Sanctuary

The guards had no trouble recognizing the elf general. Dressed in Kagonesti leathers, golden head bare to the brilliant sun, Kerianseray was hard to miss. The tallest Khur sketched an awkward salute. It was a Nerakan habit they had not fully mastered. Kerian acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod and kept moving, plunging into the heavy shadow of the gate. The gate was enormously thick, a full sixteen feet of stone. Compared to the blazing desert outside, the tunnel was black as a dragon’s heart, and the Lioness blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the sudden loss of light.

The Khurs had nothing with which to build but crumbly sandstone, and soft limestone from the cliffs overlooking the Bay of Balifor. To protect this weak stone they applied a veneer of large glazed tiles to the inner and outer surfaces of their walls. When maintained, this coating strengthened the stone and made it impervious to wind and rain. Many buildings were covered by tiles glazed in creamy or golden tones, but some were quite colorful, in bold primary hues or multicolored hues like patchwork quilts.

At the other end of the tunnel, the two elves were greeted by a riotous mix of colors, sounds, and smells that was utterly foreign. This was the Fabazz, or Lesser Souk, the city’s market for spices, incense, and foodstuffs. Streams of smoke from charcoal grills mingled with the odors of freshly butchered meat, sizzling fat, and drying herbs. The aromas were not unpleasant but to an elf, with senses far keener than any human’s, the sensations of the Fabazz could be torturous.

The soukats, or merchants, converged on the newcomers, waving samples of their wares. The soukats of Khur had welcomed the elves even more than their khan. To them the world was divided into buyers and sellers; whether the buyer was elf or human concerned them not at all. All steel was equal, and equally sought.

Had they been on foot, Kerian and Hytanthas might easily have been overwhelmed. Khurish traders were not noted for their reticence, and in the Fabazz their approach was practically an attack. Most of the merchandise here was perishable. What wasn’t sold today would have to be marked down for sale tomorrow (or worse, cast off).

“Great lady!” A soukat shoved a small bundle toward the Lioness, its smell so sharp that her horse sidestepped quickly. “Buy these spices! The burning they bring to the tongue will be matched by the burning they incite in the heart of the one you love!”

“Ignore him, lady!” boomed another soukat. “Mushra sells only street sweepings! Kandar has the best spices, oils, and resins in Khur! Buy from Kandar, who weighs his goods honestly!”

“Kandar is an infamous liar, noble lady! Only Teffik weighs truly, and handpicks his spices each morning from the Delphon caravans!”

When Kerian showed no sign of stopping, the soukats redoubled their efforts. Soon her horse was rendered immobile by the gesticulating merchants. Hytanthas could make no headway either.

A live chicken, squawking loudly and wings flapping, was suddenly thrust in Kerian’s face. Recoiling, she planted a foot against the poulterer’s chest and shoved with all her strength. The unlucky man was flung back against his fellows. All of them crashed into their carts and went down in a clatter of tin pans and a flurry of squawking chickens.

Wails of protest rose up from the soukats. This was not how things were done! In the Fabazz, a little shoving was commonplace, but nothing this rough. A number of soukats hefted pieces of the broken carts, waving the staves at the elves. The Lioness ostentatiously drew her sword. Reluctant but loyal, the captain did the same. The Khurs parted ranks and allowed the armed elves to pass.

By the time they emerged on the other side of the market, ascending the stepped street there, the Lioness’s face wore a fierce grimace, and not for the altercation with the poulterer. That she had found rather invigorating. No, her distaste was for the stench that now saturated her clothing. The reek of the Fabazz seemed to permeate her very skin. She longed for a fountain so she might wash her hands and face, but this was a vain hope. Khuri-Khan did not waste water on such displays.