The Silver Sparrow

An Old Acquaintance

He woke to the sound of her scream.

Or was it his? His sisters'? His mother's? Or Mara's that he'd imagined in his nightmares?

They all sounded the same. Humans, when broken, all screamed the same way.

But the first time...the first time was when you scream the loudest, when the wounds stay open the longest, and what you remember for life.

And they were all coming back to him now, the pain, the disgust, the anger, and everything in between, all floating on the surface like a long-dead body just risen from the bottom of a swamp. The stench of it pooled in his stomach, came up in waves to the back of his throat as images of the night before flooded his mind. It overlapped and intertwined with his own memory, rendering it impossible to tell the two apart. He could recall the rawness of his throat as Djari screamed, could feel the hand that pushed her down on his own back, could still smell that stench of blood and tears mingled with the sweat produced by the man above her, above him, as he—

Hasheem rolled off the bed, stumbled at the searing pain in his ribs that sent him collapsing to the ground before emptying the content of his gut into the pot nearby.

"Easy, boy." A voice so deep, so severe, so familiar came from the back of the room. "Those three broken ribs are going to need some time to heal before you can get up."

Hasheem tilted his head to look at the surrounding for the first time. Unpolished, white-veined black marble covered the floor, wall, and ceiling of the dimly lit bedroom. An enormous 6-point star-patterned wool rug from Cakora stretched elaborately from wall to wall in a chamber large enough to fit fifty men. Dark mahogany furniture accented with leather and gold scattered sparingly around the space. But it was the brown bear pelt laid neatly at the foot of the bed that made him dead certain of where he was. He knew this bed, had slept in it, and would likely remember it for life.

Another memory from the night before flashed in his mind. Someone had come to kill those men before he'd passed out. Hasheem couldn't remember how it had happened with clarity, but he knew that voice, that thick Samarran accent, and the weighted, intimidating presence that usually accompanied it.

There was a sense of relief attached to that knowledge, and Hasheem allowed his weight to sink to the floor in exhaustion. For the very least, he knew this man, knew he could reason and negotiate with him. To a certain point.

"What did you do with her?" Hasheem asked, kneading his temple as he did. The pain in his head was killing him by the minute, and that was putting it mildly.

"That's it?" Said Sarasef of the Rishi as he crossed over and proceeded to lift him up on the bed with one hand as though he'd weighed no more than a child. It shouldn't have come as a surprise. Those hands could smash a man's skull like a hammer, and Hasheem had seen it done. "No hello? Not even a thank you? The last time I saw you, your manner was impeccable."

He slapped away the hand that lingered on his arm, glared at the man old enough to be his father with a clear warning. A bad idea, considering where he was, and what he needed, but he was past caring at that point. "The last time you were my client," he replied sharply, pushing that memory away. "Your transaction was done a long time ago. I am under no obligation to please you or your men. What did you do with her?"

Sarasef took a step back, stroke his beard as he considered something. "You believe I sent my men out for you for this reason?" He asked, his expression flat and unreadable. "For pleasure?"

"Where is Djari?" It came out in a growl he didn't anticipate. His patience was running thin, and with Sarasef here, the memories of that part of his life were stretching it thinner.

"Safe. Protected." Sarasef shifted his weight, crossed his arms over the bulk of his chest—a gesture that told Hasheem he should now approach things with caution. "Now, you will answer my question. Why do you think you are here? Why did I risk my men to get you?"

He drew a breath and exhaled in small relief. Safe and protected was what he needed to hear, and if one knew anything about Sarasef of the Rishi, questioning his words when clearly given was a deadly mistake. "I don't know," Hasheem replied, sighing as he buried his face in his palm. He might have been able to guess a few reasons why, but at that moment, he didn't have the energy to think or care.

Sarasef grimaced at that. "I thought my offer would have made that obvious."

The statement made him look up. "What offer?"

Silence. And then came an understanding. "Di Amarra never told you, did he?"

"Told me what?" He didn't like the sound of that, not one bit.

"I made him an offer. A large offer. A tenth of all my transactions with the salar to be exact."

It took an effort to keep his jaw from dropping at that figure. A tenth of all the Rishi's transactions with the salar was a number much, much bigger than his pay, not to mention it was an offer of continuous pay. For Dee to have declined was highly out of character. For Sarasef to have offered was nothing short of outrageous. "For what?"

"For you to work for me." The reply came readily, naturally, as though it had been said or practiced for some time. "I wondered why you didn't come to me when you had to run. Now I understand."

Dee had never mentioned it, not a hint before or when he'd left the city. But even so, even if he did— "Go to you? Are you insane?" He rasped, anger rising at the very thought. "You and your men live and feed on the blood of my people, take coins for killing and selling them as slaves to the Salasar. I may have been raised in Rasharwi, served and serviced half the people in the Tower, but don't, ever, make the mistake of thinking that I would do any of it at will." He drew a breath, stifled a groan from the pain in his sides made by the broken ribs, and straightened. "I am a Shakshi, in flesh and blood no matter what you may think of me, and so long as I am one it will never happen. Believe it."

There was, of course, many things one might have said he owed them to this man, but to Hasheem, all those things had been paid for in full, if not still being paid on his part. An entire winter he'd spent here in his youth had opened many doors for him, perhaps had even led him here and to what he'd become, but none of those gifts had been, Hasheem realized this even more clearly now, without a price attached. A price that he thought had already been paid within the walls of this room. Apparently, he was wrong.

For a long time, Sarasef stood silently still, looking down at him with those crimson brown eyes, not too different from an adult waiting for a child to settle down from a tantrum. He remembered then, that the Grand Chief of the Rishi was a man equipped with patience as indestructible as a rock and a presence that weighed like one. It didn't, however, meant that one should ever take his patience for granted. Sarasef, if anything, was a man of principle, who had been known to kill— indiscriminately—over principle.

"I thought you might take that stand." He nodded calmly, thoughtfully. "In truth, I have been thinking of ways to persuade you once you get here." Something in his eyes changed at that moment, and the sharp sliver of sunlight that came into the room through the window caught it, singled it out for Hasheem to see. "Now it appears I have a solution."

It crawled up his spine, sank its fangs into his back—the cold, terrifying realization of what it was he was getting to. "Don't," he found himself pleading, once more, to this man whose decisions, once made in the open, had always been final, immovable, and permanent. "Please, don't do this. I beg you."

"You don't leave me much of a choice, Hasheem."

"She is the daughter of Za'in izr Husari! You can't do this. It will start a war." He was almost yelling now, as though it would change anything, as if the gods had ever listened to his prayers.

Sarasef took a step forward, reached over to cradle his face with one hand. There was something close to pity in his eyes, as there had always been when he was about to deliver a killing blow.

"War, my boy, has already begun," he said expressionlessly, easily. "Muradi's emissary is coming, along with an army for me to train and a prince to lead it. Za'in izr Husari, unfortunately, is the first one he wants to see dead."

***