The Keys to Paradise, page 24
‘Your maps are of high quality,’ Giles said, fingering one. ‘Good parchment.’ He frowned and shook his head. ‘But what use is good material if the map isn’t accurate?’
‘Sir!’ the vendor protested. ‘These charts are the finest in all Bandanarra!’
‘They show the caravan ways, perhaps?’ Giles gestured to a stack of maps laying on a table.
‘It is so. The desert to the south is the Dus ’i Abat, “The Desert of Skeletons.” Many people have died in that desert. You are thinking of journeying there? You cannot find a better map for such a venture.’
‘I am not certain,’ Giles said. ‘I wish to study such a map before I make any decision.’
‘You lead a caravan? There are spices from the cities on the southern edge of the desert. See? The locations are clearly marked on the fine map. Transporting them north can bring immense wealth.’
‘Spices hold no appeal,’ Giles said.
‘Aaah.’ The sigh said much and little. ‘Perhaps you would share with me?’ Giles studied the map seller. He made a quick gesture silencing Keja’s protest about divulging any of their mission. Giles had come to the conclusion this man might aid them. He had the look of knowledge about him – and betrayal, also? That, too, but Giles risked it.
‘A gold key. It is said that perhaps it is in the desert.’ Giles watched for any sign that the man might know what he was talking about. He was surprised at the answer.
First came another long sigh. ‘The key to the Gate of Paradise. It would not be wise to search for it. No, not wise,’ the map seller mused. ‘It is said that it lies hidden in the desert, and many have come over the years to seek it. But there is a religion in Kasha which believes devoutly that it is sacrilege to hunt for the key. It is sacred to their tenets and, it is rumoured, they have slain many of the impetuous who sought such a key.’
He fell silent, and straightened a pile of maps already arranged in near-perfect order.
Giles wondered what had brought about this sudden change from affability to silence. Realizing a hush had settled over all the nearby stalls, Giles turned to look onto the street. Both Keja and Petia had spotted the cause, also.
Two tall, lanky, cadaverous men approached. Cloths wrapping their heads came down almost to their eyebrows. Eyes of burning coals stared out, spreading an aura of contempt, as if the people of the bazaar were mere animals and not worthy of notice. Most of the nearby people had turned their backs rather than look upon the two. The men walked on with stiff, unnatural strides, their heads turning from side to side, disdaining all that came within their sight, human or material.
Giles watched until they disappeared around a corner. ‘Who were they?’ he whispered, struck by the unnatural silence lingering in their wake.
‘They are not truly human, or so the people think,’ the map merchant said, shuddering in spite of the heat. ‘They are of the desert. A good reason for not venturing there.’
‘You spoke of a key,’ Giles reminded him.
‘No. No more. If you would learn of the key, ask Pessein, the scribe. He knows more than I. And he is a foolish man, unafraid to talk. It will bring his death one day. Tell him that Ryilla the map seller sent you.’
‘Thank you,’ Giles said. ‘I’ll be back for a map.’ He saw that the man couldn’t have cared less and showed only relief at being free of him.
‘Giles, I…’ began Petia.
‘Later,’ Giles interrupted. ‘I must find this Pessein. I don’t like the looks of those two who went by. They seemed to be searching for… something.’ He couldn’t put his uneasiness into words, but he felt the pressure of time mounting.
‘But, Giles,’ said Keja, ‘Petia’s got to…’
‘Later. See you later at the inn.’ Giles had no further time to spend dawdling. He hurried off, leaving Petia and Keja in the bazaar. Giles found the scribe with little effort, and Pessein welcomed Giles, inviting him to share tea. He started a pot of water boiling and gestured to a seat. Giles sat, happy to be out of the sun.
While the tea brewed, the scribe straightened his writing materials and made small talk. Only when he had poured out the tea did he settle down to more serious matters. He obviously followed ritual and would not be hurried through it.
‘So Ryilla sent you to me. There is something you wish written?’
‘No,’ Giles answered, eager to get to the heart of the matter. ‘It is information that I seek, information that Ryilla said you may have and that he was afraid to talk about. I wish to learn about the key to the Gate of Paradise.’
‘You seek it?’ At Giles’ nod, Pessein pulled at his lower lip. ‘It is dangerous. Not the story. I care nothing about telling you the story and what I know. But to seek it is foolhardy.’ He sipped from his bowl.
‘My companions and I have journeyed far and have fought to gain what little we have. We know the risks.’
‘You know nothing,’ the scribe scoffed. ‘The key is sacred to the Harifim. Do you know the Harifim?’
Giles shook his head.
‘They are a desert tribe, although some live in the towns. They say that the key keeps the Gate of Paradise locked. They believe that when they die a secret way through the Gate will be revealed to them. They are extremely possessive of the key, although I am not certain that even they know where it is hidden. For a non-Harifim to open the Gate is sacrilege and will deny them their eternal salvation.’
‘They guard a key whose location is a mystery?’ Giles asked.
‘The Harifim point off vaguely toward the desert, but they never go beyond that. Why should they aid in their own damnation by helping another through the Gate?’
Giles sipped his tea. ‘Then, you don’t know the location of the key.’
Pessein laughed. ‘Oh, no. I don’t want to know. I scribble and I tell stories to pass the time, but I have little desire to know that which might get me killed.’
‘Do you fear them? Are they so dangerous?’
Pessein looked at Giles for a long moment. ‘Did you think it would not be difficult finding your mystical key? The Harifim are a hard desert people. They make enemies easily and friends with difficulty. They do not wish any to be interested in the key. Be careful whom you ask about the key. I am a garrulous fool who seeks only a modest living.’ He arched one eyebrow. Giles took the hint and dropped several gold pieces onto the table.
Giles stiffened when a shadow bisected a sample of Pessein’s craft hung on the wall. ‘How will we learn if we do not ask questions?’ He stood. ‘Thank you for your hospitality.’
Pessein smiled. ‘Be careful, my friend. And,’ he added wistfully, ‘if you do enter the Gate of Paradise, think of me.’ Pessein sighed and Giles recognized in him a kindred spirit.
Giles returned to the stall of Ryilla, keeping a sharp eye out for anyone who might be following him. The shadow in Pessein’s shop had not been that of a casual passer-by. Someone had stood listening at the window – and had been careless for a brief instant.
The map maker looked up with surprise. ‘I did not expect to see you again.’
‘I still need a map,’ Giles said. ‘The desert.’
Petia and Keja entered the stall a few minutes later and found Giles poring over a stack of maps Ryilla had laid out for him. Giles looked up, wondering that they hadn’t returned to the inn.
‘Have you found what you are looking for?’ Keja asked.
‘Not yet, but I know it’s out there in the desert somewhere.’ Giles shifted a map, and bent to study the one beneath. Without looking up, he asked, ‘Has something brought you back? You were going to the inn.’
‘Giles,’ blurted Petia, ‘there’s a matter we have to discuss immediately. We have to… ‘
Giles silenced her when the map maker came to sit cross-legged in front of him. ‘You’re go to look for it, aren’t you?’ Ryilla asked, his dark eyes blazing.
‘We go into the desert.’ Giles moved another map.
‘Did not Pessein warn you? There is great danger.’
‘We don’t warn off easily.’
‘Giles, a word,’ begged Petia.
‘Later.’ Giles spoke sharply and gestured to the map maker.
‘Let me show you, the maps with the caravan routes.’ Ryilla quickly sorted through the stack of maps, pulling out those with routes currently being used. He tossed the others to one side.
Giles immediately moved to a back table, where Ryilla had thrown the older maps. A man perusing various scrolls moved out of his way, and then, nodding to the vendor, left the stall. Some of the maps Giles had already examined, but others he looked at carefully, laying some aside for later scrutiny.
‘But,’ Ryilla insisted, ‘these are the maps you will need. Is everyone from your country as mad as you? These are fine maps!’
Giles looked up and laughed. ‘We have a saying in our country: “Madness lies easily upon the back of the hand, and may be seen in the eyes.” ’
‘I believe that. It must be a good saying because it certainly applies to you.’ Ryilla shook his head and gestured to Keja and Petia to help themselves to fruit from a nearby bowl. Petia fumed, but Keja took several of the offered fruits.
‘Humour him,’ Keja said. ‘He will buy. You need not worry over which map it is.’
Keja and Ryilla made small talk while Giles continued his search through the old maps. After a half hour, he carried a map to where the three were seated. He laid it down. ‘Your price?’
Ryilla looked at the map and frowned. ‘This one?’ he asked.
Giles nodded.
‘It’s over a hundred years old. Routes no longer used. Pictures of mythic creatures along the sides. Useless.’ Ryilla made it clear by his tone that he thought Giles a little strange. ‘Look.’ He pointed, a stubby finger grinding into the parchment. ‘Cities long abandoned, empty husks of their former glory. Who knows what dwells there now?’
Giles peeled the skin from a fruit and sucked the juice running down his fingers. ‘How much?’ he repeated.
‘One darhim to the mad foreigner,’ Ryilla said with disgust. ‘But don’t blame me when you get lost. This map is far superior to the one you chose.’ Ryilla held up the one he had originally shown to Giles.
Giles paid for the map. They left Ryilla shaking his head and muttering about the demented northerner.
‘Where to now?’ Keja asked. ‘Petia’s got something to say to you.’
‘The lirjan market,’ Giles said, not hearing more than Keja’s question. ‘We need transport. That’s what we’re going to buy, and supplies, and clothing for the desert.’ Giles finished rolling up the map and strode off, leaving the others to catch up.
The beasts looked awkward and gangling, but Giles knew that for the desert the lirjan were infinitely better than horses. Their large, spatulate hooves had evolved to travel easily over the sand. They were only slightly taller than a horse, but were able to survive for long distances in the heat with little water. They could carry two persons for short distances but were much happier with only one.
The market roar deafened Giles as he pushed through the crowd. Vendors shouted that they offered the best beasts. Beneath that were the hoarse, husky grumblings of the animals’ voices.
The first broker’s smile revealed a mouth full of broken teeth. His obsequious manner made Giles move off to seek another. The manner of the second was better, forthright if not any more honest.
‘You must realise, sirs and lady, that I will receive shaharm when you buy. A fee from each side of the transaction, if you will. But I will try to recommend animals who are healthy and strong and can be obtained for a reasonable price. Gashmeen is renown for his services, his fine animals provided to discerning travellers such as yourselves.’ Giles saw that this amounted to little more than bragging, but Gashmeen appeared to do a thriving business. This, if nothing else, recommended him.
‘We ask no more,’ Giles said, handing over the gold equivalent of the five darhim required.
It was an exhausting, time-consuming task. Long before it was finished, Giles knew that Gashmeen had earned his money. The broker examined the animals from a distance at first, looking at their conformation and their stance. When he had selected some to examine more closely, he found out the price being asked. If it was within the range that Giles had suggested, he continued with his examination. Teeth, nostrils, legs, coat, all were observed carefully. He would even lift their tails and study the anus.
‘I’m glad he’s not examining me,’ Keja said.
Evening was upon them before the beasts were selected and the bargaining done. For two additional darhim, the broker arranged for care of the animals until the trio was ready to leave.
‘It’s too late now,’ Giles said, acknowledging the evening dusk. ‘But tomorrow we must shop for clothing and supplies.’
‘Thank the gods,’ Keja exclaimed. ‘I’m for a flagon. It’s not the same fine ale as at home, but it’ll do. Moistens the throat well enough.’
‘A bowl of fruit for me,’ Petia said, resigned to speaking with Giles later about the slave boy. ‘I’ve never tasted so many different fruits with such delicate flavours.’
As they entered the inn, Giles saw a shadow again on the wall. He spun, then shouted, ‘Down!’ His quick reflexes saved Keja from a knife in the back. A heavy-bladed hunting knife cartwheeled through the air and loudly thunked! into the wooden door.
‘We’re being warned off,’ Petia said, pointing to the scrap of paper impaled by the knife.
Giles took the paper and read the inscribed message, then handed it to Keja. ‘The scribe warned me that the Harifim don’t like people asking about the key. We’ll have to be more careful.’
* * *
During the evening a man, old and grizzled, entered the inn. His hunched back looked bent under the woes of the world. He rubbed his hands as if they were cold, although the sun had only set an hour before. The innkeeper intercepted him as he walked across the common room and started to turn him out. Petia sat lost in her own thoughts while Giles and Keja discussed their trip into the desert. She saw the old man’s plight and felt sorry for him. Rising from the table, she motioned to the landlord.
She took the old one by the arm and invited him to have a cup of mint tea laced with beldon leaves. The man nodded eagerly. ‘Tea in exchange for a story. I give you a story.’
‘We are newly arrived in Kasha,’ Petia told him. ‘Perhaps you would tell a story about your city or the desert.’ She tried to forget the slave pens and the Trans boy. Somehow, Petia thought by showing kindness to the old man she might take her mind far away.
His grin was toothless, but endearing. His ragged clothing seemed clean, and quick eyes darted around the table, taking in the map Giles pored over. The man took a sip of tea and sighed. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked around the table. ‘What stories would you have me tell?’ he asked.
Giles put away the map, drew a coin from his pouch and laid it on the table. The old man’s eyes gleamed, and he smiled. ‘A tale of the desert, perhaps,’ Giles said. ‘A tale concerning a key many centuries old – a key sacred to the Harifim.’
A frown crossed the leathery face, adding creases to the creases. ‘Dangerous. It is dangerous to talk about the key. You speak of the Harifim, a fierce, unforgiving people. It is good to avoid them. Even those who have come to live in the city; they retain their ways. A savage people, warlike, very dangerous.’ The old man shook his head. ‘It would be good to avoid them,’ he repeated.
Giles took up his pipe and loaded it with tobacco. The man’s eyes watched him, birdlike. His eyes pleaded that he be allowed to tell a different story.
Giles lit his pipe and said between puffs, ‘The Harifim believe the key is an important part of their religion. Do they have a temple in the city?’
The old man looked down at the table and then sipped from his mug. He played the game nearly as well as Giles.
‘It is said that the key keeps the Gate of Paradise locked. Only the Harifim find a secret entrance when they die. They believe that the key is in the safekeeping of the Skeleton Lord, who lives in an abandoned city in the desert.’
‘And where is this city?’ asked Keja.
‘I do not know, but you must have seen the Lord’s creatures in the city. They are so lean that they look like skeletons. Their eyes are sunk so deep into the sockets that one can never see them, can never read anything but death in them. People are afraid of them. Merchants deal with them quickly and with great courtesy so that they may be rid of them. The Harifim fear them, also, if they are afraid of anyone.’
Giles puffed thoughtfully. ‘Tell me of the skeleton men. Where do they come from?’
‘The desert.’ The old man’s hands encompassed the width and breadth of the desert outside the city. ‘They could be from anywhere. There are many lost cities out there. Dead for hundreds of years. The Skeleton Lord lives in one such, or so it is said. The desert is their world.’ He rubbed his forefinger through some spilled tea and made circles on the table.
He stood up. ‘That is all I know. Please do not say that I have told you these things. Leave the desert alone. I speak too much for a cup of tepid tea.’ The old man bowed and left.
‘What do you make of that?’ asked Keja.
‘Another warning sent for us,’ said Giles, puffing thoughtfully on his pipe. ‘Less emphatic than the knife, but still a warning.’
‘A warning? Sent by whom?’ asked Petia, pulled out of her worry over the boy.
‘That is something we’ll find out,’ Giles said, ‘soon.’
Four
They can’t get away with that!’ Keja said hotly. ‘We can’t let them – whoever ‘they’ are – come in here any time they want and rummage through our belongings.’
‘Listen to who’s talking. The old master thief himself. Now you know what it’s like to be robbed.’ Giles lounged back and studied the small, slightly disordered room. He suspected those responsible for stealing what little they had of value to be the Harifim. But to prove it? Impossible. ‘All we’re out are a few coins – and the map.’
