Eighteen

C A R N I V A L

 

Melodic jangling sounds floated over the giant walls of the city as the drivers hailed the gates. Shouts and laughter from men and women inside the walls. Neythan poked his head out of the carriage, watching as the long-awaited high doors of Hanesda slowly parted.

The watchmen waved them through with a caravan of cloth and spice merchants he and Caleb had joined in the hill country after fleeing the men at the well. Caleb, it turned out, knew one of them – a balding and diminutive spice seller by the name of Nouredín. A man with an annoying habit of leaning in too close as he spoke, voice always hushed, as though he was about to suggest robbing those nearby. It was a manner all the more irritating for the sharp niggling scent of cardamom, cumin and some other smell Neythan didn’t recognize that wafted from the man whenever he opened his mouth to speak. He leant toward Neythan now, nudging his thigh with a fist, falsely familiar.

“Seems our timing is good, my friend,” he said, pointing upwards. “New moon festival. There will be many delights within for a man like you.” His lips, thin and crinkled, twisted into a narrow smirk as he winked, making his mouth look like a wound. Neythan ignored him, as he had for most of the journey. He had other things to think about. Like what had happened back at the well, the sheepcoated men who’d attacked him, and Jaleem, who’d pointed the finger.

“They hunt you,” Caleb had observed not long after in the plains.

“So I saw.”

“The Shedaím must think you in league with Arianna. Understandable, really. You did not return to Ilysia. You didn’t tell them what happened. You went after her unbidden. They would have found only the body of your friend, you and her both missing.”

“Yes, I know…”

“Natural for them to suspect you with the time that has passed. The question is what you will do now.”

“I should return to Ilysia.”

Caleb had leaned in quickly then, almost tipping from his seat as if to snatch the words from Neythan’s lips. “But you will not,” he said. “We have a covenant, as binding as blood. If you return they will punish you because you should have returned the night it happened. Then you shall be kept from fulfilling what is agreed.” Then, slowly, Caleb leant back again, eyes wide and staring. “We have a covenant, you and I,” he’d said again. “As binding as blood.”

Neythan grimaced at the memory as he sat swaying in the carriage. He was bound to the words he’d given, and now it seemed they would lead to his being hunted by the Brotherhood. His only comfort was that the men who’d come for him were soldiers, not Shedaím. But Jaleem – why had they sent Jaleem?

The carriage jolted, tipping Neythan from his thoughts. The carriage was moving again, rolling through the city gates. The music grew louder as they entered, drowning out the crunch of dust beneath the cartwheels. Neythan lifted a corner of the canvas walling the cart where he sat, tugging it to one side with a finger to peep through. Outside, the night stuttered by to the bumpy roll of the wheels. Pale ribbons hung droopingly in messy festoons across houses and moorposts and stall roofs.

The streets were filled with people: women, midriffs bared, clothed in loose, skimpy livery; men chasing, laughing, grinning, cavorting through the streets and upon walls and in narrow alleys to the sound of flutes, cymbals and timbrets and somewhere the steady thud-patter of drums. Along the road Neythan saw a sinewy old man, half-naked, jumping in erratic hops and leaps, tossing his limbs wildly as if on fire as those nearby wandered in wine-staggered steps around him. A troupe of small children stood on a long foot-high wall in an alley, each gazing at Neythan as he passed by in the cart.

Another street; a pair of beggars on hands and knees tugging at scraps of dropped meat, the street panning away to the side, another jerking into view. More people, colourfully dressed, single-shouldered robes, hips and waists jigging, dancing to a band of shirtless drummers, their drums – long kettles of hollowed wood – slung at shoulders and hips, marching as gambolling bell-tethered ankles skipped and bounced over the ground to the rhythm of their pitter-patter beat whilst one gleeful woman in the middle of them all, dressed in red, tambourine in hand, turned endlessly.

Neythan replaced the drape. He turned to face Caleb as the carriage rounded a corner.

“Every new moon is like this?”

“Yes,” Nouredín invited himself to answer, leaning in again, grinning. “It is why we come, all of us. We do our best business at the new moon. Is that not so, Caleb?”

Caleb gave an obligatory nod.

“You can sell spices in this?”

Nouredín looked at Neythan as if he had something on his face, and then started laughing raucously. He laughed a while longer, his head wagging, before seeing Neythan staring flatly back.

“Spices,” Nouredín sighed. “Ah, no… no, no my friend. I have spices yes, but here, we sell jewellery, garments, and wine, lots and lots of wine.” He flopped a palm on Neythan’s shoulder. “The wine is the joy of it; the quality is the worst kind, but during the carnival it will sell as though plucked from the very honeyvines of Tresán.”

Neythan shrugged the man’s palm from his shoulder and grunted, turning again to peer outside at the passing streets. Each one was busy and narrow, every house and terrace pressed together. It was hard to believe they were finally here. Hanesda. The Crown City. Seat of the Sovereignty. Home of the Founding Council and the First Laws, and throne of the sharíf himself. For years Neythan had heard of its lavish buildings, the resplendence of the palace, the greatness of the forum and amphitheatre. What he saw now, one eye peeping through the narrow slip his finger opened, bore little resemblance to what he’d imagined.

“Quite a sight, isn’t she,” Nouredín said.

To which Neythan, as had become his habit, made no reply.

“But her bosom is deep, with many a sweaty cleft and corner, and as craggy as a catacomb. Your task will not be easy.”

Neythan glanced back over his shoulder.

“Caleb has told me why you are here,” Nouredín explained. “That you are looking for someone.”

Neythan turned fully now and looked hard at Caleb, who simply shrugged.

Nouredín smiled placatingly and again leant in, his thick nose prodding. “So happens I have a cousin in the city, you see,” he murmured. “He is a ranger, and good at it. Would find a tadpole in the Swift if need be.”

Neythan ignored him and went to sit by Caleb. “What is this?” he hissed. “You told him why we are here?”

“Nouredín is a man who can help.”

“So you will speak secrets to the unsworn?”

“Unsworn? Am I a Brother?”

“You know what I mean.”

“I told no secrets. Only that we’re seeking someone.”

“You should have told me.”

“You wouldn’t have agreed.”

“With good reason.”

“Without reason enough. What did you think, Neythan? That we’d come here and seek her out by our own means? You see what it’s like out there. This is not Ilysia. A man could seek a stranger for a year here and not find him.”

“We’d find a way.”

“There is no other way. The Brotherhood hunts you now. You cannot do as you once might have. There isn’t the time.”

Neythan’s jaw clenched.

“We have the purse, Neythan, and he can help us.”

“So any man would say when silver is offered.”

“Perhaps. But we have little choice. And the fact remains…” Caleb nodded at the waiting Nouredín across the carriage as he leaned forward, straining to hear. “He does know people. People who can help us.”

Nouredín managed to pick out this last part over the noise of the music. “My cousin, as I have said, is a ranger. He’ll know the one you seek or how to find them. It would be my pleasure to introduce you… for a small price, of course.”

“Of course,” Caleb replied.

Nouredín smiled. “Good. So, we have an agreement?”

Caleb looked at Neythan. Nouredín perched on the edge of the bench, waiting.

Neythan finally looked up at the spice seller and sighed. “A ranger, you say.”

Nouredín grinned. “Ah, my friend…”

 

The carriage slowed and came to a halt by a square filled with tent booths. They peeled back the drape and clambered down from the cart. Caleb stretched and rubbed his numbed backside. Neythan stood and looked along the length of the parking caravan, ten donkey-drawn carts in all, driven by Nouredín’s men. Beyond the square of tents stood whitewalled houses, flat-roofed and piled one atop the other into terraces, rising high over the narrow alleys that squeezed between them.

“Your first time in the city?”

Neythan turned again to find Nouredín watching him. He nodded.

“It shows.”

Neythan looked over the square of tents. There was a quarter-mile or so of them. “Why all these booths?”

Nouredín looked across the square and sniffed. “Sippar, Qareb, Qadesh, some from Calapaar and Qalqaliman perhaps. Marketers mostly, like us, they have come to sell. There’s rarely space for us all at the inns, and so we use the square to pitch our tents.”

“This is where you will sleep?”

“Sleep?” Nouredín grinned. “We will not sleep on a night like tonight, my friend. Neither should you.” He smiled and began to move away toward the hired men unloading the stock and the other merchants alighting from the carriages behind, and then stopped and turned back. He looked Neythan over. “You know… you should come with us.”

Neythan glanced at Caleb, still stretching, and then back to Nouredín. “With you where?”

“Here you are, in the city of cities for the first time. What a poor friend I should be if I failed to introduce you to its many qualities. We are friends now after all, eh? And do not say you have Caleb here for your guide. He is poor counsel when it comes to the treats of Hanesda, and besides, since we have an agreement, there is little reason why you shouldn’t meet my cousin tonight.”

“The ranger?”

“Yes, the ranger.”

Neythan looked at Caleb. Caleb, doubled over, shrugged and waved him on.

“You’ll not come?”

“Let him rest, he is weary,” Nouredín said. “The journey was long. His bones are not as young as yours. Come. I will show you the city, then you will meet my cousin. Caleb will still be here when you return.”

 

Nouredín, true to his word, led Neythan along countless alleys, deep into the city, along with his company of vendors, sellers and brokers, each one with their quick smiles and slippery eyes nodding and laughing at Nouredín’s jokes and stories.

They visited and exited underground dens with drinking men and giggling women. At every corner another stranger who knew Nouredín’s name saluted his coming and going with a happy deferent bow or a brittle embrace and kiss, before ushering his party into whatever festivities waited inside.

They entered the third or fourth place Nouredín took them to through a narrow low door, one by one, and descended what seemed a hundred or more steps into a broad dim-lit space. The room was split by rainbows of thin sheet drapes, muslin and cotton. Slow ripples billowed across them from the wafted heat of the potted fires in each corner, along with the shadows of dancing women. Bare-bellied girls sauntered about the narrow smoky space carrying platters of fruit and wine. Smiling hosts whispered in ears. Bronze lampstands flickered and breathed. Flutes and hand-drums played. Nouredín was handing Neythan a brass goblet. Neythan eyed it doubtfully whilst Nouredín smiled.

“The best wine you are likely to taste.”

Neythan raised a palm and shook his head.

Nouredín, still smiling, cocked an eyebrow, puzzled.

“I do not drink it… I don’t like the taste.”

“Ah, then you should taste this, my friend. All other wine is as pigswill next to it.”

“You are kind… perhaps later.”

“Take. Drink. What kind of host should I be to have you dry?”

Neythan didn’t take the goblet.

“It is but one cup; you needn’t have more unless you wish but I will not have you my guest and not partake of such good stock.”

“I thank you, but no.”

Nouredín’s smile lingered, his eyes shifting toward onlookers. He stepped forward and leaned in yet again. “It is not right to refuse the gift of your host.”

Others were starting to take note of the exchange. Neythan glanced around, and then back to the rigid, hard smile of his host. Nouredín’s hammy gold-ringed fist was wrapped around the offered goblet, waiting. Neythan, reluctantly, took it.

Nouredín remained, continued to watch.

Neythan, looking around and then back at his host, cleared his throat and sipped from the goblet.

Nouredín frowned, gesturing impatiently with his hand. “A mouthful at least. You will not get the flavour.”

Neythan took a mouthful, swilling it, and then swallowed. The sweet tart taste fell down his throat. He looked up again. Nouredín, satisfied, nodded knowingly.

“I told you there would be delights did I not. It is good, uh?”

In truth, the wine was very good. Neythan examined the goblet and nodded.

“Then drink. It is but one goblet. And this is a party.”

Neythan took a larger sip. Not too large. But then again, what would he know? He’d never taken wine before. It was only after he swallowed he began to think his estimate may have been generous. He could feel his lips tingling and his cheeks beginning to numb. They continued on down more corridors, past more lampstands. Some moments later, perhaps longer – he was finding it difficult to tell – Neythan found himself sitting in a curtained chamber. His lips felt cool and turgid. He pressed his fingers to his scalp, trying to massage feeling into it. He was sweating. The music seemed to be pitching from loud to soft, leaning from one to the other like a sliding bucket on a wind-tossed ship. The low woody whistle of a flute bounced in time to light drum patter and the dainty rattle of bells. The room seemed to be gently swinging back and forth. People talking over it all, quiet chatter, murmured voices, then, the vague sense that one of them was speaking to him.

“… And so Caleb told me of your concerns. You must understand, he and I have been friends for many years, often partners. Our talents are of mutual benefit to one another. He is an able courier of goods, I have many goods to courier. A healthy partnership. Always, the best ones must be this way, each party of shared aims though differing means. My wives, they can never understand this. Always they are expecting me to be as they are – chattering, talking. I try to explain. I am a man. You are women. We don’t have the same ways, the same temper. Ought I to wear dressgowns and anklets? Or ponder nose-rings and bracelets? It is the fashion of Parses, yes, but let us not call those of that city men and mar the name. We are different, I say, let us rejoice in it. But no, they will not understand and so always, Why don’t you do this? Why must you do that? Ah. A nagging woman, my friend… such a thing, I will tell you, it is not good, will drive you from house and home. Keep but one wife if you desire peace. It is what I tell my sons, but one wife… Where was I… ah, yes, Caleb, he has explained it all to me. You must find someone, yes?”

Neythan slouched; he was struggling to follow the other man’s speech. The words seemed to smear into each other. “I uh… I am.” Neythan puffed his cheeks; the air felt thick and warm, his words sticky in his mouth. He sighed, hiccupped. “I’m looking for my sister,” he said slowly. His throat was dry. He could have done with another drink. A young almond-skinned girl with frizzy hair appeared, presenting a silver platter with a single brass chalice as though summoned by his thoughts. Neythan smiled lazily, at least he thought he did, the muscles in his face were growing steadily less compliant. He took the vessel and nodded his thanks. The woman smiled back, her gaze lingered on him, then she moved away through the sheet-draped walls into another corridor.

“Your sister, you say. How does a man lose a sister?”

Neythan shrugged, groping for another piece to the lie. “She was to come here,” he said, slurring. “And then return home. But she did not return… and has sent no word… my mother… she worries.” Neythan, satisfied by this last improvisation, sat back and reclined on his elbow.

“Ah, what mother does not, my friend? These things happen of course, but it needn’t follow that harm has come to the girl. Perhaps she has enjoyed the city and wishes to remain. She’d not be the first. It can be a seductive place, no?”

“Still, I must know one way or the other.”

“Of course you must. Our having happened upon one another is good. I knew so from the beginning. It’s the very reason I wanted for you to meet my young cousin here.” Nouredín gestured toward a man sitting in the corner.

The man was sitting upright with crossed legs, perched like some king on a cushion. Strange Neythan hadn’t noticed him there. The man was golden-haired, something Neythan had seen just once before. He was big too, though not in a bulky way; lithe and muscular, his build as much a dancer’s as a soldier’s. Stranger still, he had blue eyes, as blue as the sea, and skin paler than Neythan had ever seen. He stared steadily at Neythan. Unlikely this man was truly Nouredín’s cousin. Neythan wondered about his origins, wondered vaguely about why Nouredín would say they were kin. After a while he could no longer summon the effort to care. He propped himself up again from his slouch and watched the man tip his head in acknowledgment.

“So, you…” Neythan pointed, his finger swaying unsteadily as he did so, “are the ranger.”

The man considered him a moment before answering. “Huntsman, I prefer,” he said, gently.

Neythan glanced at Nouredín, who made a quibbling shrug.

He looked again at the man. “Huntsman…” the word dragged. His lips were starting to feel swollen.

The man looked down into his lap, examining his fingers as he spoke. “As I have been since my youth. In truth, my work has changed little from then till now.”

“No?” Neythan looked at Nouredín, then back to the man. “A strange sort of prey you hunted then.”

“Some might say so.” The man’s voice was soft, yet somehow carried through the din. “It was given to me to provide for the dining tables of the princes of Tresán, in Calapaar.”

Neythan frowned, trying to sit upright, the room sliding as he did so. “Tresán is a long way from here.”

“Yes.”

“Do these princes not have men of their own to hunt for them?”

The man lifted a thumb-sized cup from his lap and sipped at something steaming within. “They do,” he said. “But they are princes, and princes, especially those of Tresán, are extravagant banqueters. When their spirits are especially high, their tastes run to mammoth meat and mountain cats, things not easily found, and harder to kill.”

“Takes a skilled hand.”

“Quite so.”

“And so they employed you.”

The man gave a bow of his golden head.

Neythan smiled, looked to Nouredín, who smiled back, dropping a nervous, single-syllabled laugh.

Neythan looked back to the man and squinted. The room was beginning to blur. “So, there you are, in lovely Tresán,” he said. His words were growing increasingly untidy, tripping over each other. “Having the favour of princes… and then…” He dangled his goblet in the air as he formed the thought. “You somehow come to be here, all this way… Did you tire of your mountain cats?”

A corner of the man’s mouth twitched. “Let us say I discovered a bounty more rewarding. Princes pay well for mammoth and cats, but men pay better for men.”

“Hmm.” Neythan finished off his drink.

“Besides, in the end they are not so different, men and beasts.”

Neythan looked up from the dull worn brass of the emptied vessel. “No?”

“No. A man’s appetites…” He glanced at Neythan’s emptied cup. “His habits, they rule him as well as do a beast’s. They shape his wants, his acts, his comings, his goings. A man is as much a slave to his belly as any creature.”

“That so?”

The man’s still blue eyes held Neythan’s gaze. “Yes. It is.” He put his small cup carefully to one side. “It is his only weakness, but the only one needed to join him to every animal. And it is this weakness, as with every beast, that often tells the way he will be found. Or caught. Or killed.”

The words hung awkwardly, chased by the quiet patter of the music. Nouredín, his eyes working between the pair, pushed out another hesitant chuckle to fill the void.

“All this talking, when you ought to be drinking.” He clapped his hands and beckoned back the young almond-skinned girl. “More wine for them,” he said. “There will be time for talking and business later. Now is time for celebrating. Drink. Drink.”

From then the evening slid by in bits and pieces, each sloshing, like poured wine, into the next.

Nouredín cackling at something Neythan has said as he hands him yet another goblet of wine. Women dancing in low skirts, bodies turning like ribbons through the air. Blurred light. Men arguing, Neythan joining in, something about camels, a needful point being made. Food passing around on wooden platters, berries and red grapes. Everyone dancing, drumbeat hammering loud and quick.

Then outside somewhere, shivering in the cooling air. Clear starry night, pulsing overhead as if in time to the music’s constant throb.

Staggering, arm wrapped around a stranger, no, the almond-skinned girl from before. She’s laughing, telling stories, people she’s known, patrons – men, women, old, young, blind, seeing.

Somewhere else, a tavern, seats and tables, raised drinks, shouting and toasts, Nouredín’s cousin calling, that strange blue gaze no longer watchful but lazy, peering back through heavy eyelids and a sluggish smile.

A slumped man, face hanging over an empty mug, muttering, weeping.

A tapped pan drum and bells and cymbals, the almond-skinned girl pulling him to dance, Neythan falling back down. More wine. The steady thud of the drum, shrugged shoulders and raised hands, all bouncing in time.