Players of the Game. Graeme Talboys K.
They seemed to be the only ones there who knew where they were going and wanted to get there quickly.
‘Let’s try down there,’ said Alltud, pointing to a side road that seemed less crowded. ‘As long as we keep going downhill, we’ll end up at the harbour.’
Jeniche agreed and they cut through to a narrower street that had houses between the shops and stalls. Partway along, a donkey suddenly lurched forward in front of them. The cart it was pulling caught against a stall and brought it down, spilling produce across the ground.
Immediately they were engulfed in a fierce argument. Several boys were trying to free the frightened donkey, the stall holder was cursing the carter whilst trying to stop a half-starved youth from helping himself to a handful of carrots, shoppers were gathering to watch the free show, and people were emerging from surrounding houses to join in. The road was completely blocked.
‘Where have they all come from?’ asked Alltud, trying to back away from the arguing throng.
‘This is quiet by Makamban standards,’ said Jeniche with a grin. She pointed to an alley that seemed to be going downhill. ‘This has probably just thrown fuel on a long-running rivalry. The carter and the stallholder most likely belong to two different local families. All their relatives will be there. And anyone else who enjoys a good argument.’
They reached the quiet of the alley, but after a few paces it turned to the right and led them back to the main thoroughfare. The noise and bustle seemed worse than ever, shoppers haggling, arguing over the sharply rising prices, stall holders arguing back. But at least they were able to make their way downhill, no matter how slowly.
At one stall, Jeniche stopped and bought two slices of melon, talking with the elderly vendor.
‘Same story,’ she said when she returned to Alltud. ‘My Arbiq’s a bit shaky, but it’s clear he was saying less stuff is coming up from the south. More mouths here to feed. No shortages as yet, but he seemed a bit worried.’
Alltud nodded as he enjoyed the sweet flesh of the fruit. ‘Sounds like another argument further down.’
Jeniche went up on tiptoe to look over the crowds. ‘There’s a gathering of some sort. One of those preachers on a box.’
They pushed closer. They might be half mad, these prophets out of the mountains to the south, but they often had news.
‘New bloke,’ they heard someone say.
‘Wish they’d leave off with the doom and gloom,’ said another.
It was difficult to make it all out. The man, dirty and ragged, wild eyes in a hollow face, balanced on an old fish box and ranted. They caught snippets; talk of pale demons stalking the land, stealing the crops, forcing people from their villages, talk of them desecrating holy places, breaking taboos. Talk of them flying.
Jeniche and Alltud looked at each other. They had heard this before. Witnessed it elsewhere. It could only mean one thing. Somewhere, to the south, there were Occassans, their enemies of old. Cold-hearted, equipped with weapons and machines far in advance of everyone else, they were locusts in human form. Wherever they appeared they stripped the land and displaced the people, driven by some obscure craving.
Memories they had both suppressed unfolded themselves. Of danger and fear and pain and loss. Grim-faced, they pushed forward so they could hear clearly. It was barely worth the effort. The crowd had obviously listened to this kind of thing before and not all of them were impressed or happy that trade was being disrupted. But even though he was only partially coherent, the preacher was getting through to some, whipping up resentment against the Occassans who he constantly called the defilers.
Alltud nudged Jeniche and she followed his gaze. There were people working the crowd. Not thieves, but compatriots of the speaker. They were focussing on young men, talking to them, persuading. Some weren’t interested. Others, the hungry, discontented, and displaced were making their way to one side.
‘Recruiting,’ said Alltud. ‘That means trouble ahead. Definitely time to get out.’
It would have been wasted effort to try to carry on down the main thoroughfare. A nearby arcade looked less crowded and they ducked in that way. It was part of the jeweller’s quarter and Jeniche looked over the goods with a professional interest, her hands well in view. They stopped at one stall to admire some intricate dagger sheaths. The owner looked up and scowled at them. He clearly knew a thief when he saw one, recognized the way she assessed pieces by the ease with which they could be broken up and sold on. He must have rung a bell or given some other signal because an elaborately embroidered inner curtain was pushed aside and a large, heavily scarred man appeared. They didn’t hang around to see what he would do.
The jewellers’ shops gave way to other emporia and workshops, with smaller arcades running off at different angles. Brassmongers hammered at plates, jugs, and buckles; cutlers sprayed passers-by and knots of admiring children with sparks from their grindstones, whitesmiths toiled over intricate confections of silver, tin, and pewter. Further on, the din of metal working was softened as they passed booths selling cloth and clothes, carpets, slippers, sandals, and boots.
At the far end, they found themselves on a quieter street, but as soon as they tried to turn downhill again the way was blocked by several well-armed men in some kind of uniform.
‘You can’t go down this way. There’s been an incident.’
The speaker had a face and physique they didn’t care to argue with so they carried on, still moving parallel to the coast. Before long they found themselves in a poor residential area. Dark, narrow streets lit only by the occasional torch, paving stones and cobbles giving way to packed earth. And then dark, narrow alleys where the ground was broken and lit only by stray beams of lamplight from houses of people too poor for curtains or properly fitting shutters.
Jeniche was not happy.
‘I don’t like this,’ she said.
‘Neither do I,’ agreed Alltud.
They decided to retrace their steps and look for a better-lit way down to the harbour. After a few steps, they stopped. Blocking off the end of the alley, leaning with casual menace against the walls, were three well-armed young men.
‘I’m beginning to think someone doesn’t want us to get to the harbour.’
Alltud followed Jeniche into yet another narrow gap between buildings. He groped along behind her as fast as he dared in the darkness, fumbling to get his keffiyeh across his face as Jeniche had done. There was still a great deal of desert dust about, especially in less-frequented byways. When they had been out for an evening stroll it was bearable, especially in areas kept clean on a regular basis, but they were now in a hurry and trying to avoid others, darting through places that street sweepers had not bothered or dared to venture. The last thing either of them wanted was to be incapacitated by a coughing fit.
He was happy to follow her lead. Desert girl she may be, but this kind of landscape was her natural environment and she seemed to know by instinct which alleys were blind, where the crossways were, what doorways were safe to rest in.
There was, however, precious little time to rest. Jeniche grabbed the cuff of his right sleeve in her left hand and continued to lead the way. Even though his eyes had now become accustomed to the intense gloom, he could see very little beyond the shape of Jeniche in front of him – a swift shadow in the darkness ahead.
‘How much chance,’ he asked in a whisper as they stopped at a junction, ‘do we stand of losing them?’
Jeniche said nothing for a moment, checking that the way ahead was clear, and then tugged his sleeve to get him moving. ‘Not much,’ she replied once they had crossed an unlit residential road and plunged into another alley. Invisible walls loomed above them on either side, their unseen presence sensed