The Cursed Sun Read online

The next morning, I watched as the sub-Vizier and his men rode away. I was glad to see him go since I did not like any man to give me orders, especially inside my own hotel. But still, I couldn't decline his demands since I had a business to run. It would only take one word from Rasid and I would be thrown out of my own home or even put to death. The unfairness of it irked me to no end, but that was the way of the world. There was nothing that I could do but do as he commanded.

  Days passed, and the summer heat became almost unbearable. It was like an oven inside the rooms and except for the blowing sands, the world outside became very still. Travelers were few, so I decided to leave and visit Kalam at his home. It was here in his cellar that he brewed his beer and kept the precious liquid stored away from the beating rays of the sun. Kalam was much older than I, having been an old friend of my father. His actual age was unknown, and rumor was that he had once been a great warrior; a Captain in the Mujadeen. But when pressed for information, he would never say a thing, but would instead just shake his head and smile. When I took over the business after the death of my father, Kalam continued to sell his illicit alcohol to me without a further word. He seemed to like me well enough in his quiet way.

  As I watched, Kalam was carefully measuring out hops, his dark, wrinkled hands gently moving the cup from the burlap bag to the pail. His turban-covered head was held low, his eyes concentrating on the task. I don't think I have ever seen him lose a single one. A gray beard cascaded down from his chin, covering the front of his simple cotton shirt. It was always relaxing to watch a craftsman at work, and the coolness of the stone floor was a relief from the boiling heat outside.

  Kalam was a man of few words, so I was surprised when he finally spoke. His gravelly voice was always low and almost incoherent except to his closest friends. He croaked, “I’ve heard that Rasid, the sub-Vizier, came to visit you.”

  When I had bought the beer, I had not mentioned this to him since he did not seem to care who consumed it. He trusted me enough to keep his name out of any dealings with the law. That was expected without comment since my father would have done the same. “Yes, he did,” I replied uncertainly.

  He nodded, the hair of his beard bobbing up and down. “And what did he want of you?”

  I replied cautiously, “He stops at my hotel at least once a year. It is part of his tour of this province to make sure that all is well. Nothing unusual about it.”

  “Rasid did not ask anything special from you? No favors?”

  I began to wonder why I was being asked these questions since Kalam had never shown any interest in my business before. My voice sharpened as I replied, “Why do you care?”

  Kalam shrugged. “It’s of no importance. I’m just curious.”

  Slightly mollified, I answered, “He spoke of the Rebels and their growing influence. I was then asked to report any rumors or anything out of the ordinary that came my way. It was actually more of an order really. Something seems to be bothering the Mujadeen.”

  “And how did that feel? To be told to spy on others?”

  “I did not like it at all,” I replied honestly. “My job is to run my hotel, not to spy on my customers.”

  Kalam returned his attention back to his work. He said over his shoulder, “Times are changing. The old order is crumbling like the bricks of your hotel. You will have to be very careful if you want to stay alive.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  He shrugged but did not answer.

  I angrily left Kalam, letting the old man keep his mysterious words. From there, I entered the town. These days Ewark was certainly not an impressive sight, but it has been said that it was once a mighty metropolis in the days of the Ancients. Back then, it supposedly had innumerable buildings built to dizzying heights, a network of roads which were mysteriously lit at night, and thousands of residents. Now, looking at the rutted track that ran between the handful of low buildings, such past stories had to be the creation of a fanciful imagination. There was nothing here but sand. Underneath the surface, scraps of old wreckage was occasionally discovered by someone digging a well or repairing a foundation. But still, if there had been a great city here, not all of it could have disappeared under the sands.

  Before returning to my hotel, I decided to replenish my larder. The store I stopped at had been built a scant twenty years ago, but already looked as it would collapse. The hardened mud that made up the sides was faded from years of blowing sand, and the thatch roof sagged on one side. It really wasn't that good of a place, but except for the open market, the owner had the luxury of having a monopoly on the trade.

  I pushed open the wooden door, which let out a clang from the bell mounted above the frame. Inside, I saw I was the only customer. It was dingy as usual, with only two oil lamps providing the light, except for the sun which shone dimly through the dusty window. The glass counter that stretched the length of the store was equally dirty and the cuts of meat inside were swarming with lazy, fat flies - which is one reason why I preferred to buy my meat from a local farmer. The rest of my food and supplies I sadly had to purchase here.

  "Ah, Mikel!" a voice rang out from behind the counter. It was Myliss, the storeowner. She was a skinny shrew of a woman with lank brown hair that was streaked with gray. Her manner towards me was always ingratiating, but I heard that she had a sharp tongue for her employees and less wealthy customers.

  "Good morning," I said. "I shall need fifty pounds of rice, ten pounds of butter, and five loaves of bread. I will also need some saffron, ginger, and garlic."

  She sadly shook her head. "I have everything but the butter and the garlic. And for now I can only give you twenty pounds of rice."

  I hesitated before answering, calculating the state of my own supplies. "That's going to make things difficult. Are you having trouble with your vendors?"

  "The regular supply caravan is late. There hasn't been one here for over a week. I'm going to have to start raising prices if things don't get any better."

  I shrugged since caravans were usually notoriously late. "Well, deliver what you can. I can make what I already have last a little longer. With the number of customers visiting my hotel, there is little chance that I will starve to death."

  "I need payment now," Myliss said, her normally friendly tone was now hard and unyielding. "I also need payment for last month's bill."

  "But I always pay on time," I replied indignantly. "Why are you changing your terms with me after so many years of business?"

  Her expression was now cold and unyielding. "I'm not only asking you, Mikel, but everyone. If I cannot get the food in, then prices are going to have to rise. That means my costs are also going to rise. So I will need the money to pay the few suppliers that do make it in to Ewark."

  "It’s really that bad?" I grumbled. "Very well, I will return with money in hand.”

  Her face softened, revealing an underlining anxiety. “The way things are going, it will be a wonder if I’m in business next year,” she complained. “The deliveries are getting rarer and rarer. The few caravans who do make it in complain of robbery, theft, and even death.”

  I pondered this news. It was always dangerous for the caravans, but such things had never stopped them to this degree. “I am sorry to hear that, Myliss. Has no one complained to the Sharif? It is his job to keep the province open to trade.”

  She shook her head. “I have made several appeals, but he always tells me that he lacks the manpower to cover every route. Anyways, much of what happens is beyond the borders of the province. I’ve heard word that the creatures of the Wasteland are on the march. But I don’t take much stock in such fantasies. There’s nothing there but sand, unless you believe those childish stories.”

  The Wasteland was a massive empty desert to the west of us. It went on for innumerable miles and was rumored to be populated by the most terrible of beasts. Most traders steered clear of the area, but the roads h
eading north and south still touched the borders of the accursed place. The Mujadeen were supposed to patrol these areas, keeping the citizens safe from violence.

  With a bow, I then left the store, wondering what this fresh information meant to me.

  Chapter 3