Cracks in the Shell

Chapter 8

As the doors rolled away, Carlos heard a flutter of wings. A chicken hurried to flee their path, flapping across the road ahead. It was almost crushed to death by a bull-drawn cart painted in hues of gold. Ayzili waved at its passengers: tan men and women wrapped in swaths of fabric as colorful as their ride.

They returned the gesture as their cart rumbled up a nearby street. The neighborhood slightly resembled a Moroccan village, Carlos thought, all stucco with painted murals and doorways. The illusion would’ve been complete were in not for a Gothic Cathedral that loomed in the distance. It was too much to take in at once. 

“My God,” said Henry. Carlos nodded, equally dumbstruck. He sidestepped to let a man carrying earthenware jugs pass into a crowd full of sarong-wrapped women. It felt like they’d stepped into the pages of the Old Testament. 

“How many people live here?” he asked, his nostrils stinging with the smells of burnt charcoal and mango.

Before Ayzili could answer, a scrawny youth dressed in purple robes ran up to them. He looked in his early twenties with a shaven head that gave him a monk-like appearance. The man hesitated when he saw Carlos and Henry. Then he turned his attention to Ayzili. 

“Zui, what’s your hurry?” she asked. 

“A rel’s been called, from the Northern Quarter. Moro’s house.” 

Ayzili’s eyes widened. She set off immediately in a dead sprint. With little choice, Carlos and Henry hurried behind her. They raced through alleys and up winding stairs in a blind dash to keep up. 

The people of Ginen turned to stare as they rushed past. Carlos couldn’t tell if it was because of their dress or their speed. Either way, he hoped they were almost there. Henry had fallen behind and was forced to pull up his blanket like a gown. He’d already tripped a number of times. Ayzili, however, only quickened her pace. As they continued through the streets, a faint cry rose in the distance.

“What’s that sound?” Carlos asked.

Ayzili frowned. “A rel,” she said simply. The sound grew in volume the farther they traveled, until it became almost a scream. Then it abruptly stopped. They’d arrived at a smoky marketplace - claustrophobic, dimly lit, and filled with more merchants than customers. Booths of various wares bordered each side of the narrow street.

Ayzili ducked under a stand of cow hides and continued through an archway. They emerged into a courtyard where a sizable crowd had gathered. A dozen men, all armed to the teeth with massive sabers, blocked the entrance to the house beyond them.

Ayzili went straight to the tallest. “Hungar, where is she?” 

The man named Hungar was huge, his shirt straining beneath the flex of powerful muscles. A dark mustache and several scars ripped across his face. With a pair of barbells, he could’ve easily passed for a 19th century strongman. This guy’s the voice of authority here, Carlos thought. His stance said so. But as Hungar’s glower fell upon Ayzili, the toughness faded. His eyes fell to the ground.

“She’s gone,” he said.

“No, we can still take her to the falls. Sasha’s young —” She tried to struggle pass him, but he blocked her with one muscled arm.

“She’s been dead for hours.” Ayzili was hyperventilating now, and Hungar had trouble restraining her. “The baka killed her,” Hungar said, his eyes tearing. 

“Let me go. I want to see her.” She shoved his arm back violently and had drawn her sword before anyone could react. 

“The baka’s long gone. Jell’s performing the desounen.”