Arabesque

Munif

Everyone has secrets.

Pavanan Munif knew this to be true. Today his secret had taken him away once more. A man like him didn't just wander into al-Naffaq—the Pit. No one did. At least not willingly. Munif was lured here, driven by a hunger for Affyram; a drug over which he had little control.

His one vice.

His demon.

But he wasn't alone. Saffan had his boys. Dassai his whores. Malek too, and the Sultan. Munif was privy to them all.

Chased from his high tower in the casbah, Munif found himself again in familiar surroundings. At least he was getting better. In the past, when his habit had ruled his every waking moment, he'd practically lived down here. Now, Munif had weaned himself to just once a week.

Munif was tall. More than six feet, as most southerners were. His father was from the Kingdom, his mother was Rajani, born in Jaisvaran before emigrating to Qatana with her family. Munif's hair was dark brown, streaked with gray. He had penetrating green eyes and a hawkish nose. His prominent cheekbones were high, and his lips were thin. His almond eyes and honey-colored skin hinted of his mother. Ten years earlier he'd been rakish, but age and affyram had taken their toll. Still, Munif was a match for almost anyone and, despite his thirty-seven years—and his demon—he kept himself in formidable condition.

Munif was chief of the Jassaj—secret agents under the command of the Sultan himself—in Riyyal. He reported directly to Emir Malek, the Sultan's youngest son. He worked almost exclusively under his own authority.

Not even Fajeer Dassai could touch him.

Munif traversed the narrow, dark streets. His body trembled in anticipation. It was nearing the sacred festival of Eid ul-Fajdah, and he would play his part in the celebrations.

But first he needed a well-deserved break, something to placate his addiction and take the edge off the strain he was under.

Munif threaded his way through labyrinthine alleys and filthy cobblestone passageways, keeping to the shadows. He continued westward into the foreign quarter of Riyyal, finally reaching a great mosque that dominated the skyline of the city. Munif stopped for a moment, taking in the scene before him.

Here was the dirty secret everyone knew but seldom mentioned. Munif gazed in wonder at the immense abyss that stretched out below. It was surrounded—and hidden by—the Binais'r mosque. For all practical purposes, the Sultan's law ended where Munif stood. Below him, down in the Pit, was a world unto itself.

Beneath great wind-towers a circular path wound its way into the rock and sand. Expertly constructed platforms perched on the walls and extended over the hollowed-out earth. Crude dwellings had been carved into these walls. There were structures at the bottom of the gaping maw, shacks that served as dwellings for those unfortunate enough to have been lured in by the mirage that was Riyyal.

This city within a city was home to the dregs of Nujoom, Hayl, and Ungwara—even as far away east as Lasavísur in the cold lands bordering the Curtain of Night. Foreigners from these kingdoms had come in response to the promise of work—only to end up as thralls to the wealthy, forced to live like rats in cramped burrows. Those fortunate enough to be permitted housing in Qatana would often find themselves homeless should they make one small error in judgment, and be arrested for the most minor of infractions.

More often than not, these unfortunates were unable to buy their release. And then the Sultanate's agents, acting as pseudo-slavers, would purchase the condemned. But rather than beingexecuted or mutilated, the guilty were transported like chattel to Riyyal. Once they had come there, only a lifetime of cruel labor could pay off the debt.

Qatani residents convicted of crimes would rather pay to be killed than be exiled to the Pit.

Munif took a deep breath and descended into al-Naffaq. The air became heavy and damp. The path, a serpentine route of loose rocks and gravel, was rough; in some sections it was very steep, and Munif was forced to ease his pace. He didn't want to slip and fall to the bottom.

"Damn!" he cried. Despite his caution, a small avalanche of damp stones slid beneath his feet and he nearly tumbled headlong down the precipitous track. "That's no way to die," he muttered, reestablishing a stable footing.

A little farther along, Munif paused to observe the sheer quantity of half-finished buildings—dismal sheds that the laborers here had yet to complete.

When he resumed his descent, Munif kept his eyes down, moving past the poor, the starved and forsaken.

Upon reaching the bottom, he moved with singular purpose toward his destination, a squat structure consisting of a dozen small rooms.

There was little to worry about now. Plenty of time to indulge himself.

Munif approached the third door and was about to knock when another door opened at the opposite end. Two figures emerged and set off up the narrow path away from him. Munif stared at their receding backs.

These two were different from the rest.

They were Carac.

He knew all too well of their kind. The summoners would do anything to further their cause, including killing the innocent and sacrificing their own lives to ensure their violent purity—martyrs in the eyes of the people of Carac. Munif had lost them three months earlier, but now here they were, within reach.

His vice must wait.

Munif followed, keeping a safe distance. As he advanced stealthily, he noticed that the other denizens of the Pit whom he passed were on edge. Normally their eyes were lifeless voids, but now there was something different in them.

Nevertheless, he remained focused on his two targets as he began to ascend one of the winding paths out of al-Naffaq.

Munif looked into the faces of several more workers as he threaded his way past them. He could see it in their furtive glances. He could see it in their eyes.

They were scared.