The Tale of the Robber and the Caliph, Part Four

Perhaps it truly is time for a change, the robber thought to himself as he was presented before the twin portals he had passed through three times before. He looked up at the shadowed countenance of the Grand Visier's final guard and smiled. The guard was the same every night - a dark-featured man whose eyes never shifted and whose lips seemed frozen mid-phrase.

How odd, the robber thought, but then he was thrust past the guard and into the Caliph's presence yet again, where his mind would have to be clear of such rambling. In the vast room, he was brought before her raised chair, shackled to the ring fixed in the floor before it, and left alone, as he had been for so many nights since the Awakening.

The room was wide and spacious, a grand waste of design built only to display its occupant's wealth. Three immense balconies surrounded the open place, overlooking nearly all of Medinat al-Salaam, yet the interior was barren, a sorrowing place where self-made gods came to die. It is like a tomb, the robber thought.

"Do you know the purpose of the Sixth Day of Fasting?" came the sardonic voice of the Caliph from one of the balconies. The robber recognized something new in its tone.

"It is the day we pray to Shilah for the strength of character to continue," he answered, "and the time of Shaqra..."

"Yes, whose voice is honey laced with the milk of the scorpion. Her sweet poison is the last great temptation before the Day of Wrath, the last chance to beg her mercy before the end."

The parallel was not lost on the boy, who cowered lower than usual in response. Something was different about the Caliph.

He did not expect the pleasant laughter that greeted him, and for a moment he wondered if his ears had failed him. But when the Caliph spoke, her words were as light and warm as the laughter, and he instead decided that his mind must have fled.

"You misunderstand me, young one," her sweet, high voice came. "I do not require supplication, but something more like fulfillment."

"Caliph?" the robber prompted, his curiosity overwhelming his better sense, but there was no answer. So he rose a bit and glanced out beyond the high arch leading to the balcony. He could see her tall, slender form outside, standing at the railing and surrounded by a nimbus of tiny, multi-colored crescents in the distant sky, like a cape of dancing light.

Suddenly taken by the lights' radiant beauty, the thief cautiously rose to the full height his bindings would allow and tried to discern their origin. "What are they?" he finally asked, hoping that her interest would outweigh her desire to punish him for speaking out of turn.

"Enchanting, isn't it?" she replied, her voice shifting suddenly, this time to a sullen timbre that surprised and puzzled the boy. "It's amazing how drawn we can be to war."

"War?" the robber stammered. "But it's so beautiful."

"Violence often is... from a distance." She turned and walked slowly back into the room. The robber did not press the issue, fearful that her mood would shift again, but instead lowered himself back to the floor as she sank into her chair. For a long moment he observed her still weight and listless expression, until she continued.

"What do you think drives Shaqra, thief?" the Caliph asked. "Why do you think we beg her mercy?"

"Because she is the Creator, and because she spared us the fate of the unkind and the weak when she cleansed the world."

"Your words are well educated," the Caliph smiled, "and therefore not likely your own. Tell me what you think is the point of this day."

The robber thought for a moment but could not decide what she wanted to hear, and so answered, "I... don't know, mistress."

"Fear," she said after a long moment. "We all fear. That is the point - that we might indulge our inner demons for one day in front of our goddess - and perhaps even reconcile them before the end. The First Races failed in that and were punished, but we were allowed to survive."

After another long pause, the Caliph looked down at the prostrate thief. He did not see her questioning eyes. He only heard the words, which had returned to a semblance of their former cruelty. "Raise your face, boy, and continue your tale. Remember, though, that time is no longer your friend, and with the dawn, Shilah brings her final wrath."

Yes, well.

The Lake of Enala beneath the House of the Heavens...

I can still recall the fetid air in the immense, earthen chamber. While the movements of the clattering skeletons so recently broken free, of their graves were as fluid as those of the most skilled warrior, I found myself dizzy and disoriented, intoxicated and sick all at once.

I resisted their advances as best I could, ducking aside the swift attacks of the nearest and trying to maneuver out of their shuffling reach. More emerged from the soft earth, and I found myself between two approaching groups of them with no direct route of escape. I considered leaping into the grisly lake below, but was spared the experience when a line of knotted silks was dropped beside me.

I grabbed hold and began climbing thanking the gods. I could feel the weapons below me splitting the air at my feet, but I focused on the climb and was soon clutching the edge of a cavern mouth some twenty feet above them.

Comforting hands dragged me into the low tunnel, then righted me before their striking owner. She was exquisite, with a mane of black hair cascading over her colorful dress, and smiling eyes. She was an angel.

"Go!" she commanded, glancing back down the cavern, but I would not be that easily allayed.

"A gypsy!" I remarked. "What are you doing down here?"

Yes, Caliph, I did stop to question her, even mere moments after my harrowing struggle below. As I have said, I am often subject to a compulsive fascination with the extraordinary.

The gypsy would not be swayed. "There is no time to explain," she said. "By saving you, I make us both known and therefore very much in danger. We must leave now if we wish to continue this chronicle."

"Chronicle?" I remain confused by the Ra'Shari's word even now, though I agreed that we must quickly distance ourselves from the one-eyed Monkey Man and his minions.

After she cut the makeshift rope and tossed it down, she withdrew into the tunnels and led me out into the welcome sheen of Kaleel's pale rays. The city streets were eerily still under the moon's peaceful gaze, though my heart raced frantically.

"Find safety, child," the gypsy said to me as she turned away. "Leave this place before they come looking.

"What? Who are you?" I called after her. "Why were you down there?" She whirled long enough to snap a sharp glare at me before vanishing around the corner. Only her scent on the midnight air remained. I think the look was meant to demean me, to spur me into action, though even that was boundless treasure.

Of course, her heavenly features are but a false reflection of yours. I am quite sorry, Caliph. I can see that you are not amused by my humble admiration. I shall continue.

From the House of Heavens, I made my way back toward the Portals of Delight and Fancy, where a person can find places to hide. I had the feeling that things would worsen before the night was over.

I only stopped once, to buy a small bag of water and finish it in the stables. This was perhaps not the wisest course of action. I had only taken my second long gulp before I heard a low chanting in a nearby stall, the language unfamiliar but probably one of the myriad native tongues of the Ivory Kingdoms. This, coupled with my discomfort at being in the open, compelled me to investigate. I crept upon the source of the noise, keeping low and out of sight.

As I approached, the chanting became irregular, and I could hear the people within moving heavy objects. Not a moment later, one of them grunted and something hit the ground with a dull, heavy thump. From outside the stable stall, I saw a limp arm flop into view. The victim was Senpet, his dark skin bathed in recently spilt blood.

The arm was pulled back into the stall a moment later, and the low murmuring renewed. I pressed up against the far wall of an adjacent stall, hoping my movements had not been noticed. It was possible, of course, that they were gisma - body collectors - or even healers, but my instincts and the last several hours' events made me think otherwise.

Listening carefully for the next several minutes, I determined that there were at least two bodies in the stall in addition to the two or three chanters. The chanters seemed rushed and their voices strained, though from exertion or fear I could not tell.

Then I heard a shuffling within the stall, like they were rummaging through several bags, looking for something. I took the opportunity to slip toward the door, deciding that none of this mattered to me, but something at the far end of the stables caught my eye. It was a shadow - no, a man, hanging motionless from a high beam.

At first I assumed he was dead, but then he moved, jerking once and swinging for a time. I assured myself that it had only been a last spasm of the recently dead. But when the man lifted his head and began to struggle against his bonds, I cast aside all doubts. I glanced toward the chanting again, to see if the chanters had noticed the man, but it seemed they had not... though they would if he wasn't freed.

Sighing quietly, I tried to force down the indecision I felt then and just run. But the image of my gypsy savior danced through my mind, and I knew that Fate herself demanded that I act.

As I crossed the stables, I could see into the chanters' stall. There were three of them, all with heavy beards and tightly wrapped turbans, moving about two Senpet guardsmen's bodies. Both of the bodies were intact, but their faces were horribly contorted and their heads were twisted awkwardly. Their deaths had been quick but painful.

The killers were now plainly hurrying. One cut a slit in each of the bodies' chests, drawing enough blood to leave a long swath upon each of their foreheads. It was all very practiced. The others emptied several bags and baskets that must have belonged to the victims.

The hanging captive was far younger than I had assumed, perhaps only a few years older than myself. His well-muscled body was large, though, like that of a full-grown adult, and it dwarfed my own.

My Caliph, your eyes wander. Are you well?

The boy? I could not speak to him, for he had never learned our speech. What? A mark? I didn't see one....

Yes, he was awake, though not yet fully alert, when I arrived. I climbed up on a barrel and sawed at the ropes. I had nearly cut through when the killers gathered their spoils and ran out the front of the building. I was sure they would see us - the youth was fully visible as they left the stall. But if they noticed us, they did not care to stop.

Then I noticed the youth's look of growing dread. He watched the rear door as he removed the ropes from his ankles, then waved for me to follow as he leapt up and crawled through a high window.

At first I didn't understand why we didn't use the door, but as he reached back in to take my hand, I saw an inhuman figure appear in the rear doorway. It had too many arms and was coated in a slick sheen of blood and gristle. Horns jutted from a vaguely female head, and its snarling maw of jagged teeth trembled as it entered.

It was feral. It crouched, ready to pounce. I caught the terrified eyes of the boy and was sure that he knew this thing.

Grabbing his arm, I jumped toward the window. The beast moved behind me, and for a split second I knew it would rip me apart. But I dragged myself through the small opening and fell on top of the boy.

What happened after that is a blur. We dove through countless crowds and endless streets, never looking back. The boy regained his strength by the minute, and I had trouble keeping up.

Eventually we arrived at a cellar I often use when I need to disappear, and slipped inside. I was tired, drained by the drama of the evening and beyond capacity for shock. Or so I thought. Not long after we arrived and I had begun the arduous process of wrestling my new friend's name out of his mangled words, the door burst open and the tiny figure of young Dena barreled toward me.

Her skin was burning, and she was covered in sweat. She had been running for some time, and her breath caught in her throat as she tried to speak. "Khadi...," she finally gasped.

Even if he did not understand her words, my friend new her meaning and was upon his feet again in an instant, just as the wall around the door through which Dena had fled exploded inward in a cloud of rubble and dust. I sheltered Dena with my body to protect her from the flying debris.

Two eyes burned in the billowing smoke with bright intensity. I found them compelling and abhorrent, because I knew them.

They were my own.

The Caliph's hand rose to stall the robber's words, and she looked askance past the neighboring balcony to the blooming light of dawn. Without looking at the thief, she spoke. "You were captured, taken by the Khadi before the Horde fell upon the city, and have remained a prisoner in the dungeons since that day."

"Yes, Caliph." The robber's heart sank as he realized that he could not prolong his judgement any longer. She had finished his story for him, and it was now beyond Shaqra, beyond time for mercy.

"The Khadi," continued the Caliph. "She is your sister?"

His face flushed with shame. He stammered, "Yes. She was taken months ago, before the strangers came from beyond the desert."

"You still love her?"

"Of course," he replied, perhaps too quickly.

A long moment of silence followed, as the Caliph watched the sun rise and the robber shivered. The morning air was brisk, and the robber's slave tunic had not been sewn for warmth.

"That was a fine story," the Caliph said at last, her eyes lowering to gaze directly at the cowering boy, "but it is only one of hundreds- perhaps thousands - in this city. Let me introduce you to another."

The robber's confusion grew as the Caliph clapped loudly and the double doors opened once more. Through them stepped a familiar muscular figure, his wounds cleanly packed and bandaged and his skin recently oiled. The boy walked to the Caliph and knelt beside her.

"This is my son, Puja," the Caliph said. "You have saved his life, and for that you deserve a life in return.

The robber's mind reeled.

"I grant you one life of your choosing. As you likely know, I do not share my predecessor's sympathies. I have no love for the Khadi. When they were driven from theses halls, I did not protect them, nor did I prevent others from capturing the hearts that could control them.

"But I deemed a select few worthy of attention. The girl San'a, for example. Your sister, on the other hand...."

Cold realization swept over the robber like a winter shadow. "Are you... asking me to make a choice, Caliph?"

"Your life or hers," the Caliph finished. "Which shall it be?"

Her face was impassive; further pleading would not help. She had give him a choice he could not make.

He swallowed, then looked directly into his executioner's eyes. "Save her, Caliph." Looking away, he growled, "I am ready to die."

But no guards dragged him to the chopper's block. Instead, the Caliph left him with the weight of his decision for long moments before she spoke again. "Please rise and tell your name, robber."

"Caliph?" he asked, looking back to her.

"You have proven something of Shaqra, thief. I am pleased. Rise and present yourself."

The robber stood as best he could given the shackles, straightening his back. "Adnan, Caliph. My name is Adnan"

"And I am known as Adira," she returned, smiling upon him.

An instant later, shouting came from beyond the doors, and the guard was thrust into the chamber. Behind him followed a cowled female figure, her motions practiced and careful. She stepped forward, knelt before the Caliph, and pulled back her hood to reveal gentle tendrils of smoke beneath her azure skin.

"What means this intrusion, Ashalan?" the Visier demanded.

"My apologies, Caliph," the girl answered. "I am Dawn of the Far-Riders, and I have a message that cannot wait."

The Caliph did not respond. Her silence willed the Ashalan to continue.

"My lady," Dawn started, "Kaleel has returned."

* * * * *

"And that is how this Age came to an end and another began." The First Scribe reclined wearily in his seat, glancing over the countless reams of paper he had inked since the beginning of history. With a great sigh, he fingered his aged quill one last time and scribbled his final words upon the page:

"I am old, and my stories grow tired. This day, I am done...

"...yet I am only beginning. The world has not felt such that I shall bring it."

With a renewed burst of energy, the Last Scribe danced his pen across the page with gleeful release. His labored breathing quickened at the bold opportunity, which he must clutch quickly and decisively.

"The coming Age," he wrote, "was a time of turmoil and darkness. The Jinn war, the Yodatai invasion, and the Hundred-Year Night conspired to send humanity spiraling into a terrible abyss of its own making. There was but one futile hope for the heroes of the time"

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