Disclaimer: Prince of Persia does not belong to me.
A Life Relived: Chapter Three
There were some rather definite upsides to Garsiv not disliking him. Dastan wouldn't go quite as far as to say that Garsiv liked him particularly, but, at this point, the lack of hostility from a source that wasn't his father was refreshing.
One such upside was that Dastan had more to fill his hours with this go-around than worry over his friends, his new family, and his overall situation. At the moment he and Garsiv were engaged in a game of chess. Dastan had, in no uncertain terms, rejected Garsiv's idea to go riding. Honestly, Dastan hadn't had riding lessons; even if he knew how to ride, he didn't yet have the skill to stay on. Well, maybe he did (market-child balance and all that), but why tempt fate?
Dastan watched, really there wasn't much he could do, as Garsiv systematically tore through his defenses and won the match. Dastan gave a deep sigh.
"Best eighteen out of thirty-four?" Garsiv glared. Dastan prepared himself for a change in activity. He'd expected Garsiv's present expression of mildly angered annoyance to appear much sooner. Dastan assumed that Garsiv didn't want to harm the fragile bond that they'd formed only days before.
Garsiv grasped the odd, horse-shaped playing piece tightly in his right hand. A strangled 'No' growled its way out of Garsiv's throat. Dastan decided not to push his brother any further, even though his every baby-brother instinct told him to tease and badger, for fear that the pesky vein on Garsiv's forehead should make an appearance. Both brothers were spared a small, awkward silence as the doors to Garsiv's rooms opened with a bang and Tus stalked in.
"And just what," Tus began, his voice a cold mockery of a questioning tone, "is the meaning of the two of you missing Complaint Day?" Dastan and Garsiv both winced. Complaint Day, as Garsiv and Tus called it, was notoriously boring for anyone not directly involved in the complaints being voiced or making the complaint-solving decisions (such as: 'That cow is your neighbor's. Take it again and I'll have your hands removed.'). Dastan personally found the day to be quite helpful in aiding the royals of Persia to gauge the mood of their people. Tus and Garsiv personally found that they'd rather eat raw snails than sit in on it.
"Sorry Tus…"
"Street-rat forgetting I can forgive, but Garsiv, you've known about Complaint Day for ages. Father and Uncle were disappointed not to see you there."
"I didn't know there was a Complaint Day scheduled for today."
"Did you not read the sign posted outside the Hall. Oh wait, you can't read, can you?" Tus' tone ended in a sort of sneer. Dastan saw Garsiv's eyes grow a bit too bright for this particular incident to end well. He made a decision. Just a small decision.
"Tus, shut up. Haven't you ever been told: If you can't say something nice; don't say anything at all?" He then grabbed Garsiv's hand and dragged him out of the room before Tus could snap out of his surprise and respond.
Dastan pulled his brother along several side corridors. The two were silent as they walked. Dastan checked on his brother over his shoulder every once in awhile. Garsiv kept his head down the whole while that Dastan lead him. Following small landmarks, like the loose stone in the wall on the small corridor just south of the kitchen, they soon reached their destination. Garsiv looked up when they stopped. For a moment he stood, stunned, in front of the dark-stained library doors.
"Dastan, why are we here?"
"We are here, my brother, because I won't stand for my brother to be insulted by another family member."
"What has that to do with…" Dastan cut Garsiv off.
"We are going to stop Tus by getting rid of the thing he insults you for." Garsiv looked confused. Dastan sighed again. "We're going to practice your reading skills."
"I don't need to do that." Garsiv's cheeks were red as summer apples. Dastan shot him a look.
"Garsiv listen, if you never practiced riding a horse, would you be able to ride well?" Garsiv shook his head. Dastan waited. His brother's eyes lit up in understanding a moment later.
"Alright then. Let us get this over with."
"That's the spirit, brother!"
Once the two were in the library, it was simple work to find a quiet corner, pull up some pillows, and get a hold of some reading material. The library was made up of mostly history, political writings, epic poems, and lists of tax rates and family trees. Understandably, this made for dull reading, especially for active boys such as the Persian princes. However, for the good of the family, such hardships could be endured.
The most difficult part of practicing the skill of reading was, clearly, picking the correct material. Several times Dastan had to remove an epic or an antiquated law manuscript from Garsiv's hands.
"You'll never get better if you set your goals that high."
"Father always says that we ought to set our goals as high as we can."
"Yes, he's right of course, but what I mean is that you need to set smaller goals under the big goal. You cannot pick up a sword and expect to execute a complex maneuver if you never mastered the basics." Garsiv nodded thoughtfully and settled on reading a small manuscript of folktales. Dastan reclined and listened to his brother's voice.
At some point that afternoon, a servant girl brought the two princes a bowl of fruit. Garsiv's eyebrows drew together in confusion at the bowl; it contained only apples and pomegranates. Dastan just grinned, he had some idea of how the staff had come to know his favorite fruit treats so early (Bast was a terrible gossip who 'knew' many of the serving girls). An idea blossomed in his mind. Perhaps reading practice could wait a while.
"Garsiv, follow me."
"…The last time I followed you we ended up on the roof." Dastan stopped mid-step and gave a glance at his brother. Garsiv was glaring. However, it was only a mild, humoring glare. It always astounded Dastan how quickly Garsiv warmed to someone once he'd decided they were worth knowing. Garsiv studied Dastan's face for a moment, shrugged, and followed the peasant-prince to the library's east window.
"Excellent…" Garsiv heard Dastan mutter to himself. He sent a bemused look in Dastan's direction. Then he saw what Dastan had brought with them: a small knife and a pomegranate.
"What are you…"
"Brother, today you will learn the fine art of seed spitting."
"That's hardly an activity fitting for a Persian prince."
"Oh hush, Garsiv. Think about it." Dastan took a small breath, "Does Tus like to walk in the garden?"
"Yes, but what…?"
"The same garden that is right below both of our balconies and the window of father's study?"
"Yes…" Suddenly Garsiv saw Dastan's plan and an evil-little-brother smirk slipped onto his face. Dastan nodded.
"Alright, do you see that guard just over there?" Dastan cut the pomegranate's skin open as he talked. Dozens of seeds were revealed, shining dully like unpolished rubies.
"Yes, I see him."
"Great, now take this seed and eat the fruit off. Waste not, want not, I always say. Ready? Good." A pause, "Now, the trick to this is to get the seed aimed right and putting the right amount of pressure behind it. Otherwise it'll just drop out of your mouth. It's all in the tongue, brother, all in the tongue."
The pair went through three pomegranates and two (apiece) apples. Very few of the seeds actually struck their targets, but one day, quite soon, the palace guards would begin to dread guard duty anywhere near a window.
The next day, after lessons (Garsiv was making small strides in his reading), Dastan walked into his room. Late morning sun poured warmly through the doorway to the balcony. Swiftly making his way to his railing, Dastan made sure that there were no people around. Sure of this fact, Dastan jumped lightly onto the rail. There was a flagpole, rather conveniently placed, jutting from a wall just a monkey-leap to his left.
Quickly, because the flagpole was made of some slippery metal (hot from the sun), he executed a mid-air somersault and landed on a small roof. From the roof of the garden-keeper's rooms he used a second leap to reach a low branch of a juniper tree fairly close to the outer wall of the palace. A sharp sting came from his right arm. The juniper needles must have scratched him. He shrugged off the minor annoyance and climbed up the tree as fast as possible; the tree was out of the way and not many guards patrolled over this way, but it would be just his luck if one came and saw him.
Settling onto the highest weight-supporting branch he could find, Dastan waited for a moment, keeping a close watch for guards, servants, or bumbling idiots who could tell his father about his tree climbing stunt. Satisfied that there was still no one about, he shimmied to the end of the branch and grasped the top corner of the wall. A sharp push-off and pull-up maneuver led to him being atop the wall itself. From his spot on the wall, Dastan saw his final target. One final monkey-leap saw him hanging by his knees from a branch from a similar tree conveniently close to the palace wall.
Dastan released his knee-hold and slipped down from the tree, doing a flip in the space between branch and ground to avoid a broken neck. One final glance around and he was ready to move on. He pulled a dark cloth over his head and another over his face. Anyone who did not know him by his gait would never be able see who he was.
His disguise worked perfectly. Not one person in the upper or middle towns or the high markets recognized him. Their eyes slid over him as easily as they did the other passersby. However, it was not those places that Dastan had to worry about. He had spent only a few years in the middle town before his father and mother died of rat-fever and no one in the upper town had ever seen him before the one day he'd ridden through on Nizam's horse.
From his spot on the roof of a shop in the lowest market, Dastan crouched silently, watching those who used to be his fellows. There was a gaggle of girls by the well, giggling over nothing. Nearby was a gaggle of crones, cackling over the misfortune of others. The baker stood waiting in his stall, sun-warmed bread on his table. Everyone was there: the brats, the whores, the street-rats, and the street-dogs. Everyone except…
"Well, well, well… What do we have here?" Dastan froze as the pointed tip of a dagger touched his back. He listened; it wasn't just one person on the roof with him. It was a group… One of the others spoke, confirming what Dastan already knew.
"If it isn't our favorite street-rat."
"No, stupid," Yet another voice, "he's no street-rat. He's a prince now." Their voices were low and growling. Dastan smiled softly; he knew that trick. He knew these rats.
"Parham, put that knife away. You're going to slip and cut me, I can just see it." A stifled snort came from behind Dastan. He heard air being displaced and knew Nasha was being informed of his words.
"We never could pull that one on you, Dastan."
"Indeed you couldn't. Silly Kaysar, I invented that trick." Dastan felt the dagger pull away from his skin and turned to face his pack.
It took his breath away, how young they looked, how alive they were. Though Bis and Bast were not with them, the rest of the pack was here. Kaysar stood silently by the wall of the building next to the shop roof. Leaning near him on the same wall was Radwan, his dark eyes boiling with laughter. Sitting on the edge of that wall was Nasha. Dastan signaled his greeting.
*Hello to you as well, my friend.* Dastan smiled at the reply.
"And just where the hell have you been?" Good old Zad, fair in face but fiery as a demon. Parham, standing with a smug smirk behind Dastan, nodded, seconding the question. Dastan grinned. Then he answered, signaling as he spoke, for Nasha's benefit. Speaking and signaling at the same time was second nature to the whole pack.
"I was in the palace. You know, big building; lots of curved, blue rooftops?"
"Shut up."
"Wait. Dastan …"
"What is it, Zad?"
*We heard that the king adopted you.* Nasha's hands flashed in a blur of agitated nerves. Dastan paused for a moment.
"He did."
"Then why the hell are you here?" Zad sounded confused, frustrated, and hopeful. In Dastan's experience, a Zad who felt so many simultaneous emotions was a Zad waiting to explode at someone.
"I'll tell you all later. Now, I need to get to our home."
"Sounds easy enough. You do remember where it is, right?"
"Hush, Radwan. What you need done, Dastan?" Kaysar's voice was, as usual, soft. However, it was a tad higher pitched than Dastan remembered.
"You know me so well." He broke off. Nasha made a signal that, loosely translated and censored, meant 'get on with it'. "Right. Radwan, I need you to get Bis to the house. I'm assuming Bast is there already?" He received a curt nod, "Good. Nasha, I need you to spread the word to the other rats; tell them that, just because I may be seen by one of them, does not mean I am here. In fact, I'm not here."
"How come Nasha gets the fun job?"
"Because, Nasha can get anyone to do anything."
"Yeah, he gets away with everything too."
*Heh, no one could possibly be suspicious of the adorable, clumsy, deaf boy.*
"Shut up, Nasha."
The abandoned house that Dastan's pack lived in was only a flip, skip, and a leap away. Literally. It took the four rats all of three rooftops to reach their home.
The house had been abandoned for years before Bis and Bast (the first pack members) moved into it, following their soldier-father's death and their mother's decline into insanity. It was easy to see why it was abandoned. Part of the west wall was completely gone, replaced by tarps to keep out the occasional sandstorm. The walls that were standing were made of clay bricks that were long overdue for replacement. Problems were even more apparent if one lived in the house. The roof leaked terribly, every part of the floor creaked and squeaked, and there was a permanent draft (which was a mystery since it often occurred without any wind to sustain it).
Still, it was home for the pack; a second home to Dastan. He and his fellow rats slipped down from the roof adjacent to the cloth maker's stand.
The rats were met at the door by Bis, Bast, and Radwan. The two brothers raised dark eyebrows into their dark, curly hairlines. Dastan's face slit into a sheepish grin. Bis held his eyebrow question for as long as he was able, but it melted off his face and he began to speak.
"What's happened?"
"I've been adopted." The pack nodded grimly. Bast let out a slow breath.
"Quick, come inside before you're seen." The pack slipped into the house with notable stealth, keeping Dastan to the center, shielding him from curious eyes. Once inside, they settled on their patched collection of cushions, crates, and a single stool. Dastan sat on his favorite crate and waited for someone to speak. Bast obliged.
"It's good that you came back. We were…"
"You are back, right? You're not staying in that palace?" Dastan winced at the nerves evident in Bis' voice. His silence spoke louder than any other answer he could have given. Awkward silence ensued.
"…we were this close to storming the palace to rescue you…" Bast finished his earlier statement. Dastan thanked every deity he'd ever heard of that they had not. They had tried last time and Parham gained a permanent limp for their troubles. It was silent for some time more. A breeze whispered its way through the house, traveling unnoticed from one end to the other before continuing on its way. Finally, Nasha broke the quiet.
*What are we going to do?*
"Well, I don't know about you, but it seems to me that I'll need a… quiet place, for when palace life gets to be too much…"
"That's why we're telling everyone that you're not ever here."
"Right."
"I don't like this."
"Neither do I, my friend, but we must play with the hand we're dealt, as always." Bis looked straight into Dastan's eyes.
"Alright. I know you. You're going to do everything you can to make this thing work out. You'll prob'ly do great too." He took a breath, "But so help me, if you forget us Dastan, I will charge that palace and drag you back here, guards with sharp, pointy rat-killing weapons be damned.
"I wouldn't have it any other way." Dastan stilled for a few moments before continuing. "And Bis?"
"Yes?"
"If anyone asks you; I learned to read and write from a rope merchant. You didn't have the patience to learn," The pack share a smirk at the truthful jibe, "and the merchant left and died back in his home country."
"Whatever you say, Dastan. Just one thing…" The pack glanced to each other seriously and then turned back to Dastan. Nasha's hands moved when it became clear that Bis wouldn't continue.
*Someday you will tell us what's going on. We know you, Dastan. You're hiding something big.*
A/N: Sorry for the wait! I tried to warn you...
Someone asked for the folktale from the last chapter. Unfortunately, they remained anonymus, so I could not reply in a PM. Anyway, here's the address: http : / / www . aaronshep . com / stories / 039 . html You know the drill; remove the spaces.
