....that flows swift and sure in one direction

[communi_kate]

The Needy and the Wayfarer, part 2.

The evening was a resounding success.  By half past ten the musicians had packed up their instruments and gone home, leaving a table filled with dirty dishes and half-eaten hunks of gutted peacock. Fatima stayed until the last guest had been shown to their quarters.  After the last plate had been cleaned, the last gauzy scarf retrieved from the banisters and the last table set for the lavish breakfast to greet the guests that had decided to stay the night, she made her way outside. 

The courtyard was dark and peaceful, still warm from the sun. It smelt of orange blossom, night air, and the smoke that drifted up from the pierced iron lanterns. Fatima walked around the pool. She scuffed her slippers over the warm tiles, thinking.

The door to the green room was still closed.

Fatima collected a candle-holder from one of the low marble benches that surrounded the pool.  She walked over to the window and stood on her tiptoes to touch the candle's wick to the smoky orange flame of the oil-lamp that burned overhead.  In the dim light of the candle, she could just make out the outline of the Prince's sleeping body, rolled in his cloak on the couch.

She shielded the candle-flame with one hand and pushed the door open.  The heavy brass hinges, well-oiled, made no sound.  The candle and the strip of orange light shining in through the two small windows gave her just enough light to avoid the untouched tea-tray that Aisha had left just inside the door. The Prince did not move. 

Fatima tucked a strand of hennaed hair behind her ear and approached the sleeping man.  Growing more confident, she set the candle down on the floor and picked up his boots to examine the leather.  Much like the man himself, they looked like they had once been of good quality. She tucked them under her arm for cleaning and picked up the lamp.

"What are you doing?"

Fatima gasped and dropped the boots. They clattered to the tiled floor.  She swung around to face the prince, feeling obscurely guilty. "I'm cleaning," she said angrily.

The Prince blinked once and swept tangled hair out of his eyes.  He had a soldier's trick of coming awake almost immediately, she noticed. "It's rather late."

"A woman's work is never done," she said glibly, and bent down to pick up the boots.

"Leave them there."

"They need cleaning." As do you, Fatima thought. She let the boots lie and straightened, watching him carefully, because it was unlikely that anybody would notice if he slit her throat, then ran away over the rooftops.  It would have surprised her if he had, but she'd been wrong before.

"I've stayed too long already," he said, and swung his legs off the end of the couch. The movement swept his cloak back to reveal a rather strange costume consisting of stained, mismatched armor and an inordinate number of belts. A dark stain was just visible beneath his cloak, glinting slickly in the lamplight, as if the sudden movement had opened a wound. The Prince didn't appear to notice. He rose smoothly, leaning slightly to one side, and reached out a hand to her.  "Thank you for your kindness. I must go."   

"You're injured."

"A scratch."

Fatima stepped closer. She lowered the lamp and reached forward, touching his side gently. Her fingers came away red and sticky.

"Excuse me." the Prince said.

Fatima was no longer listening. She wiped her fingers on her skirt and shoved the Prince gently in the centre of his chest, just below the strange medallion that he wore. "Sit down."

He rocked but stayed standing, holding himself carefully as if he was used to compensating for injuries. "I must leave."

"Just let me have a look. It won't take long."

"No."

"Then we'll stay here all night, or until one of us falls over."

He scowled at her between locks of tangled hair, but said nothing. 

Fatima chose her words carefully.  "I had my son when I was fifteen. Hamit. He died when he was three. You'd be of an age, had he lived. I've been a whore half my life, and a brothel-keeper for the rest. Now I reach the end of my life, and I grow concerned about the fate of my immortal soul. Do you believe?"

The Prince looked away. He still did not sit down. "I used to."

"Then you know that God will admit those who obey him to gardens graced with flowing streams and condemn those that do not to an eternity of torment. I merely ask my chance to erase my sins." She touched the silver scroll at her neck and looked up at him through lowered eyelids, wondering if she had overdone the scripture.  Complicated explanations only confused men. She pushed gently at his chest, and smiled as he sat. "Stay until sunrise."

The Prince looked at her. He looked at the couch and at the dark night outside, and finally nodded.

"I'll fetch water," Fatima told him. "Wait here."

She left the room and walked across the courtyard to the kitchen, wondering as she went how to persuade the prince to bathe before sunrise.  She would have offered more hospitality, but one of the many lessons she had learned was that when a man had had a long hard day it was not the best time to suggest the Congress of the Fox and the Persimmon.

The kitchen was deserted. Fatima wedged a bowl of healing balm and a handful of linen bandages into a ewer, drew a bowl of water from the tap, and walked back juggling the items like an Indian conjurer. She levered the door open with one foot and checked the couch. To her surprise, he was still there.

"Right," she said. "Take your cloak off."

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course not." Fatima said.

The Prince rolled his eyes at her, but he reached up and began to remove his cloak. Fatima steeped half of the bandages in the water and laid the remainder on the couch. She knelt and started to unbuckle the belts on his left side.  The armor, like the boots, was of good quality.   It was just a pity it didn't reach below his navel.  Once exposed, the wound was messy, but not serious. It was muscle-deep, but too old to require stitches. Fatima was glad.  Her eyes weren't what they had been. When she had cleaned as much of the wound as she could manage with the armor on, she wrung the cloth out and gestured at the straps that crossed his shoulders. "Off."

The Prince started at her as if she had requested a dozen freshly plucked chickens, a cloak of feathers and a whip. "You ask too much."

"Believe me, I could ask a lot more. Off." She shook the bloody water from her hands.  "Quickly, please. I haven't got all night."

The Prince glanced at the door. His right hand jerked up to cover the bronze medallion on his chest. Fatima sighed and set another batch of bandages to soak in the bowl. "I don't care about the trinket.  Whatever it is. Besides," she added, "it doesn't look valuable."

"It's priceless."

"Worth nothing, then.  Right."

The Prince shook his head, but he began to unbuckle his breastplate. "Unbelievable," he muttered under his breath. "You're worse than Farah."

Fatima's hearing, unlike her knees, had not deteriorated at all over the years. "What was that?"

The Prince's educated voice hardened into ice-cold syllables. "I merely commented that you remind me of a friend of mine."

"Was she pretty?"

"No," he said quickly, and paused as he unfastened the last clasp. "Yes, she was. Very much so."

 "Where is she now?"  Fatima asked.  Gone, she guessed. No woman worth her salt would let her man get into such a state. She picked up another handful of wet rags and started to wash out the wound.

"It doesn't matter." His tone of voice was not forthcoming.

She plastered on a thick layer of healing salve onto the cut, noticing another gash just below his left shoulder.  Like the first one, it was shallow; painful, but not disabling.  The skin under the wound was marked with dark patterns.  As Fatima washed the blood away, she could see that they were tattoos, forbidden to all members of the True Faith.

The Prince turned his head to see what she was looking at. "They said that they'd keep the dahaka away," he commented, and paused. "They lied."

Fatima opened her mouth to ask the Persian what on earth he thought he was talking about, but before she could get any words out she heard a crash and a scream from the courtyard, closely followed by the sound of running feet.  The door to the green room slammed open, scattering glasses and spilled mint tea over the tiled floor. It took Fatima a few seconds to recognize the distraught figure of Aisha, silhouetted in the doorway against the lamplight.    

"Please!" she gasped. "You've got to come, now! There's been an ..accident."

Fatima dropped the bowl onto the nearest table. She turned around to check on her patient, but he was already running past her. She caught up her skirt and raced into the house, skidding on discarded leaves of mint.  Girls were running left and right out of the door, and she grabbed the sleeve of the first one that ran past her. "Where's the judge?"

"He left," the girl sobbed.   "And then a group of them were drinking in the Rose Room, and they asked us all to do-."  Here she inserted an untranslatable Berber phrase. "So then we all said we wouldn't, and they started to complain about the money they'd paid, and one of them tried to-" She spat another unpleasant dialect word, and continued-"to Fatin." So Fatin slapped him, and he dragged her downstairs, shouting and complaining that she was a faithless whore, and then the rest of the men ran down and started yelling at us. Ali tried to push them out but they said they wouldn't go without a refund and then-" she paused and took a deep breath, "-that stranger that Aisha said you brought in off the streets ran into the courtyard and started, you know, hitting them." She looked up at the sound of splintering wood. "Hard."

The house was in chaos by the time Fatima reached it.

Fatin, one of Fatima's best and favorite girls, was lying her back on the floor of the main hall, weeping. A half-clothed man was tugging at her hair. Zohra was beating the man enthusiastically around the head with a pillow.  She looked up and yelped as a trio of similarly clad men raced down the staircase to the rescue of their friends, but continued with her beating.  A smaller group of men was clustered around the front gate, arguing with Ali, her night porter, and shouting threats up to the small group of girls who had gathered on the second-story landing to throw pots at them and scream insults in a variety of languages and accents. The judge, thankfully, was nowhere to be seen.

"STOP THIS!" Fatima screamed at the top of her lungs as she strode into the house. Her voice was loud, but nobody took any notice. She glanced around in dismay. The group had been a large one, but she had not been expecting any trouble.  Ali and Hassan were boxed into a corner, she had given the other two porters the evening off, and things were rapidly getting out of hand.

And that was when, with impeccable timing, Fatima caught sight of the Persian on the second-floor balcony. He was fighting a tall man who wore green trousers and precious little else, and he was doing it with such breathtaking ease that Fatima, who had seen many things, stopped and stared at the sight.  The Prince was standing on the railing, and looked more confident balancing on the narrow ledge than his opponent did standing on the floor. 

The man swung at him. The Prince leant gently to one side, waited until the man's momentum had carried him past, slipped down from the balcony and kicked him in the backside.  The man collapsed, bringing his head below the level of the balcony, and Fatima lost sight of him for a minute. When she saw the man in the green trousers again, he was sprinting down the staircase, taking each step two at a time in his hurry to reach the door. He pushed past the porters and disappeared through the gate.

That was the first one.

There must have been twenty angry, sexually frustrated men in the building.  It took the Prince less than five minutes to dispose of them all.

Fatima watched as he vaulted over the balcony, hanging by his hands for a second before dropping down. He handed just behind Fatin's attacker. As the man turned around to look at him, the Prince dropped down and executed a scything kick to his knees. The man dropped like a stone. Zohra hit the Prince twice around the head with a cushion before she realized what had happened, and in the choking cloud of feathers Fatin's assailant turned and fled.  The girls pursued him, shrieking like harpies, nails clawed, and that was enough to scare off a good chunk of the men who had been clustering around the gate.

The Prince moved on to the next attacker. This one was dispatched with the same brutal grace, while Fatima watched with open mouth and wished she was twenty years younger. She noticed a man standing a few feet away by the mountain by the fountain, picked up a heavy ceramic vase, and heaved it at him. "Get out!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

 The man fled. 

Fatima smiled. 

She gathered up the girls, bandaging cuts, wiping away tears, and commiserating over ripped dresses, watching the Prince moving from opponent to opponent as she worked. He struck with fists and feet, drawing blood sparingly, and never leaving an assailant unable to run for the shelter of the street.

Or at least, he did- until somebody picked up a sword.

Fatima saw the gleam of steel in the corner of her eye and screamed a warning. There were two of them, brothers from the look of it, strongly built and with the starved-hawk facial features that marked them as border tribesmen.   They circled the Prince warily, watching him like a dangerous animal.

 The shorter brother struck first, aiming for a killing blow. The Prince arched backwards to avoid it, pushed off from the floor with one hand and kicked the man solidly in the stomach. The man grunted, but kept hold of his sword.  The taller brother rushed, sensing his opponent's distraction, and the Prince blocked the cut with his armored forearm. He spun and smashed the man in the face with his other fist, dodging backwards as both brothers grunted and struck out. 

Zohra moved to Fatima's shoulder, brushing feathers from her hair. "Shouldn't we do something?" she asked.

"What, exactly?"

Zohra shrugged. "I don't know," she admitted. "I was thinking of fetching some charcoal to record the scene. For future...reference."

Fatima glared at her and turned her attention back to the fight. The Prince had moved into the shelter of a pillar his head flicking backwards and forwards like a hunting hawk as he tried to keep an eye on both of the men. The taller brother circled him, searching for an opening. He jabbed, missed, and hit the pillar. As he tugged at the hilt of his blade, the Prince reached up and vaulted over his opponent's body in a move that Fatima would never have considered physically possible. He struck once, twice, and the man went down.  

That left the shorter brother, who seemed to have more skill at arms than his sibling, or at least more patience.  He attacked methodically, wasting no strength, and used his blade to block as well as strike. The Prince, hard-pressed, ducked, spun in a fighting crouch to avoid another attack, and leaned back again as the scimitar whirled past his chin.  He took one more step backwards and his spine came up hard against the pillar. His opponent closed in, breathing hard.

The Prince reached up to grip the column. The move exposed his throat to the blade, and Fatima winced as the man drew back his arm. The blow she was dreading never landed. The Prince twisted and kicked off from the pillar. His foot hit the cheekbone of the shorter man with devastating force.  There was an audible crack as the bone shattered.

The man reeled, his hands to his face, and dropped his sword.  The Prince slammed into him, scooping up the sword before it hit the ground.  He reversed the hold as he fell, landing crouched atop the prone body of his opponent. The blade gleamed in the lantern light as he raised it to strike.

Fatima put all the power of her lungs into her scream. "No! Don't kill him!"

The Prince's head snapped around. His expression was focused and completely merciless.

"Stop!" Fatima shouted again.

The sword, which had already begun its descent to the man's throat, jerked once, wavered, and then stopped. She watched as the humanity flooded back into the Prince's face, walked over, and held out her hand for the blade, speaking as she went and trying to project a confidence that she certainly did not feel.  "Yes, well, I think that's enough for tonight," She gestured at the few remaining conscious men. "Out, please. Somebody will send your clothes. And girls, clean up, if you would be so kind. "She took the sword from the Prince's hand.  "Impressive."

The Prince did not reply. 

There was a confused expression on his face, as if he was learning to be human again and hadn't got half of it right.  A thin line of blood dribbled from the salved wound on his side. He stepped back from his opponent as the man choked and rose to his feet, swaying, a spider web of blood on one cheek. He gave the Prince and Fatima a horrified look and staggered towards the door. 

Fatima handed the sword to Aisha, who stuck it in her sash absentmindedly and gazed at the Prince, a sweet half-smile curving her lips.

"You're injured," she said. "Perhaps I can bind your wounds."

"No, I'm really much better," said a quiet but insistent voice from behind Fatima.

The Prince turned around and walked straight back into the green room. Fatima looked around at the assembled women, shrugged, and followed him. She found him seated on the bed, pulling on his boots.

"Where were we?" she said brightly.

"You were refusing to take 'no' for an answer," he said. "And I was just leaving."

Fatima lifted the still-burning candle from the table and reached up to light the oil lamps. "Not this again," she said mildly. "I thought we had an agreement." She blew the candle out and knelt down beside him, wiping off the salve she had just applied. "I think we're going to need more bandages."

She took another handful of salve and looked up at the Prince expectantly, only to find him staring down at her with a very odd expression on his face.

"What is that?"'

"What?'

The Prince gestured at the pot of salve in Fatima's hands. "The jar."

Fatima looked at the jar. It was old, its ceramic worn and cracked, curved like a baobab trunk with a narrow, open neck and a pattern of red spirals around its fat middle.  "Oh, this broken thing? It was a gift.  From an old, old, friend of mine."

"What friend?" the Prince asked harshly. The expression on his face was dangerously similar to the one Fatima had seen as he crouched over the body of the man, sword at his throat, ready to strike.  She put the jar down. "An old Bedouin. I don't think that he would want me to tell you more. He doesn't much like strangers."

The Prince laughed; a strange and harsh sound that caught in his throat. "Believe me, I'm not a stranger." His gaze flickered back to the jar. She thought for a second that he might threaten her, but the cracking tension in the air eased, and he settled back on the couch. "He would be an old, blind man," he said, carefully. "With red robes, and a turban to match."

Fatima nodded. "It seems that we share similar acquaintances." She measured out a few bandages against her arm.

"Then tell me where he is."

"Tell me your business, first." Fatima countered. She began to wrap the bandages around the Prince's torso. He held still, but she could feel the tension in him beneath her hands. 

He gasped and shifted as she tightened the linen over the wound. "Where does he camp?" 

"Not without your business. I won't see him harmed." Fatima said. She knotted the bandages and began on the second wound, the one over his left shoulder.

"Very well," the prince said, eventually. His voice took on a storyteller's rhythmic cadence. "Most people think time is like a river, that flows swift and sure in one direction.  But I have seen the face of time, and I can tell you they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm.  You may wonder who I am and why I say this, but  I will tell you a tale like none that I have even heard.  Know first, I am the son of Sharaman, a mighty King of Persia -"

The first faint light of dawn had appeared in the sky by the time he finished his story.  Aisha had brought another tray of mint tea, and another after that, and between the two of them they had managed to sneak the Prince's boots away to be polished without him noticing.  The tale seemed to have drained the Prince, although Fatima, watching closely, deemed it a mix of exhaustion and blood loss. He sat with his head lowered and his hands dangling between his thighs.

Fatima blew on her mint tea. "That's a strange tale." she said.

"I have told it many times."

"What did you do with the dagger?"

The prince smiled beneath his matted hair. It was the first time Fatima had seen him smile, and she approved. "I used the last of its power to kiss a girl," he said, and touched the medallion on his armor. "She gave me this."

"Very wise." Fatima said. "But what then?" She gestured at his worn clothes, at the pile of bloodstained bandages and the sword. "This is not a happy ending."

The Prince shrugged. He flexed the muscles in his shoulders, testing the bandages, and began to buckle his armor. "I returned home with my father." he said. "I thought I had escaped.' There was a raw edge to his words. "I thought that I could cheat fate, and rest safe in Babylon. I had dreams of taking ship to India, of hunting for my love." He shrugged again. "And then the dahaka came."

"Da-what?"

"A creature of time itself. A mystical demon. At first it visited me only in my dreams, and my father thought me mad."

"I can't imagine why." Fatima said dryly.

"He changed his mind, when the first attack came. It hunted me relentlessly, and so I left the city. For seven years, it pursued me. Until now."

"You've cheated it?"

"Hardly."

"It's still chasing you?" Fatima glanced nervously around the ceiling. "Here? Now?"

"Yes," he said. "I confused it by taking ship to this country, but I had forgotten that not all perils are spiritual in nature.  My ship's captain thought to rob me, and I barely escaped with my life. It will be here soon, and I am..tired."

That, Fatima thought, is an understatement. "And the man you seek?'

"My mentor. The sands have made him blind, but he sees further than any sage I have ever known."

Fatima looked at the jar, shabby and unremarkable, and then back at the Prince. "The man you want is camped in the desert not two days travel south, in the oasis of Kardala." she told him. "I will give you maps."

"Kardala? I know it. No need." The Prince got to his feet. He picked up his sword, slid the blade into the scabbard at his hip and draped his cloak over the weapon.  "It is a small place."

Fatima hurriedly rose. "You're leaving?" she said, and pinched out the wick of the oil lamp.

"It is sunrise," the Prince observed. He opened the door and walked out into the courtyard. 

Fatima followed him, feeling like a small and bewildered dog, or a camp-follower of the most confused sort. "What will you do?"' she asked.

"I'll seek a way to change my fate."

Fatima shook her head as he reached the back gate and slid the bolts back. Diplomatically, she said nothing. 

The Prince did not notice her silence. "A thousand thanks for all your hospitality." he said in that impossibly cultured voice. "I'll send money." He looked down at his ragged clothing. "Assuming I survive."

"No need."

The Prince smiled ruefully and stepped out into the street.

"Wait!" Fatima said. She threw the door open and gazed out over the threshold. It was market day, and the streets were crowded, but she could just make out the sober, hooded silhouette of the Prince. He paused.

"You never told me your name."

"........." he said, but his reply was lost in the cries of "Baluck!" as a train of mules surged up from a side street. Fatima pressed herself against the wall to escape the crushing hooves and the sticks of the muleteers. By the time she raised her head, he was nowhere in sight. She shrugged philosophically, reached into her robe and withdrew the bag of sugared almonds.

Chewing on the sweets, she made her way back across the courtyard and into the house proper. Aisha greeted her, just inside the door.

"So what happened to him?"' she asked. The girls were gathered in the downstairs sitting room, enjoying a late breakfast after the exertions of the previous evening. The sound of chatter and the clink of cups and vases fell silent as the women waited to hear the answer to Aisha's question.

"Well," Fatima said, and tucked the almonds into her sleeve. She sat down on a divan and reached for a glass of mint tea.

"Most people think time is like a river," she said, "that flows swift and sure in one direction.  But one has have seen the face of time, and he will tell you they are wrong. Time is an ocean in a storm.  You may wonder why I say this. Sit down, and I will tell you a tale like none that you have ever heard."

 

 

Author's Note: The fictional country of Aresura is mentioned briefly in Battles of Prince of Persia, a game which I have never played and am unlikely to. In my mind it's very much like the medieval kingdom of Fez, hence the Moroccan detailing. Circassians are the equivalent of Turks/Western Russians and were famously light-skinned, like the fair Circassian maid in Kubla Khan. The verses (mis)quoted by Fatima are taken from the Qur'an, and the 'Congress of the Fox and the Persimmons' is a direct quote from Terry Pratchett's book 'Pyramids'. The story the Prince tells is of course taken directly from the Sands of Time. I did attempt to locate the POP universe in a realistic Ancient Persian timeline, but it made my brain hurt.   God I take this stuff way too seriously.

This fic is dedicated to my sister, who bugged me until I wrote it.