Private Tales Market Medley

[Jahára]

Jahára, flanked by her faithful lioness Sarabi and her stalwart guard Taqi, waded into Seluca's vibrant bazaar, where an extravagant array of sights and scents greeted them. Rows of stalls stretched endlessly, draped in an opulent display of spices in every imaginable shade – saffron, turmeric, crimson – a symphony of aromas intermingling with the salty tang of the sea air.

As they traversed the bazaar's labyrinthine alleys, the melodies of varied instruments played from every corner, forming a discordant yet harmonious chorus that melted into the din of the bustling crowd. People, a vibrant mosaic of colors and cultures, weaved in and out of shops, haggling with fervor over wares displayed – silks, pots, wine, street food, jewelry, and even artifacts from distant lands.

The nearby port infused the scene with maritime splendor. Longboats, laden with an assortment of fish, aromatic spices, and abundant crops, glided through the winding waterways. Sole figures gracefully steered the vessels with long paddles, a serene ballet upon the glistening sea.

Above the teeming streets, colorful fabrics draped overhead and provided much needed shade, while thin enough to cast colorful shifting patterns of sunlight that painted the bustling ground in patches. Open doorways draped in billowing fabrics invited glimpses into vibrant interiors, offering respite from the throng.

For Jahára, the bazaar was an intoxicating dance of commerce and culture, a lively marketplace where the pulse of Seluca's heartbeat beat strongest. A sensory feast where she found solace and purpose amidst the chaos.

There was no place else she would rather be.

Sarabi came up beside her while she was lost in her musings and nudged Jahára's hand with a quiet feline chuff. If they were going to stand around, the lioness was determined to at least bask in her mistress's attention. With a fond smile the merchant prince indulged her feline companion, "Are you hungry then, my love?"

The lioness seemed to perk up at the lilt in her voice. "And you?" Her depthless brown eyes sliding to the stoic man that stood behind them. "Are you hungry as well?"

Taqi

 

[Taqi]

Taqi adopted a long, rolling gait to keep pace with his mistress, swathed in the affect of a man who indulged too generously of his cups the night prior. He evidenced it with the pound of heartblood in ears, the throb of veins that peeked coquettishly out from the corners of his keffiyeh. The off-white, blanched fabric suited him darkly; it revealed eyes of sour eucalyptus locked in endless survey of the formless crowds meandering about like so many sails rippling in gentle repose.

Holding himself a breadth of steps from Jahára, he settled his hands into folds of his robes, palms caressing a variety of knives housed within. It lent to a satisfying weight that occupied him when idle glances stole upon the lioness. Like cats and dogs, he held little in the way of affection for the beast. Something stirred in his chest at the favor their mistress bestowed upon it. Not jealousy. Never that.

The tang of salted air off the Twins had him in a churlish swing. The hour proved too cumbersome, the day a trifle bleak. That was all.

Boredom.

The veneer of silence wore thin about him, strained in maintenance of his role in their game. The cracks of it came close to amusement, but no. Never that. Instead it coalesced as a sneer, the expression chiseled onto his lips. Only to be popped by Jahára's own whim.

Taqi cocked his head and released a beleaguered sigh.

"If hunger suffices to describe the half-starved state you grant your servants, Jahára, yes. I am."


Jahára

 

[Jahára]

A sharp edge lent to her smile, a nod to the game they played. "Well, Taqi. Just like any dog. They tend to listen better when they're begging for their next meal." Her hand absently sought refuge in Sarabi's scruff as she turned back to scout them a stall for lunch. "Now, shall we?"

Her friend was a hard man, made harder still by a world that saw his strength and sought to crush him beneath their thumb. How many times had she had to watch him struggle and rage against the yoke? She emphasized with that kind of insidious oppression.

Jahára thought of the men who would throw themselves against his skill like waves against a cliff, only to break before its jagged unforgiving rocks. But where they found him an end, she stood atop his cliff and found freedom. She would not be where she was without Taqi's cunning and muscle. And so had paid that small fortune's worth of gold for his freedom. Promising him a life of luxury if he swore to protect her while she built her empire, brick by brick.

Their relationship was an interesting one. First and foremost, she trusted herself above all others. But if ever she would admit to their being a living man she trusted to not stab her in the back, it would be Taqi al-Halik.

Something moved in the corner of her eye. But experience kept her from looking, instead she walked deeper into the bazaar, led by the distinct smell of lamb arayes on the wind. Without turning her head, she asked under her breath, "Do you see that person three alleys back, pretending to inspect the baharat stall?"

Taqi

 

[Taqi]

Limbering his shoulders with a shrug, Taqi stood languid. His head swiveled to take note of the figure; layered linen about the waist, chest bare but for the leather straps holding trouser aloft, it coalesced to the shape of a man. An unassuming one at that. Average of build, all lank around the limbs with a hollow between his ribs. Beardless. Barely more than a boy.

Taqi spared no subtlety with his survey, casting his line for a stare in return. It snared his prey with a start, a jolt of lifted hackles and a frown swiftly directed to the spice previously perused. The Mad Dog could all but smell the cold sweat pricking on the figure's neck.

"A steep cost for a loaf," he said.

A smile finally escaped him. It wormed over his lips. Revealed a twist of fang slicked with want. A cruel thirst.

"Does my mistress desire the whole of the vagabond, or merely its wandering eyes?"


Jahára

 

[Jahára]

Casually she examined the meticulously manicured nails of one hand. From the outside, she seemed to be completely nonplussed and disinterested. As if the life of such a wretched whelp meant nothing to her should she give Taqi the let of his leash to kill the boy.

But she knew what it was to work for any coin or food you could muster. Desperation made even the most dangerous jobs worth doing if it made the gnawing of jackals quiet in your gut, if only for a night.

There was no other way such an inexperienced tail would have been sent after her. But the question was more who sent him. And why. For surely it wasn't her that they were after, but information or leverage against her "husband".

Jahára found no end of amusement to that joke. Leave it to the corrupt men who ran the underbelly of Seluca to overlook her. To think her an unworthy opponent.

She clenched her fist. She would show them, would show them all the predator that lurked in their midst. Whether that was herself, Sarabi, or Taqi when it came time to rip out their throats, it mattered not. As long as their blood watered the parched oasis of her empire.

Clearing her throat, Jahára turned to regard her soldier, dark eyes flashing. "I only want the message he carries. I care not how you get it. Go." Before she walked deeper into the crowd, dissolving into the masses, a lioness hot on her heels.

Taqi

 

[Taqi]

Within his possession, Taqi held; amusement; revulsion; and boredom, culminating in an anger that mirrored the orb so low in the afternoon sky. He raised his veil, smothered that soft velvet smile. This shortly leashed hound felt his shackles loose about him, and he slipped away into the crowd.

He cracked his yolk across the sea of stalls, hollowing his form into a milder cut of cloth. Too many eyes beheld him, stayed his hand. Tempered caution where rather his veins itched for violence. A subtler approach, then. He scanned the crowd, that milling ooze of bodies paying favor to the bazaar. Their faces blurred for him; they paid him no mind, and he returned the courtesy.

He ghosted from body to body, a dancer's step turning calf light as he touched nearer the boy. Baldfaced murder lay out of reach; the sultan's writ oft frowned upon such extravagances. Seluca was yet in the infancy of its latest regime. Mere coin might fall short of past promises of clemency.

Subtler. A hand, then. Restitution for an indiscreet eye upon his mistress's form. They would lash him for it. A dozen, perhaps. A pittance. Taqi could suffer that much.

His hand snaked out, fingertips catching at the boy's throat. He pressed hard, deep, a crushing blow that he released at an echoed gasp. He turned his palm, following the strike by gripping the scruff of the boy's neck. Pulled him close. Closer. Drove a knee into a belly. Lifted. Shouts already kicked up around him. Not long before some thought to interfere.

In a cover of shoulders and cloth, he rummaged for the message his mistress sought. He found it shortly, within a bundle containing a bronze mark tied in leather wrappings and a pair of iron bangles, bent and coarse with the kiss of rust. The missive was there, a thick, reedy roll of parchment still touched with the cheap wax once used to seal it.

He palmed it, pushed the boy to the ground. Drew his blade. Some whimpers greeted the sight. Pleas, perhaps.

A shrug.

He leveled the boy's forearm under a boot, bent, and lopped the hand off at the wrist.


Jahára