The apostate of Calormen
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Preface
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Article I of the Religious Observances Act (known as the Great Statute of Korkunc Yargi)
Dated circa 320 (by Narnian reckoning)
-There is no true God but Tash
-Lesser Calormene gods (more properly called supernatural entities) are to be respected but must not be worshipped
-Ceremonies performed to so-called lesser Calormene gods out of respect must not constitute worship
-No alien gods are to be worshipped or respected by any subject of Calormen
-The ultimate sanction may apply to anyone breaching the above
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Introduction
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The Wine Vats were a sequence of barrel like hills, their feet licked by the merest trickle of a stream. The Goat Path wound through them; a little tangled in parts but still navigable by cavalry. A group of twelve lancers picked their way at a brisk enough pace, pausing occasionally to scan their surroundings. "There," the cavus exclaimed. He steadied 'Umar's Lens,' a recent and ingenious innovation which allowed one to see things at a distance more clearly. He could see a small caravan of travellers on the flats below, little clouds of dust flaring in its wake.
The kapud permitted himself a modest smile. He wasn't a man given to smiling but, for once, he was prepared to indulge. He turned to his men, "I told you that this was no more than a child's sand pit." The soldiers made polite noises and a few muttered 'Authentez' (meaning 'sir'). They'd been exposed to his opinions for several months and were inured to them. The troopers were well aware of the kapud's contempt for the Northern Desert: "Now, the Hal Hallim, that is a real desert," was his constant refrain. "We'll be upon them soon enough," he declared.
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Absent without leave
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"Like the pedlar of Al Albas, he has flown," said the cavus ruefully. Being a police officer in the dreaded Bureau of Public Morals wasn't an easy life. Historically known as the Observances Bureau, it had gradually acquired a myriad of other functions. Sometimes the cavus wondered why he'd joined up. After all, his father and grandfather had been in the department, so he couldn't plead ignorance of the difficulties.
The memore sniffed. Much as he'd liked to have blamed the cavus, it was hardly the man's fault. He looked about the room. It was comfortable, perhaps even opulent, but the furnishings were of considerable age. A generational downturn in the fortunes of the Yargi family could be read in the modest villa. The dark wooden table was well polished but scarred. The couches were cushioned in silk but needed recovering. The heavy tapestries and rugs were clean yet faded in places. The district itself (home to merchants of the middling sort) told of a fall from grace. "Search the place; from attic to cellar. Leave nothing un-lifted, unopened or unshaken. I want any Bureau documents, all private correspondence, anything heretical or heathen. If your men find something that suggests where Yargi has gone, I need to see it. That includes maps. Understand? Good. I'll be back as soon as possible. Maybe the sentries at the city gates have had some luck?"
The memore was dreading the return of his Director. Worse still would be the inevitable interview with the Vizier that ran the Bureau. "Why didn't I take that holiday, to see my brother-in-law?" he privately lamented. He'd kept postponing the unappealing trip - despite his wife's persistence – and bitterly regretted it. Failure to take that short leave of absence might now cost him his position.
Things had begun in the morning of the first working day after the great autumn festival. There'd been a three day public holiday to celebrate both Tash and the ascension of Iri Tisroc. Iri had succeeded to his father's throne during the summer, after the mysterious deaths of his three elder brothers. A fleshy man, he was called Iri the Corpulent by his critics (in private, of course). The memore, a responsible man, hadn't liked closing the office for three solid days but chose not to complain. His seniors would undoubtedly have left him to run things singlehanded.
The memore and the custodian arrived together to unlock the premises (two different keys being necessary for each outer door). It was the memore that found a most serious burglary had occurred during the holiday. First, he found that his own office had been searched and documents removed (even though the door had been relocked). As other officials arrived it soon became apparent that many other documents had been taken or destroyed. The thief (or thieves) hadn't dared risk a fire but many papers were ruined; left soaking in water, turning them to pulp.
"The Vizier will go mad!" the civil servant repeated, as the list of missing or damaged documents grew. The captain of police attached to the bureau in Tashbaan was summoned. With just one exception, all the officials were now present and subjected to hasty interviews. "Where is Yargi?" his superior asked rhetorically at first, with nothing more than irritation.
"Well, no one is talking, yet," said the kapud of police, after initial questioning. "It's clearly an inside job though," he added with gloomy satisfaction.
The official nodded. He'd come to the same conclusion. "They must have used keys?"
"Indeed, authentez; plus, I'm told that someone targeted very particular documents."
"Heretical works – heretic case files – suspected heathens," the memore was only too well aware.
"There's been nothing of any financial import taken," the captain. "Plenty of valuables (art, trinkets and so forth) have been left untouched."
Before noon, irritated beyond measure, the memore sent a messenger to Yargi's house. The man returned, apologetic and unsuccessful. "I deeply regret to inform you, authentez, Master Yargi has unexpectedly gone away."
"Where?" demanded the official.
"His servants don't know, authentez. He left unnoticed during the night; nobody knows where or why."
"I can guess," the memore said grimly. "Fetch me the captain of police again, immediately!"
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The Lion's Den
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Past the capital, Tashbaan, beyond the palaces of the wealthy (on what was once common land) sat the village of Boslamak. It was poor farmland but rich in a particular kind of lavender that thrived in the sun and the sandy soil. Perfumiers bought up every scrap of the plant available. Sadly, most of the money went to the local Tarkaan, with the locals seeing little. The townsfolk lived on the sale of honey, which had a pleasant lavender taste to it. The 'Red House' (for it was made of ruddy stone) was surrounded by apiaries and sat, isolated, at the northern edge of the settlement. There was nothing obviously remarkable about the building or its inhabitants, the family Saklamak, who sold their honey and lived on good terms with their fellow Boslamakians. If they seemed to have a greater number of cousins than the norm, their neighbours hadn't considered the matter. Only through the vigilance of a Roadhouse Keeper, responsible for logging traffic, did the matter came to the attention of the Bureau of Public Morals.
The paperwork had crossed the desk of Degismis Yargi, an official whose work often involved the arrest of heretics and heathens. He'd always been somewhat isolated in the department because of his family. Some secretly relished the Yargi's downfall (for they'd made many enemies over the centuries). Others appeared to think he was playing a long game and might, almost magically, be promoted Vizier overnight. Degismis was a competent man who couldn't be denied promotion, but there were limits. He knew that it was unlikely he'd be promoted any higher, given the circumstances.
"A string of relatives going into Boslamak; that's thin pottage," Degismis muttered in complaint. He took a sip of lukewarm kavi and shuddered for it was too sweet. "Hm, the Saklamaks, a family of beekeepers." His hand hovered over his seal of office as he considered marking the report 'no further action at present'. Then, a thought struck him. Degismis was renowned for his encyclopaedic memory and it had served him well yet again. He wandered through to an office full of closed case files. It took some finding but there it was! Ten years ago, a raid on a house in Toplandi (in the Hal Hallim) resulted in one arrest and three absconders. A full confession was obtained under 'robust questioning' (a bureau euphemism). An execution duly followed for 'the worship and promotion of a foreign religion'. One of the escapees had been a visitor: 'Iisif Saklamak, codenamed the Bee'. Degismis let the paper roll up, "Now, I wonder, has someone been foolish enough to disclose his real name…"
There was only one discernible pattern to the visits paid to the Saklamaks; on two consecutive spring equinoxes they'd received a (different) visitor. The whole thing might of course be a coincidence and could have been handled locally at that stage. Nevertheless, Degismis got permission to follow the matter up. If he overstated his concerns a little, well, that was a matter for his conscience. He arrived at the roadhouse before noon and found that his gamble had paid off. The four guards he'd arranged for had already taken in a stranger for questioning.
"Authentez," the cavus in charge greeted him.
"Cavus," Degismis acknowledged the man with a polite nod. "The Keeper says that you've take a prisoner?"
"One Gad. He says he's a weaver from Tashbaan and cousin of… what was the name? Ah, yes, a cousin of the Saklamaks."
"Have you questioned him?"
"No authentez," the sergeant sounded apologetic. "I don't rightly know what to question him about."
"Of course you don't," Yargi acknowledged. "Good man. Right, I'll see the prisoner, alone I think. He may feel less intimidated without peace officers present."
Josef Saklamak had the netting of his hat pulled back. He'd been talking to the bees, telling them all the news. It was time for luncheon and he was very hungry indeed. Jasmine would have made fresh bread and honey-cakes and he intended to do them justice. He saw a stranger approaching on a donkey but wasn't surprised as he was expecting someone. "Greetings; a fine morning," he said.
"A fine morning indeed," admitted the visitor.
"What can I do for you?"
The man looked about then lowered his voice. "I seek the Bee."
"You are in the right place, my friend, for there are thousands of bees here."
"Not a bee," said the man, with a smile, "but The Bee."
"The Peace of…" Josef began.
"The Lion be upon you," the stranger finished the sentence.
"Welcome to The Bee Hive, brother."
The newcomer was introduced to his hosts and ushered up to the flat roof of the Red House. The sun was pleasant, being neither too hot nor too cool, whilst a breeze deigned to comfort them. Jasmine Saklamak had indeed baked; there were rather plump flatbreads speckled with onion and honey-cakes topped with almonds. Josef busied himself with the clay oven, ready to roast some chicken and red pepper kebabs. Their visitor studied them discreetly: they were hospitable and their teenage children most amiable. Josef accepted the title 'Vaiz' (meaning preacher) readily enough. Having poured everyone a glass of homemade wine (of varying sizes) Josef settled down on the low, cushioned benches in the usual Calormene fashion. "Before we ask the Lion to bless the meal, I would like to raise a toast to our guest – and new friend – Gad!"
The family courteously lifted their glasses so Degismis Yargi half raised himself, managing quite a graceful bow. "It's a pleasure to be here, Vaiz. I crave your indulgence however, before you bless this repast. My name is not Gad; he could not be here on this occasion. My name is Degismis Yargi of the Bureau of Public Morals."
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End of an era
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The Blue Chamber in the great palace was comparatively cool, for autumn was upon Tashbaan, bringing more temperate days with it. The occupants were however somewhat hot under the collar, being agitated. "This is appalling," said Iri, the recently installed ruler of the Calormene Empire. He stomped about the antechamber, resembling nothing so much as a small but truculent hippopotamus. The forehead beneath his enormous turban was sweaty. Since coming to the throne, Iri had set a new fashion for outsize turbans.
"It certainly is, most awful of all potentates," the Grand Vizier agreed.
"The Divan will be shocked."
"Great King of all Kings, Morning Star of the World, you are, as always, perspicacious. And yet…"
"And yet, what?"
"With the Divan assembled, ready to hang on your every word, this is the ideal opportunity to finally resolve the…um… Yargi problem."
"Degismis Yargi is a dead man; he just hasn't stopped breathing yet," Iri pointed out.
"So wise; none can doubt the quality of your mercy," the Grand Vizier enthused. "I mean though – and forgive me for presuming – you are doubtless going to deal with the traitor's entire family?"
"Hm," the Tisroc said, "I wonder?"
"For well over half a millennium the Yargi family steered public opinion and state policy in one direction: the good of the Yargis. Only since the reign of Rabadash the Peacable has their malign influence waned."
"Well, you're right there, I suppose," Iri admitted. "They were no friends to me or my late father."
"And now they dabble in sedition, Most Glorious Sun of the Heavens."
"Sedition? You think so?" Iri sounded doubtful. "Treachery – yes - aiding heretics and heathens - most certainly – but sedition?"
"It is assuredly sedition, Great Pearl of the Deep Waters," the Vizier pursued. "What design could he have in aiding those who are not just your enemies, but the enemies of the people?"
"Hm; will it suffice?"
"It will, O Beacon of Calormene Justice," the Vizier was confident. "The Yargis are greatly weakened and the Divan is entirely sympathetic to your munificent person."
"I want warrants drawn up then, before the Divan meets," Iri decided.
"I have some scores ready and waiting, Unparalleled Iri Tisroc. They just need names adding."
"You are a cunning fox," the monarch said admiringly.
"Might I suggest we round them up, to the fifth generation?" That was standard legal terminology to ensure that none would escape arrest.
"Yes, indeed. Any women too (sisters, aunts, whatever) that were born of that name."
"I am the sword in your incredibly substantial hand," the Grand Vizier replied with a very nice bow. The Divan was informed whilst in session as the arrests began. The Grand Vizier didn't want word leaking out lest any flickering loyalties remained. At the end of the day, forty two individuals were in custody. By midnight on day two, one hundred and eleven people (including children) had been arrested with more to go. Degismis Yargi had expected malice against him personally, but nothing on that scale.
Police and soldiers put in many a door of suspected heretics and heathens but learned nothing of the fugitive. "Trouble is, we're relying on memory," the memore complained to his Director. With so much missing or spoilt paperwork, vital information might remain lost forever. It had been very unpleasant indeed since Yargi's disappearance. The memore's job was hanging by a thread but so were his Directors' too. In fact, the entire management might be sacked and – sadly - the Calormene civil service wasn't known for redundancy payments or pensions in such circumstances. A temporary truce held, everyone working together, with recriminations likely to follow. If anyone was to pay the ultimate price it looked like being the Yargi family (to the relief of the Vizier and senior Directors).
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Flight
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Degismis Yargi's life had changed some years earlier. A whole year before he sought out the Vaiz, Josef Saklamak, he'd come across a copy of that banned work 'the Good News of Arzulu'. Assuming it was genuine then conventional wisdom put the original to the middle of the fifth century. Yargi had no doubts as to its authenticity. Those few scholars allowed to read it, who specialised in such things, disagreed over whether it was in a single hand and if there were later additions. It was said that the apostate, Arzulu Sik, had connections to the old Observances Bureau. It was a Yargi, all those centuries ago, that had the Vaiz brought to Tashbaan, only for Arzulu to die peaceably in custody.
The Yargis had a peculiar horror of anything that smacked of heathenism (or magic). This was also politically expedient at times. It was another Yargi that had seen, firsthand, the disaster at Koloni way back in the early part of the fourth century. An initial venture into empire had seen many settlers lost to sorcery. Degismis Yargi, latest scion of a fading line, had found no personal difficulty in persecuting heathens. He'd been called to a routine job in Azim Balda, the city where many roads met, to oversee the arrest of some nomads accused of Arzuluism. They'd been working as casual labourers in a vineyard where it had been easy enough to isolate them at the start of the working day. Degismis had been impressed with the stoic way they accepted arrest and a little insulted when one had the temerity to forgive him. A search of their tents revealed multiple copies of their sacred texts, which Yargi duly stuffed inside his saddlebags. As there were so many papers, he slipped one copy of the 'Good News of Arzulu' into his shoulder bag. Much later, the other documents safely secreted at the Bureau office, Degismis found the prohibited book in his bag. It changed his life.
The family Saklamak had been, by stages, shocked, terrified, distrustful then, finally, delighted. For Degismis Yargi, a well known tormentor of 'the Pride' (as they called the network of believers) to become a follower of Aslan was unprecedented. Many of the first 'lion cubs' had fled Calormen in the wake of Arzulu's arrest, centuries ago. Some few had persevered and their numbers had grown, imperceptibly, like weeds concealed by a great, spreading shrub. Despite the best efforts of the authorities, Arzulu's text continued to be copied and bear fruit.
Degismis Yargi was received with great wariness at first. Particularly elaborate security arrangements were maintained for some time but, again and again, Yargi proved his good faith. First, confiscated copies of 'Good News' came back into circulation. Second, believers were tipped off about accusations and arrests. Third (as Yargi got bolder) papers were systematically altered or removed from the Bureau, with many cases marked 'no further action'. It was done well and – given Yargi's track record – didn't raise suspicion. In fact, the department was commended for almost wiping out the 'cult'. Eventually, Yargi met the man who unexpectedly became his greatest friend: the Vaiz Mikhaal, unofficial leader of the capitals 'cubs'. It led them one day to a very strange meeting place indeed; a gloomy tunnel beneath Tashbaan's Fish Gate.
"What is this place?" Yargi wondered. It was well built and large enough for them to stand upright. There was a deep central gulley and narrow walkways on either side. "Is it a sewer?"
"It was a sewer but hasn't been for many a year. We think it was only ever an auxiliary sewer which is why it's not too bad down here. It is centuries old of course. I can say with confidence that it appears on no record still held at the Civic Engineers' Office."
"Where does it lead?"
"It goes to a smoke-house for fish, outside the walls, on this side of the river."
"Now, that is useful."
"We've had both properties for the past century and a half." The other entrance was in the cellar of a small house just inside the Fish Gate. "It's cost us a pretty crescent (not to mention some ingenuity) to keep hold of both buildings."
"Very useful indeed," Yargi admired.
"Yes; you realise of course why I'm showing you this?"
"Because it may prove convenient, one day soon, to leave the city unobserved…"
The day eventually came for Yargi to put his plan into action. "It's the most useful thing I can do," he'd told his new friends, on many occasions. In an earlier age he might well have risen to the top: Vizier of the Bureau then perhaps Grand Vizier. The influence he could have had was immeasurable. In his wildest dreams he imagined legalising the faith, maybe even converting a Tisroc. What wonderful things might have been! Ah, what might have been? Which of us cannot say that?
The official inauguration of Iri Tisroc seemed, to Degismis, the best occasion to strike. He'd like to have acted on day one but the arrangements for flight took a little longer than planned. The Yargis had secretly held a full set of keys to the Bureau offices for many years. As the most senior Yargi in place, he'd naturally inherited them. A longstanding, genuine interest in security arrangements made him familiar with the routine of the guards that patrolled the nearby streets. That the bureau should be burgled was unthinkable and none had ever dared try.
Degismis Yargi had worked frantically for hours, in the eerie silence of an empty office building. The stillness of such places, usually so bustling, always seems unnatural. He redacted many bulky volumes by the simple expedient of slopping ink about. He stuffed a shoulder bag and a carrying case to bulging. He'd burn many of those documents in his own fireplace, back home. Yargi filled huge bowls from pitchers of water and watched, in satisfaction, as papers soaked. He then pulped them with his hands. He'd dearly have liked to light a fire but smoke rising from a chimney would surely be detected. He eventually left the premises, locking every door carefully behind him. He took a circuitous route to a safe house where he'd stabled a horse and rode home at a sedate pace. Dismissing his servants for the night, Yargi burnt the remaining documents and (with a small bag of clothes) left his house forever.
Salome, waiting in her little house by the Fish Gate, had been on tenterhooks all day. She opened the door, her heart almost in her mouth. "Come in, quickly, brother," she said to Yargi. She wasn't supposed to know who he was (but who amongst the heretics and heathens of Tashbaan didn't know their erstwhile persecutor?) The 'cubs' had been asked to dig deeply into their pockets to fund some as yet unrevealed project about to come to fruition.
"Thank you, sister," said Yargi, in the vernacular common amongst the lion cubs of Calormen. He swept his hood off and took the proffered lanthorn.
Salome had been briefed only that a wanted man would need access to the old sewer that night. She'd heard enough though to realise that something serious was afoot. "Aslan speed you on your way," she said, with an impulsive kiss of the cheek, as they stood over the gaping maw that led to the tunnel.
Degismis emerged in the smoke house, as intended. The slab had been slid aside and the opening concealed with sacking. He fumbled for the spare key to let himself out and was relieved to find it. Nobody was about so he hid the key in the dirt by the gatepost. He had to make his way to the so-called tombs of the ancient kings (known to the rustics as the Twelve Brothers, for reasons they'd long since forgotten). The beehive like structures stared blindly at him, their dark entrances gaping maws. A figure stepped from one of those memorials of fratricide; it was the Vaiz, Mikhaal. "Is all well?"
"It is; it's done," Degismis confirmed.
Mikhaal shook his friend's hand, "You have done a great but dangerous thing, brother."
"Here, I have one further gift." Degismis dropped his bag to fumble inside. "Falimar's Dream," he said triumphantly, dropping a thin scroll onto the preacher's waiting hand.
"Can this be real?" Mikhaal wondered.
"It's a later copy, possibly the only one surviving one. The Director had it secreted away." The Calormene founding fathers had reputedly lived in the village of B'Koy and been menaced by a djinn or demon in the shape of a ferocious lion. Had it not been for the alarm of Falimar's pigeons, the lion would overwhelmed B'Koy (or so legend claimed). "It gives a different account of events and describes the dream that haunted Falimar ever after."
"Marvellous! I'll have it copied!"
"A thousand times," Degismis suggested. "It's amazing that this one survived the burning of the Secret Archive." One of his own ancestors, whilst head of the bureau, had been seized with a Savonarola like fit of piety, burning countless, precious, heretical texts.
"There'll be copies all over the city, within the year," the Vaiz promised.
"Good! Now, you have a horse for me?"
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Pursuit
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Degismis Yargi had ridden north, keeping the twin peaks of Mount Pire ahead of him. He was familiar enough with the Northern Desert. Hunting parties and falconry were part and parcel of the upbringing of a Yargi. He'd originally considered taking a lesser route through a stone valley but even that might be known to experienced trackers. He had no doubt that the hunt would soon be on but Mikhaal had come up with a plan. His unfamiliar horse was a stout enough beast but not of the quality to which he was accustomed. Had his friends bought a fine horse it would have raised eyebrows and been noted. He rode through what was left of the night and on for several hours after dawn. Finally, exhausted through exertion and excitement, he snatched some sleep in the poor shelter of some bushes.
Kapud Otoriter was undoubtedly the most experienced man in the battalion when it came to crossing, or fighting in, a desert. That was undeniable. He wasn't hugely popular because he was too fond of pointing that out. When the call came for trackers to head north in pursuit of the errant Yargi, his brother officers were only too happy to let him volunteer. "If Tash is gracious, Otoriter might not come back at all," was the general opinion in the officers' mess.
A major search, door to door, was to be undertaken in Tashbaan itself, with cavalry units sent out into the countryside, in all directions. "We want Yargi for questioning, ideally, to find his fellow conspirators. If he's dead, so be it, I'll shed no tears over an apostate," the commander told the assembled troopers.
Yuzbhas Ezilen had served under the captain for some months; counting the days when he might transfer elsewhere. "My father," he began, using a polite term for a senior officer, "do you really think he'll use the desert route?"
"Do you want to kick in doors on the Street of Delights, boy?" the captain asked rhetorically. "We'll be as popular as the sweating fever, for weeks on end. No, let's get some clean air at least." They set off within a matter of hours, all too soon leaving the road, flying over the hard scrub and sand. "Good, is it not?" the kapud shouted, over his shoulder.
"Yes, my father," the lieutenant agreed.
"Don't even need camels on such a silken road!"
"No, my father," Ezilen replied dutifully.
The Wine Vats lay in the distance, as did Mount Pire. Against his body's desire, Yargi began the trek towards them late in the afternoon. The sun wasn't as punishing as it might have been, but the sands and scrubland were a massive heat-sink. By veering towards the Wine Vats Yargi was on slightly firmer ground that made the going quicker. He'd make the pool of Saida well before sunset and he fervently hoped (amongst other things) that the waters were still drinkable. He'd not been there for twenty years; the last time with his late father, a disappointed and broken man.
The troopers had been riding for a couple of hours and Tashbaan was already barely a speck in the distance. A pedlar, mounted on a mule, loped towards them, across the sandy ground. He was dusty and his clothes had seen better days. "You there!" the kapud shouted.
The pedlar was so obsequious he almost oozed. "Great general, hero of empire, might a humble trader ask what you seek?" he called.
"Information, not your wares, old man," the kapud replied.
The pedlar, an active fifty year old, swallowed the insult without rejoinder. "Then how might a poor man live?" he asked.
The captain chose to ignore that. "We seek a criminal who flees justice."
"What has this man done?"
"He is an enemy of the state and of Tash."
"Truly, these are most egregious faults," said the traveller.
"A lone man – on foot or on horseback – aged forty – what he wears is unknown."
"You know little, yet expect much, mighty warrior." The pedlar added a curious little bow to soften the remark. "If I saw a man, should I tell you?"
"It is your duty," the captain huffed.
"Of course, o sword-arm of the Tisroc – may he live forever – but will that buy me bread and wine when I reach the city, I wonder?"
"I could make you tell me!"
"Of course you could, thou shield of Calormen, but that would hardly be the action of a gentleman."
"Tell me anything you know. If it's worthwhile, you'll buy bread and wine in Tashbaan," the kapud said reluctantly. He made a mental note to claim the sum back as necessary expenses.
"I had business, yesterday, north. I saw one man (in dark clothing) ahead of me, alone, riding a bay mare, heading further north."
"What time was this?"
The pedlar shrugged, "Perhaps three hours after dawn."
"Where do you suppose he was heading?"
"How should I know that, general?"
"Guess!"
"Mount Pire, perhaps, but, if he is the man you want, knowing he is pursued…"
"Yes?"
"There is a stony valley that leads to the river and, ultimately, the barbarian Archenland."
"Ah!"
"But…" the pedlar added.
"But what?"
"Veer a little more and one might take the Goat Path through the Wine Vat hills. Now, if I was heading that way, I would choose the Goat Path."
"Thou art indeed most goaty," joke the kapud, who (uniquely) considered himself something of a comedian. The pedlar bowed politely in acknowledgement.
"Forgive me for speaking, my father…" a trooper broke in.
"Yes, go on."
"My brother, here, and I were brought up in these parts. Our parents were shepherds." That was quite an admission, because Calormene society was unreasonably snobbish about such a useful profession. "We know the rocky valley and the Goat Path."
"Then we'll definitely head that way before splitting up into two parties," the captain decided. He fumbled reluctantly in his budget and handed the traveller some small coins.
"Truly, such munificence," said the pedlar, bowing again and hiding his face.
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Amongst the Supheli
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Eight tents clustered about the Saida pool and a substantial group of people sat by a fire, roasting a kid. They rose as Yargi approached then, seemingly satisfied, resumed sitting.
"Greetings," Degismis said, riding slowly into their midst. "I am but a traveller…"
"Seeking rest," the oldest of them said (completing the words of the ancient poet, Flaima Khal-am). The elderly lady stood up, "Sit down, someone will attend to your horse."
Soon Yargi was sat cross-legged, tilting backwards occasionally to avoid stray puffs of smoke from the campfire. His hosts were all members of one family; five generations in all. They were of the Supheli, a nomadic people, officially tolerated. In theory the Calormenes respected nomads, "we are all but one generation from the desert," as the saying went. In practice though, nomads were feared as lawless and dangerous. The Supheli were often fairer of hair and complexion than other Calormenes. Many were descended from exiled Narnians and fugitive Archenlanders. They paid such lip service to Tash as the authorities might require, but were far more tolerant and interested in other faiths. A vaiz of any kind was always welcome amongst the Supheli.
"The vaiz said you would bring us a gift," Sarai said (meaning Mikhaal, who was well known to them).
Degismis smiled and rummaged in his bag. He extracted three slim volumes; "The Good News of Arzulu!"
"Ah, wonderful," Sarai enthused. "We will have readings: after we eat!"
Degismis looked about him. "Have you made the… um… arrangements?"
The kapud was exultant. They'd been tracking a lone horseman for some time and he had seemingly joined a larger group at the pool of Saida. He feared, of course, that the whole thing might be a wild goose chase. If the horseman didn't prove to be Yargi then his hopes hung on his lieutenant being more successful.
"The ashes are cold," a trooper announced.
"How many do you think there are, o father?" the cavus asked.
"Thirty, forty," said the captain. "Who knows?"
"Well, go on then," said the sergeant, clapping his hands at his men, like a man shooing pigeons, "Scout about."
"If there's no immediate sign of them, we'll camp here for a time, get some sleep," Kapud Otoriter decided. As he fussed about, choosing the best spot to sleep, two of his men ascended a nearby slope. They soon came running down again.
"Father, my father," said one of the men.
"Well, what is it?"
"It looks like a grave, my father!"
On the top of the slope was a heap of stones; a cairn, the length of a body. Draped over it, with pegs, was a heavy woollen coat. "A grave, o father," the Cavus remarked unnecessarily.
"Well, I didn't mistake it for a wall," replied the kapud, with ponderous humour.
"The coat is most fine, kapud."
"Hm, so it is." The Supheli, like other Calormene nomads, often left something of the deceased's by a grave. "There's something on the collar; looks like blood."
"That coat would cost you two years wages, boy," said the sergeant to a trooper. It was immediately clear to all that the garment was recently placed, showing little signs of deterioration.
"Maybe the fugitive is dead?" the sergeant wondered aloud.
"Hm, it's mightily convenient," the captain replied.
"Maybe the Supheli killed him, o my father?"
"Hm… That's too many 'maybes' for my liking. We'll press on, well before dawn," Otoriter declared. Now, you are thinking that they might have opened the grave to resolve the matter. They could, of course, but the Calormene had a decent horror of interfering in any way with the dead. To open a grave would be as unthinkable as a bishop stealing from the poor box. The captain was prepared to take the coat though, to show his superiors.
.
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The net closes
.
Finally, we return where we began this tale, with the lancers in sight of the caravan of travellers. Men, women and children walked, or trotted sedately on camels, beside carts containing all their wordly goods. Youths tended to the goats.
"Follow me," Kapud Otoriter ordered his troopers, leading them briskly towards the nomads.
"Halt," the matriarch instructed her clan, which came to a gradual halt.
"Who is in charge here?" the captain said loudly, at his most authoritative.
"I am grandmother to all, so to speak," Sarai told him boldly and without hesitation.
Otoriter let out a distinct "Hrumph," for he was unused to dealing with women. Strange folk these wanderers, he thought. "Very well, Mother, what is your name?"
"I am Sarai and this is my family, as you can see."
"I am Kapud Otoriter of the First City Lancers."
"We are honoured, authentez."
The cavus and his men rode up and down the line of the caravan, as instructed. "We are looking for a criminal, a wanted man, travelling on his own. Have you seen such a person?"
A small crowd had clustered about the captain, making him feel just a tad uneasy. Several young children with uncommon, sandy hair regarded him solemnly, as an object of great interest. "We have seen a lone traveller, yes, authentez."
"The criminal is wanted for sedition and apostasy. His name is Degismis Yargi."
There wasn't a flicker of concern on Sarai's face. "Then he is an outlaw?"
"Yes," the kapud admitted.
"A stranger joined us at Saida pool, who gave his name as Degismis." Sarai went on to describe the man.
"Ah! Where is he now?"
"Allow me to show you something, authentez." Sarai instructed a granddaughter to fetch something from her cart. "I think you will be most interested," the lady told the soldier.
The young woman quickly returned with a bag that she passed to the captain. "What is it?" he asked.
"It is the bag that the stranger carried."
"How did you come by it, pray?" The kapud rummaged inside and brought out a slim tome. "The Good News of Arzulu," he read slowly.
"You said that this man is an outlaw, yes?"
"I did."
"Then it is no crime for any man's hand to be turned against him?" Sarai resumed.
"That's right," the captain admitted.
"Do you see what the book is?"
Otoriter turned the pages and read a passage, his lips moving silently. Calormene officers had to be literate but not all were enthusiastic about reading. "Well…um…I don't know it myself… but it's heresy," he finally concluded.
"We greeted the stranger, fed him and let him warm himself by the fire. He began to speak most strangely of Tash the Most High." The old lady's voice took on a fervent note and all of those clustered about her nodded in agreement.
"Well, that doesn't entirely surprise me," the kapud admitted.
"He said the most shocking things but, when we objected, he became aggressive."
"Off his head, I reckon," the cavus forgot himself and butted in.
"It is not illegal to harm an outlaw, authentez?" asked a tall, strong looking fellow who'd previously been silent.
"Not at all."
"There was a fight; the stranger didn't seem entirely normal, to be frank." Sarai shook her head regretfully.
"He pulled a dagger, authentez," the young man declared. "You must understand that what… happened… happened in self defence."
"Very well; that's not a bone I intend to pick," Otoriter accepted. "So, he went for you with a knife?"
"He did – like a mad man – I told him to put it down – you do understand?"
"Yes, yes!"
"Well," said the young man, "I had to use my own knife, the one I'd been cutting meat with. I didn't intend to kill him but he dodged at the wrong moment, authentez. He took my blade in his neck."
"There was nothing we could do," Sarai sounded rueful. "We tried to staunch the bleeding but it was impossible. He died within minutes."
"Have you buried the body?" the kapud asked (although he felt sure of the answer).
"We buried him within sight of the Saida pool."
"Hm. What of his horse?"
"We have it, Authentez."
"To sell, no doubt?"
"We'd not profit from unnecessary death, authentez," Sarai reproved him. "We'd have handed the horse in to a Beldi-Baskni next time we came to a town."
"Hm, I have no doubt," the kapud sounded more cynical than confident. "What of the book?"
"The same, authentez. If you'd like to take them, however…"
"Yes, I'd better. Did he have any other papers, valuables?"
"Only some clothes, which I can show you. Will there be trouble about the… accident?" Sarai questioned.
The officer shook his head. "No; he's an outlaw so no crime was committed." He paused then announced, "Even so, old Mother, I intend to search this caravan. Everything must be done properly, you realise that?"
"You have a job to do; I understand," Sarai said placidly. "Please, everyone," she said loudly, "Sit down and let the soldiers search." She looked at the captain and shrugged, "there will be no more trouble, I promise you."
.
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Freedom
.
The caravan trundled on, bumping over the flats, heading towards the stream that could eventually take one all the way to Archenland. Not that they were going as far as that; the Supheli did business with a few isolated homesteads near the border. Word would go from there into Archenland then merchants would come out to meet them. There was a good trade to be done in Calormene spices and medicines, sometimes exchanged for furs. The nomads weren't averse to picking up a few barrels of the best Archenlandish cider either, for their own consumption.
The covered wagon containing the spices and medicines had been searched thoroughly but carefully. The kapud was sufficiently obliging, "Alright, boys, check everything but I don't want to see any damage." After all, the matter was resolved to his satisfaction and he could go back to barracks. There was a widowed cook there who was definitely susceptible to his charms and would surely be glad to see him. He had secured a heretical text and taken verbal statements as proof. They'd all seen the grave by the Saida pool. He had also acquired a horse, 'Can I just not mention it, then sell it on?" he wondered.
"Thank you for your courtesy, authentez," Sarai had said, the search concluded.
"Not at all, mother," the officer replied. "Sorry to have inconvenienced you; a most regrettable incident, all round." He clambered back on his horse. "Still; it's all done with now." The lancers turned to go back the way they came. "Send a couple of the boys to find the Yuzbhas and bring everyone back," Otoriter told his sergeant.
The caravan had gone about five miles before halting briefly, waiting for one of their number that they'd left behind. The man, on his camel, eventually came back. He was only eighteen and a great grandson of Sarai's. "They've definitely gone," he announced. "I followed them some distance, keeping out of sight."
"Good; soldiers make me nervous," said the apparently imperturbable lady. "Someone fetch our guest."
The Supheli weren't above a little smuggling, on occasion. The trade in spirits (such as jinniver and canban) was at times illegal and then subject to periodic crackdowns. Occasionally a fugitive paid good money to be smuggled out of (or more rarely into) the land. Degismis emerged from below the false floor of Sarai's covered wagon, where he'd been laid flat, groaning. "I feel like the unlucky cobbler," he complained, "sat upon by the giant."
"Count yourself lucky," Sarai told him tartly, "You could be in chains now, heading to Tashbaan."
Degismis held up his aching arms in supplication, "Forgive me," he said. "I am truly grateful; I offer thanks to the Lion and to you all."
"You are most welcome, my son," said the old lady (for even a middle-aged, former official of the Public Morals Bureau seemed young to her).
Degismis gave her a twinkling smile; the first truly joyous one he'd given for some months. "Take me to Archenland, mother!"
.
The end
.
Glossary
Authentez Sir / Master
Beldi-Baskni Mayor (Calormene)
Budget A small change purse (archaic, British)
Cavus Sergeant
Divan Council & chamber where viziers met the Tisroc
Kapud Captain
Kavi A Calormene hot beverage
Koloni For more see my short story 'New Calormen'
Lanthorn Lantern (archaic, British)
Memore A government official; civil servant
Peace officers Police officers (archaic, British)
Pedlar of Al Albas Calormene folk tale, a pedlar who grew wings
Street of Delights A dubious district of Tashbaan
Supheli Dubious, suspect (Calormene like Turkish)
Unlucky cobbler A Calormene folk tale
Yuzbhas Lieutenant
