The Great Bazaar and Other Stories by Peter V. Brett Read Free Book Online

camel's feet, as well as the wheels of the
cart, were wrapped in cushioned leather for silence, and whispered in the dusty
sandstone streets. They dared no light as they crossed the city, but the stars
in the desert were bright, and the flashing of the wards in the Maze was like
lightning, illuminating everything for a moment at random intervals.
    "We meet
Jamere at Sharik Hora, the temple of Heroes' Bones," Abban said. "He
cannot venture far from the acolyte cells."
    Arlen weathered a
moment's guilt. Mammoth Sharik Hora was both temple and graveyard, the entire
structure built from the dal'Sharum who had died in alagai'sharak. The mortar was mixed with their blood. Their bones and skin composed the
furniture. Hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of warriors had given their
lives for its ideals and their bodies for its walls and domed ceiling.
    There was no
holier place in Fort Krasia than Sharik Hora, and here he was, sneaking in the
night to steal from its walls. Like Baha kad'Everam. Like Anoch Sun.
    Is that all I
am? Arlen wondered to himself. A grave robber? A man without honor?
    He almost asked
Abban to turn back. But then, he thought of the huge temple, and how the dal'Sharum could not even fill the seats anymore, because of their endless
war of attrition. All because a group of Holy Men hoarded knowledge. The
Tenders of the northland were much the same, and Arlen had never hesitated to
ignore their rules.
    They're only
copies , he told himself. Ent stealing, just forcing them to share.
    It still ent
right , his father said in his head.
    They left the cart
in an alley two blocks away, and went the rest of the way on foot. The streets
were utterly deserted. As they approached the temple, Abban tied a bright cloth
to the end of his spear, waving it back and forth. After a moment, a similar
cloth was waved from a window on the second story.
    "That way,
quickly," Abban said, hobbling towards the window as fast as his lame leg
would allow. "If they catch Jamere out of his cell..." he left the thought
unfinished, but Arlen could easily imagine the rest.
    As they put their
backs to the temple wall, a thin silk rope was slung down from the window. The
boy who slid down it may have been skinny, but he moved with the fluid grace of
a warrior. The dama were masters of the brutal Krasian art of weaponless
combat known as sharusahk. Arlen had studied the art with its greatest
teachers amongst the dal'Sharum , but while it was only part of a
warrior's overall training, the dama devoted their lives to the practice.
Arlen had never seen one of them actually fight—no one was fool enough to
attack a dama —but he saw how they moved, always in perfect balance and
awareness. He did not doubt that they were masters of killing men.
    "I've only a
moment, uncle," the boy said, pressing a leather satchel into Abban's
hands. "I think someone heard me. I need to get back before I am seen, or
they perform a bido count."
    Abban produced a
pouch that clinked heavily with coin, but the boy held up his hand.
"Later," he said. "I don't want it with me if I'm caught."
    "Nie's black
heart," Abban muttered. "Get ready to run," he told Arlen,
handing him the satchel.
    "I'll give
the money to your mother," Abban told Jamere.
    "Don't you
dare!" the boy hissed. "The witch will steal it. I'll come for it
later, and you had best have it ready!"
    He went and
gripped his rope, but before he could begin to climb, a flickering light
blossomed in the window above, and there was a shout as the rope was spotted.
    "Run!"
Abban whispered harshly, using the spear to hop along at an impressive pace.
Arlen followed, and when a white robed dama stuck a lamp out the window
and spotted them, the boy came hurrying after, muttering Krasian curses too
fast for Arlen to follow.
    "You there!
Stop!" the cleric cried. Lights began to blossom in the temple windows,
and the dama leapt from the window, disregarding the rope entirely. He
hit the sandstone street in a roll, heading