Far Away [Part 28] – Death In District Nine

Journeying into the poorest neighborhood in Herat, Darius comes face to face with tragedy, and makes a new friend.

Read Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25 | Part 26 | Part 27

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Bow, My Subjects!

Karim and I left the palace together and crossed the courtyard toward the wagons. Memdooh was waiting outside, a pale figure in the moonlight, pacing back and forth. The moment he saw us, he hurried over.

“What happened? What did the prince want? You were in there forever.”

“Mind your own business,” Karim replied.

“I fought a soldier in a match and beat him,” I told Memdooh. “The prince asked me a lot of questions. And he offered me a job.”

Memdooh stopped. “What kind of job?”

“He wanted me to join his personal guard.”

His eyes went wide. “Wow, mashaAllah! So lucky! You’re going to have the best life ever!”

“Is it mashaAllah or lucky?” Karim said dryly. “I’m pretty sure it can’t be both.”

“I turned him down,” I said.

Memdooh stared at me. “Of course you did.”

“But he gave me this.”

I pulled the chain from beneath my tunic and showed him the ring.

Memdooh’s mouth fell open. “What is that?”

“It’s a family heirloom.”

Memdooh took it carefully, turning it beneath the light. “Are these real?”

“I assume so.”

Before I realized what he was doing, he slipped the ring onto his finger. The chain was still around my neck.

Memdooh lifted his chin and began to parade back and forth, dragging me behind him. “Bow, my subjects! Your new prince has arrived.”

I grabbed him by the arm. “Give me that!”

He laughed as I wrestled the ring off his finger and tucked it safely back inside my tunic.

“Don’t tell everyone, okay?”

Karim shook his head and walked away. Memdooh and I strolled along the wagons, greeting the guards. I could see that he was just barely keeping his mouth shut. We encountered Ahmed, sitting with his back against one of the wagons, reciting from a small mushaf .

“Brother Memdooh,” Ahmed said. “Did you get rid of that haram money?”

Memdooh threw up his hands. “What am I supposed to do? Throw it away? Give it back? What?”

Ahmed considered this. “I don’t know the fiqh on this matter.”

“Then why are you bothering me?”

Ahmed nodded. “We’ll ask the Imam at Fajr.”

Memdooh groaned.

Say Bismillah

I bade them goodnight and went to see Hakim Yusuf. The wounds on my back ached, and I was worried I may have torn them open again. I had in fact reopened two of the wounds, but only slightly. Yusuf, complaining vociferously about my inability to give my body a rest, disinfected the wounds, redid the stitching, changed the bandages and sent me away.

I found Belly tied with the other horses at the edge of the caravan. The moment he saw me he lifted his head and whinnied, then began tugging at his lead rope.

He shoved his nose against my chest, nearly knocking me backward. I wrapped my arms around his neck and pressed my face against him. He smelled like horse and dust and home.

“I missed you too,” I said. Then I pulled back and looked at him. “Hey, I got you something.”

His ears came forward.

I took the pear from my pocket, and Belly snatched it out of my hand.

“You could at least say Bismillah.”

He crunched noisily, juice running from the corner of his mouth. I laughed and wiped it away, then found his brush among my things. I spent a while brushing him down, working the dust from his coat and checking his legs and hooves. Belly stood contentedly, occasionally turning his head to make sure I was still there. By the time I finished, my back was aching badly and I could barely keep my eyes open.

Taking Belly with me – I missed him and wanted him close – I spread my bedroll beside the medical wagon, took off my sword and boots, and had just begun lowering myself to the ground when I realized I was surrounded.

Pigeon’s Blood

At least a dozen guards stood around me.

“What?”

“We want to see the ring!” Meilin exclaimed.

I saw Memdooh standing behind them, trying to look as if he had nothing to do with the situation.

“Memdooh!” I shouted.

“You said not to tell everyone. I didn’t. I only told two people…”

Bao crouched beside me. “Come on, let’s see it.”

There was no point resisting. I pulled the chain from beneath my tunic, took it off and handed the ring to Bao. He studied it for a while, then said, “Doubt everything. Find your own light.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

“Who knows?” someone said.

“It’s about the provenance of precious objects,” Bao explained.

“I really doubt that,” Meilin said. “Now pass it on.”

Bao passed the ring on. Amid oohs and aahs and “me next!” it made its way around the circle. Each person examined it beneath the moonlight before passing it along. There were whistles and murmurs, and several estimates of its value from men who plainly knew nothing about jewels. I saw Weili – her face still bandaged – examine the ring and give me a flat look that I could not decipher, then pass it on.

Eventually it reached Longwei. He did not joke. He held the ring between his thumb and forefinger, turning it slowly toward the light. He examined the deep red stone first, then the smaller green ones, and finally the engraving.

“This is a pigeon’s blood ruby, possibly from Mian-dian,” he said.

“What?”

“The red stone. It’s worth a fortune. I couldn’t even estimate. As for the green stones, they might be emeralds. The finest ones come from a land called… I don’t remember. Colomya, Colomba, something like that. In the New World. The Spanish sell them to Portuguese traders, who carry them to India. The Mughals prize them enormously.”

“So they came from India?”

Longwei shrugged. “Maybe. Wherever they came from, they’re extremely costly.”

I sat up a little straighter. “How do you know all that?”

Longwei continued studying the ring. “I’ve been crossing the world since before your parents met. I worked for five years for the Huang brothers, who specialized in transporting gems, among other things.”

I wondered if this was typical Longwei exaggeration, but his expression remained serious. He ran a fingertip along the engraved silver.

“This is a royal signet. Or was, once. See how deep the engraving is? This wasn’t made merely to be worn. A ring like this could be pressed into wax or clay to form an official seal.”

“Farhad said it belonged to his great-grandfather.”

Longwei looked up sharply. “His great-grandfather?”

I nodded.

He looked at the ring again, and for once there was no mischief in his face. “Then don’t let anyone tell you what it’s worth, because they don’t know.” He passed the ring to the next man.

Hakim Yusuf stuck his head out of the wagon. “Get away you rubberneckers!” he snapped. “Let the boy rest.”

The guards drifted away. Belly was beside me, eating contentedly out of his feedbag. The moon was bright, and illuminated the courtyard. I lay on my right side and tried to latch on to one of the many thoughts whirling in my mind. Sometimes events felt like they were happening beyond my control. I supposed that was true, as everything was part of Allah’s qadar. What then was my role? A vendor of your soul , my father whispered in response.

I didn’t think I would fall asleep. But I did, and I dreamed of a beautiful young Chinese woman who worked in a bakery and gave me a sweet. “For all you have been through,” she said. “No charge.” I felt close to her, and I thought that I should know her, but I did not.

Is Your Family Poor?

I woke to the adhaan for Fajr and immediately regretted every decision I had made the day before. My back hurt, my ear ached where the Persian soldier had kicked me, and every part of my body wanted to remain beneath the blanket.

But I got up, for Allah was calling me.

Surprisingly, the masjid was full. I was used to praying Fajr with a handful of dedicated Muslim guards, standing beneath the moonlight on lonely mountain roads or in forest meadows, using jackets or horse blankets as musallas. To be in a beautifully decorated masjid packed with people before sunrise was thrilling. Many were palace guards and functionaries, but there were a lot of other men in uniforms I did not recognize.

Furthermore, there was a table against one wall laden with breakfast foods: flatbreads still warm from the oven, white cheese, boiled eggs, dates, olives, bowls of yogurt and honey, and a great copper pot of steaming tea.

Farhad was there, and gave me a friendly nod, but did not speak to me. After salat, I saw him sit with Karim to talk.

Ahmed caught Memdooh before he could escape. We approached the Imam, and Ahmed explained the situation. The Imam listened, and the following conversation ensued between him and Memdooh, with Ahmed translating:

“You cannot keep the money.”

Memdooh’s face fell. “I was going to buy presents for my family.”

“Is your family poor?”

“Poor is relative, isn’t it? We are all poor before Allah.”

“Do they own land? Animals?”

“Well… yes. We have a family farm, and forty head of cattle.”

The Imam smiled faintly. “You are not poor. Give the money away.”

Memdooh untied the purse and thrust it angrily toward the Imam. “Fine. Take it. I don’t ever want to see it again.”

The Imam shook his finger and spoke sharply. “You made the mistake. You must correct it.”

Shaking his head, Memdooh tied the purse back onto his belt. “Where do I find these poor people? This is the richest city I’ve ever seen!”

The Imam pointed to Chief Azeri, who stood near one of the pillars, speaking with several officers. We went to speak to him.

Saleh considered the question, then pointed across the prayer hall toward a stocky, gray-bearded man putting on his shoes. “That is the deputy chief of police. Ask him.”

The deputy chief listened to Ahmed, then looked at Memdooh and the purse at his belt. He seemed amused by something. He spoke for a while, gesturing several times toward the northwest.

“He says the poorest district in Herat is District Nine,” Ahmed translated. “But do not go without a guard.” The deputy chief gave directions, his hands moving descriptively.

I grabbed a few boiled eggs and cheese cubes, and we three left the masjid. Outside, the eastern sky was beginning to brighten, though the sun had not yet risen. Servants were already moving through the citadel courtyards, and somewhere beyond the walls a rooster was announcing the morning to anyone who had missed the adhaan.

Memdooh stopped. “I guess we can’t go. We don’t have a guard.”

I gave him a look. “We are guards, dummy.”

His shoulders sagged. “Oh.”

“Let’s get permission.”

Making Plans

As it happened, Karim’s horn sounded. One short blast, which, if we were on the move, meant, “Hold position,” but in this context was understood to mean, “Gather around.”

The Muslim guards were mostly awake, while others emerged from beneath wagons, crawled out of bedrolls and came over from the horses. When everyone had assembled, Karim raised his voice.

“I have good news. Prince Farhad is going to facilitate our trading while we are in Herat. The leading merchants of the city will be brought here to inspect our goods, and they will bring samples of their own merchandise. That means we do not need a full complement of guards escorting merchants and cargo through the city.”

That produced an immediate murmur of interest.

“It also means,” Karim continued, “that until trading is complete, you have leave to enter the city.”

The murmur became a cheer.

Karim held up a hand. “In shifts! Guards assigned to wagons one through twenty-four have leave today. Twenty-five through forty-eight tomorrow. After that we’ll rotate again.”

Men immediately began talking among themselves, making plans.

“Hold on! No one enters Herat alone. You go in pairs or more. Stay away from the Persian girls, don’t gamble, don’t fight. I want zero incidents. I am deadly serious. What matters now is the success of our trading. If you have any doubt, avoid what old Kuangren would do, and copy what new Kuangren would do.”

The men laughed and looked at Kuangren, who shrugged.

“Last thing,” Karim added. “We need to replenish our guard force for the trip home. I’m sending word to local caravanserai operators that I’m hiring. I’ll need some of you to assist with evaluations tomorrow. Bao, Kuangren, Ahmed, Meilin, Darius. Make sure you are awake and ready after Fajr.”

That surprised me. Why would I have anything to do with evaluations? I noticed that he did not include Longwei, the most experienced among us with caravan operations, languages and geography. Perhaps those were not needed skills for new recruits.

Memdooh bumped my shoulder. “I’m on leave today.”

I nodded. “Me too. But I’m pretty sure Ahmed is on tomorrow’s roster.”

Memdooh and I went to Karim and explained our intentions.

Karim nodded. “Ahmed can go with you.” He pointed at me. “Don’t get into trouble, Darius. You did well with the assassins. But we don’t need any further complications now.”

“I understand.”

He gave me a long look, then dismissed me with a wave.

I’m Poor Enough

We returned to the wagons and put on our uniforms and weapons. I strapped on my dao, though the belt sat awkwardly against the injuries on my back. Memdooh wore his sword and bow, while Ahmed carried his usual saber. A short while later we were mounted and riding out of the citadel, with Memdooh’s troublesome purse tied securely to his belt.

Herat was already awake. Near the citadel, the streets were broad and busy. Merchants were raising awnings over their shops, servants swept dust from doorways, and boys hurried past carrying baskets of fresh bread. We passed tiled buildings, walled gardens and large houses with carved wooden doors. Water ran through channels beside the streets, feeding trees that cast pools of shade across the road. The air smelled of baking bread, charcoal smoke, horses, spices and occasionally perfume from shops whose proprietors were arranging little bottles in rows.

It was a beautiful city, so much lovelier than Starling – that brawling, roughshod town where I had been mugged – or Deep Harbor, which was crowded, cold and damp. I found myself smiling as we rode, happy to be alive and in this clean, vibrant, gorgeous Muslim city.

There were carpets hanging from walls in brilliant reds and blues, copper vessels polished until they shone like mirrors, knives with decorated handles, saddles, jewelry, embroidered clothing, dried fruits and mountains of nuts. I saw pistachios everywhere. I had two gold coins in my purse – I always carried a little money with me – and I wanted to stop at every shop. Thank goodness I didn’t have my entire purse, or I might have spent it all.

“Maybe we could buy some things,” I suggested.

Ahmed looked at me. “And carry them with us into District Nine?”

“I was only saying.”

We followed the directions the deputy police chief had given us, riding northwest.

Gradually the city began to change. The shops became smaller. The tiled buildings disappeared. Houses were built increasingly of plain mud brick, their walls cracked and patched. These houses had no courtyards, terraces, second floors or balconies, and if they had windows they were simply open holes with cloth hung over them. The water channels became narrower and dirtier. There were fewer trees, then none at all. The streets narrowed, forcing us sometimes to ride single file around carts, donkeys and people carrying loads on their backs.

The smells changed too. The aroma of bread and spices gave way to dust, dung, cooking smoke and stagnant water. Somewhere a tannery announced itself so powerfully that Belly snorted and tossed his head.

We crossed a crowded market street and realized soon afterward that we had taken a wrong turn. Ahmed stopped beside a merchant arranging bolts of cloth beneath an awning and asked for directions.

The man looked at the three of us with interest. Our uniforms and Chinese faces made it obvious that we were foreigners. When Ahmed mentioned District Nine, the merchant frowned.

“District Nine? Are you talking about Darbi Malik?”

Ahmed glanced at us, then back at him. “Perhaps. We were told District Nine.”

“Darbi Malik.” The merchant shook his head emphatically. “By Ali, you don’t want to go there. Go to Shahr-e Kohna in the south instead. You will find glass-blowers, saffron traders, carpet dealers. Many beautiful things for you eastern people to buy.”

“We aren’t shopping,” Ahmed said. “We are giving money to the poor.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Give to me then. I’m poor enough.”

“You’re not that poor.”

“What do you know about it?” the man snapped.

Ahmed sighed. “Could you just guide us to Darbi Malik?”

He waved us off. “No. Bother someone else.”

We rode on. “Why didn’t he know the name District Nine?” I asked.

“Probably administrative. People always have their own names for things.”

I nodded. The people under the bridge in Deep Harbor had called that neighborhood Fish Farts, because the river always stank. Somehow I doubted that was the official name.

Dignity

We encountered a long-bearded, terribly thin old man pushing a two-wheeled handcart piled with bundles of kindling. Ahmed asked him about District Nine, but the old man stared blankly.

“Darbi Malik,” Ahmed corrected.

Immediately the man pointed down the road and gave us directions.

“Give him a coin,” Ahmed told Memdooh.

Memdooh stretched his hand reluctantly, but the old man waved a hand in refusal.

“He says,” Ahmed translated, “Allah bless us, but he doesn’t need it.”

“You see,” Memdooh said.

“See nothing,” I snapped. “He’s proud, that’s all.”

“So what am I supposed to do?”

I exhaled loudly. “Respect his dignity. That’s all.”

We moved on. I noticed that smoke drifted from holes in the roofs of a few homes, but it did not smell like woodsmoke. It was heavier and more bitter.

“What are they burning?” I asked.

Ahmed pointed to a row of flat brown cakes drying against a wall. “Dung. For their cookfires.” He pointed to a little girl farther down the street who was following a donkey cart with a basket. One of the animals relieved itself, and she bent to pick up its scat.

“Gross,” Memdooh commented.

Soon we found the ruined wall and turned where the old man had indicated.

Darbi Malik

I had thought the area we were passing through was very poor. But it got worse. Darbi Malik began almost without warning. We rounded a bend, passed through the remains of an old gateway, and it seemed as if we had entered another city.

The street was unpaved and deeply rutted. Some of the houses were little more than mud-brick rooms leaning against one another for support. Roofs had been repaired with scraps of timber, reeds and pieces of cloth. Doors were missing from most homes, and many did not even have a hanging cloth. Open drains ran beside the road, carrying gray water that stank of sewage and rot.

There were people everywhere, but the neighborhood seemed strangely quiet, as if no one had the energy to speak, or as if they had all given up on life. Children watched us pass. That was not unusual. Children had come running to see the Five Star caravan in almost every town we entered. These children did not run. They squatted in doorways or sat against walls and stared. Many had no shoes. They did not shoo away the flies that crawled on their faces.

One little girl wore a dress so torn that someone had tied pieces of string around it to keep it together. A boy of perhaps eight years old carried a baby on his hip. Both were painfully thin. An old woman sat beside a wall sorting through a pile of wilted vegetables, feeding the rotten parts to an emaciated goat, and placing anything usable into a bowl.

We rode farther.

A woman kneeled beside a dirty public water trough washing clothes. There were only three garments beside her. Across the street a man with one leg sat on a mat, picking at a scab on his arm.

“La ilaha il-Allah,” Ahmed said, and continued with a dhikr whose meaning I knew: “There is no God but Allah, alone without partner; To Him belongs the dominion and the praise; He gives life and causes death; in His hand is all good; and He has power over all things.”

“Ameen,” I said, though it was not strictly speaking a dua.

A barefoot boy approached us and held out his hand.

Memdooh stared at him.

“This is what we’re here for,” Ahmed reminded him. “Or have you forgotten?”

Memdooh sighed, untied the purse, opened it and took out a coin. He leaned from the saddle and dropped it into the boy’s palm.

The child’s eyes widened. He shouted something and ran toward one of the houses.

“That’s one,” Memdooh said.

Ahmed looked at him. “One what?”

“One poor person.”

“This isn’t a punishment, Memdooh. It’s not Karim giving you twenty lashes. You don’t have to count them out.”

“Yeah, I know!”

We continued. An elderly woman sat beneath a patched awning. Her eyes were clouded over, sightless. Memdooh stopped his horse, dug into the purse again and stretched his hand to give her a coin. She did not respond.

“She can’t see you,” Ahmed pointed out. “Get off your horse.”

Memdooh dismounted, and put the coin in her hand. She clasped both hands around it and began thanking him.

Memdooh nodded stiffly. “Allah bless you.”

I nodded at him. “Good.”

We rode on.

Another coin went to a man whose ribs showed through the opening of his tunic. Another to a woman with three nearly naked children gathered around her. Memdooh gave each reluctantly, as if every coin was a tooth that he had to pull from his own jaw, yet with each he managed to say a kind word.

“This is going to take forever,” he muttered.

Janazah

We rounded another corner. Ahead of us, men were gathering in the street outside a small masjid.

There were perhaps thirty of them, forming rows on the hard-baked earth. They were poor men, dressed in faded robes and patched tunics. Many were barefoot. A body lay on the ground before them, partially wrapped in white cloth. The body was strangely small. The cloth covered the head and torso but ended at the knees, leaving two thin brown legs and bare feet exposed.

Beside the boy, a woman in a black abayah kneeled, keening like a wounded creature. Her weeping was exhausted, as if she were a wagon that might break down at any moment. As we watched, she fell forward until her face was in the dirt. Two small children held on to her, one standing with his hand gripping her abayah, while a smaller one sat in the dirt, gripping her ankle. The smaller boy’s stomach was swollen.

It was a janazah. A funeral service. We reined in our horses, as the road was blocked.

“Why is the body the same size as Mustafa?” Memdooh asked in a low voice.

“Who?”

“My brother Mustafa. He’s six years old.” He looked at Ahmed. “Why is the body the same size as my brother?”

Ahmed’s expression had become solemn. “Come on. Get down.”

“Why, Ahmed?”

I looked at Memdooh and saw his face twisted in distress.

“Janazah is a communal obligation,” Ahmed said quietly.

That was not what Memdooh was asking, but what could anyone say? We dismounted and tied our horses beside a crumbling wall. My boots raised puffs of dust from the baked earth. No one questioned us. The men simply shifted to make room. I stood shoulder to shoulder with a laborer whose patched sleeve smelled of sweat and dung smoke.

The Imam stepped forward. The murmuring ceased, and for a moment the neighborhood was strangely still. In the distance I heard the bray of a donkey, but here, only the woman’s weeping hung in the air. Then the Imam raised his hands and said, “Allahu Akbar.”

We raised our hands.

I had prayed janazahs at the grand masjid in Deep Harbor. There was no bowing or prostration, only standing humbly and asking Allah to forgive and have mercy upon someone whose time in this world had ended. I tried to concentrate on the prayer, but my eyes kept returning to the bare legs of the body on the ground. The legs were thin and bowed, and the skin was marked with sores and miscellaneous scars.

After the prayer, Ahmed approached a gray-bearded man and spoke.

“What did he say?” Memdooh asked when the conversation was over.

“It’s a little girl.”

“That’s a girl?”

“Did he say what she died of?” I asked.

Ahmed rubbed his cheek and looked at the ground.

“What?” Memdooh demanded.

“She starved to death.”

I was shocked. I had of course been hungry many times in my life. In fact, for much of my childhood, hunger had been the normal state of my existence. I awoke hungry and went to sleep feeling hollowed out. Later, I had slept beneath a bridge and, even with the paltry wages I earned on the docks, I sometimes wondered where my next meal would come from.

“Last night we ate a banquet,” I said, and my voice broke on the last word. I kneeled, put my face in my hands, and wept. All I could think about was the saffron rice pudding I had stuffed myself with until I could hardly move, and the pear I had smuggled out for my horse.

“Why are her legs exposed?” I heard Memdooh say.

“The mother could only afford one small cloth to wrap the child.”

“The Silk Store,” Memdooh murmured, and I knew exactly what he meant. An entire wagon of expensive cloth had gone up in flames because two young fools wanted to smoke opium. Silk, brocade, embroidered fabrics and fine cotton had burned into ash. And this child’s mother could not afford two sheets for her daughter’s kafan .

If anyone had told me last night that Prince Farhad’s Persia included suffering like this, I would not have believed them. I had thought this to be a beautiful and wealthy land, and Farhad a just governor. The ring around my neck suddenly felt as heavy as a millstone. But I did not take it off. It wasn’t Farhad’s anymore. It was mine, and it would mean whatever I wanted it to mean.

A hand rested on my shoulder. “Get up, Darius,” Ahmed said. “Don’t make a spectacle.”

I resented that, but I stood and wiped my face with my sleeve. The men were carrying the body away. The mother was still in the dirt, weeping, her two miserable children clinging to her.

Watching From Far Away

Memdooh walked across the hard ground toward the mother. He stopped in front of the woman and untied the purse from his belt. She looked up at him through swollen eyes, bewildered by the tall Chinese stranger standing over her. Memdooh reached inside the purse and took out a handful of coins. Then he looked at the two children clinging to her and reached in again.

He put a fairly large amount of money into her hand.

The woman stared down at it. Her fingers closed slowly around the coins, and fresh tears ran down her face. She tried to speak, but whatever she said dissolved into weeping. Memdooh reached down and took her other hand. He pulled her gently to her feet, bowed his head and kissed the back of her hand.

Ahmed looked surprised. I was surprised too. It was not something a Muslim man should have done with a woman who was not related to him, but neither of us said anything.

Memdooh turned away, took hold of his horse’s reins and began walking down the street.

We followed on horseback.

After that, something changed. The purse that he had guarded so jealously became something he seemed desperate to empty. He pressed coins into hands wherever he went. He gave money to a toothless old man sitting against a wall. He embraced a crippled laborer after giving him several coins. He crouched beside children, put money into their palms and touched their heads. When people tried to refuse, he gently closed their fingers around the coins. There was no more sighing, counting, or reluctance. He did not mount his horse. He walked through Darbi Malik leading it behind him, looking from doorway to doorway for people to help.

I watched all of this from somewhere far away.

I knew what Memdooh was doing was beautiful. I was proud of him. Yet I could not seem to feel anything. When I had been a hungry boy, there had been times when my stomach felt like an empty pit inside me, as if someone had scooped out everything beneath my ribs and left a space like an abandoned building.

I felt more hollow than that now.

Attracting Attention

People emerged as word spread that a foreigner was giving away money. Memdooh kept giving. But my mind returned to two thin legs protruding from beneath a white cloth. My fingers found the chain beneath my tunic. I pulled the ring out and rubbed my thumb across the great red stone.

Ahmed slapped my hand away. “Stop doing that.”

I looked at him blankly. “Doing what?”

“Playing with that ring. You’ve pulled it out three or four times. You’re attracting attention.”

I tucked it beneath my tunic. Then, for the first time in several minutes, I actually looked around.

There were three young men behind us.

They were perhaps fifty paces away, dressed in dirty clothes, keeping pace with us. None looked particularly healthy or prosperous, but neither did they look like the starving people Memdooh had been helping. One was watching Memdooh, while another studied me like a cat looking at a bird on the other side of a window.

I had been so lost inside my own head that I had not noticed them.

I drew my dao. I did not threaten anyone. I simply rested the blade over my shoulder and continued riding, making sure they could see it.

The men behind us faded away, disappearing into an alley.

I kept the dao on my shoulder.

By late morning Memdooh’s purse was empty. He turned it upside down and shook it, as if hoping another coin might fall out. Nothing did. He folded the empty purse and tucked it into his belt. I sheathed my dao, and we began the trip back to the citadel.

We hadn’t gone far when we came upon a boy unloading sacks from a donkey cart and carrying them into a meager little shop. He looked about my age, though it was difficult to tell because he was so thin. His tunic was patched in several places, and the knees of his trousers had worn through. He hoisted one of the sacks onto his shoulder and carried it inside, then came back for another.

Looking at him was almost like looking at myself a year ago, when I’d lived under a bridge and hauled sacks and crates on the docks for a living. Allah’s qadar had intervened with a flyer advertising a martial arts tournament, and my life had changed. But here in Darbi Malik, there were no flyers or tournaments. There was nothing but destitution, desperation and hunger. Yet Allah watched over this place too. I did not understand these thngs, and was too tired to try.

When the last sack had been carried in, the boy exited the shop, wiping his hands on his trousers. The shopkeeper followed him to the doorway and dropped a copper coin into his palm.

The boy thanked him and started down the street.

Two of the three suspicious men who had been watching us earlier stepped out from around the corner. But it wasn’t us they were after this time. One approached the boy from behind and seized the back of his tunic. The other grabbed the boy’s hand and tried to peel the coin out of it.

I kicked Belly to urge him forward, but there was no need. The boy tore himself free, snatched a stone from the ground and smashed it into one man’s face. Blood burst from the robber’s nose. Before the second could react, the boy kicked him squarely between the legs.

The man folded with a strangled noise, and the fight was over. The boy had dropped his coin, but he found it in the dirt and picked it up.

Inelegant , I thought. But effective . The boy was not a trained fighter, but he had good instincts. He wasn’t afraid, and he didn’t hesitate. Those two qualities alone would get a man most of the way to victory.

Salam, Pasar!

The boy dropped his coin into a pocket as the two louts recovered enough to stumble away.

“Give him a coin, Memdooh,” I said.

“He just got paid,” Memdooh replied. “Besides, I’m all out. I couldn’t buy a crumb of cheese to feed a rat.”

“Never mind.” I reached into my own purse, and pulled out a gold coin. It was a lot of money. Far more than the copper and silver coins Memdooh had been handing out. But it was all I had on me.

I rode up to the boy. “Salam, pasar!” Hey, kid . I knew that much Persian at least. Persians had been saying it to me since I arrived.

He looked at me suspiciously. “Chi?” Which I guessed meant either “What?” or “Get lost, weirdo.”

I tossed the boy the coin, which flashed in the sunlight. He caught it deftly and stared at it with wide eyes. He had likely never seen gold before. He rolled it over in his palm, feeling its weight. Then he stood up straight, lifted his chin, and – to my surprise – threw the coin back to me, and said something in Persian.

Ahmed translated. “He says you are kind, but he works for his money. There are people dying of hunger. Give it to them.”

“Told you,” Memdooh said.

I thought of the two thin, scarred legs sticking out from under the burial sheet. What could I say? The boy was right. He was honorable, I had to give him that. Too proud, maybe. But honorable. Again I was reminded of myself, before Allah had opened an unexpected door for me, and given me an opportunity I never would have dreamed of.

I looked at Ahmed. “Then ask if he’d like to be a caravan guard.”

Ahmed snorted. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean it,” I said seriously. “You heard Karim say he’s looking for new guards.”

“Experienced guards. Not ragged kids from the street.”

“Don’t make me order you. What rank do you hold?”

“Veteran Guard.”

“Oh.” Same as me .

Seeing the frustration on my face, Ahmed’s mouth turned up in a mischievous smile. “You know what?” he said. “Go ahead. This will be good for a laugh if nothing else. But it’s all on you.”

With Ahmed translating, our conversation ensued:

“How would you like to be a caravan guard?”

The boy squinted at me. “I’m not in the mood for jokes. You want a beating like I gave those other two?”

I smiled. “No. I really don’t. Listen. We are caravan guards. We work for a company called Five Star Trading Company. We’re leaving here in a few days and going to China.”

“China? What’s that?”

“I’m not sure this is a good idea,” Memdooh said.

“It’s a country,” I explained. “Far away. Where I’m from.”

The boy looked from Ahmed to me. “Is he serious?”

Ahmed nodded.

“Will you feed me?” the boy asked.

“Feed you, clothe you and pay you,” I replied. “And it will be a lot more than you get for hauling sacks in Darbi Malik.”

“How much will you pay me?”

“It’s not me, it’s my captain. And…” I cleared my throat. “I can’t actually guarantee the job. Sorry, I should have been clear. I can take you to Captain Karim, and he will decide.”

“I have family here. If I get hired, I need my pay to go to them.”

“I don’t know how that would work. You can talk to Karim about it.”

The boy agreed. I extended a hand, and the kid climbed atop Belly, sitting behind me. He gripped my waist tightly, and I realized that he had never been on a horse before, and was frightened. Also, he smelled bad.

Ahmed was grinning.

“What?” I demanded.

“I just want to see what Karim says when you ride in with a skinny, barefoot kid who doesn’t know how to hold a sword and has never been on a horse before. And who do you think is going to care for him? We don’t have a nanny service.”

I chewed on my lip, wondering if I’d made a mistake.

* * *

Come back next week for Part 28 – A Boy, a Test, and a Talking Dog

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com .

Related:

The Deal : Part #1 The Run

Gravedigger: A Short Story

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