Far Away [Part 25] – To Save A Prince

Darius awakes in a strange land, only to stumble into the midst of an assassination attempt—and once again finds himself fighting for his life.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16  | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21  | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24

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Vendor of Your Soul

My father sat across from me beside a campfire, sharpening a knife on a whetstone. Sparks rose into the darkness above us. He looked older than I remembered, with short hair that had gone entirely white.

“You look terrible, son.”

“I have killed many men.”

He shrugged. “So?” He speared a pear with his knife, and took a bite.

I stared. “I thought you were allergic to pears.”

He gave me a smile that raised goosebumps on my skin, and after a moment I realized it was because I had almost never seen him smile.

I gathered my thoughts. “I never wanted to kill anyone. I didn’t want to kill the blue-eyed man. He was Muslim.”

“So are you.”

I looked away. “I told him to stop. I called him brother. But he made me kill him. And my girl left me, and I saved her, and I got whipped anyway. I don’t want to be here anymore. I hate them.”

My father took another bite. “You know what I didn’t understand when I was alive?”

“What?”

He looked up, and there was a peacefulness in his gaze that I had never seen before. It made him look like a completely different person. Was this the father I could have had? A man who would have loved my mother and I, and treated us kindly? This thought nearly shattered my heart.

“I studied Islam, did you know that?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“I had all the best tutors. Religion, poetry, martial arts, mathematics. But I was a rebel. There is a hadith, one of An-Nawawi’s forty. You may have heard it. The last part says, “The Quran is a proof either for you or against you. Every person starts his day as a vendor of his soul, either freeing it or causing its ruin.”

I nodded my head. “Zihan Ma taught me that one, but I don’t understand it.”

“Every day you wake up and you have a choice. Obey Allah or not. Be an agent of light, or an agent of darkness. Be a healer, caravan guard, painter, poet, blacksmith or robber. But sometimes the initial choice leads you to situations where you are compelled. Being a caravan guard means you must fight. Yet every day is a new sunrise. If you’re not happy with the choice you made, make a different one. The world is vast. I was a poor vendor of my soul. Be better than me.”

“I’m not better than you. You robbed people. You made merchants kneel in the dirt. I saw noblemen beg for their lives. But you never killed anyone.”

“I did later, as a soldier.”

I stared into the fire. “That’s different. You killed the invaders. You’re a better person than me.”

My father barked a laugh. “Not even in your dreams.” He took another bite of the pear, then stretched his arms languidly. Though his hair was white, his arms were well muscled. I flinched as a starling came flitting out of the darkness and landed on his shoulder.

Of course, I realized. This is a dream.

Nevertheless, here was my father sitting in front of me.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

He smiled ruefully. “I was a drunk and a criminal. I neglected you on the best days, and beat you on the worst. You, on the other hand, have a heart as big as the empire. You are sweet and kind, and not afraid to follow your own path. You are the only good thing to come from my life.” His voice broke, and he covered his eyes with one hand. “I love you, Darius.”

My Hair!

I awoke to find my eyes brimming with tears.

Hakim Yusuf’s blurry face floated above me. Daylight filtered through the canvas roof of the medical wagon, and I could hear the familiar creak and rattle of wheels. We were moving. Hooves clopped against hard ground outside.

I was lying on my stomach. When I tried to move, pain tore across my back. I cried out and went rigid, gripping the blanket beneath me.

“Easy,” Yusuf said. “I’ll help you sit up.”

Just the act of sitting up made my vision go red with pain. My back hurt so much I could hardly breathe.

“Drink.” He brought a cup to my lips and I drank cautiously. The water was cool and sweet, but my throat seized and I immediately coughed, spraying half of it down my chin.

“Slowly,” Hakim Yusuf said. “The water is not going anywhere.”

My mouth tasted foul, like smoke and old medicine. My throat was still raw, though not as bad as before. I could smell herbs, sweat, vinegar and something bitter that I associated with Yusuf’s medicines. Beneath it all was the warm, dusty smell of the wagon itself.

I lifted my hand to push my bangs out of my eyes, as I typically did in the morning, and realized that I didn’t have any bangs. My hand shot to my head, and my eyes widened as I felt a scalp covered with close-cropped hair – little more than stubble.

My stomach dropped, and I felt like I might cry. “My hair! Hakim, what did you do to me?”

His expression was solemn. “Much of your hair was burnt off in the fire. I had to cut it all short to check for scalp burns.”

The fire. I had forgotten. Memory returned in pieces. Fire. Weili screaming. Arslan on the floor. Smoke so thick I could not breathe. Karim pacing before us with his hand on his sword. I remembered gripping the wheel of the Spice Market. The whip cutting me open. The smell of cassia, and the memory of my mother making a cupcake. Karim counting, Seven! Then nothing.

“I need to see what I look like.”

Yusuf brought a small handheld mirror, and held it before me. I gazed at my reflection mournfully, hardly recognizing the apparent child who gazed back.

“I look like I’m thirteen years old. Now Weili will really think -” I cut myself off, remembering that I no longer cared what Deng Weili thought.

I chewed my lip, remembering Weili’s burned face and pitiful weeping. I wanted to know how she was. I wanted to know if Yusuf had successfully treated her cheek, and if she was alright. Why wasn’t she here in the wagon? Where was she? I wanted to know many things, and I almost asked. But I remembered her professing her love for Arslan, and shouting that she needed him, even after he rejected her while I nearly died saving them both. In the end I held my tongue.

“Weili is going through opium withdrawal,” Yusuf said. “Meilin is caring for her. It is an agonizing process, and she must suffer through to the other side.”

“I didn’t ask.”

He shrugged. “Nevertheless.”

They All Hate Me

I sighed. “Did Karim finish the ten lashes?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Yusuf stared at me as if the answer should have been obvious. “You fell unconscious.”

“Karim said if I fell, he would tie me to the wheel.”

“He didn’t.”

I took a deep breath, let it out. “I don’t know what I’m doing here anymore. They all hate me.”

He put the cup to my lips again. “Drink again.”

I obeyed, more slowly this time.

“Did you hear what Meilin said before you were whipped?”

I thought, then shrugged. “Something about chopping off my foot?”

He laughed. “That was sarcasm. She requested to take half your lashes.”

“She did?” I was very surprised. Meilin of the barbed tongue? Meilin the hard case? Meilin, who’d beaten me black and blue with a wooden sword, wanted to share my punishment?

“Why would she do that?”

“Because people here care about you and admire you. Even the Captain. Otherwise he really would have tied you to the wheel and finished the ten.”

Not Your Father

I looked at Yusuf. I remembered being on my hands and knees in the snow, unable to stop coughing. I remembered his arms around me. I remembered him saying, I know it hurts. I’ll take care of you. I’m with you. Don’t be afraid.

The people of Five Star were my comrades. I fought beside them. Ate with them. Slept beside them. Some I liked, and some I did not. Maybe they hated me, maybe they admired me as Yusuf said. Captain Karim had trusted me with rank and responsibility, and I respected him, but then he’d whipped me. In my mind I understood the necessity, but it still galled me.

Yusuf was different. If I were weak, he would not despise me. If I failed, he would not turn away. When I killed, he did not glorify it. He wanted nothing from me except that I live and be well. He was perhaps the only true friend I’d ever had.

“You are nothing like my father,” I said.

He gave me a surprised look. “Sorry.”

I laughed, which caused my shoulders to move, which pulled on the skin on my back, and I followed the laugh with a groan. “Don’t be sorry. My father was not kind. Except in my dreams, where he’s apparently a great guy.”

“Maybe I’m more like your uncle, the healer.”

“No. Well, yes, in some ways. But he didn’t trust me.”

“Darius…” Yusuf sat on his stool and exhaled loudly. “You are… I can’t think of a good word. You are endowing me with qualities I do not possess. That’s normal, because I am a healer, I care for you. But that’s my job. I get paid for it. You could be a murderer of innocents, and if you were brought to me injured I would treat you. I’m not your father or your uncle, and because of that I don’t have to discipline you when you misbehave. I don’t have to argue when you make poor choices. I don’t have to decide whether to trust you or not. All of this makes me seem like the most kind, gentle, loving man in the world, when in reality I’m just your physician. For all you know, I’m a complete bastard in my personal life.”

I chewed roughly on my lip. “Why are you saying these things?”

“Because I don’t want you to compare your father or uncle to me and find them lacking. They carried responsibilities that I do not. I don’t know either one of them, but I am absolutely sure they both loved you, even if they made mistakes. As for me, don’t make me into something I’m not. I like you very much. You’re a good kid. You’re smart, brave and tough, and you’d make a great healer. But I’m your physician, Darius. Don’t ask me to replace your father or your uncle.”

These words hurt, but what could I say? What I said in the end was, “Okay.”

He sighed. “Let’s get some food in you.”

A Measured Dose

He brought me a small bowl of broth with bits of shredded meat and soft-cooked grain, and three dates. I had not realized how hungry I was until I smelled it. Yusuf fed me a few spoonfuls at a time. The broth was salty and rich, and might have been the finest thing I had ever tasted. After half the bowl, however, my stomach rebelled.

“No more.”

He nodded. “I would have stopped you anyway.”

As for the dates, I wrapped them in a cloth napkin and stuffed them into my trousers pocket to give to Belly later.

When Yusuf lowered me onto my stomach again, the movement pulled at the wounds across my back. I clenched my teeth and buried my face in the bedding until the pain subsided.

Yusuf watched me.“I can give you something for the pain.”

“What is it?”

He hesitated long enough to make me suspicious. “Opium.”

I raised my head. “No way. Are you crazy?”

“Darius -”

I made a slashing gesture and shouted, “No!” The sudden movement sent another sheet of pain across my back, and I gasped.

Yusuf regarded me with kind eyes. “Listen, please. It’s not the same thing Arslan was using. Yes, it’s the same plant. But he was cooking it over a lamp and smoking it for pleasure. I am giving you a measured dose as medicine. You are injured, you are in great pain, and your body needs rest.”

I said nothing.

Yusuf rested a hand on my arm.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

“Of course,” I said softly. In spite of his words about being a bastard – which seemed silly – at that moment I trusted him more than anyone else in the world.

Hakim Yusuf measured the opium with great care, dissolving it into a little warm water before holding the cup to my lips.

“Not too fast.”

I drank. It was bitter, and I made a face.

Yusuf took the cup away. “Now sleep.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“Wait.”

I wanted to tell him that he was wrong, the medicine wasn’t working, I must have a natural immunity or an especially strong constitution, maybe because I was a martial arts expert – but before I could formulate an argument, something changed. The pain in my back did not disappear all at once. Rather, it began to recede, flowing away from me like a tide. The throbbing in my leg went with it, followed by the ache in my burned hands and arms. A delicious tingling spread outward from my belly and chest, running through my veins like a warm river until it reached my fingertips and toes.

I sighed.

For the first time since the raid, nothing hurt.

My body sank into the bedding. I could hear the wheels turning and the mules plodding along, but the sounds were distant, as if the caravan were traveling away from me rather than carrying me with it.

So this was the feeling Arslan had been chasing.

The thought troubled me, but only for a moment.

Waves of Heat

When I opened my eyes again, I was hot.

Not merely warm. Hot. My skin was covered in a sheen of sweat, my mouth was so dry that my tongue seemed stuck to the inside of my cheek, and my bladder felt ready to burst.

I pushed myself upright and groaned as the wounds across my back pulled tight. The pain was still there, but it was nothing like the agony of the last time I had awakened. I sat for a moment with my head bowed, waiting for the dizziness to pass.

“Alhamdulillahil-ladhi ahyana ba‘da ma amatana wa ilayhin-nushur,” I muttered. All praise is due to Allah, who gave us life after He caused us to die, and to Him is the return.

Ahmed had taught me that. I said it every day upon awakening.

Passing my hands over my head, I discovered once again that my hair had been shorn. What an embarrassment. Although I had to admit that the feeling of the rough stubble beneath my palms was interesting.

The medical wagon was empty. Sunlight poured through the open rear flap. I was wearing nothing but my trousers and the bandages that encircled my torso. I filled a tin cup from the water jug and drank deeply. My hand was surprisingly steady.

I could not strap my dao across my back – it would hurt too much – so I put on a belt and hung the scabbard from my hip. Then I climbed barefoot from the wagon, and the sun struck me like an open furnace. What was this place? Why was it so hot?

I stopped with one hand on the wagon and squinted upward. The sky was a hard, brilliant blue, and the sun blazed almost directly overhead. I had known hot summer days in my homeland, but I had never felt heat like this. For one confused moment I wondered if I had actually died, and the prayer I had just recited had been more appropriate than I realized.

Was this the Day of Judgment?

I had read that on that Day the sun would be brought close over the heads of humankind, and people would sweat according to their deeds, some so deeply that they would nearly drown in it. I looked around half expecting to see the dead rising from their graves.

Instead I saw the Five Star caravan.

The wagons stood in a long line beside a dusty road, their canvas covers glowing white beneath the sun. Beyond the road stretched a field of tall brown grass, baked nearly golden. Something about this reminded me of my uncle’s safflower fields, even though the color was different. Waves of heat shimmered, making the distant landscape quiver as if I were seeing it through water. Far beyond that, impossibly, rose a range of great mountains with snow gleaming on their peaks. Hadn’t we just been in those mountains? I frowned, but no sensible thought came to my mind.

Our horses and mules grazed in the dry field, and perhaps thirty of the guards had gathered beneath several awnings. They were eating, talking and laughing, throwing dice, playing xiangqi, and – in one group – studying the tall, narrow cards used in the game of ma diao. Someone shouted at someone else, followed by a roar of laughter.

I needed to relieve myself rather urgently, so I went the other way.

An Awkward Gait

I slipped between two wagons and found myself looking across an entirely different landscape. Here the brown grass ended abruptly at a broad canal, and on the far side of the water stretched an immense field of green. Men on horseback were riding hard in the distance, racing back and forth across the field. Their shouts occasionally carried to me on the hot wind, along with the faint thunder of hooves.

I was alone on this side of the wagons.

Farther ahead, beyond the end of the caravan, a small grove of trees grew beside the canal. That would do for privacy.

I started toward the grove, moving as quickly as I could manage. This turned out to be more difficult than I had expected. My limbs felt like a collection of branches bound together with strips of cloth, each one functioning without consulting the others. My eyes were crusted with sleep, my gait was awkward, and my stomach felt like a yawning cavern. I could not remember the last time I had eaten.

The dust was hot beneath my bare feet. The canal beside me looked as cool as an autumn morning. I could imagine kneeling there, plunging my face into it and drinking until my stomach was full. But Hakim Yusuf had warned me more than once never to drink water that had not been boiled.

I trudged on toward the trees.

Two For You, One for Me

Something bumped me between the shoulder blades and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I spun, and found myself staring into the enormous brown eyes of a short, sturdy black horse with a white stripe down his forehead and back.

“Belly!”

I threw my arms around his neck and pressed my face against him. He stood patiently while I hugged him. I had not realized until that moment how badly I needed to see someone I loved.

He smelled different. There was something unfamiliar in his coat, a dry, dusty smell mixed with grass and some flower I could not identify. I buried my face in his mane and breathed it in.

“I missed you, buddy.”

Belly immediately began sniffing me. He pushed his nose into my trouser pocket.

“I don’t have anything.”

He snorted and nosed the pocket.

“There’s nothing there.” I shoved a hand into my pocket and encountered a small bundle wrapped in cloth.

“Oh.”

I pulled it out. Three dates lay inside a cloth napkin, somewhat squashed but otherwise intact.

Belly snorted. I held out two dates and Belly swept them up with his lips and chewed noisily. A moment later he worked the pits to the front of his mouth and spat them into the dust.

I laughed, then ate the third date myself, upon which Belly stared at me balefully.

“What? You had two. I had one. That’s fair.” I tucked the empty napkin back into my pocket. “I need a ride, buddy.”

I put one foot into the stirrup, pulled myself upward and immediately felt the wounds across my back stretch. I hissed through my teeth and nearly dropped back to the ground, but Belly stood perfectly still, and I made it.

I patted Belly’s neck. “Let’s go.”

Upon reaching the grove, I brought Belly to a halt in the shade of the first trees and slid carefully to the ground.

“Wait here.”

He flicked an ear.

“I mean it. Don’t go anywhere.”

Belly lowered his head and began tearing at a patch of grass.

The shade felt wonderful after the merciless sun. I picked my way deeper into the grove, stepping carefully over roots and fallen branches with my bare feet. Cicadas buzzed overhead, their shrill chorus rising and falling. The trees were mostly oak, but there were also many tall trees that were heavy with bunches of pink seed pods. Some had split open, and I realized to my surprise that these were pistachios. In my country these were quite expensive, but apparently here – wherever this was – they grew wild. Amazing, subhanAllah.

It was all very foreign, and I had a feeling I might still be dreaming. If my father showed up with a starling on his shoulder, I’d know for sure.

A small stream trickled between the trees. Perfect. I relieved myself, then bent down and washed my hands in the stream. The cool, fresh water felt like a gift from the Creator, which it was. I rinsed out my mouth, then my nose, then washed my face thoroughly. I realized that without even meaning to, I was performing wudu. I would pray in the grassy field, then I would collect an armful of pistachios for myself and Belly. As I washed, the memory came to my mind of my dream father saying, “I love you, Darius.” Why had he said that? My eyes welled up, and I splashed water onto my face. Stop being silly, I told myself. This might all feel like a dream, but it’s not.

Assassins

I was washing my feet when I heard horses approaching from somewhere on the opposite side of the grove from where I had entered. I continued my ablutions, unworried. The hoofbeats came closer, then slowed and stopped. I heard the creak of saddles, the jingle of tack and the soft thump of feet hitting the ground.

There came the faint but unmistakable sound of footsteps on vegetation. Leaves crackled softly. Dry twigs broke. Whoever it was moved stealthily, but total silence was impossible in a dry forest like this one.

There was no conversation, no words spoken at all. That bothered me.

Complacency is deadly.

My father used to say that during our training sessions, usually when I was soaked in sweat and so exhausted that I could barely lift the wooden dao. Sometimes he would wait until I thought the lesson was over, then suddenly rap me on the head with his sword.

The moment you think nothing can happen to you is the moment you’re most vulnerable.

I was done washing, but my gut told me to wait and stay silent. I remained crouched beside the stream, listening. A branch cracked somewhere ahead. By luck, I had positioned myself beside a screen of bushes. The leaves were thick enough to conceal me but offered gaps through which I could see.

Two men were moving through the trees.

They did not look like Afghans, nor any of the races I had seen so far on the journey. Both had dark hair and heavy beards, and wore loose trousers tucked into leather boots, with long tunics belted at the waist and sleeveless outer coats. All their clothing was dark in color. One wore a wrapped black turban, while the other had a rounded felt cap. Their noses were long and straight, and their eyebrows heavy. Their faces were deeply browned by the sun. Each carried a recurved bow in one hand and wore a quiver high across his back.

The bows did not alarm me. Half the men I had encountered since leaving my homeland seemed to carry them. It was the way these two moved that troubled me. They placed each foot carefully and made almost no sound beyond the sort of rustling a fox or hare might make. Neither spoke or even looked at the other. They seemed to know exactly where they were going.

I stayed low and watched.

The men reached the far edge of the grove and crouched among the trees overlooking the great green field. I studied the field carefully for the first time. From here I could see the horsemen more clearly, racing back and forth in groups, wielding long wooden mallets as they chased a small ball between the pounding hooves. This was a more sophisticated version of a game I had seen Uzbeks playing with a stuffed sheep’s stomach. Even from this distance I could hear the shouts of the players. The men playing wore colorful, ornate clothing, except for one who was dressed all in white. Around them, on the edges of the field, were stationed a few dozen guards all dressed in identical brown uniforms, and wearing swords. The polo players must be nobles or very wealthy merchants.

Suddenly those shouts changed as a horse went down.

It happened so quickly that I could not tell why. One moment the man in white was galloping across the field, and the next the animal pitched forward and rolled onto its side. The man in white was thrown, and rolled rather expertly. Men cried out. Several horsemen wheeled around and galloped toward him, while guards came running from the edge of the field. The fallen horse thrashed violently, its legs kicking at the air. The man in white stood and waved at the others to indicate that he was alright.

Trained Killers

The two men in front of me each drew an arrow from his quiver, nocked it and raised his bow. They were assassins! They were aiming at the man in white. I had no idea who he was. I did not know why they wanted him dead. No matter the reason, I could not stand hidden among the bushes and watch two men murder an unarmed man.

I came to my feet in a smooth motion. All my earlier clumsiness vanished. I drew my dao and charged, as I shouted, “Allahu Akbar!”

Both men jerked in shock and released their bowstrings. One arrow flew out across the field, but the other man had already begun turning toward me when he loosed. His arrow struck a pistachio tree with a loud pang, burying itself in the trunk.

They were fast. Both immediately reached for fresh arrows, but I was already on them. I veered sideways as the nearer man brought his bow around. I hacked my dao into his side just above the hip. The blade cut deeply and he screamed, folding around the wound.

The second assassin already had another arrow nocked.

I caught the wounded man before he could fall, pivoted and dragged him across my body. The bowstring snapped, and the man in my arms jerked violently as an arrow buried itself in his chest.

For an instant his companion simply stared. I threw the dying man aside and lunged at him, my dao flashing toward his neck.

He dropped his bow and moved with astonishing speed. His forearm struck mine while his other hand caught my wrist. He turned beneath my arm and twisted with such precision that pain shot through my hand and my fingers opened. The dao tumbled from my hand.

He’s trained. A trained killer.

The thought had barely formed before he slammed into me. I stumbled backward, and fire ripped across my back as the wounds from the whipping stretched and tore. I cried out, lost my footing and went down hard.

The assassin came down on top of me, closed one powerful hand around my throat and drove his elbow into my face. Light exploded behind my eyes. I tried to bridge him off me, but my body would not obey. Normally I would have thrown a man his size without even thinking about it, yet my legs trembled beneath me and my arms felt hollow. His elbow struck me again, and then again. I tasted blood.

Why was I so weak?

I caught his wrist and tried to turn it, but he tore free and struck me across the mouth. My head bounced against the ground. The trees above me blurred together, green leaves spinning against a brilliant blue sky.

Then I heard something crashing through the undergrowth. A horse screamed. The assassin looked up, and suddenly he was ripped away from me with such violence that he bellowed in fear.

Belly had him.

My horse had charged through the bushes and sunk his teeth into the man’s shoulder. The assassin shrieked and struck at Belly’s face, but Belly shook him viciously, dragging him sideways through the leaves.

The assassin somehow tore himself free, leaving a strip of cloth hanging from Belly’s teeth. He staggered away with one hand clamped over his bleeding shoulder, then spotted his bow on the ground and dove for it.

My dao lay several paces away. I scrambled toward it on my hands and knees, seized the hilt and turned just as the assassin snatched up his bow. His hand went for his quiver.

I threw the dao, powering the throw with both arms, committing all my strength to it.

It was a ridiculous thing to do. You did not throw away your only weapon, especially at a man with a bow. My father would have cracked me over the head for thinking of such a thing. Yet it was not blindly stupid. I had actually practiced this skill, mostly just for fun, both on my father’s farm and on Zihan Ma’s, using hay bales as targets. I knew my distances – how long was required for the dao to complete a revolution – and my aim was good. Yet I’d never imagined doing it in battle.

The dao flashed, spun once in the air and plunged into the assassin’s chest.

He stopped with his hand halfway to his quiver and looked down at the sword protruding from his body, then raised his eyes to me. His black eyes were wide in astonishment. He dropped to his knees, remained there for a moment as if waiting for someone to tell him what to do next, then pitched forward. His body struck the earth and drove the dao deeper.

My chest heaved as I sucked in air. The world tilted beneath me. I put one hand on the ground and waited for it to settle. My back felt wet beneath the bandages, and I knew many or all of the wounds had opened. My face throbbed, my throat hurt, and blood ran from my lower lip. Nearby, Belly snorted and stamped the ground, still furious.

Prisoner

Beyond the trees, men were shouting. Many men.

I struggled to my feet just as branches snapped behind me. Before I could turn, powerful hands seized both my arms.

I reacted instinctively, twisting and trying to wrench free, but the brown-uniformed guards were all over me. Someone kicked the back of my knee and forced me down.

“Let me go!”

The men shouted back in Persian. I recognized the language, though it sounded different from the Persian spoken by the Afghans. I understood a fleeting word or two. One of the men wrenched my arms behind my back, sending a terrible bolt of pain across my wounded skin.

“You don’t understand!”

Either he indeed did not understand or did not care. He wrapped a cord around my wrists and pulled it tight.

So much for collecting pistachios.

The men hauled me to my feet and marched me out of the grove, one man gripping each arm. Behind us, other guards dragged the bodies of the two assassins through the trees. Their bows, quivers, knives and my dao were gathered as well.

The brilliance of the sun struck me again as we emerged onto the green field. I squinted and stumbled forward, acutely aware that I was barefoot, half naked and bound like a criminal. The guards dropped the two bodies in the grass and arranged their weapons beside them in a neat row. My dao went down with the rest.

Someone led Belly out of the trees, and I was relieved to see that the man spoke to Belly gently, stroking his neck. Whoever it was had a way with horses. This alone calmed me a bit.

One of the guards turned to me and barked a question.

I caught perhaps one word in five. “I don’t understand.”

He repeated himself more loudly.

I tried the very rudimentary Arabic I had learned from Zihan Ma: “Laa afham.” I don’t understand.

He slapped me.

The blow struck my already battered face. My head snapped sideways and my ears rang. Belly reared up in protest, and men rushed to control him.

Before the interrogator could question me again, the thunder of hooves rolled across the field.

Every guard turned. A mass of horsemen had burst onto the green from the direction of the road, perhaps thirty of them, riding hard toward us. For one alarmed instant I did not recognize them through the dust and shimmering heat. Then I saw familiar clothing, weapons and faces.

Five Star.

Explanations

The brown-uniformed guards reacted instantly. Swords came free of scabbards in a metallic chorus, and a dozen men formed a defensive rank between us and the approaching riders. Farther out on the field, another group closed tightly around the man in white, who seemed uninjured except for a slight limp.

Our guards slowed when they saw the line of drawn swords. They halted well beyond sword range, horses tossing their heads and stamping the grass. Two men dismounted, and handed their weapons off to their companions.

Ahmed and Captain Karim.

They walked toward us slowly, unarmed, with their hands raised and empty. Karim looked grim. Ahmed called something out in Persian, his voice carrying easily across the field.

One of the Persian guards answered.

Ahmed replied, and there was a rapid exchange that I could not follow at all. The man who had struck me appeared to be in command. He gestured sharply, and Ahmed and Karim were permitted to approach.

Karim’s eyes went straight to me. His gaze traveled from my bare feet to my bound hands, then to the bloody bandages around my torso and finally to my badly bruised face. His expression became considerably less pleasant.

Ahmed saw the bodies. “What happened?” he asked me.

I swallowed. “I woke up and had to pee.”

Ahmed stared at me. “Are you kidding me? I mean after that.”

The Persian commander spoke sharply. Ahmed answered, then turned back to me.

“Tell us everything.”

So I did. I sped through the part about waking up, being disoriented, and entering the grove to relieve myself and wash up. I slowed down as I talked about the two men entering the grove without speaking, and how I had watched them through the bushes. I explained what happened when the horse fell, how the men had aimed their bows at the fallen rider, and what followed.

Ahmed translated as I spoke.

The Persian commander’s expression changed slowly. His eyes moved from me to the two dead men, then to their bows and quivers laid out in the grass. Finally he looked across the field toward the place where the horse had fallen. He shouted something.

A guard in the distance began searching through the grass. Several others joined him. After a moment one of them shouted and raised an arrow over his head.

The commander stared at it for a long moment, then looked back at me. He gave an order, and the cord around my wrists was cut.

I brought my hands around and rubbed them. I looked at Karim.

“They hit me.”

Karim’s jaw tightened. “I can see that.”

The Noble in White

Before he could say anything else the Persian guards suddenly straightened. The man in white was coming toward us. The guards surrounding him moved with him, but he strode ahead of them rather than hiding among them. He was perhaps thirty years old, tall and broad-shouldered, with a neatly trimmed black beard and the same long, straight nose many of the others possessed. His white coat fell to his knees and was embroidered along the collar and cuffs with gold thread. A wide sash encircled his waist, supporting a curved sword in a jeweled scabbard. His white turban was wrapped around a dark cap, with a small ornament of gold and green stone at its front. He was clearly a noble of some kind.

He did not look like a man who had nearly been crushed beneath a horse. Aside from the slight stiffness in his stride, and a few grass stains on his clothing, one would never guess that anything unusual had happened.

The guards parted for him.

He spoke quietly with their commander, who pointed first toward the bodies, then toward the weapons, and finally toward me. The man listened without interrupting. At one point he frowned and said something sharply. The commander bowed his head.

The noble looked at my swollen face, then at the red marks the cord had left around my wrists. He said something to Ahmed.

Ahmed translated. “He says that you came to his aid at great risk to yourself, and in return his men treated you like a criminal. He apologizes. And he says he will make it up to you.”

I did not know what to say to that. No noble had ever apologized to me before. In fact, very few people of any kind had ever apologized to me. Yet my father’s old disdain for nobles rose up in me, filling my throat until I felt I was choking. The wealthiest man I had ever personally known was Master Chen, and he had framed me for theft. Maybe this man in white was different, maybe not. Yet to me, the real nobles were Teardrop, the girl under the bridge in Deep Harbor who watched people’s belongings and shared her food with those who did not have any; or Meilin, who had offered to take half my lashes; or Far Away, my cat, who had followed me at terrible cost, out of love.

I cleared my throat. “Tell him I accept his gracious apology, and that while he is clearly a noble, that means nothing to me. I could not permit two men to commit murder while I watched. I would have done the same if their target was a street sweeper. He owes me nothing. Though if he would allow me to pick some pistachios for myself and my horse, I’d be grateful.” I gestured at the grove.

Ahmed stared at me. “Are you sure you want me to translate that?”

I nodded, and he did so.

The noble studied me. He looked as if he did not know whether to be offended, amused or impressed. Captain Karim cleared his throat to say something, but the noble put up a hand to forestall him, then spoke again at greater length.

Ahmed listened, and his eyebrows rose.

“He is not precisely a noble. In fact he is Prince Farhad Mirza, son of the Shahanshah, ruler of the Guarded Domains of Iran. He thanks you for the service you have performed for him and for the people of Iran. You and your companions are guests in his country. He insists that courage should be honored, and he invites the officers and guards of the Five Star caravan to a banquet tonight at the Dar al-Imara, the royal palace within the citadel of Herat.”

I stared at Ahmed, then at the noble – uh, the prince. Then at Karim.

“I don’t understand. Iran?”

Karim pressed his lips together. For some reason, he appeared to be fighting a smile.

“What we call Persia. You just saved the life of the prince of Persia.”

I blinked. “We’re in Persia?”

Ahmed translated.

For a heartbeat there was silence. Then Prince Farhad threw back his head and laughed. The guards around him joined in, and the field rang with their hilarity. Karim grinned from ear to ear.

I stood there barefoot and half naked, wondering if this meant that I could finally pick those pistachios.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 26 – The Prince’s Ring

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

Gravedigger: A Short Story