There were yelps, thundering hooves, followed by some more shouting as wards ran after their fallen cavaliers, or cries of victory from their opponents as they were cheered by their friends, family, attendants of all nature and business. A rush of clapping, then praise, then clapping again. The noise and life of the maydan. You know it so well.

Talk of what will come next would fill the yard, from excited kiln boys taking a break from their labor to maidservants skirting their duties just a bit longer. I could hear all of it from the western gate, peering around the corner to the vast field where the Emir’s horsemen practiced. Some prepared for patrols, others finished theirs. The Atabeg had arrived from the early morning hunt and his retinue gathered around him, easily as large as the crowd of onlookers. The maydan truly showed an Emir’s power and wealth. Each warhorse worth more than a working man’s stipend, every cavalier a lifetime of expense and training, and not to mention the equipment, servants, and constant politicking. That last one was the costliest. With all the show and dance here, the Emir was no doubt involved in much more at Hims, the middle kingdom’s capital.

The Atabeg was here though, and I tried to see what he was doing. Was he sparring? I could also be there, taking part. Not to ride or hunt or play, but to spar and make a name. A new name… a better name. Maybe he’ll ask you to stay after all?

But I still hadn’t found Yaseen since the attack. His remediation still waited. Who would speak for him and the others? Maybe I could return to the bimaristan and do some good before I left. Or the truth is that you just want sit and eat and laze around the laundry yard, sipping coffee and eating pastries while others work and—

A charge of cavaliers broke through the market square, their yelping war cries sending the afternoon crowd rushing for cover from the blast of wind and muscle. Three horsemen rushed towards me, towards the western gate, their cavalry robes and ribbon-tied braids fluttering violently with the speed at which they were going.

And in their way stood Mina, the date-seller’s daughter who I’d met in the Han a few days ago. She’d stepped out of the coffee-house balancing a tray of steaming cups in her hands while carrying a laundry basket atop her head. It all scattered and spilled across the square as she dove out of the horsemen’s way. I’d already stepped aside when they reached me, but the cavalier at the front still glanced my way, annoyed that he’d had to slow down because of me. He had flowing black hair, braided with jasmine flowers in Damascene fashion. A boy who needs a beating.

I resisted the urge to follow them to the maydan and instead rushed to Mina, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she said, not recognizing me. I brought over the basket which had rolled over to the steps of the coffee-house, and the shop-keeper also stepped away from his large pot to help.

“Oh, Munqidh!” Mina said, finally looking up from the shattered bits of clay bowls in her hand. She handed the broken dishes and tray to the shopkeeper in exchange for her linen. “I’m sorry, Adnan aba.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine,” he replied. “I’ll have a chat with the Ra’is when he returns,” Adnan said, before nodding to me curtly.

“How are you?” Mina said, beaming up at me and trying to fix her shawl.

“Good,” I replied, offering her the basket, now filled with dirtied laundry.

“Thank you,” she replied.

“You’ll have to wash those again.”

“Yes, I think so.”

Why isn’t she angry about the cavaliers? A caravaner, a Persian, cursed under his breath and reprimanded his slave for not alerting him to the horsemen. Others were grumbling as they settled back into their cushions. But Mina was not bothered. A little frown at the clothes in her hands, but otherwise no hint of anger. “I’ll need to get another cup for Musa, I think, but he really shouldn’t have any more coffee. You want to come?”

“The cavaliers were being called to the maydan, I think,” I said, feigning ignorance as I glanced back at the western gate.

“They’re racing,” Mina said.

Just as you’d thought. But for some reason I continued to be shocked, “What? What do you mean?”

“The Faris, they are just racing. The louts gallop up and down market road all day,” Mina said casually as she wrapped her shawl around herself to veil her face completely. I followed her down the market road which also had people who had dodged the horsemen. The vendors tended to the vegetables that had fallen as they had. Musa’s dates were spilled across the dirt path and Mina asked me to help gather them up.

“How can they do this? Doesn’t the Ra’is complain?”

“I don’t know,” Mina said, “How are your injuries? I heard about the Tuqtuq attack and stranger caught up in it at the Abbasi farm. I figured that was you—“

A hand suddenly tugged at my sword-belt and I spun around to smack a boy across the face.

“Yaseen!” Mina yelped.

My heart skipped at who it was and my anger quickly subsided. Yaseen rubbed his cheek while still smiling ear to ear.

“Don’t touch a man’s sword without his knowledge,” I said, and decided he was alright, despite the reddening cheek.

“A lesson there in all matters of life,” the old date seller joked as he hobbled over and took the dates from us.

“Aba, why don’t you just head home?” Mina said, “I need to go Abu Mateen’s anyways.”

“I’m waiting for Khwaja.”

“The physician?” I asked.

“No, his goat,” he replied sarcastically.

“Don’t mind him,” Yaseen said, “he hasn’t had his fifth cup of coffee today.”

“Why don’t you go fetch it, then, smart boy?” Musa said and Yaseen sighed at the command. He jumped off the box he’d settled on.

“No more coffee,” Mina told them sternly then turned to me, “Did you have lunch, Munqidh?”

“No, that’s fine, I just need some vegetables and then I’ll pay the Ra’is a visit.”

“He’s in Hims with the Emir today,” Musa said. “You can speak with the Atabeg. What is this about? The fight? Don’t tell them anything and keep your nose to the ground, I say.”

“I know, he’s had a militiaman keep an eye on me. I don’t mean to say anything—“

“Good, let the Bedouins work it out with the Emir, they do this dance and song every year.”

I argued, “They released a Tuqtuq so close to the walls, aba. It’s not right,”

“It’s Abu Ramah, their young rider. He’ll be put in place soon enough. The Numayri lost a man yesterday.”

Mina turned to me and hesitated. She knows you’re a killer. Before I could change the subject, Yaseen answered the question that was on her mind.

“Munqidh got him, I saw it. He got him in the back, like this,” Yaseen thrust with an imaginary sword.

“I’m just glad you got the boy out safely,” she replied uneasily.

“You should leave,” Musa said gravely. “They’ve had Janju in questioning all day. You’ll be next once Khwaja releases you from the bimaristan.” You’re not as helpless as they think. They don’t know you’ve already faced the Atabeg and settled the issue—

“Janju?” I asked quickly.

“The milkman,” Mina explained.

“The boy needs recompense for his farm,” I said, loudly enough to clear my mind. I had to remember what was important. Yaseen had lost his entire livelihood, whether the boy realised it or not. And his father was nowhere to be seen or heard. “I’ll leave once the boy’s affairs are secured,” I explained, unsure of where I would be headed after I left. Should I even leave, though? Salamiyya seemed like a new beginning, and being alone on the road, alone with my thoughts; it made the hair rise on my arm.

“I must go,” Mina said suddenly. She touched me on the elbow as she walked past, and unknowingly eased my worry with her touch. She smiled, “the boy was lucky you were there… thank you.”

Looking into her grateful eyes, and hearing Musa and Yaseen bicker over some nonsense behind me, it all seemed so… real and honest.

I watched Mina shuffled back to the market square and I suddenly could not imagine ever leaving through the eastern gate with no intention of returning. I couldn’t leave Salamiyya. I was already someone else here; someone better, despite what Rabia believed. The blight and my past be damned.

***

There was a vegetable stall right across from Musa, and it belonged to Abu Hassan; an old footman from Damascus who’d settled here after the war. He didn’t mention his service, but a rusted brass shield hung behind the stall. Damascus loved it’s heavy Greek shields shining from their ramparts, an adornment.

“Green beans?” I asked Abu Hassan.

“What did you say?” The immediate hostility from the man was surprising.

“Do you have them? And then some onions.”

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“Say that again.”

“Beans?”

“No, you said green beans.”

“Yes, green beans. Do you have them?”

“They’re green and they’re beans!” Yaseen chirped in. He carried a shepharding branch and I figured he’d stolen it from one of the other farm-boys now loitering around the town.

“Shut up, Yaseen,” Abu Hassan snapped. An older woman peered out from the curtains in the storage room, “Don’t speak to the boy like that, Ali, not after what he’s been through. Come in, child,” she beckoned and Yaseen sauntered over to the lady, immediately telling the tale of the Numayri raid.

“Whoever put you up to this has a cruel sense of humour,” the vendor continued. “I’ve been struggling to find a new supplier of green beans for months.”

“What do you mean? Caravaners just arrived from Damascus.”

“I’d rather dig up Yazid’s grave than buy their beans.”

There was a history here that I had no interest of knowing. Rabia had made a fool out of me with this. What was she trying do trying to embarrass me like this? Vile woman. She has no right.

“Where can I find the beans?” I asked.

“The green beans,” Yaseen chimed in from the storage room.

“Shut up, Yaseen,” Abu Hassan and I replied at the same time. “How should I know?” the vendor continued. “They don’t tell me anyth—“

“Qastal! The village of Qastal, the caravans go through there as well right?” I interrupted, a sudden urge to find these beans and throwing them in Rabia’s face tugged at me.

“I think so, Faris.”

“I’m not a cavalier,” I added quickly, “But who should I speak with in Qastal?”

“That militiaman has family in Qastal, that gatekeeper, I forget his name. I think it’s—“

Amjad. I had already turned around and found myself stalking up to the eastern gate down the road. The crowd quickly shuffled out of my way; I didn’t mean to scare anyone but Rabia’s self-satisfied smile played in my mind and I knew I couldn’t go back without the beans. She would be proven wrong today.

The fat militiaman was already speaking with an Arab man in Bedouin riding clothes. He had a graying beard and a weather beaten face that gave away his age. When the militiaman saw me, he held up a hand to the Bedouin.

“Gate’s closing, uh… sayyid…Faris?” Amjad’s eyes went to my sword-belt, trying to figure out if he’d addressed me correctly. He wore an ill-fitting, rusted chain-mail and a spear that he held incorrectly.

“How far is Qastal? Can you run me an errand?” I asked.

“It’s getting dark soon, sir. I don’t have fire.”

“Give me the spear, I’ll go,” I snatched the spear from behind him. The footman, suddenly aware of being unarmed, tried to take the spear. “Give it back! You can’t take that.” He smelled strongly of hashish.

He suddenly let go of my arm and yelled after the Bedouin man who’d taken the moment of confusion to enter the gate and shuffle past us. He whipped around, dagger in hand, “By God, I’ll get my son’s body today, no matter how many eyes I have to take.”

“Numayri!” Amjad yelled, “Numayri inside the walls!”

The closest vendor stumbled with his bags and his customer, a maidservant panicked and ran away without taking her grocery. I had to smack the man across the face, “Don’t start a panic, fool.”

“You can’t hit me.”

I shoved him back, “what are you going to do? You lost your weapon already.”

“You can’t let him inside.”

Yaseen had run up to the scene and was watching the standoff worriedly. The Bedouin had a dagger in each hand, a wide stance, and with his boots digging into the dirt road, this man was prepared to fight me.

“Your son?” I asked, holding up my empty hands. “He’s by the citadel, I think.” The Numayri I’d killed.

The man took a step back. His knife lowered.

“I will help you, aba,” I said. “Let me help you.”

“Just stay out of my way.”

Yaseen was wise to step aside for the Numayri as he rushed past into the crowd, which had thinned enough for me to watch him trudg past Musa’s stall and into the square.

“Why are we following him?” Yaseen asked as he joined me.

“I don’t know,” I said. When we reached the square, a crowd milled around the coffee-house, blocking my view of the other side. I couldn’t see the bedouin but I knew where the coffin was.

“We’re going to the citadel?” The boy asked as I rounded the fountain and took the paved road towards the fort. Sure enough, the brown clad figure of the Numayri headed straight for the corpse wagon by the citadel walls. No one else was there to receive him or greet him. A cavalier in yellow robes watched from the gate but didn’t bother approaching.

“His name was Ishmael,” Yaseen said beside me.

“Who?”

“The man you killed,” he said. “That’s probably his father. Rashid Ibn Numayr.”

“You knew them?”

Yaseen shook his head, “Heard the Atabeg talk about it.”

“You met the Ra’is already?”

“No, he said to come tomorrow morning if he gets back again. The Atabeg is busy outside the walls all day.”

“Who’s in charge of the town then?”

“I don’t know,” Yaseen shrugged, “Emir’s eunuch probably. And I don’t think he speaks Arabic.”

Rashid Ibn Numayr pulled with the rope that was already attached to the wagon, but the wheels were loose and made the whole thing lurch and almost drop the sheet covering his son’s body.

“We need to help him,” I said, and Yaseen rushed immediately at my suggestion. When I stepped in to aid the man as well, multiple people from the coffee-house jeered and yelled curses at the Bedouin.

Rashid ignored them and also refused to answer me when I asked him if he needed a hand. Yaseen pushed from the back and I decided to hold the wagon from the side to prevent it from tipping.

“I said I don’t need your help,” Rashid growled but I didn’t step back. “Leave now.”

“Just let us help you, aba.”

“Fire-worshiper,” one of the coffee-house patrons called after us, “The blight take you!”

“Shut your mouth,” Yaseen snapped at the man.

“What did you say, boy?”

I glared at the crude man as he rose from his cushion. He stumbled with the hookah pipe in his hand, and his companion pulled him back down awkwardly.

The wagon rolled into the dirt much worse and I had to place a hand on the chest of Ishmael’s corpse to prevent any slips. His father pulled quietly, with his head down and quiet amidst all the venom being spewed around us.

“What do I do when that happens?” Yaseen asked immediately.

“When what happens?” I asked.

“Locking horns with an ass like that.”

“Who is that?”

“Some uncle who never liked us,” Yaseen replied, “but anyone really, who tries to push me around. I need a sword.”

“You have a spear.”

“No one respects a footman.”

“And a torch,” Rashid finally spoke.

Yaseen sighed. “Fine, I’ll just carry around a torch.”

“It’s best to avoid a fight, Yaseen. Run if you can,” I said.

“A man should stand his ground,” Rashid replied.

Would he still give that advice if he’d known that I was the one who’d killed his son? Yaseen also realized the strange moment, and I avoided his stare. Here I was aiding the kinsman of a man who’d just attacked me yesterday. And I had the pride to suggest peaceful conduct. You’re a killer and the boy’s knows it.

We were close to the eastern gate now and I let the wagon go. Yaseen carried a bit more until Rashid stopped in front of the guardsman expectantly. “What are you looking at you bastard? Open it.”

Amjad puffed his cheeks angrily but swayed on his toes, unable to confront the old Bedouin. He finally turned and struggled with the bar-lock.

Rashid laid a hand on his dead son’s chest and glanced back at us, “You two have shown us kindness. A mercy I can’t return.”

“I do hope the people of this town and your people can come to—“

“There will be no peace. And if you are still here when the blight takes this town and they beg for our mercy, I can’t promise any will be given. To anyone.”

“That’s a shame,” Yaseen mumbled.

“Take the boy with you and leave this forsaken place.”

I realized I was holding my breath and my hand was on my hilt. “May I be your ransom,” I managed to reply.

Ibn Numayr blinked, then nodded, “Then I will see you again, soldier.”

The elder carried on with the wagon and the gate closed behind him. I stepped up to the arrow slit, large enough to watch the road leading up to town and the fields beyond. But the man went off the road shortly before hitting the farmlands, and headed north towards the empty plains, to the Tells that dotted the otherwise flat land. The Numayri clan had their fire-lit camp somewhere behind those ancient hills.

I watched long enough for Rashid and his burden to become lonely silhouettes in the emptiness. The man had stopped and was bent over the wagon, too far for me to catch his exact movements. But he stood there for a moment. Then abruptly fell to his knees, folding over and curling up in the long grass.

***

Yaseen had wandered off when I finally closed the latch and locked it in place. Amjad had also left the gate and was lighting the torches down the wall that stretched all the way up onto the ramparts. He would be doing this to the entire perimeter of the town, by himself; given how lacking the town’s militia was. But this was a task that could not be skipped. Even a walled town needed fire to keep away any Blight that climbed or flew.

Any larger town would have had a constant patrol of a dozen torch-bearers and spear-men, walking in pairs the entirety of the night. Salamiyya seemed a lazy people, though, and the cavaliers more interested in races than Blight management.

I thought of Rashid and whether he’d make it back to camp safely. The Bedouins made it seem easy surviving out there without walls, and were usually better at it than farmers or caravans. Townsfolk considered the lot Blighted themselves, but the truth was that almost every man in their clan was a cavalier. Weaker armed and less adorned, but they’d been skirmishing and hunting on horseback since birth. And if you had fire to keep the Blight at bay, all you really needed was a good bow-arm to strike them down. A quntariyya the for larger predators.

The market square was still lively at night, with patrons lounging in cushions that I had to step around; my feet almost kicking over a tray of cups as I ambled through, not sure where I was headed.

“Munqidh!” Yaseen waved me over. He was with Musa, but my eyes fell on the tall physician beside them; Khwaja. That’s who I needed to see immediately.

Musa lounged against the fountain, surrounded by a few older men I recognized as vendors from the market earlier today. Umar the militiaman walked over with a tray of fresh coffee as I neared.

“Aren’t you supposed to be lighting the torches?” I asked.

“Sorry?”

“The Blight torches, Umar.”

“It’s Amjad’s turn,” Umar said defensively as he put the tray on the sitting mat.

“You’re a blessing, Captain,” Musa snatched a cup.

“Munqidh, you missed his verse!” Yaseen said.

“What verse?”

“I’m not saying it again,” Musa said, “I only say it once, those are the rules.”

“Go on,” Khwaja said, more livelier than I’d seen him so far. “I’d like to hear it again.”

“You just need more time to reply,” Musa said.

“I don’t think I have anything tonight,” Khwaja admitted and the vendors cheered immediately, which prompted Musa to raise his cup. Abu Kaseem slapped him on the back and the coffee almost spilled.

“One more time!” Yaseen cried.

“Fine,” Musa replied and cleared his throat. “They say He tests those who are strong.

But my life is good.

But my plate is full.

Look at my iron hitch. Oh God!”

Musa took a sip before finishing, “He must think I’m a honey-licking bitch."

“Mind your language,” someone cried from the next group over; a handful of green-cappers.

“Is it because he said bitch?” Yaseen shouted right back.

Musa snorted into his cup and Khwaja was smiling too, “I think it’s time for me to go,” the physician said. Amjad tried to help him up but the elder climbed to his feet gracefully. “Until tomorrow, dear ones.”

“One more cup,” Musa protested.

“Until tomorrow, when I’m better prepared.”

This was my chance. I stepped up beside Khwaja as he turned to leave, and his features hardened as he looked me up and down. “Can I help you, Munqidh?”

“I need to stay,” I started. “I want to stay here, and help these people.”

Khwaja turned away and picked his way through the evening crowd. He didn’t have to step around too much as patrons picked up their cups stood up as he passed. He greeted each and everyone as I tailed him like a bodyguard.

“Listen to me, Khwaja,” I said. “You have no fighting men here, unless you count the louts you consider militia.”

“You’ve done enough—“

I grabbed the physician’s elbow and spun him around. A maidservant covered a yelp, shocked at my treatment of the old man. Khwaja looked down at my hand curiously, but I didn’t take it away. “You think the Faris will fight for you? You think they’ll die for these people? The Bedouins outnumber us all, you know this. The Emir has been picking on a hornet’s nest. You know this.”

Khwaja still stared at my grip, and then slowly looked up as I ran out of words. “And you will?”

“I will what?”

“Die for this town?”

“I can promised you death, Khwaja. But it will not be mine.”

“Can you let go of my arm?”

I stepped away from the old physician, the few onlookers teetered on the edge of intervening anyways. “So what do you say?”

“You can swear your sword to the Emir as early as—“

“I’m not a cavalier.”

Khwaja was quiet, “I see,” he finally said, not staring at my scabbard like the others. Instead he was looking straight at me and I couldn’t read his expression anymore in the darkening street.

“I don’t have any positions for you in the bimaristan.“

“It can be—“

Khwaja held up a hand, “let me finish. You can go to the Ra’is tomorrow, and tell him you’re my recommendation.”

“Recommendation?”

“Yes, for Captain of the Militia.”

“A Captain? But isn’t Amjad the only—”

“He’s just a gatekeeper and there are some unexperienced boys with spears. We haven’t had an experienced militiaman for many summers.”

“Thank you, I will go tomorrow,” I replied normally, hiding my shock at this sudden turn of favor.

***