between Hakkan and Mehmoud. Rabbit did not notice as he struggled to avoid both men throughout the festivities, not until later that night when the captains retired to their shared room above the tavern. As usual they brought Rabbit along as their cupbearer and as usual, he alternated between them with a wine ewer provided by the house. The conversation was heated.
"Hakkan. I say we board `till dusk and march overnight," said One-Eyed Wadja. "We'll lose half a day, but it will be easier on the cattle."
Typically, Tehraqi caravans travelled at night (for its cooler temperatures) and camped during the day. Until now Hakkan's caravan had done the reverse – largely to avoid bandits and desert predators, as well as to hone his men's endurance for future excursions. But even he in all his pig-headedness saw Wadja's logic.
"Agreed," yet the slaver seethed. "1500 silverlings this has cost me. We've NEVER needed to resupply here. NEVER. This was a waste of time and money."
Mehmoud, as Rabbit saw, seemed to be aware that Hakkan was sore with him. "A loss it might be, but we'll recover it thrice over once we finally sell this stock. Only two days march to the next oasis town and after that one more day before Qazyr. We are almost there."
"1500 silverlings..." Palpable anger lurked beneath the flat tenor of Hakkan's voice. "...One THOUSAND... five HUNDRED... silverlings. Do you know what that is, Mehmoud? That is one EIGHTH of what it took to raise this campaign. That is one FIFTH of my current coffers and nearly HALF of what my men are to be paid. That is what your blunder has cost me."
Mehmoud frowned. "My blunder? How mine?"
"What is not your idea to poach these weak slaves from Kushwar?" said One-Eyed Wadja. "I warned against it, did I not? I said we should wait out the summer to raise more money and men, sail to Jafara in the winter, and then return with quality stock fresh and ready for the planting season. And yet here we are."
"Why do you always see only the negative? With the money we make from these Kushwari we can fund that journey twice over!"
Hakkan sneered at him. "There is no we, Mehmoud. Once we have sold these slaves at Qazyr, you no longer have a place in my caravan."
Mehmoud's shoulders sank. "...What? But..."
"You can keep your sword and zorse, but I'll be taking from your cut of the profits to help recoup my losses. 20 silverlings shall be your pay."
And then to Mehmoud a quiet fury of his own was born. "You promised me 300 for this..."
"With the way this has all gone... be grateful I have not divorced your head from its shoulders."
They all kept their weapons with them even as they retired for the night. Mehmoud's sickle sword sat in its leather strap lulling about the ground by its curved edge. Abana froze where he stood when, in a moment that could have become extremely bloody, Mehmoud reached for it. A sneering Wadja reached for his dagger but a smirking Hakkan did not budge. His war axe stayed where it was – nestled between his stool and his wine cup.
"...Are you man enough, Mehmoud?"
Silence filled the room... and rage. Rage on all sides. With his hand hovering over his sword's grip, Mehmoud was close enough to strike Hakkan down with a single swing. He was close enough...
...but instead he spat at the bald man's ankles.
"May Mnenomon damn you," he said. The smaller man shot up to his feet and stormed out of the room. The cedar wood door juddered behind him. Rabbit watched Hakkan smirk as though watching a spoilt child abandon his toys in protest. Even his allies were nothing to him.
The more Rabbit saw of the Tehraqis... the less he liked.
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(Late Winter, 1179)
Governor Ganu's private chambers were as richly dressed as the rest of Umayyah-khamat. Its walls were draped with expertly embroidered tapestries, earth-coloured silk sheets and mounted ram's skulls alongside other private adornments from all over the known world; Jamaran stone idols and Northlander silverwork platters, ceremonially-woven Kushwari talismans and jadestone Xianese jade stone magatamas, Nyssinian scythe swords and antique Abyyabid axe heads – treasures of both war and trade. It was as much a trophy room as it was a private dwelling.
`Lavish,' thought Abana of Hafiz, `but all of it has a blood price. How typically Tehraqi.'
The room was centred by a gigantic four poster bed made of solid ironwood oak and dressed in Xianese silk sheets. It was surrounded by miniature table stands each bearing a separate delicacy for the evening – one for dates, one for cheese, one for peaches, one for cinnamon buns, one for red wine, one for white wine, and so on. More than one person could eat and drink.
The cedarwood door swung open. Abana forced a smile onto his face as a delighted Governor Ganu strode in on sandaled feet. He was dressed as a Tehraqi nobleman ought to be (extravagantly) in his calf-length, gold-embroidered ebony tunic, but Ganu also wore something quite particular to him – a broad cheetah-skin sash clasped by a silver broach set with an amber gemstone in its centre – a defiant tribute to his slave mother's Jamaran lineage. Abana wondered if that mother would yet love the man her son grew up to be.
The governor took a seat upon the reclining chair positioned beneath the room's latticework windows. Beyond them was a balcony that overlooked the massive stone garden forecourt of Umayyah-khamat. Without ushering, Abana carefully poured some wine into a golden goblet encrusted with rubies. He gave it to Ganu.
"And for yourself?" He said.
Abana shook his head. "I cannot partake, my lord. I have talents in two dances, and both are better performed with a clear head. But please... avail yourself."
Ganu smiled and took a sip. "You were magnificent today. The other dancers were talented indeed but your movements... so sublime. Where were you trained?"
`In the pit of hell,' he thought. "Hafiz, my lord. Our town has a tradition of dance dating back to ancient times. Many of our women were called to perform for the Bans of Kushwar in their day."
"Women," Ganu scoffed. "Now there is a foul brood. Weak-willed and false of heart in all things... fit for whelping our pups and little else. I'd settle for better company than your Bans desired..."
Tehraqis had a way of commodifying their desires and as well as their distastes. Ganu was no different. He ordered Abana to come over to him.
Lustfully.
`Forgive me, Maliq,' thought the dancer. Abana did not join Ganu upon that cushioned reclining chair (there was no room to as the governor spread his legs wide) but instead knelt to his knees. The boy pressed his small hands against both those thick thighs, massaging them in smooth, subtle circles before sliding up to Ganu's hips. Abana held Ganu's gaze with a well-practiced smile as his hands disappeared into the folds of Ganu's tunic and untied the dyed loincloth hidden beneath it. The fabric peeled away like a banana skin and a stiff seven inches of warm hard flesh sprung free. Abana pushed Ganu's robes back until he could see it for himself.
If nothing else the governor was deeply gifted between the legs, blessed with a tumescence much like the rest of his frame – thick and demanding. Abana closed his mouth around its head and watched Ganu's eyes roll back into his skull.
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(Early Summer, 1176)
Rabbit dreamt awful things that night. With a mouthful of blood and smoke he strode through seas of mud in pursuit of some distant goatherd's hovel. A cruel, father-shaped silhouette threatened to break his bones with his club if he dared find his way out of the mud. And try as he might he could neither reach the hovel nor free himself from the muck. It simply grew thicker and deeper until it slowly swallowed him whole.
Rabbit's eyes shot open. He gasped and panted for air. Sweat coated his skin. When he moved to wipe it off with a cloth, he found a set of golden teeth glimmering at him in the darkness. Mehmoud wrapped his hand around Rabbit's mouth before he could scream. The boy then went still as a corpse as the older man drew a knife from its leather.
"Stay silent," said the slaver. "Make a single sound and I will bleed you like a goat. Do you understand?"
Rabbit nodded yes.
There was a rope and cloth hanging from his belt. Mehmoud shoved the cloth into Rabbit's mouth (muzzling his frightened whimpers) then bound up his wrists tight with the rope before hauling the boy up to his feet and dragging him away. With the candles and hearth's fire snuffed, their tavern lodgings were pitch black. Rabbit could not see more than a cubit in front of him. Somehow Mehmoud was unfazed. He punted opened the door and pulled Abana down the stairwell to the tavern floor where Hakkan's men were all passed out drunk, snoring and flatulating. Mehmoud led the way through their throng to the tavern doors and slowly slipped out with Rabbit onto the streets.
Silent and lowly lit by ensconced torchlight, the streets of Qasr Ghazna were eerily calm that night. Only a few of its soldiers were on patrol – most were sequestered in the barracks or standing guard by the central keep. Mehmoud ran with Rabbit down a back lane behind the tavern and headed east for the stables. They ducked behind a haystack to avoid the small contingent of guards positioned there – but once they moved on Mehmoud dragged Rabbit sixty paddocks down to his beloved zorse, Bahman.
The boy winced as the slaver heaved him up and slung him over the zebroid's rear like a slaughtered deer. A bloated waterskin warbled next to his head – enough water to last two people for three days of hard riding.
"I've paid off a few of the guards," said Mehmoud, as his fingers stumbled to adjust the saddle. "They will open the gate and allow us to escape. My plan was always to buy you when we got to Qazyr, but thanks to that pig fucking bastard Hakkan we have no choice but to flee. I'll take you to with me to Tehraq, little rabbit. You'll love the city..."
Mehmoud mounted up, fixed his feet into the stirrups, and rode Bahman out of its stall towards the hay-strewn yard beyond. The powerful beat of the zorse's hind legs rocked Rabbit to and fro. He was so terrified he might fall off the back that he shut his eyes and held on for dear life – until the steed stopped.
He opened his eyes again.
Along the road ahead they were cut off by an axe-armed Hakkan, a sword-drawn One-Eyed Wadja, and five of their men armed with recurve bows and a full stock of arrows in each of their hip quivers. All were on horseback.
"Damn you!" Mehmoud drew his sickle sword in response. "Damn you to hell and back, Hakkan!"
The tattooed slaver grinned. "Did you really think you could cheat me, boy? Put down that sword. Get off your horse. Give me that slave. Do that and maybe... just maybe... I'll let you live."
There was no way out. With Hakkan and his men were in front and the stables were behind it was hopeless. Rabbit watched Mehmoud shake with rage at his former friend until opened his hand and let the sickle sword fall out of it. It clattered against the hey-strewn flagstones. He then climbed down off his saddle in relent.
Hakkan smirked. "Dzungi."
It was the name of one of his archers. It was also a command. Dzungi's bow was so taut it groaned audibly in the still night. The whistling shot that followed was like a desperate gasp for breath – and it sunk home straight through Mehmoud's neck. Rabbit screamed into the cloth in his mouth as a gout of blood splattered his face. Bahman the zorse buckled. Rabbit fell from the steed and Mehmoud's glutting corpse landed on top of him. He screamed and struggled free himself from the larger man's weight, but he was too heavy to budge. Hakkan, Wadja and the five archers all had a good laugh before they finally dragged the gold-toothed man off him.
*
Rabbit never saw someone die before. He had been beaten (and seen others get beaten) but he never experienced that uncanny sight – eyes rolling into the skull and those blood-soaked death splutters. The boy spent the rest of the way to Qazyr in a daze.
Hakkan had his archers sell Mehmoud's corpse to a pig farmer and divided the traitor's goods up amongst them as a reward. Dzungi took the zorse. The slavers emerged from the Dragon's Breath tavern (and a few from the local brothels) re-armed and re-armoured to retrieve the slaves from the barracoons and reform the caravan in the qasr square. Rabbit was only vaguely aware of being loaded into wagon with the women again before it set out at twilight.
The journey was smooth after that.
The caravan moved by moonlight with the stars as their navigation. The Kushwari men took easier to the cooler climes and for the first-time kept pace with the Jafari slaves (as was One-Eyed Wadja's plan). They marched until daybreak and camped in the shadow of a crag until dusk. Another night's march took them to the oasis town of Quwayq, a small town with its prime water source brooked by carefully cultivated mangrove plantations. Once their waterskins were refilled and the slaves and horses were watered, the caravan camped outside of town and slept until sunfall.
From then? One last starlit march completed their long trek from the Pushan Mountains of Kushwar all the way to the bustling market town of Qazyr.
Rabbit was half-asleep from the heat when one of the female slaves nudged his shoulder to coax him awake.
"Take heed, little one," she said. "We are here."
It was the sounds of the city that hit him first –creaking tavern doors, clucking chickens and dog barks, rolling wagon wheels, flocking tarp; all as the guildsmen strode the laneways with their apprentices and notaries in tow and rotund merchants hollered at passers-by for audience to their lovely goods. Ululating priests extolled the greatness of Mnenomon whilst the city watchmen stamped their sandals through the sandy roads, and woodworkers pounded nails into planks as sellers and buyers haggled to the last silverling.
Rabbit gasped.
Qazyr was his largest town heretofore seen and the chorus of commerce was uniform throughout it. In another circumstance it would have impressed him, if not for the habitual stamp of Tehraqi cruelty that so marred it all.
Everywhere he looked there were slaves.
Slaves of every age, sex and hue – slaves being marched into bamboo cages, slaves chopping wood, slaves washing linen, slaves being whipped. According to Hakkan (who uttered this to One-Eyed Wadja and Mehmoud five drunken nights ago) slaves outnumbered freemen 3 to 1 in Qazyr, and although most brought there were sold to buyers from other cities in the High East (most notably Tehraq), thousands more were purchased to solely to serve in the households of the local guildsmen. As Rabbit would one day learn, the Master of the Slave Guild, Abyad e'Dur, boasted a slave staff of 80 men and 140 women at his private manse. Qazyr, to its core, was built upon the bones of the slave trade.
The barracoons were on the edge of the city, none too far from the other livestock paddocks; horses, zorses, goats, cattle, chickens and pigs due to be re-sold in the central market plaza. Hakkan ordered his men to herd his slaves into the makeshift caging area, all fifty of them, and there they were left to ponder, idle, cry and rest.
Sometime later Hakkan reappeared with a wealthy merchant; pointed toe silk slippers, gold rings on every finger, a flowing multicoloured tunic striped in black, red and green – and a gaudy grin. Rabbit and the other slaves watched Hakkan present them to the merchant like an apothecary shilling the potency of his turmeric.
"Fine stock," said the tattooed cutthroat. "Fresh from Kushwar, watered daily, barely a scratch on them. As is your wont I spared the women the lash and the road. I am willing to part ways with all of them, Dhabr."
Dhabr the slave dealer eyed the slaves through the cage's plank. He focused on the women (and Rabbit). "I have a contact in Jawwaz – the steward of the governess's household. He says she is in desperate need of new staff – and I've been seeking closer ties with her for over a year."
Hakkan blinked. "You mean Governess Yahya? I heard that she does not keep slaves."
"She doesn't," said Dhabr. "She buys them, frees them, then permits them to stay with her as servants. How King Qattullah abides by such sentimentality is beyond me but a woman is a woman. And business, as they say, is business. What skills do these slaves have? And do not lie to me, I always have them demonstrate their talents before I put them to auction."
"I'm glad you asked my friend," Hakkan pointed to each of them in the barracoon as he and Dhabr strolled by its bars. "That tall woman over there is Kumara, a good seamstress I took from a paupered guildsman. The twin girls Abi and Abi'a are both skilled herbalists who learned under the finest apothecary in Kushwar. The girl with lazy eye is Pumela – a bit ugly but a fantastic cook, your buyers will love her spiced chicken and rice bowls! The boy next to her we call Rabbit. Fluent in written and spoken Tehraqi with a good head for numbers – and very pretty for those so inclined. Marara the short woman is a dressmaker and those Jafari girls in the back are all either washerwomen or wet nurses – they have no tongue for Tehraqi, but they respond well to simple commands and a good slap. Now wait until I show you the men! They-"
"Enough," said Dhabr. "I will take the women, the boy and those six Jafari men over there. The rest I have no use for."
The bald slaver's eyes bulged. That was not what he wanted to hear. "But Dhabr, those men are-"
"Kushwaris. And weak ones at that. I am an old hand at this, Hakkan. I assure you that those... fletchers and bakers would not last fifty days on a plantation. But I am nothing if not a generous man, so my offer is this – 3250 silverlings. 200 per head for the Jafari men, 150 per head for the Kushwari girls, 120 per head for the Jafari girls and 100 for the Kushwari boy – and you will not be paid until I inspect them. Take it or leave it."
Abana watched Hakkan's fist quake. The slaver was twice the merchant's size, but it did not matter in this realm. In this realm power resided in ledgers and abaci, not swords and whips.
"...Fine," spat Hakkan. "And what do you expect me to do with the rest?"
Dhabr chuckled. "Set them free? Chop them up for pig's feed? The choice is yours, my friend!"
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(Late Winter, 1179)
Droplets of sweat ran down a satisfied Ganu's breast and brow. As he reached for a cloth to wipe himself off, a doting Abana of Hafiz nestled next to him with a silver platter full of grapes. Abana pulled a broad and saccharine smile as he fed the Governor with them.
"Did the dance please my lord?"
Ganu grinned. He was still out of breath – his stamina-filled warrior youth long behind him. "If there was anything that could surpass the one that came before it, it was that. Treasures like you are wasted in Kushwar."
`And why is that for men like you to decide?' "You flatter me. It has always been my desire to come to Tehraq and be in the company of great men."
"You do take to this life well," said Ganu. "After King Qattullah's banquet he will give the other governors their choice of dancer – for the right price. How would you like to be my choice?"
Abana smiled. "Nothing would please me more, Lord Ganu. Let me be yours."
The lumbering governor cupped the dancer's chin and snatched a long, hungry kiss from him. "Then so it shall be."
Bitterblack was a tasteless and colourless poison. It slowly slithered its way through the bodily system and dispassionately broke it down organ by organ. Somewhere out there was Dhabr, the former slave trader, on his way home from a successful trip to the Tehraqi Markets, due to slip into a paralytic coma from which he would never awake. Governor Ganu would enjoy the same experience three days from now – which was more than enough time to get Abana into the Elephant Palace and finally take his revenge against Rahab of Mahmun.
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(Early Summer, 1176)
They were kept in the darkness until their eyes burned. They saw nothing. They smelt nothing except sweat and faeces. They heard nothing except each other's mournful wails... and then the door unlocked.
Burly Tehraqi men bearing whips barrelled into the holding cell shouting fiercely for all the slaves to stand up and face the wall. Their chains rattled in unison like a wave of scraped iron. Rabbit was amongst them. He did as the others around him did and kept his nose to the wall as the slave handlers summoned in more domesticated slaves from without – each one with a bowl of warm water and a cloth.
One at a time each new slave was unchained and stripped naked for the old slaves to wash the dirt and sand and sweat and blood from their bodies. As their charges were cleaned off the slave handlers gave them specific orders to adhere to.
"No disobedience," they said. "Speak only when spoken to! Only move when you are ordered to! Do not look upon your buyer unless he wishes it! Absolutely no disobedience! Look to these slaves who now wash you as an example of your conduct! Silence and obedience. Say it."
The new slaves kept quiet until the chief handler cracked his whip. "I SAID SAY IT!"
"SILENCE AND OBEDIENCE," said the Tehraqi-speaking slaves, including Rabbit (who winced with discomfort as calloused hands roughly scrubbed his body). One of the handlers suggested separating the non-Tehraqi speakers from the rest so that the Kushwari and Jafari-speaking bilinguals within the `herd' could properly elucidate these orders. Rabbit was one of those ordered to translate their commands to his countrymen. He would never forget the lifeless looks in their eyes as he explained it all.
Once all the new slaves were washed, dressed in new attire (dyed beige loincloths) and re-chained, the slave handlers herded them out of the darkness into a long stone corridor that rose up out of the earth into a grassless iron paddock roofed over by thatch and lumber.
By Rabbit's count there were thirty-six other slaves with him – mainly women, girls, and a small group of sturdy Jafari men. Rabbit and the men were kept to the male side of paddock which was surrounded on three sides by tall ironwood walls – the final side consisted of a canopied woodwork stage where Dhabr the slave dealer stood before an assemblage of buyers. He was too far away for Rabbit to hear what he was saying, but he did not need many guesses. Once upon a time a boy named Abana ibn Tawab was taken by his father to see an auction after their servants ran away. They came home with nothing because the bids were too high.
Irony is bittersweet.
One of the three slave handlers standing guard outside of the paddock unlocked the iron door on the male side and strode in.
"You!" He pointed out one of the Jafari men and kept one hand close to his whip. "Stand up now!"
The slave looked confused. He did not understand the command until one of his Tehraqi-speaking kinsmen translated it. The slave stood up. The handler then grabbed him by the forearm, shoved him out of the cage, and marched him up the wooden steps to the stage with Dhabr where he was inspected and sold.
Rabbit's turn came later.
As with the others, a slave handler opened the iron door and dragged him out of the paddock by the arm. He fought back his tears – for all the world it felt like he was being marched toward the gallows – as he was brought up the auction house steps to Dhabr's side where he was inundated by a sea of gawking Tehraqi faces. Rabbit froze. Not one glance of pity or shame did he see amongst the dozens of men gathered beneath that stage – only curiosity, lust and dispassionate appraisal.
"And here we have Rabbit, a fine catch fresh from the mountains of Kushwar! Aside from a slight childhood burn on his right shoulder he is completely unblemished!"
Dhabr showed them as much.
`...Why...?'
The boy sobbed as the slave dealer ordered him to open his mouth and show everyone the condition of his teeth. Dhabr span him around to show his buyers the burn mark, then spun him back around and lifted his loincloth to show them all the `uncut' condition of his genitals.
`Why is this happening to me...?'
"Skin fresh and smooth," said Dhabr. "Not a callous to be found! And as for his skills! Oh, ho, ho! Our little Rabbit speaks both Kushwari and Tehraqi, he can read and write and count as if he were highborn-"
`I AM HIGHBORN!'
"Let us start the bidding at 250 silverlings, eh? Who will give me 250 silverlings for this handsome and handsomely educated Kushwari boy?"
A wealthy Jafari merchant raised his hand. "250."
"270," yelled a Tehraqi man behind him. "I offer 270 for the boy!"
Dhabr smirked. "Ah! I have 270! 270 silverlings for the boy we called Rabbit, but do I hear 290? 290 silverlings for the boy, do I hear it?"
There was a woman amongst the buyers – far to the back and veiled in dark black satin tasselled with gold lace. Her eyes were shadowed with kohl and her wrists and fingertips ornately decorated with henna – a noblewoman.
She raised her hand.
"350 silverlings," she said. "The household of the Governess of Jawwaz offers 350 silverlings for the rabbit."
Dhabr smirked privately. "What a generous yet well met offer for the boy of two tongues! Dare anyone bid 380? Does anyone wish to part with a little more silver to buy themselves such a talented young man with so many potential uses! 380, anyone?"
A dark baritone called out, "500."
Gasps. The buyers mulled the offer in hushed tones. Governess Yahya's proxy sharpened her eyes in fury as Dhabr searched the crowd for the bidder. "Do my ears deceive me or did I hear someone say 500?"
"You did," said the voice. "I did."
The whole crowd of buyers turned to their rear as a mysterious black robed man emerged from the throng. He was tall to the point of lumbering, a head taller than the next tallest man in the group once he stood up. He was dressed from head to toe in pale russet robes like a temple priest but there was no face beneath his shroud – only an smooth ivory mask with an oddly carved mouth; one corner curled up like a `smile' and the opposite corner curled down like a `frown'.
"500 silverlings," rumbled his voice. "I bid half-a-thousand for the Kushwari boy you call Rabbit."
Dhabr was stunned. This was not going the way he planned it. "500 silverlings! Do I... do I hear 510? 510 silverlings for the boy?" He looked to Yahya's proxy for a counter bid, but she offered none – only an angry glance at the masked man outbidding her – and no one else dared follow suit.
"Can no one top 500 silverlings? No one? Very well... sold! To the man in the ivory mask! Now. On to the next slave for sale today. He is a keen warrior from the distant land of Xian who-"
One of the slave handlers took Rabbit off the stage as his tears finally started to fall. Yet he could not help but glance over his shoulder at the ivory-masked man and wonder who it was that just bought him.
*
After the auction Rabbit was held in his own private cell where he languished for over a day as his title deeds were drawn up. It was a small cell – six paces wide, six paces long and just high enough for a man of moderate height to stand. Hay and mice droppings riddled the floor. There was little to do except think and scratch his flea bites. Mostly, he slept. That was what he was doing when his new master came for him. Sleeping. Sleeping until the iron bolts unlocked and the wooden door swung open. Rabbit's eyes shot open.
The ivory-masked man.
He was too tall by two heads to stand upright in the cell – he had to lower himself to his haunches to meet the boy at eye level. Rabbit shivered – and not from the cold.
He had never been so scared in his life.
"Fear does not become you," claimed the monk-like giant. "Do you know who I am?"
Rabbit shook his head.
"I am Rahab of Mahmun..." he leaned closer to the boy. "And you? What is your name?"
"R-Rabbit..."
Rahab chuckled. "...No. That is not your name. Your name is..." There were no eyes beyond the eyeholes of that ivory mask – only a swirling black void swallowing Rabbit whole as he gazed into it. "...Abana! Abana ibn Tawab of Hafiz... grandson of the legendary paladin Fouzan ibn Mushegh... is that not so...?"
`How...?' Abana trembled. `How does he know my name...?'
Rahab tilted his head. "How do I know your name? Are those your thoughts? A Seer sees thoughts as well as acts. He even sees the histories that birth them. I am a Seer. I am Rahab of Mahmun. And you... Abana ibn Tawab of Hafiz... now you belong to me."
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* Hi, thanks for reading! Comments and constructive criticisms always welcome, please e-mail me at stephenwormwood@mail.com. If you enjoyed this, please read my other stories on Nifty = Wulf's Blut, The Harrowing of Chelsea Rice and The Dying Cinders (gay, fantasy/sci-fi) and The Cornishman (gay, historical).