The Crown of Treason

Chapter 3. Gin Rundok Kedr (part 2.)

Weland had followed the proceeding from the comfort of the roof garden of his own business contact, the Doshfathi dyes merchant, Murat Turginski.
'An ludicrous amount for a Gift of Good Fortune,' Murat had cried out. 'This is highway robbery. If the judiciaries keep this up, not a banker in the Cyan Sea will soon be willing to do business on Doshfathi soil.

The people in the street did not share Murat's indignation. A loud cheering of triumph took off from the crowd.

The belligerent merchant, spurred on by the crowd, decided, to Weland's horror, to twist the knife in even deeper. Scoffing, he declared he would pay the Gift of Good Fortune from pocket if that meant he could give that 'pale dog, twenty-two lashes more.

His words were welcomed with applause.

The Doshfathi should have seriously considered a career as a street artist. As a master charlatan, he turned the verdict into a street show. Whipped up by the triumphant howling, a mob of rapacious hands tore the cloths off of the banker.

Granted, this part of his punishment, the banker truly deserved. There were no excuses for that outfit.

Murat's slaves tried to divert their master's and Weland's attention with wine, olives and fresh grapes. Weland was grateful for the attempt.

The refreshments, however, didn't succeed in getting him to focus on the business he had come to conclude. Left out of view by the pleasantries of the roof garden, the spectacle in the streets hadn't left his mind's eye. Exaggerated by the excitement of the masses, his attention kept wandering to the sounds of the street.

The banker, barefoot, was tied to a wooden joke. Stumbling he was chased through the street by the roaring mob, the fat merchant at the helm. Again and again, the lashing of the whip and the howling of the crowd drowned out his conversation with Murat. At the count of thirty lashings, the Doshfathi offered the banker with great bravado the chance to pay off the rest of the lashings with the Gift of Good Fortune from the verdict. Weland could only guess the response. A moment later, the whip lashed again and the crowd roared its same carnal excitement.

The air in the roof garden had gripped Weland's throat. Murat had ordered a couple of slaves to theirs side and wave a bit of a breeze with a fan of peacock feathers. Weland had forced his eyes shut. Unable to swallow, the sweet wine in his mouth quickly became tepid and sour. Once more, he had resolved never to find himself on the wrong side of the judiciaries.

The last drop of his nightly cup of wine seeped across his lips. The wetness had more-or-less prevailed over the dessert drought in his mouth, however, his throat was still a far cry from the oasis he wanted to feel. Careful not to wake him up, Weland kissed David's forehead and snuggled back beside him in bed. The boy moaned in a sleeping language at the sense of his touch. Beneath the soft heave of David's breathing cradled the rhythmic pounding of his hearth. Listening to both, Weland allowed himself to be carried to the realm sweet realm of sleep.

In a corner of his mind, the sounds of the night continued. A distant barking of dogs, singing drunks and doors slamming shut in a nightly quarrel. The buzzing noises mixed inside his mind until it became a happy dream. At the edge of his dream, the clamour became louder and louder. His dream became a nightmare. Sounds of fear crept closer until he heard the shouting of soldiers and the trotting of armoured boots. A feminine voice cried out in clear Doshfathi.

'My master is asleep, milords. Let me go and wake him up.'

A clash of arms and a dull thud came in reply.

Weland felt consciousness seep back into his skull.

'This isn't a dream. I have to wake up.'