Tales Of Grimea, page 5
Hwosh made his way past the eastern bridge, unto the extremely fertile soil. He was prepared to go slowly, due to the large crowd of people gathered here, on the paths between shrubs and fruit patches, but person after person made way for him and his impressive burden. The warrior glanced here and there, noting that there were more Lorians and easterners when compared to Regalians and ‘Dellekts than there used to be. Men and women from Lor and the eastern lands were dressed more modestly than others, and often in simpler colours. The colours, Hwosh was surprised to learn, were more of a cultural gesture. Uncle Salim had once said, “Our colours are on the inside.” Added to that, despite the men not being required by faith to cover up their arms, lower legs, nor hair, many did so anyways as a gesture of support for their women. Those of Lor also moved in a more segregated manner, men often keeping to the left out of respect, and the warrior was slightly amused to see that most every one of them had the same type of beard. The water seemed to glisten in the sun, and Hwosh judged sundown to be a few hours away, still. He made his way further to the east.
Almost any town one enters will boast a poor district. In Lor, this part of the city was to the east, so as to shield the wealthiest from sandstorms. Here, the houses turned shabby, the people slowly grew less educated and started to almost sprout sunken cheeks. While Baqir and those like him tried their best to elevate those in poverty to better lives, they were unable to cover more than a tiny fraction of those in need. The higher council, meant to be a retardant against corruption, spent more time these days squabbling over trade agreements and tax cuts. Granted, they were not outright thieves, and work still went towards aid and education, but the council was certainly inefficient these days, if not outright negligent. Even the roads in the Qir quarter were strewn with tired garbage thrown from lean to homes barely able to support their own weight. Within a few minutes Hwosh had to slow down his breathing in order to keep himself from gagging. His sense of smell was better developed than that of others, but such a bliss when hunting could easily turn into a curse in Qir. He tightened his hold upon his Worg and kept his other hand close to his waist, where he kept both his old broadsword and money pouch. Pickpockets were a dime a dozen here, and most were desperate enough to risk death for a few meals’ worth. Such things happened when the main available occupation was begging. Either that, or join Mikhlab, if you don’t mind underground organizations.
Hwosh, luckily, had just barely escaped the fate of these hollow eyed children in rags he saw all around. Not being the religious type, he thanked old man Salim in his heart instead, then made his way towards a well-known house in the heart of Qir, ignoring the ravaged houses and people sitting aimlessly in the middle of trash filled streets, leaning against walls and waiting for something to change. Then the trash began to disappear, and then the dead look in people’s eyes.
Slowly but surely, as Hwosh made his way towards his destination, the living standards began to change until he entered an area that was almost middle class in nature. It was a block not more than twenty houses in length and width, but it was reminiscent of Themra: A magical oasis in the middle of a desert. Children played in the streets, some sitting at benches and teaching each other their letters, and shy Lorian lover sat next to each other and talked in a small garden with a slowly trickling fountain as well as vine flowers clutching a high white square pattern fence. Not a one of them even held hands, yet Hwosh could tell that they were lovers from the intense passion apparent in their eyes. Such was the way of easterners, he thought. Starting to tire again from carrying his prey for so long, the warrior moved towards his quarry with more haste than was absolutely necessary.
The house he went to stuck out against the others here like a sore thumb. Whereas this entire block of houses was renovated and repaired often, this one houses still seemed tired, if in acceptable shape: It still held on to old origins of lay walls, a faded wooden front portal, and an overall shabby quality of workmanship. Hwosh thought the place reflected its owner and his intentions quite well. The man knocked the door once. After a few seconds, he tried again, feeling slightly less patient. When his third knock went unanswered, Hwosh Ru’ub sighed, looking towards the sun in exasperation. Yeah, it’s about time for that. Finding the door unlocked, he went inside.
The small clay house was comprised of two chambers, and Hwosh found himself in the living room after ducking his head under the door top. Despite this room being scantily furnished, it was still in better shape than uncle Salim’s private quarters. Here, there were a few sturdy chairs, a few rugs covering the dusty floor here and there, as well as a well-made table. That pure white table was the only finely crafted thing in the whole house, Hwosh knew. It was a puzzling thing to many of Salim’s guests, but Hwosh had once heard the man say that a business man needed a reliable place to sign contracts. Besides, the thing was a gift from his brother.
Sure enough, Master Salim was praying in a corner of the room silently. Hwosh took a few seconds to observe the man, and determined that he was about halfway done. A couple of minutes, then, considering that the old bald man must have heard him come in. Old man Salim never put off his prayers, even when in the company of merchants or councilmen, but he was respectful enough to hurry up if someone was waiting on him. The warrior also noticed a pot bubbling in the corner over a low fire. Wisps of smoke and vapour flitted off the pot and were swept off from the ventilation holes directly above. That hole was bigger than the others, which were tiny and ran along one of the building’s walls, both at the bottom and the top. That was the ventilation method of choice in Lor, despite Indellekt’s advanced magicks and many merchants being able to afford people to fan them constantly. Cold air entered through the bottom holes and warm air left through the uppers. Each was barely large enough for a child to poke a finger through, to discourage theft.
Hwosh went over to the room’s right corner, returning to the rich stew with multiple bowls. He knew that it wouldn’t be just the two of them eating today. When he was done spooning food into about five, he heard a murmur behind him, followed by a shuffling sound. “Accepted, uncle,” he stated in a ritualistic manner.
“Who knows?” answered Salim Qamar with a voice just as creamy as the stew. Hwosh turned to him just in time for the man to raise a hand and offer, “Me and you both, my child.” He was well aware of Hwosh’s opinions on religion, and hadn’t wanted the official response used on a nonbeliever.
While Hwosh got the table ready for them, Salim went over to the outside door, tugging at his long frizzy beard as he went. “Children, I have four today!” he shouted to no one in particular, and then went back inside, leaving the portal with its peeled array of bright paints ajar. In less than a minute four children burst through the door, one almost smacking her head against its traditional metal studs. Noncommittally, Hwosh sat down on one of the rugs with his plate while Salim asked each of the children about his or her day. “Sufian,” he called out finally to a boy hanging back from the rest. “I heard your father came down with yellow cold. Is that true, child?” At that Hwosh’s ears perked, for that was the same disease that had claimed his own parents years back, setting him on course to meet with Salim.
“…Yes, dad. He’d been working on northern plum district, and a yella got him…”Uncle Salim looked at Sufian in sympathy for an instant or two, but when he knelt down to look him in the eye, he said, “Boy, I’m not that old yet. I’m still a young man, call me uncle.” The boy nodded bravely, and the man added, “I have some leftover medicine for the infection, you can have it if you want.” The boy’s astonished face made his response clear for all to see, and he rushed out the house to tell his family of the good news. Salim grumbled to himself for a second about men not being sensible around scorpions, and Hwosh could foresee him going to find another child to feed in a few minutes. The old man hated letting food go to waste.
Halfway through the meal, Salim went out to find someone else. While he was gone, the girl who had almost knocked herself unconscious looked Hwosh in the eye and flatly stated, “Uncle Salim doesn’t let the kids eat with strangers.”
Her glare was about to get accusing when Hwosh relented, admitting, “Yes, I’m one of his Baneen.” She grinned at that and all four remaining children suddenly became more open to the warrior’s presence here. After a few minutes, however, they realized that Hwosh’s clumsy attempts with them were more than an act and began to lose interest. This was fine with the black haired man, as his awkwardness with children made him usually prefer to be as far away from them as possible. Still, there was a young one who persisted in wanting to hear about Hwosh’s latest adventure, a blonde thing with dark eyes. His earnest face was pointed towards the man, while he told his story, like a Regalian crossbow. Under such duress, Hwosh was barely able to stammer through the admittedly slightly exciting tale of serpents and summer heat and Worg ambushes, but it seemed satisfactory and the little boy nestled unwanted into his lap for a nap just before Salim came back, dragging a rag wearing mess of a child by the ear.
“This one,” exclaimed he, “thought her clever fingers could steal from me!” Hwosh could tell that the man’s mirth was barely containable. This had less to do with an innate sense, and more to do with the man visibly hopping from foot to foot. “Let me go,” she shouted, “you old towel wearing child and potato loving coot, or I’ll stab you in the eye!”
Hwosh grimaced at the insult. One of the children’s spoon’s dropped. Even Salim gave her a look. “Do you mean that I like to eat children with potatoes?” he wondered patiently, perhaps hoping for the best. The blonde child in Hwosh’s lap woke up and looked around with bleary eyes.
“No,” she answered, putting a tongue out, “I meant that you like to-“ an old hand clamped on her mouth at the last possible second, thankfully.
“Child,” reprimanded Hwosh, although he didn’t really mind profanity himself. “Do you have any idea who you just insulted?” A confused look came over her then, and she shook her head, sending dusty yet still remarkably dusty red trestles flying. “A thief should always check prospective prey for signs of danger or fealty,” he said in a deliberate manner, letting each word hang for an instant, “especially when that sign of danger is an obsidian claw pin.” The muted girl went deathly pale then, turning slowly to look at where, sure enough, the older bald man with the seemingly innocent beggar look had a black brooch at his neck, holding the folds of his white robes in place. That brooch, with its three clawed paw, told anyone and everyone exactly who the man was, as well as who his older brother might be.
Uncle Salim took his subdued would be assailant off to literally have her mouth cleaned with soap. Hwosh knew that particular punishment.
When uncle Salim finally came back, today’s lunch guests had already bid their leave and left presents for him. The old man never wanted compensation for his meals, but painstakingly gathered trinkets and flowers were not to be returned. This time, one of them, the sharp minded little girl -who was the oldest at twelve and was called Shireen, the merchant had boasted- even drew him a picture on a piece of parchment. It depicted a better groomed likeness of him serving people food in a wonderful golden city with a large content smile on his face. Even his robe was whiter in the picture than in real life. The man eyed the drawing fondly for a few seconds, before pocketing it somewhere within his robe. The two ate in silence, with Salim dismantling his food with usual speed. As always, Hwosh marvelled at the deliciousness of their meal, and he knew it wasn’t due to any particular skills the white bearded man boasted. Salim just made a point out of buying the best ingredients possible.
With the meal done, Hwosh pointed at the Worg still lying near the doorway. “Twenty for that one?”
“Business, first, eh?” murmured Salim whilst standing up and giving the beast a cursory glance.
“Uncle, I sat here for hours playing with the children you brought, and knowing you I may stay for dinner too. There’ll be time for a chat.”
Salim chuckled. “Hah! I wouldn’t call what you did playing. You’re better with a sword In your hand and simple leather around you.” Hwosh conceded the point while the man who practically raised him for fifteen years checked the Worg’s pelt for injuries, claws and fangs for sharpness, and even opened its mouth wide, huffing at the hideousness of breath but taking a long look at a poison gland situated at the back end of its lolling barbed tongue. “Aye, twenty’s fair enough,” concluded the old man, rising to his feet and coming over to sit by the warrior. “So, how fares the youngest of my charges?”
Hwosh smiled at the question. “Still the same as last week, uncle. It was a long hunt, but nothing to fuss over. As long as you’re careful and set up enough traps and distractions, catching a Worg one on one isn’t too difficult.”
“That’s not what I meant, child,” said Salim, a frown forming on his face. Hwosh usually never saw him frown, even when the man was frustrated with his lack of understanding when it came to people. The old man started playing with his pin absentmindedly. “Have you been eating well? New girl in your life, that sort of thing?”
“Yes, uncle, everything has been going great. No girls, of course,” at that, uncle Salim looked slightly happy, although he didn’t repeat his advice about people taking their time to find someone worth the time and commitment once more. He had drilled that lesson deep into Hwosh, and had taught him to never hurt a girl, nor hurt himself using one. Hwosh was very glad for the lesson, yet didn’t think he needed to hear it for the three hundred and seventy fifth time. “I go out to eat with Percy and Adra more often than not at the inn near his room.”
Contrary to Hwosh’s hopes, Salim stirred on the stretch of rug he was seated upon and said, “Relationships and marriages should be between two people who can respect one another beyond pretty faces and slippery tongues; don’t feel pressured to rush things. Anyway, where does good old Persillius live? I need to meet that one; you’ve not told me of friends very often.”
“Same building, north from Themra, in the poorer part of mulahatha, Third Street from where it starts.” Despite Lor having newly started naming and numbering its streets, people still pretended it didn’t and used the old ways. To them, it only had districts. This often lead to confusion, for people were forced to rely on directions such as, “turn left three times, then go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too far.”
Uncle Salim perked up at the description and got to his feet, perhaps inspired to have his pre sunset dragonfruit. “I know the place,” he mostly shouted from the other side of the room, where he was apparently rummaging through a great deal many pots, if Hwosh was any judge. “Doesn’t Murata work there? That man can slice things like you’ve never seen, my boy. And his gambling! He used to do that on the side, you know. To get there from Themra, you go north for a minute, turn left three times, then go straight for two streets. If you see a fountain, you’ve gone too far.”
“Yes, uncle.”
“It’s good to see you taking responsibility for yourself and living alone, my child,” said Salim after having a sip of Themra’s water, “But I want you to know that if you ever need anything, I will be here for you.”
For a second, Hwosh said nothing. This was the usual thing uncle Salim said to all his Baneen whenever they came by to visit. All of them were fiercely loyal to him, and these orphan’s connections and aid turned out to be extremely useful in turn. Most of them, Hwosh included, owed the man their life and rarely bade anything of him in turn.
Then a question popped into his mind, and he looked over to where the thief girl was eating her stew sullenly. Uncle Salim got the hint and told her to go eat in his room. After a second of hesitation and another look at his brooch, she went. She wouldn’t know that uncle Salim had little to do with his brother illegal activities, and certainly thought that disobeying the man meant incurring the wrath of mikhlab, Saif’s claw.
“Uncle,” Hwosh whispered at length, “I know how business works, but this has been weighing on my mind…” No answer came, although a sigh told the warrior his uncle knew where this was going. “Why such a large Worg, and from that particular area?”
Salim went over to his room and closed the door, perhaps startling the crimson haired girl trying to eavesdrop from within. “Thieves have sharp ears,” he explained. For a while, the only sound present was him scratching at his bald scalp, perhaps hoping to avoid the question. “When it comes to people, you are as thick as can be, Hwosh,” he stated simply, almost even managing a chuckle, “but you’re critical, smart and analytical in nature. I’m sure you’ve figured that one out by now.”
“Worg poison,” breathed the warrior distastefully. The stuff wasn’t popular, and for good reason. “Is it Saif who wants it?”
