Mashal

Mashal swatted lazily at a pair of flies. The flies floated lazily away. Everything was slow, languid, as if drained of life. The sun was high in the sky, and the heat shimmered in waves off the sandstone road that blazed golden before the awning of his shop.

It was summer in Angranost, and wise things kept well into the shade. Even here, beneath the shelter of his sturdy canvas roof, Mashal’s sweat soaked rivers through the thin fabric of his silken shirt. A stale wind blew at his form, propelled by the fan-wielding slave to his left. The wretch had been laboring steadily since dawn brought the accursed summer sun. Mashal could have sent him away, for all the good it did him.

Heaving a huge sigh, Mashal squinted out into the afternoon haze, as he had done a hundred times before. The wide street was barren, and only heat-swollen faces stared back at him from awnings across the road. Not a bird flew overhead, and not even the scuff of a worn slipper could be heard marring the stillness of the road.

Cursed summer. Damned cursed summer. How was a man to ply his trade when the sun drove away all custom? Mashal had risen late this morning, and missed the traffic that braved the cooler hours. Now, he had only the flies, the scribes, and the slaves to keep him company.

Flies, scribes, and slaves did not run a caravan. They did not fill Mashal’s coffers with gold. They did not send his ships and his horses and his sand-beasts reaching out to distant cities. And what would the world do without trade? What would the world do without Mashal Angranosti?

“By my mother’s eyes,” said he, “This summer will be the death of us all. Why, even the whores do not prosper.”

“The Crones say that the Golden Summer has come at last, Master,” said the man that plied the peacock-feather fan. “They say they have seen the omens.”

“So they have said,” agreed Mashal. “As they had said the year before. And the year before that. And the one before that. And so they shall say till they are dust and I am a poor man, but the Golden Summer does not come. This one too, shall pass.”

“As you say, Master,” said the slave, uncertainty tainting his voice. Mashal glanced at the man, irritated. This nonsense had been doing the rounds, as it did every year. The fabled Golden Summer, the season to end all seasons, and as the sun grew hotter in the sky, the whispers of it would rise from the thirsty mouths of the Angranosti.

This year, the sun had been particularly hot, and the whispers had been particularly loud. It was common to see prophets of doom on the broad avenues, crying warnings and urging piety before the end.

Fools and swindlers, the lot of them. The Golden Summer would never come.

No, that it would not, but glancing out at the gleam of the sun on the stones of the vacant plaza, even the memory of moisture having been burned from their rough surfaces, Mashal had to wonder. Seventeen men had died the day before, and a sand-beast as well. A sand-beast! True, the fool of a handler had left it confined too long, but still. There was something vicious about this season. Perhaps a trip to the Green Isles might not be so terrible. Business was horrendous, this late in the season, and it was unlikely to pick up before the summer waned.

“Mashal Angranosti.”

Mashal looked up. He must have fallen asleep, lulled by the afternoon’s haze. He had not heard the man’s approach. He was tall, and rail thin, this pale stranger. His hair was dark in the Ardal fashion, black as pitch, worn long. He bore no hood, though a cloak hung from his body like a sheet hung out to dry.

“Mashal Angranosti,” he agreed, rising to his feet, “Master of Horse and Sail. Be welcome in my house.”

The stranger stepped past the awning and into the blessed shade. He did not seem to notice the heat, his pale features did not bear the burn of the sun. Deeper into the shade he ventured, before seating himself, almost abruptly.

Grey eyes, Mashal noticed. The clothing the trader could not place, which was odd. There were few places under the sun (or the shade) where Mashal had not traveled, few people with which he was unfamiliar. This man could have been a pauper or a prince, Mashal did not know. And so, as in all things business, he proceeded with courtesy, and caution.

He beckoned a slave, and the man rose from his work at the back, bearing a fan for this new visitor. “Tell me! What is your name? What do you wish to move, and where do you wish it taken? My caravans run the world corner to corner, and there are no waters that my ships do not sail. Speak the name, Mashal Angranosti will see to your shipments as if they were his own.”

“I have no goods that you must ship,” said the stranger, without pause.

“What?” Mashal’s smile froze, then vanished, beady eyes squinting at the man. There would be no business this day. The Green Isles, he thought, seemed more pleasing every moment. “Then why have you come? Speak quickly! The sun is hot.”

“There is a place I must visit. I wish for you to take me.”

“So!” Mashal snorted, turning to the awning to gesture the man out. The slave had already stopped waving the fan, moving back to his work. “You think me a Sand-guide. Not so. Now, if you will-“

The sound of the bag falling to the wooden floor interrupted him. It was a sound Mashal knew well, had heard often. It was the sound of gold. As if to hammer the point, a single golden disc spilled from the open top to spin askew on the floorboards before coming to a halt.

“A hundred and fifty golden solons,” the pale stranger said, the sweatless.

Slowly, warily, Mashal lowered himself into a chair, looking from the coin on the floor to the man who had dropped it. Unbidden, the fan-bearer returned, sweeping the peacock feathers not far from the dark-haired head.

“A thousand pardons, good master,” said Mashal, cautious, licking his lips, “But that is quite a sum. For this gold, Mashal Angranosti’s fleet could sail from here to the shores of Akaba.”

“There will be only one ship. And I shall be its cargo,” said the other man.

“Yes! Yes, of course,” said Mashal, golden teeth glittering in the too-bright sunlight reflected off the road beyond the awning, “We shall sail together in my own vessel. Ah, but she is a fine ship, gilt in the trim and velvet in the cabins. We shall have the best, the best of foods, the best of wine, and the best of women! Her captain is a Sonaren pirate – now reformed of course – but a swifter boat you will not find.”

A hundred and fifty golden solons! A king’s ransom; no! A queen’s.

“Wine!” Mashal cried, flapping his large, ring-infested hands at his servants, “Wine, I say! And fruit. I have a crate of blood peels from Jurani. They will redden your tongue and enliven your senses. Wine for Master…” Mashal paused, looking to the stranger, “Master…?”

“Sepherrin.”

“Master Sepherrin. Good. Good!” he said, as a goblet appeared in his hand, glistening with life-giving moisture. “And where are we going? Dunwick? Arstan? Name a city! Mashal Angranosti’s banner flies there!”

For the first time, the mask that was Sepherrin’s face cracked, enough to allow a smile. He uttered but one word.

“Ellemond.”

Mashal’s cup made a hollow sound as it fell to the ground.

. . .

Next Part 2: Aros

Advertisement