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Minau. In each telling, it grew in power, affecting its listeners
more profoundly. And if Harb were not a rational man, he
might have wondered if he felt Kaveh stirring somewhere
deep, awakening at the repeated invocation of his name. Cold
wind made him shiver as he glanced at Z'ev. The older man
had been marked more than he by their ordeals. His beard
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was now almost entirely silver, his raven hair shot through
with gray streaks.
We have enough for a bath, Z'ev said. New raiment. Once
we look more presentable, we will be able to get a meeting
with a merchant's assistant. I have been asking quietly ... and
we must find a man called Pelit.
We will need money yet for bribes. He will not aid us out of
goodness.
Z'ev gave a wry smile. There are none in Feroz who would.
On the way home that evening, they did their shopping,
clothes and boots to start anew. They returned to their corner
thrice more and spent the nights in a kindly peddler's tent.
For a copper kel, he let them sleep beside the oven. The
weather was turning, so neither Harb nor Z'ev could cavil at
the expense.
As the temperature dropped, their listeners thinned, and
soon they were down to one little girl. She had no coins to
give, but she came to listen daily.
On the last day, the small one came and sat expectantly,
her hands folded. She was a quiet child with hungry eyes.
Z'ev had taken to sliding her coppers when he thought Harb
was not watching, but he did not condemn the gesture, even
though it lacked pragmatism. She never asked for a certain
story, never spoke at all. And her silence made him curious.
Perhaps she too was mute, a quirk of nature, not intent. She
was neither as dirty as some urchins nor as thin, but she ran
freely enough for him to think her parents must be too weary
with work to care where she went.
What will become of her once we are gone?
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Tell her, he signed to Ze'v. Tell her we return no more.
Z'ev spoke the words and Harb saw the bitter
disappointment in her eyes, but still she did not speak.
Instead she drew closer to the guard and pressed a string of
tattered beads into his palm. Their eyes met and he was
reminded of a feral cat, then she sprang away, losing herself
in the thinning crowd. He tried not to mind when they packed
up their things. It was time to visit the bathhouse and the
barber.
Time to continue the quest.
The sky was threaded silver overhead, heavy with clouds.
The weather was colder in Feroz, though not so biting as in
the waste, where there were no walls to break the wind. Harb
had learned to like his dun desert robes, so as he strode
toward the bathhouse with their bundle of new clothes, he felt
a small pang of regret.
Within, the stone building was crowded, men of all ages
waiting for their turn in one of the bathing chambers. The air
was sultry, scented with oils and hot mint tea. Young boys
scurried with armloads of towels most of them were doe-
eyed and pretty. Harb knew that one might request more
than a bath at such places, but Z'ev declined the offer with a
slight shake of his head. The older man paid in silver and they
followed a small guide through an archway into an open room
that was already half full of bathing men.
Though he had heard of such wonders, Harb had never
seen the sunken baths of Feroz. Several stone basins were
recessed in the floor, each large enough for three men to
share. Water flowed and drained at a constant rate, by some
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magic or engineering that was beyond his reckoning. As Harb
glanced at his master, he saw the older man's discomfort
and he remembered Z'ev's crippled foot. He had little
sympathy for shyness, but he suspected Z'ev's reluctance
stemmed more from fear of being recognized.
 Bathe wherever you like, the boy said over the hiss of
the water.
He left them two towels and two slices of plain soap; they
had not paid for anything more elaborate. If they were to
afford bribes, they could not waste coin on silken robes or
chadra ushak. Z'ev hesitated as Harb bent to pick up the
supplies. Then after a moment, Z'ev started toward an empty
tub at the far corner of the room.
Harb did not wait for Z'ev he set down all the bundles he
carried and stripped off the desert robes. The water felt good,
if almost too hot. He spared a moment to wonder how it was
heated and then he settled onto the stone shelf to relax.
Perhaps it helped when Harb closed his eyes, but soon
enough, Z'ev joined him in the bath, his infirmity hidden by
water and steam. Weeks of hard living began to wash away.
Voices rose and fell around them, almost indistinguishable
from the sounds of the water, and the noise lulled him. He
might have even dozed. A splash nearby made Harb snap
alert, but when he opened his eyes, he saw an old man had
joined them. His beard was fully white and his sunburnt scalp
was as bare as his own.
 Nothing like a hot bath, eh? the old man said, settling
himself with a groan.
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Harb nodded, glancing at Z'ev as he did so. He did not
seem unduly alarmed so Harb made himself relax, but the
prickles did not entirely go away. Part of him felt threatened
by this wizened old man, though he could not have said why.
He reached for the soap and began to lather his chest.
 So what do you do? the elder was saying to Z'ev.
And that would be the danger.
 I am a storyteller, said Z'ev.
And Harb smiled, for it had become true as much as
anything else.
 A jahnu? How splendid! You are one of the last, you
know.... He rambled on for a few moments about the dying
art, and Harb felt a twinge, knowing that he had failed to
keep the tradition alive. But he had not been able to escape
the magicians, though he'd certainly tried.  I know your
offering bowl is packed away, but I will pay well for a
recitation of Jyotish and the greening of Maksoor Balad.
The guard felt Z'ev's sharp look. He could not recall the
last time he'd told that tale. In fact, he was not sure Z'ev had
ever heard it. Few remembered the lost city's name, let alone
the story of its origin how Jyotish had taken a place of dust
and death and made it bloom, a green paradise for the Sut.
Fewer knew the tale of how Maksoor Balad had perished,
buried in molten rock that Animukh had brought from the
mountain in answer to Kaveh's loss. Harb studied the old man
more carefully, but could detect no hint he was more than he
seemed.
I know the tale, he signed carefully. Would you try?
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At last Z'ev said,  I appreciate your offer, honored sayyid,
but I am here to relax, not work, no matter how I enjoy the
storyteller's art.
 Ah, I understand, the old man answered.  I hope I have
not intruded?
 Not in the least.
It was clear to Harb, however, that the ksathra felt the
same prickle of threat toward their uninvited companion. Z'ev
followed Harb's example, taking the soap to wash himself
quickly. They finished the hygienic portion of the bath, but it
became clear that departure might prove something of a
challenge. The old man showed no inclination to leave the hot
water until every bit of him was as withered as his face, and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]