Arabesque

Carac

No longer confined, the summoners moved swiftly. It was a bright, cloudless morning as they crossed Cannuan Square and followed the path that skirted the city wall and turned eventually into to a narrow, winding, upward-climbing street.

The old quarter of Tivisis clung to a hillside high above the sea. This was all that remained of the ancient city after the great earthquake centuries before. Crossing a wide bridge and leaving the thick stone walls of the new city behind, the summoners passed under the arch of the gateway and back four hundred years in time.

Tivisis was a place of stark contrast. Within the walls of the new city, great buildings gleamed, and the cobblestone streets sparkled with bits of embedded quartz. The old quarter was filled with dark alleys, twisting dead-end thoroughfares, and tortuous staircases. Few outsiders trod here.

High-walled houses—each hardly distinguishable from the next—cut a swath of stone across the skyline. Sunken streets hidden in the shadows were choked with debris. Even so, there were hints of beauty. At the top of steep steps, inviting doorways beckoned. Flowers overhung the balconies; fleeting glimpses of garden terraces, blossoming citrus, and pomegranate trees could be seen.

The summoners, immune to the surroundings, did not pause.

Despite being pressed in on all sides, the two, still cloaked in black, managed to weave their way through the crowded streets. Hersí was aware that some of the people shuddered involuntarily as they passed, and it pleased him. They needed a taste of fear.

The summoners realized that the timing of their arrival had been perfect, despite—or perhaps because of—the storm. They maintained a careful watch to be certain they were not being followed.

Each paid little heed to the murmur of commerce around them, taking care to avoid the many carts and stalls as they climbed farther up the hillside.

They continued past a deserted square, filthy and eerily silent. No horse-drawn carts traversed the narrow streets beyond. Even at the height of the day, the place was all but deserted, and crowded with shadows.

They crossed the street and entered a run-down, two-story house. They ignored the lurid offers from the harlots in the foyer and made their way upstairs to the second floor.

The hallway at the top of the stairs was squalid and dim. Thewall coverings were peeled back to reveal etched warnings and obscene epithets. The worn floorboards exuded the unmistakable scent of stale urine. Drunken men and young girls long lost to innocence coupled in the shadows, their sinewy, underfed limbs intertwined in pathetic embraces.

Hersí led the way up the stairs with Bashír immediately behind, the carnal moans ringing in their ears. They reached the dimly lit door at the end of the corridor, and Hersí knocked three times. After a moment the door opened, and they slipped into the apartment.

They closed and locked the door behind them.

The summoners studied their host through the haze of perfumed smoke. Raviel Danoir was a short, rat-faced man from Sommel with gray hair and brown-yellow teeth. He scurried over to the solitary window and locked the shutters, then turned and peered into the shrouded faces of the summoners.

They responded by slowly drawing back their cowls. Danoir gasped; Hersí nodded in acknowledgement. It was obvious the man had never seen Carac before. Each of the summoners' skin shone like black lacquer, his head shaven except for a stiff tuft at the base of the skull. Both bore vivid ceremonial tattoos that began between their large amber eyes, crossed their foreheads, and continued down their cheeks and necks to disappear under the collars of their cloaks. Hersí knew their appearance had an unsettling effect on others, and it was no different now.

Danoir took a step back, his eyes darting from one summoner to the other.

"Carac summoners," he whispered. "Then the time has truly come!" He took a deep breath.

"It has," said Hersí.

"Your kind has not been seen in Tivisis for many years." Danoir glanced at the three wooden chairs beside his sloping table. "Forgive me, please sit down," he said, pulling out the chairs. "I was told you would arrive three days ago. I was beginning to wonder if you were coming at all."

"We were delayed by the storm."

Danoir grunted, seeming unsurprised. The summoners did not sit, but Danoir did and lit a pipe packed with sweet-scented herbs. "Tivisis has been overrun by spies," he said, "and the sufis speak. They know you are here."

"What of the containers?" Bashír said, approaching the table. "I trust you had no difficulty obtaining them."

"None beyond the risk of my life; such items are not easily come by," Danoir said. He nodded toward the corner behind the men. "They're in a secret compartment under the cabinet."

He started to stand, but Hersí held up his hand and walked over to the cabinet. After locating the hidden release, he opened the door in the wall, reached inside and pulled out two palm-sized, ornately decorated glass orbs.

Danoir stood. "I have been assured that they were properly prepared," he said. "The alchemist spared no effort. Each has been inspected many times."

Hersí set the orbs on the table and looked at them more closely. Danoir lit an oil lamp as Bashír joined them.

"What about the house?" Bashír inquired without looking away from their prize.

"It has been ready for weeks now," Danoir said.

Hersí reached into his robes and pulled out a leather bag. "Here is your remaining payment," he said, emphasizing the last word as though it were a pejorative. He opened the bag and pulled out a small vial. "There's also this," he said, handing the vial to the old man. "Use it if arrest seems inevitable. It is quick—and there will be no pain."

Danoir swallowed hard. "I... do not wish to die."

Bashír's mouth curved into a smile devoid of deceit or falsehood. "One simple life—even if it is your own—is worth the sacrifice to ensure that the mission is completed."

Danoir's face paled. "Yes, for you, perhaps. But I must stay in Tivisis where I will be in constant danger. As for you, well... you might not..." His voice faltered.

Bashír's smile faded. "Then perhaps you had better take the vial now."

Danoir coughed weakly.

"Understand this," Hersí said. "You will welcome death should we fail."

Danoir nodded.

"Good," Hersí said. "We will depart soon. But first we'll rest and take a meal with you."

Danoir scrambled out of the way as the men shed their robes in preparation for the arcane pre-rituals.

Seizing the opportunity, Danoir snatched the leather bag from the table and hurried toward the door. As he reached for the handle, Bashír spoke.

"Danoir?"

The man turned. Bashír held out the vial. Danoir's shoulders slumped as  he returned to the table. He reached out a shaky hand and took the vial, handling it as though it were a venomous spider.

"You'll need this... just in case."