It was early next morning when Cirin shot awake. He peaked ut the door and noticed the sun still at dawn. His eyes expanded. He had time. A quick tumble, slide, and shuffle, before he found himself sprinting out of the temple.

He discovered Manama and Tafar quietly chatting before the stairway arch. The boy wandered close, scarcely letting the bits of that conversation whisp past his ears. He paused. They were laughing. Cirin balled his hands. Laughing of all things.

“Oh Cirin.” Noticied Manama.

“Cirin is it?” began Tafar, walking up to the boy. Cirin spotted his own reflection in the man’s charcoal eyes. The dawn light outlined his shape as he were a walking exlipse. “How old are ya, child?”

“Where’s da old mon?”

Cirin shifted his gaze to Manama when Tafar didn’t answer. Her brows were lifted and angled outwards and her immediate smile replaced with a slightly open frown. She had one arm propping up the other. Her expression was answer enough. An answer he did no want to accept.

“If ya dun know, tell me his room numba. I’ll look fa him.”

“Cirin,” she started.

“Dere’s something I need ta talk him about.”

“Cirin!”

Cirin froze, his eyes locked on hers. He lowered his head, “He’s left, hasn’t he?”

“He insisted on leaving befa dawn.” Explained Tafar. The man straightened his back as he finally clasped the boy’s attention, “He said he need ta correct a grave error, and my son is noting if not prudent.”

“Toftof left wit him.”

Cirin ran to the edge of the stair way arch and gleamed what he could from above. The city had yet to awake. Whilst the morning light grazed the rooftops and bathed the street corners, the roads themselves remained ominously empty. He ran further down the stairs and caught on to the closest railing.

There was nothing down those spiralling stairs. Noone.Fopr as far as he’d known, Azhar never left for more than a few weeks, yet this felt different. Azhar would never go without explaining his absence. IT was as Tafar had said. Azhar was prudent if nothing else. Cirin clutched the railings harder. He hadn’t given the old mon that chance.

“Manama say ya may just have ta wait til he returns.”

“Returns?”

Manama started a chuckle, “What a stange child ta tink he won’t return fa ya. Obviously ya messy-haired fool! No matta how long it takes fa him to accomplish what he needs ta, dere be no doubt he’ll return here.”

“No.” shook Cirin, His eyes made a quick turn to Tafar, “He left dis place befa. Didn’ return fa twenty years.”

Tafar swallowed hard and shut his eyes.

“Twenty years, eh?

Cirin located the voice as its old bubbly figure emerged from the temple doors. It was Azhar’s mother.

“A child leaving its parent is only normal, but fa a parent to leave its child… dat is unnatural.” Alia rose her head, “Dat man, my son, is like a fada to ya, is he not?”

“Alia!”

“Be quiet, Tafar. Ansah my question boy. What is he to ya?”

Cirin considered the question as he pried his hands off the railing. He spun on his heels until he faced her. There was only one answer.

“He’s da old mon. He always will be.”

“Den shall we be ya olda mons?” asked Alia, “Til he returns ofcourse.”

Cirin began a short walk back to the temple entrance. He paused the moment he passed the elders.

“I dun tust ya.” He said simply.

“And what of da old mon, did ya trust him?”

The temple door shut behind him. He found Catherine there waiting for him.

“’I dun trust ya” She mimicked him, “Sounds quite familiar if you’d ask me.”

“What do ya want?”

Catherine creaked open the door before answering, “Seems they’ve left the courtyard. Mind accompanoying me? I mean to visit Kirina again today.”

“Why do ya want me ta go, mon?”

“So you’d rather stay here then? With your ‘olda mons’?”

Cirin sighed, “Fine.”

They left as soon Cirin had gotten ready. In his haste to find the old mon before he left, Cirin had ignored all his morning rituals.

Catherine was waiting for him outside, only now she was dressed in a half body poncho overtop her usual leathers.

Something to fit in with the locals as she explained. By the time they finished the perilous trip down the messa stairs, Cirin noticed the increased presence of pack snakes and city go’ers in the lower level. The morning trade had already begun. Catherine tugged him along as he stopped to admire his surroundings. Though it seemed a second lamanori at first glance, he realised he couldn’t be further than the truth. The Bazaar was its own city. Everything about it proved different in some way. The houses were built of the same paper arched style the temples adorned, while the stores were made of a combination of mudbrick walls and sliding paper doors.

He slowed as they passed the clearing he fought with Taba in the other day.

“We’re here.” Declared Cahterine.

Cirin blinked, turning his eyes to the two story building as wide as five others jutting just out of the edge of the clearing.

He read the bulding’s sign without meaning to.

The Bazaar Stockades

“You wa dis close da udda day?” he managed.

“I was surprised to.” Motioned Catherine as she held open the front door, “Just as I left this place I saw you two going at it.”

“You again?” prompted a voice from inside.

Cirin recognised the small imp after a while of staring.

Salazan stood up from where he sat behind the receptionist’s table. “First dat udda girl and now you again. Just how many friends does dis daughter of jegga even have!”

“What of other girl?”

Salazan sighed and motioned the two follow. The jangling of his keys played a steady chorus to the constant trickle of footsteps.

“She’s still dere. Honestly, I have half da mind ta interrogate her to. It isn’t every day we get a felian in dese parts. Let alone a-”

“E-Elizabeth!?” blurted Catherine. She awkwardly shifted between a curtsey and kneel, finally pausing at the bastardized offspring of the two.

Cirin squaeezed past Salazan to the inside of the cell.

Elizabeth’s mildly confused reaction to Catherine transformed into an odd joy the moment she spotted the boy.

“You again!”

Cirin nimbly dodged the Princess’ embrace. There were times he hated his training, yet this was one time he thanked spirits he’d been forced to do so.

“H-H-How?” choked Catherine.

“Ah, I neva told ya.” Cirin pointed at Elizabeth, “I met her in Gin.”

Elizabeth straightened her posture and grasped Catherine’s hand, shaking it immediately. “Another of Cirin’s friends? A pleasure to meet you.”

“C-C-Catherine. Pardon my stutter, milady. It isn’t every day you meet the royal princess of Galokin.”

“But ya met Sol and his brudda already.”

“You misunderstand, Cirin. She’s Elizabeth! Renowned in both Galokin and Illivanmar for her repute. Loved by all!”

“Please call me Eli. And I wouldn’t say all, dear Catherine.” Explained Eli, “It was hard enough entering this city. If it wasn’t for my connections, I would haver never known of Kirina’s fate, let alone meet her.”

“I see. I see! And, pardon my question your majesty, but how exactly do you know Kirina?”

There was a silence. One filled with the hollow gasps of Kirina and Eli as they exchanged glances.

“Our parents knew each other.” Said the princess with a smile.

“Ya parents knew Jegga?”

Catherine shot the boy a look of pure fury. Cirin understood why the moment he spotted Kirina fumble to the back of her cell. Just hearing that name was enough to disarm her.

Eli spied the girl from the corner of her eye. Ever so slightly her plastered smirk wilted to a frown. That was the first time Cirin saw her so.

“Yes, they kenw him.” She decided to answer, “The three of them as well as Jegga’s late wife attended the same vineyard club in Benka. They grew close and evenetually introduced me to the poor girl you see before you. She is my friend.” She said sternly, “No matter who you are, no matter how much you resemble my beloved Ali, I shall not tolerate any further comments regarding her father. Not while she is still in grieving.”

“Dat will be radda difficult wit da interrogation, Princess.”

Eli stomped towards Salazan. Yet just as she readied her hand to deliver a blow to Salazan’s face, a familiar voice echoed through the cells. It seemed to be locked in an unseen argument.

“I demand ya give me work! Give me something ta do!”

“We canot allow dat Bahar.”

“Captain Bahar.”

“Captain. My ordahs come from da council itself. Ya be needing rest afta dat mission.”

“Rest? I had an evening ta rest already. Give me a mission damn it. Surely having carried one out dutifully fa ten years muyst have garnered me some respect.”

“It… it has sir, dat’s why dey be requesting ya rest.”

“Ta da desert wit dis ‘rest dat’. I know how dis works, ya use ya best men and toss em aside. My days are numbered. IF ya want ta prove me uddawise ya know what ta do. Give. Me. Work”

Elizabeth withdrew her hand from where hse held it.

“Is that the man who murdered Kririna’s father?” she posed.

Slazan let out a heavy sigh, “Ya know it is.”

Before Eli could take another step to the door, Salazan snatched her by the arm.

“Ya tree need ta leave.”

“But we just got here!” cried Catherine.

“Da situations changed.” Insisted the man, “I’ve got an angry Bahar to deal with it. Drunk by da sounds of it.” Salazan nudged his head at Kirina, “If it’s her ya be worried about, I can assure ya lot dat I won’t let Bahar near her.”

With that, the three of them filed out of the jailhouse. Elizabeth stopped before Cirin.

“I’ve heard what happened with Azhar.”

Ofcourse she had. Cirin turned away from her.

“It was absolutely horrid what he did, prodding poor Sol around like that. But maybe he did it for better realised reasons.”

Cirin’s voice was stretched and weary, “Sol almost died.”

“We never caught the mastermind either.” Added Catherine.

“Then I suppose hat is what he’s doing now, isn’t it? I heard a ram-horn with two men on it left this morning. It had Tafar’s family banner on it, so my men took notice.”

“Say, Eli. Do ya tink it’ll take long ta find da mastermind?”

Eli took a breath. She craned her head to the sky and left it there. “He’s evaded you the entire time hasn’t he? You haven’t even crossed half of Illivanmar and what’s left is considerably slower to get by. Deeper into the empire and all.” She edged, “It’s true that he will move faster without you or the prince slowing him down, but I wouldn’t wager by much. IF you want my estimate, then I’d say three year.”

“Three years!?”

“Maybe more.”Eli ran ahead of Cirin, spun, and leaned in with her hands held behind her back, “Perhaps the more pressing matter is what you will do in that time period. Will you follow him? Or will you stay?”

Cirin fell back against the Stokade walls, “what would I gain from staying?”

“You can’t be serious.” Gasped Catherine, “You’d be protecting Sol. You’d be training! The Bazaar has the finest martial school in all of Illivanmar. You’d gain so much least of all how safe it is here.”

“What of a choice, dear Cirin. Though only one of those options is an entertaining one.” She spun again and started spinting in the opposite direction. She cried back as she ran, “I’ll await your answer with intrepid anticipation.”

Cirin and Catherine stared at her shrinking figure.

“She’s a bit more eccentric than the rumors let on.”

Cirin paid her no mind, his eyes still aimlessly following the ghost of the princess, “The more enteraining option, huh?”

The door to the stockades brushed open. An unlikely Bahar bumbled out, bottle in hand with two guards pushing him out.

“Unhand me you currs. If dis world wasn’t shpinning I’d gut bot of ya.”

“Right. Then wait til the world does stop spinning.” Joked the right guard.

“Maybe then you’ll be sober enough to do what we do.” Mocked the other.

“Why you… I spent ten years-”

Cirin stole a glimpse of the man. The supposed hero of the Bazaar, the one who slayed his city’s most hated villain, stood drunk and alone staring dumbly at an iron door.

Then Cirin found himself focussed on Catherine. If his encounter with the princess taught him anything, it was that the friends of Kirina wanted nothing to do with Bahar. Yet Catherine didn’t exude the same presence as her royal counterpart. She had her hands balled, but her face told another tale. It was almost if she’d burst into tears just there and then.

Bahar stumbled passed her, soon disappearing into the dusty clearing.

“We should get back to the temple, Cirin. I think they wanted to discuss your living conditions there.”

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Cirin gladly bounced off the wall. The warm embrace of morning settled into midday, turning the paper-walled houses into lanterns in the day. Now the various denizens of the Bazaar were out about their daily tasks.

The trip back had seemingly shrunk in length now that he had become familiar with it. Cirin fixated on the temple-messa in the distance.

“What if I did stay?” he humored himself. The idea wasn’t as absurd as he first thought. He tossed his eyes to Catherine. With the old mon and Toftof gone, there was no one to protect Sol. No one except him and perhaps Catherine. Manama was too unreliable.

And training? He made a head stool with his hand. Up until then he had managed to train whilst traveling, yet that came with its own problems. For one, there were days he couldn’t train due to perilous pathes.

He slowed his pace. And if he went? That option hadn’t left his mind either.

You should stay pig

Cirin paused abruptly.

Do not respond. Keep walking.

Cirin swallowed and did as the voice commanded. Luckily Catherine had been been made absent-minded by her encounter with Bahar. The voice continued.

I… I can understand your hesitation. Long ago my lov- I… faced the same dilemma. To leave the village and face the last of my foes, or stay, recover, and then go. In my haste I chose to face my enemy early, and for that I failed. Do not make the same mistake I have.

“This isn’t da same.” Whispered Cirin, “I only go ta talk wit da old mon.”

And what then? You’ll quietly stand aside as he hunts what you yourself hunt? I know you. There is no other way this will end.

Cirin choked on his own words.

Stay. Produce more allies. Protect that younger child-pig of yours and train so that one day you’ll best anyone.

“But witout da old mon…” Cirin sighed as he realised the voice had left. The bodiless thing never did entertain the boy with a proper discussion. It came and left as it pleased. Cirin relapsed to the growing the stretch of stair before him. They were already back at the temple mesa.

Near the top, Cirin slowed as he heard the telling signs of wood against wood. He peaked past the temple gate. There were three children there of them. They appeared roughly around his age and fighting, each one with a different style.

The girl in the group practicsed similar to Azhar’s style as she kept her distance from a boy who stood his ground as Taba did.

“Da shifting sands.” Hushed Cirin.

Finally, he turned to the largest of the three which warranted the distance kept. His face spoke of youth yet he was markedly taller and very much stocky. He lumbered from foot to foot as he held one large wooden blade over his shoulder. Cirin slid to the opening of the gate as he took in what he saw. That boy’s style was diferent than anything he had seen before, despite how much Azhar laboured to teach him of the other fighting styles in Illivanmar.

Cirin glared on, eagerly awaiting how the boy would engage. The boy rose his wooden claymore. His approach became clear. Deadly. Cirin could read it ten steps away. The beat of two claps froze the inevitable play and Cirin beveled his head to the clapper.

“Dat’s enough, children. Our guest of honor has arrived.” Announced the clapper. She bowed. She was needle dressed in a poncho. Her features were sharp, and her body tall and lean.

“Puh.” Spat the largest boy, “It was just getting good.”

“Who’s dis guest den? An outwaller?”

“Dun speak sa loud, Ig.” Snapped the second boy at the girl, “He might hear ya.”

“He did hear ya. All of ya.” Stressed needle, “Now as we agreed upon, I was only ta oversee ya till I found da guest. Ya lot be best going back to ya chambers. I am to escort dis guest. Lady Catherine.” She bowed, “Master Cirin.”

Cirin drew his hair down and stared away. He never enjoyed attention, least of all from strangers. A hollow thump on his back sent him sprawling forwards. He shot a glance at the scholar who did it.

“Best not keep them waiting Cirin.” Smiled Catherine.

Cirin dusted his jerkin. Somehow seeing the girl return to her usual self left him at ease.

“Would you follow me?” insisted the clapper.

The clapper led them through the familiar temple, yet instead of taking a right into the dormitories, she took the left and led them to a hall with only one door at the end of it. Cirin could hear voices on the other end.

“How do ya know our son?” muffled Tafar.

A pause as his guide slid open the door.

“He let me travel wit him afta Gin.”

Cirin stumbled in. That was Taba’s voice. He found the girl sitting on the door side of a long table. The four legged thing stood in an even narrower room. Tafar and Alia sat on the other side of the table, directly facing the door.

Cirin made a shoe to avoid the girl’s eye. Instead choosing to stare at the side of the room. There were paintings on those walls. Several of them. Each of that of a different swordsman posed in the same fashion. Cirin made sure to catch a glance of each of these paintings before he sat down. The pose was a simple stance. Azhar’s stance.

“Welcome, Cirin.” Began Tafar.

Cirin shuffled to his seat.

Tafar clasped his hand on the table and took turns addressing each of three before him.

“Living arrangments here are simple. Fa one da bathes are scheduled just at dawn and dusk. No earlier. No later. We serves meals in da dining halls. Have our servants wash ya scraps in da end of every week. Trash and udda ends go…”

Cirin let the man’s voice fade into oblivion until they were nothing more than meaningless mumbles. His eyes fell to the side. Eli’s tones echoed in his head. She had given urgency to his choice. Even then his eyes trailed to the door. If he left now, would he catch the man? Perhaps eventually. It would be dangerous, reckless, yet the more and more he thought about it he realised it to be the one thing he desired most. More than protecting the prince. More than training.

The old mon had tried to talk to him and in his frustration he silenced the man before he could utter more than two words.

Listen, mouse…

What came after that? What had Azhar wanted to tell him? A bead of icy sweat toppeld down his cheek. Azhar and Toftof were both veritable fighters, yet against overwhelming numbers, even ambushes, the two were no more capable than any other man. Jegga had proven that. The desert was the greatest unmarked grave after all.

Another drop sweat propped on his skull. Then another.

“Cirin.”

His name drew him back to reality. At once, he recognized that voice and it’s stern master glaring directly at him. Tafar.

“I’ll be blatant about dis, boy. You and ya friends are ta stay wit us for da foreseeable futah.”

Cirin narrowed his eyes. “Den I’ll be blatant to.” He wagered, “I refuse.”

Cirin expected the man to turn upset at the notion. Annoyed even, yet what the man did put the boy at odds. He smiled.

“Dat wasn’t a choice, boy. But if ya want it ta be den fine.” Tafar leaned back and crossed his arms, “Ya may refuse, but if ya do, we kill da prince.”

Cirin nearly shot up. “You wouldn’t.” he dared.

“We could.”

Cirin shot his eyes at the woman, yet she store on coldly.

Cirin dug his nails into his palms, “What happened to ya wanting ta be my ‘olda mons’ huh?”

“You refused dat, my dear.” Entered Alia, “But ofcourse dat offah still stands.”

“I’ll kill ya!” snarled Cirin.

Tafar puffed, “I’d like ta see ya try.”

Cirin reached for his swords on instinct, yet his hands stopped themselves. Tafar was the man who taught Azhar everything he knew. The old mon never said so, though Cirin could tell by the way the man carried himself. He tossed his eyes to Catherine, who merely shook her head at him.

“I want you to stay to, Cirin.”

It was as if she had grasped him by the neck with those words. He turned on his heel and sped for the door.

He could hear the scholar stumble to her feet as he slammed the door open. His feet played a heavy march.

“Cirin!” she called after him.

The boy did not turn, instead allowing both the scholar and the strange slender woman to follow him.

“Cirin! Where are you going?”

He sighed in his advance, “Isn’t it obvious, mon? I be going to da prince.”

“Ah, prince Sol? I saw him leave wit da pierced woman a little earlier.”

Cirin forfeited his march and tunred to the stranger, “Where did she go? Did she tell ya?”

She bowed, feigning the slightest of smiles as she did, “Ofcourse. She was looking fa a drink, strangely enough. Sa I pointed her to da closest bar.”

“Show us where ta go.”

Her smile shifted to an immediate frown, “I cannot. Ya may be an honored guest, but ya also be a minor.”

“I’ll go with him.” Insisted Catherine with her hand on her chest.

“Two minors.” Stressed the woman, “Let me introduce myself. I am Sijas Ka Re, an instructah at da Bazaris Martial Academy. You do well to rememba me.”

“Den you go wit us.” Barked Cirin.

“My pardon?”

“We ain’t going fa drinks, mon. Just ta find da prince. IF ya dun go wit us, we’ll find our own way.”

Sijas narrowed her eyes and smiled fondly. She closed the gap between her and the boy within an instant and clasped Cirin’s forehead without so much as a flinch from the boy. Her hand was as cold as night, yet as gentle as the breeze.

She brushed aside Cirin’s wavy locks, revealing his ruby reds in full glory.

“A little wild dis one.” She said to no one in particular, “Yes very wild indeed. Perhaps a dog if I were ta palce it. Dough I see potential in dis pup. He is a wild pup who’s yet to grow his teeth today, but a proud pack wolf in da future. Nay. First no mo a guard dog, den a pack wolf.”

She let go, leaving Cirin in a daze. He swept his hair back in place and shook his head.

“Did… did ya say something, mon?” he managed, stealing a glance at Catherine, who seemed equally dumbfounded.

“Noting at all, little pup. Just dat I will accompany you.”

“Ya-Ya will?”

Sijas nodded, passing the two by with her arms crossed behind her back.

Cirin looked to Catherine who awkwardly glanced back. With little more to go on other than Sijas pacing away, Cirin decided it best to follow her.

So, for the third time that day, Cirin trekked down the daunting stairs of the messas to the sprawling town far below. It was there that Sijas led them through the many turns and drops of the Bazaar’s trickier streets. What Cirin had thought to be no more than a general town layout became a maze of cramped paper walled houses. The sky lapsed behind increasingly dense layers of overhung fabrics, and the air grew thick with smoke.

The denizens changed too. The deeper they strived through the maze, the more the people who lived there proved to be covered in more silt than cloth. Women in questionable attire patrolled the streets, whilst men swaggard about with half empty bottles glued to their hands.

Every so often, armored guards would pass them by. Those lawful few seemed an enigma in these parts. The bright whites and blues of their armored ponchos made them more like paintings than reality.

Sijas slowed before a torn down tavern. Compared to the buildings that greedily gobbled the space on either side of the tavern, the blackened thing had a less than half the space it should have had.

Sijas passed through the convetional knob equipped door with little introduction and Cirin paused as he read the sign.

The Sand Snake

Just as he entered, he heard a paticularily familiar voice. A familiar drunk voice.

“Take a break dey shaid! A damned break! Afta ten yearsh of tireless service, dose damend bashtardsh tink I need a break? To da desert wit dem I say.”

Cirin sighed when that voice matched the groggy figure of Bahar drowning himself in whatever concoction they served at the Sand Snake.

The moment he leaned back to take a swig, Cirin noticed yet another familiar figure. His eyes went wide. It was the nameless swordsmen from the grand valley inn. The same man who had defend Cirin, Taba, and the prince. His face was long and drawn. It was the face of a man who listened too many a drunk’s woes.

Cirin’s eyes bounced from the unfortunate duo to the collection of patrons by the seating compartments. It wasn’t long before he spotted the undeniably pierced face of Manama and the much smaller Sol seated in front of her.

As he got closer to them he could see Manama’s lips move about and her arms jostle as she no doubt unraveled the most fantastic of tales. He saw Catherine nod beside him as she arrived at the same conclusion.

Soon Manama’s words bcame clear amidst the tavern noise.

“… And da final section of Housain’s Law, sub section minah foul, dictates dat all livestock be registered wit da local magistrate meaning…?”

“That lord Horris broke all twelve laws!” jumped the Prince.

“Haha! Exactly, my prince!”

Cirin froze just as he was about to tap Sol on the shoulder. Catherine seemd equally lost.

“Oh? I see ya made it here, Cirin.” Smiled Manama, “And ya met Sijas as well.”

“Cirin!” cried Sol, quick to embrace his guard.

“Where ya been, ya little imp?” said cirin as he shuffled Sol’s hair.

“Learning about the finer points of royal and free city law.” Said the eight year old happily.

“I… I see. What? Why ya staring at me so?”

“Azhar left.” He said simply, “Don’t go.”

Cirin balled his hands, and he shifted his gaze to Manama momentarily before relapsing to the boy, “We have to. Ya not safe here, Sol.”

“That is where I msut disagree with you, Cirin.” Interjected Catherine, “He ism ore sae here than anywhere in this country.”

“Dey threatened ta kill him mon!”

“Only as a means ta keep ya here.”

“Dat is going too far.”

Sol tugged at Cirin’s sleeve, “I don’t care. Please stay.”

Cirin narrowed his eyes at the prince. In that moment he could not control himself. He grabbed Sol by the wrist and dragged the boy out of the chair.

“Cirin, that hurts!”

Cirin held his wrist high, looking him straight in the eye.

“Dey’ll hurt ya much mo, mon.”

He turned then, realising his choice. He would go to Azhar and take Sol to him. By force if he’d have to.

Sijas was the first to stand in his way. She stared him down. He stared back.

“Dun do anything stupid little pup.”

Cirin answered with his first step. But before he could take another, Sijas latched her cold hand on cirin’s shoulder and pressed hard.

He let go of Sol immediately and fell to his knees as he gagged.

“Cirin!” cried Catherine.

Cirin held up his free hand. The pain was wretched, yet it was fleeting. His true pain existed not in his shoulder.

“No.” he said simply, “Ya all be blind.” He rose to his feet, choosing to look away from his friends as he stumbled away. He would go alone. He stopped momentarily, “Manama. If dey do try ta kill Sol. Promise me ya will protect him.”

“Ya have my word, mouse.”

Cirin smiled at the word and continued away. By the time he was passing Bahar, a collection of hurried steps battered after him, ending simply with Sol’s figure embracing what it could of cirin’s back.

“Let go of me, ya imp. I’ve decided. I’m going.”

“No you’re not.” Balled the prince.

“Oi, don’t ya cry ova me.” Cirin found himself nearly at tears. He clutched his face with one hand. He had to go. He balled his other hand. He needed to. Little by little, he shuffled back to the prince. He looked the ragged boy in the eyes and reached to pry him off.

Yet another got him first.

It clapsed on to the top of the boy’s head and lifted him up. Cirin stared on in horror and lept back to face the owner of the monstrous hand.

“Oi, oi, oi. Who be intrupting my woes, eh?”

Cirin narrowed his eyes at Bahar.

Bahar jostled Sol in his arm, “Ya crying? You? Some rich felian wit deir lives all sorted out? I should be crying mon! Ten years and fa what.”

“Let him go.” Warned Cirin.

“Oi, I rememba ya. Back at Jegga’s ya-”

Another blade met the skin of his neck. That blade drew one drop of blood. Cirin ogled at it’s nameless master.

“you’d best listen to da boy.” He warned.

Bahar lowered Sol to his feet and backed away from the blade.

“Ya want ta fight me?” Bahar entertained his foe with a series of chuckles ending with the climatic rasp of his withdrawn blade. “Come at me den. But be warned, I was a captain of da Jegga bandits fa six years, a cpatian at da guard fa five befa den. I am Bahar, of the Red Sand!” Bahar flicked his blade about in a show of prowess. He’d sobered in a matter of seconds, “I am Bahar, graduated of da School of Shifting sands.”

The other man slid off his stool, yawned, and rubbed lower back, “Oh, aye. I can most fight ya, but…” He trailed, yawning once more, “I’d radda not.”

“What?” blurted Bahar, lowering his blade, “Look here.” He said pointing at his neck, “Ya already wounded me. Ya already signed ya tombstone.”

“Have I?” questioned the man lazily, “Very well den. I shall write on it da name ‘Inzaka, da poisoner of fools who have too many titles’. Fitting no?”

“Poisoner?” asked Bahar.

Inzaka laughed searching in his baggy robe till he withdrew a single blueish vial. He jostled the vial, swishing its contents about, “Dis is da cure, I tink?”

“What cure?” said Bahar slowly.

“Oh, to da poison I nipped ya neck wit.”

“Poison? Ya jest, ya wretched fool. No man could poison his blade dat quickly.”

To that Manama sauntered to Inzaka’s side and tapped the man on the shoulder.

“I may I smell ya blade?” she asked nonchalantly.

“You.” Snarled Bahar, “I rememba you! Back! Back I say.”

Inzakaa smiled at Bahar then Manama, “Go ahead.” He said holding out his blade.

Manama took one whiff of the blade and her eyes went wide. She snapped her fingers, giving Cirin the slightest reason to flinch as he made for Sol.

“Dis be Salamanda’s Red!” she declared with awe, “A rare poison dat kills its prey in two hundred and ten days, no less, no mo.”

Bahar practicaly choked on his words as his sword fell to the ground.

“Ya seem ta believe her word mod an mine, sa dere ya have it. Ya be dead in two hundred or so days. And I have da antidote. Ah, and befa ya ask, da problem wit rare poison ya see, is dat to cures ta dem be just as rare if not rarer.”

Bahar stood up slowly, he levied his eyes back on the man readied to pounce but soon quietly backed down as he realised Manama was right next to his poisoner.

“Hmpf, lets make dis interesting shall we?” laughed the man as he juggled the antitode between his fingers, “Who amoung ya be in charge of dis poor boy who be attacked just now?” His eye instantly went to Cirin as I he expected Cirin of all people to answer. Though by then he fealt he had no right to even claim that.

“I am in charge of him.” Announced Manama.

“Ooh, even betta. You, Bahar, of da Grey Sands-”

“Red Sand.”

“Yes dat. I’m giving dis woman da antidote.”

“What!?”

Inzaka turned to Manama, “Give it ta him if he meets dese demands.” To that he spun back to Bahar, “Defend da life of da boy ya just attacked. If he receives so much as a bruise, you lose da antidote? Got it? Good.”

“So much as a bruise? Look at him? He’s as frail as a lotus. He won’t survive let alone take a bruise.”

Inzaka sretched and made his way passed Bahar, “Den protect him well.” The man patted Bahar on the shoulder, “Dun tink I wasn’t listening when ya said ya wanted someting ta do.” He leaned low and whipered just loud enough so cirin could hear, “I always listen.” To that he left the poor man and stumbled out into the painful sunglight.

“I’m dead.” Muttered Bahar, “Oh great Mudda Ipin, I’m dead.”

“Sol?” questioned cirin as the boy wondered past him, “Sol, wait!” Cirin reached out but a moment too late. The boy had already found his way to Bahar.

He held out a hand to the man, “It won’t be so bad. Promise.”

Bahar rose his head in defiance, but settled down as he no doubt rmembered his contract.

“So be it.” He breathed, “Be just say ya know, I won’t enjoy any of dis.”

“Have you had time to cool off?”

Catherine.

Cirin decided he had, “Somewhat.” He admitted.

She lowered to his kneeling height, “Listen. I know things are… rough at the moment, maybe even that is an understatement, but when everyone you know tells you to stay, you do. Maybe not all the time, if they tell you to jump off a cliff, well you shouldn’t. But I digress. We tell you… no we ask you to stay because you’re safest here. Think of what’ll happen if you go. Really think about it. Wouldn’t you regret going? If not right away then eventually.”

Cirin lowered his head, “Right now I regret not going.”

Catherine stared at him for several impossible moments. It made them into ghosts amoungst the passage of patrons as those drunkards left and entered the tavern.

“He’ll be fine.” She said at last.

Cirin rose his head, meeting her eyes for atleast the second time in his life. Those were the words he wanted to hear. He closed his eyes.

“Ah! You’re smiling!”

“I am not.” He protested.

Her light chuckle made him at ease. For the first time since that awful night, the thought of staying did not seem so bad.

“Though we should most definitely leave this awful place.” Catherine nudged her head at the strange duo of Bahar and Sol, “With our new companion along with us.”

Cirin remembered how she’d reacted to seeing the man, “His presence doesn’t bodda ya?”

Catherine blinked, “Should it?”

Sijas’s cold and telling stares interrupted any chance of Cirin discerning her relation to Bahar. She wanted them to leave that bar. Now.

Sol and Bahar led the way, followed by Manama, Catherine, Cirin, and lastly Sijas.

The instructor bowed the moment she existed, directing Cirin to the hooded figure she bowed to.

That figure took off her hood then revealing her elderly cowl to be that of Alia.

“What ya doing here, old lady?” spat Cirin, instantly making to step in front of Sol. Seeing Cirin do so, Bahar attempted to do the same.

“Ta speak wit ya, boy. Privately.” She said staring down the others.

Cahterine and Sijas agreed to wait for Cirin whilst Manam escorted Sol back to the temple with Bahar in tow.

Alia had her eyes trailing the shoulder hunched Bahar as he went along with the other two.

“May I ask, what happened ta Bahar?”

Cirin narrowed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. Alia had insisted they stop by an open patio restaurant to talk.

“Not much fa talking I see. Well, dat doesn’t surprise knowing ya fadda-” She held a hand to her mouth, “Pardon, knowing how ya talked earlier.”

“What do ya want?”

“Ya know what I want. But I can alsa undastand why ya want what ya do. Sa let me make ya an offah. Mind you, dis be needin kept secret from Tafar.”

Cirin tilted his head.

“I’ll let ya leave. Even help ya leave, if ya do one ting.”

Cirin started to speak. He hadn’t told her he intented to stay. Yet the curiosity of knowing what he’d have to do in order to leave got the better of him. He swallowed his confession and opened his ears. Hen nodded for her to continue.

Alie smiled, “Every year da Academy here at da Bazaar has a martial competition fa its various divisions. Divisions are assigned by age groupings. Da victors of dose divisions are den given special status as prodigal warriors, some are even scouted early ta be captains and fighting school leads. Here’s where my offah comes in. Prove to me dat you can hold ya own. Win one of dese competitions, and I shall let ya go.”

Cirin pushed one brow up, “Dat seems too simple, old lady. I’d be gone afta one competition.”

“Is dat right? You’ll have to neroll in the academy ya know.” she chuckeled as the boy remained silent, unshaken, “Den I’d take it ya have no quarrel on da matta?”

Cirin crossed his arms and lowered his head. For a moment he considered what would happen if he did win. They would all recognize him, his talent. Not one would decide it be better for him to stay. And if Azhar’s own masters approved then it owudl be as if Azhar had approved himself. As if Azhar had finally acknowledged the boy. Crin smiled for the second time that day.

“None.” He answered.