CHAPTER XXI: Out of the Fire and Into the Frying Pan

Having escaped the beleaguered camp of Marfach-Suil, I journeyed southward for nigh on three days and nights of horrendous heat and bitter cold. My only saving grace was that the pony I had rescued from the depredation of the were-worm carried among his saddlebags a half-empty water skin, which I shared judiciously with the beast; but even so, our meager mouthfuls ran dry by the second day. I was certain the murderous tribesmen I had rightly abandoned to the insatiable whims of the were-worm intended to head towards some hidden oasis to replenish their depleted water supply, but finding such a place in the howling desert without a map or guide proved illusory. Blinded by the biting winds, I was out of my ken and near the end of my strength; only the memories of the beautiful Leannan succored me. Even so, I collapsed at last, physically exhausted, with my mind enfeebled by a raging fever.

Through groggy stages of delirium, I returned to consciousness and found myself abed in the comfortable shade of a well-appointed tent. By the looks of the furnishings and wealthy trappings scattered about, I surmised the owner to be a well-to-do merchant. By the sheer dumb luck only accorded to the oblivious, I must have stumbled blindly upon the caravan route during the last torturous leg of my journey! I managed to rise from beneath the silk coverlet (even though my head was still swimming!) and walked shakily out into the blinding light of day. A paunchy fellow with pointy beard, flowing robe and odd headdress (which I learned was called a turban) eyed me curiously as I exited the tent. Putting away a slate board on which he was doing calculations with a piece of chalk, he rose with a smile to greet me.

'By the hoary head of the great were-worm, it is good to see thee up and about, young friend!' he said jovially. 'We had given you up for dead when first we found thee.'

I half-nodded, trying to at least look a bit appreciative; although my body refused to do my bidding.

'Ah, still a little out of sorts, eh?' the merchant laughed. 'But you have been through much, 'tis obvious.' He pointed over to a makeshift corral and added, 'It seems your pony fared much better than thee. After a bucket of oats and a cool drink, he has been acting quite amorous with one of my mares, the rascal!'

I saw the desert pony snorting and prancing about the enclosure, obviously quite pleased with himself. 'Damned horse!' I muttered irritably. Turning again to the merchant, I asked, 'Pardon me, kind sir, but how long has it been since I was found?'

'Ah, only two days,' the jolly merchant replied, 'but had you walked another twenty paces, you would have stumbled into the well of this oasis.'

I rolled my eyes at my unfortunate luck. 'I am in your debt, sir,' I replied with a more proper bow, 'I am Greagoir of Caladh, Envoy and Scribe to Attar Kiryatin, at your service.'

The merchant's eyes grew wide, and he bowed with hand to forehead in return. 'I am called Imrim ar-Cam, a lowly trader of Bajazet,' he said with false modesty (as it was obvious he was quite wealthy). 'The name of Kiryatin is known to us. He is spoken of with fear and respect in many ports on the Gold Coast.' Suddenly he looked at me slyly, as if sizing me up. 'When we found thee, I had surmised you were a man of means; even though your clothes were worn from a long journey in the desert, still they are finely tailored and of rich fabric.'

I grew wary of this Imrim ar-Cam, although I was uncertain as to why. Perhaps it was the way he took note of my clothing. If I had been dressed in rags, would he have treated me with the same distinction? I thought not.

Imrim in turn caught the subtle change in my expression (a mistake I would not make again), and quickly shifted the subject: 'What exactly brought thee out into the deep desert?' he asked with seeming unconcern. 'Strange it is that a corsair would send his envoy on an errand to Bajazet -- half a world away from the coast --and alone; stranger still that the envoy would stray from the safety of the caravan route.'

Expecting such a question, but not wishing to offer up too much information, I supplied a plausible half-truth: 'My company and I came from up north,' I replied; 'foolishly hoping to save time, we chose to cut through the open desert. 'Twas there we were set upon by a were-worm, and I alone escaped; or, at least, I believe that to be the case. As far as my errand, it is my own, and I prefer it to remain that way.'

Imrim ar-Cam smiled wryly and shrugged at my explanation as if he accepted the lie for what it was. 'Very well, young master, I am not surprised that one who is practiced in the diplomatic trade should hold his tongue among strangers. I would expect nothing less.'

At that moment, one of Imrim's guards, an immense, swarthy fellow with a formidable scimitar hanging from his wide, black belt, strode up to the merchant and whispered something in his ear. Imrim appeared keenly interested in the hulking guard's message. I, too, strained to hear the discussion as it evidently concerned me, for the guard rather stupidly kept looking in my direction. Imrim became perturbed at the guard's indiscretion and he irritably shooed him away as one would an annoying child.

But Imrim shrugged off the conversation blithely by saying, 'Ah, if it isn't one thing, it's another! So hard to find good help these days, wouldn't you agree?' When I nodded rather noncommittally, he added briskly, 'But come, young master, you must be famished! I have yet to break fast this morning, would you care to accompany me?'

Never one to turn down a meal, I nodded with much more certainty, and followed the merchant to an ornate canopy under which was laid a table arrayed with all sorts of fruits and cheeses and kulcha, a type of spiced, unleavened bread which was a staple in the desert areas of the East. We ate in silence, Imrim watching me with great interest, and I trying my best to retain the last vestiges of civility and not gorge myself like some drooling, half-starved beggar.

Imrim ar-Cam remained amused, almost delighted with my presence. 'It is not often my table is graced with such august company,' he said in what to me seemed a jesting manner. 'Conversation along the caravan route usually does not progress further than the proper mating techniques of camels, or the damnable weather, which is always hot. It is quite tedious, to be sure.'

I heartily agreed and we struck up a rather amiable conversation. Imrim ar-Cam fancied himself quite learned for one coming from such humble stock. He admitted to having in his possession a leather-bound set of the History of Bajazet in three volumes, and noted with obvious pride that he had actually read them through! I found his attempts at cultured dialogue amusing (his cobbled speech often lapsing from ceremonious 'thee' and 'thou' into informal 'you' and 'your'). Still, I was intrigued, and I fell to talking about the scrivener's trade and the writing of books and chronicles, which seemed to interest him greatly. But as I ate my fill I became more attuned to my surroundings, having at last overcome the nausea and vertigo that had plagued me upon waking. A series of tents (with Imrim's being the most sumptuous) made up the central camp, and in the distance beyond the tents were several covered wains, which were heavily guarded and…constructed like cells! To my dismay, I discerned men, crowded and pathetic-looking, imprisoned in these wheeled cages!

With that sinking feeling one gets when discovering one is in the wrong place at the wrong time, I politely wiped my mouth with a napkin while desperately looked for an avenue of escape. Imrim ar-Cam, whose steady gaze had never left me, smiled broadly, then laughed at my discomfiture.

'Ah, there you go again, Imrim!' the merchant said to himself, shaking his head but still laughing. 'One thought pushes out another, and you have failed to mention your line of work! A thousand pardons, young master, but I see by the distraught look on your face that you have already surmised my trade.'

I had carelessly failed to notice the guards who had surreptitiously came behind me, and even now flanked me on either side. I sighed in vexation. Placing my napkin on my lap, I ate another chunk of goat cheese and said, 'Well, Imrim, it would seem you have a captive audience, please continue.'

'Hmmm, now where was I? Ah yes, my trade!' Imrim smirked and folded his hands contentedly on his belly. 'When my guards found you, it seemed to me unlikely that one such as yourself -- no mere peasant or wandering tribesman by any means -- should be traveling about alone in the Roaring Waste. That being the case, I sent a few of my men out into the desert to search for any other of your misbegotten party that may have survived. They have just returned this morning with some…valuable information.'

I tried my best to seem unconcerned and took a mighty bite of a juicy peach, which tasted quite sweet, even if the circumstances had soured.

'Lo and behold!' Imrim continued, 'we came upon one of those vagrant nomads -- thieves and scoundrels, the lot of them -- baking out on the sands no more than a day's journey north of here. The poor wretch was in a terrible way, and it was a mercy that my men ended his suffering; but before he died the tribal son-of-a-cur told quite a tale. It would seem that you, Greagoir of Caladh, are political baggage. By all rights you should be dead by now, if it were not for the insufferable greed of that thug Marfach-Suil. Yes, Marfach is known to us, young master, and a most disagreeable sort he is, or was. I have made use of his detestable, but unfortunately necessary, services in the past. In any case, it would seem you have no diplomatic errands in Bajazet whatsoever; rather, you were a prisoner of Marfach and his band of cutthroats, who were hoping to hide out in the city and perhaps ransom you to Attar Kiryatin. The rope burns on your wrists, although healing quite nicely, seem to bear the truth of the tale.'

I involuntarily hid my hands under the table, but this only added to Imrim ar-Cam's mirth. With no further need of pretense, I replied, 'As you have found me out, what then, Imrim? I can make it worth your while if you set me free.'

The slave trader thought for a moment, then stated flatly: 'No, I think not. You see, I am not a very trusting sort, so the thought of letting you go in hopes of receiving some reward in the unforeseeable future does not make very good business sense; neither does attempting to ransom you to Attar Kiryatin. The miles are long, and…well…he is a pirate, after all. I do not believe we would come to an amicable agreement. It is more than likely he would not even reply to my demands.'

I could not argue with his logic, nor could I cloud Imrim ar-Cam's judgment with the lure of greed as I had done so easily with the inept Marfach Suil. I gazed again over at the prison-wains full of human chattel, and wondered when I was to join them.

The ever-perceptive Imrim rose and patted me on the back. 'There, there, young master, your fate is not bound with theirs,' he said reassuringly. 'Those poor souls are on their way to feed the gladiatorial pits of Bajazet. They are fodder for the games; whereas you are a more valuable commodity.'

Suddenly, the previous conversation I had with Imrim came to mind. The slaver's keen interest in the scrivener's trade was not merely one regarding the love of books; rather, he was seeking the measure of my talents as a scribe. I had foolishly boasted of my abilities, and unintentionally given the wily Imrim every possible assurance that I was a first-rate scholar and master-scribe. I was a prisoner of my own witless jabber!

Imrim ar-Cam smiled as he read the thoughts written in my expression. 'You are very learned, Greagoir, and quite talented to be sure; but you are still young and not very wise. But such a thing cannot be learned from books; experience alone teaches wisdom.'

The slave-trader nodded to his guards, and they rather indelicately placed manacles on my wrists and ankles. 'Let this then be a hard lesson on the path of wisdom, young scribe,' he said as he prepared to take his leave. 'Unfortunately for you, that path leads directly to the palace of the Hierophant of Bajazet. I have heard the Exalted One is in need of a master-scribe, and will pay handsomely for a slave of your caliber. It seems your predecessor incurred the Hierophant's royal wrath and was forced to drink his own ink! A horrible death, certainly, but a most apt means of execution, don't you think?'

Imrim ar-Cam laughed and walked off to attend to his business concerns, leaving me to be roughly handled by the merciless guards. If the Hierophant also treated his slaves in such a manner, he did not deserve to have any.