The Journal of Rafiq al-Rashid
The day began with a simple errand. Collect some papers, flash your smile, sign the family name and don’t cause too much trouble. Trouble. That’s what he calls fun these days. Gone is the time when we would play monkey on the rooftops or hide from teacher. Now it is all margins and profit. But he is my brother, so I picked up his books and flashed my smile. The way I saw it, I’d earned the afternoon off and he could have his books later. The famous Manzil-e-Shamar coffee house beckoned.
They say that you can find anything in this bazaar provided you know where to look, and Shamar’s coffee house was one such treasure. I heard talks that he pays some of the dock hands to occasionally ‘lose’ a crate of the finer import, which will always find it’s way to my table with a smile and a story to tell.
But fate dictated a different tale. I will never forget the face of Hassani ibn-Manargi, as his body slumped to the floor. The moment he stepped through the door, time slowed. I could feel the weight of the table under my hand as I propelled myself forward. The distance I needed to travel felt like an eternity. And that was when I realised that I was not alone; a woman with the trappings of a bahari but the air of a Jandisari had joined the fray.
By the time we reached him, it was too late and he had succumbed to his wounds. There was little more we could do for do for Hassani but justice needed to be served.
It didn't take long for the pasdari to arrive which signalled the end of this particular performance and I found myself face to face with the city's bulldog: Sharif Umar ibn-Pasdari. We went through the usual motions of questioning and I found myself charged with tracing Hassani’s assailant. Fortunately I was not the only one in the wrong place at the wrong time as I had found myself in the company of the Jandisari and another individual who would only refer to himself as 'Shade'.
We left that scene with zeal and purpose, but that quickly petered out when our search bore little fruit. In the end, we had but one charge left: to inform his family of the bazaari's fate. It was a duty that could not be traded or negotiated and it was the one I feared the most.
You would expect then, that when we found the family home to be unoccupied, I would be relieved but something about this felt wrong. Curiously, it did not appear that we were the only ones with interest in today’s events, two other now familiar faces were already waiting by the house when we arrived; a wall of scale and hide known as Pang and a young highborn orphan boy who answers to “Raouf”. At the time we didn’t pay them much heed, it’s not unusual for such events to draw a crowd. Nevertheless, we knocked on the door and waited for a reply.
Maybe I’m not suited for the pasdari lifestyle, or maybe I prefer the subtle, patient approach. Pang, we discovered, lacks both these qualities and the door was very quickly reduced to tinder.
What we saw was a stark contrast to what we expected; three men in attire of design unlike anything I have seen sold in these city walls. Two of them were short, slightly scruffy and had faces that you’d have trouble picking out from a crowd. The third man however, was unforgettable. They say the eye is a window to the soul, but looking through those eyes, I could not see the soul of a man. It was as though the beast within had been unchained and whatever sanity had long since fled.
Once again it appears that fate has a soft spot in her heart for me. On another day, my companions may have been market-men or ship hands and this fray would have been the first and last time I rolled dice with death. But between the five of us, this beast-man was quickly overwhelmed and the other two fled deeper into the building.
Growing up, teacher always told us that a mind must be calm and controlled in order to channel the arcane energies. Not that I paid much attention, magic was something my sister excelled in. Up until now, my education was mostly squandered on party tricks and impressing girls. It was only when that door splintered and my mortality come under full scrutiny, could I feel a thousand years of arcane teachings flow through my veins. The air froze on command and fire danced to my tune, I felt more alive in those few moments than I have ever felt before.
This newfound exhilaration quickly dissipated when I came to realise the horror that we had found ourselves standing in: the ibn-Manarghi homestead had become their tomb. The features of a woman and her child could be made out from amongst the scattered debris, their faces contorted in agony. This was not the work of Hassari blades or poison. This was butchery.
I was shaken out of my daze by the booming voice of our dragonborn companion; more bodies lay out in the next room. It appeared that even the livestock could not escape this act of wrath.
Fortunately, we had not been summoned to look at more corpses, our assailants had made no effort to conceal their tracks and a path lay leading up to a small hatch which led to a lower floor.
With any luck, the men were trapped below. As it was, we did not have time to wait them out and we could not risk there being another exit, we needed to follow them.
And in retrospect, we should have realised that they too would know this. Raouf was first to fall to their trap, a machination of searing acid which turned the ladder slick. One by one we fell, the writhe form of Shade softening my landing.
After the blows had landed and the bodies had fell, we discovered the rest of the ibn-Manarghi family. The remains of 2 young boys lay discarded by the exit we feared we would find. By the smell it became very apparent that someone had broken into this house from the city sewers.
I'm no stranger to getting my hands dirty but I have certain objections to wading knee deep in cess and sewage. And yet that day something, some unseen guide compelled us to press on.
The sewers were dark, damp and frankly an experience I hope to never repeat. Navigation was practically impossible since the sewers spanned most of the city, and you were often too preoccupied with not stepping in something foul that you’d hit your head instead.
Our search brought us to a stone staircase that continued up into a room somewhere just above our heads. Voices crept down the masonry, carrying with them the incantations of a language long dead. With the voices still ringing in our ears, we ascended the stairs and put a swift yet bloody end to their ritual before it could be completed. When the dust settled and the last foe fell, I had the opportunity to fully take in the room. It was around 30 feet from wall to wall and the centre was dominated by a large stone altar. I strode up to the altar, brushing away a corpse when I heard a clatter. A finely worked staff fell from his grip, it’s surface was a polished black and it ended in a slight hook. Upon the altar itself lay an open leather folder with 2 sheets of ancient parchment. The language was completely alien but the contents we undeniably magical.
News of this subversion had to be brought before the law, to allow it to continue would rot the very heart of our city. I picked up the pages and staff and we made way for the surface, where after we send a runner boy to take news to the Sharif such that he could assess the danger with his own eyes. However, it was long past twilight and it was unlikely Umar would be available before the dawn so we took the opportunity to scrub the dross from our clothes and get a well earned nights rest.
They say that you can find anything in this bazaar provided you know where to look, and Shamar’s coffee house was one such treasure. I heard talks that he pays some of the dock hands to occasionally ‘lose’ a crate of the finer import, which will always find it’s way to my table with a smile and a story to tell.
But fate dictated a different tale. I will never forget the face of Hassani ibn-Manargi, as his body slumped to the floor. The moment he stepped through the door, time slowed. I could feel the weight of the table under my hand as I propelled myself forward. The distance I needed to travel felt like an eternity. And that was when I realised that I was not alone; a woman with the trappings of a bahari but the air of a Jandisari had joined the fray.
By the time we reached him, it was too late and he had succumbed to his wounds. There was little more we could do for do for Hassani but justice needed to be served.
It didn't take long for the pasdari to arrive which signalled the end of this particular performance and I found myself face to face with the city's bulldog: Sharif Umar ibn-Pasdari. We went through the usual motions of questioning and I found myself charged with tracing Hassani’s assailant. Fortunately I was not the only one in the wrong place at the wrong time as I had found myself in the company of the Jandisari and another individual who would only refer to himself as 'Shade'.
We left that scene with zeal and purpose, but that quickly petered out when our search bore little fruit. In the end, we had but one charge left: to inform his family of the bazaari's fate. It was a duty that could not be traded or negotiated and it was the one I feared the most.
You would expect then, that when we found the family home to be unoccupied, I would be relieved but something about this felt wrong. Curiously, it did not appear that we were the only ones with interest in today’s events, two other now familiar faces were already waiting by the house when we arrived; a wall of scale and hide known as Pang and a young highborn orphan boy who answers to “Raouf”. At the time we didn’t pay them much heed, it’s not unusual for such events to draw a crowd. Nevertheless, we knocked on the door and waited for a reply.
Maybe I’m not suited for the pasdari lifestyle, or maybe I prefer the subtle, patient approach. Pang, we discovered, lacks both these qualities and the door was very quickly reduced to tinder.
What we saw was a stark contrast to what we expected; three men in attire of design unlike anything I have seen sold in these city walls. Two of them were short, slightly scruffy and had faces that you’d have trouble picking out from a crowd. The third man however, was unforgettable. They say the eye is a window to the soul, but looking through those eyes, I could not see the soul of a man. It was as though the beast within had been unchained and whatever sanity had long since fled.
Once again it appears that fate has a soft spot in her heart for me. On another day, my companions may have been market-men or ship hands and this fray would have been the first and last time I rolled dice with death. But between the five of us, this beast-man was quickly overwhelmed and the other two fled deeper into the building.
Growing up, teacher always told us that a mind must be calm and controlled in order to channel the arcane energies. Not that I paid much attention, magic was something my sister excelled in. Up until now, my education was mostly squandered on party tricks and impressing girls. It was only when that door splintered and my mortality come under full scrutiny, could I feel a thousand years of arcane teachings flow through my veins. The air froze on command and fire danced to my tune, I felt more alive in those few moments than I have ever felt before.
This newfound exhilaration quickly dissipated when I came to realise the horror that we had found ourselves standing in: the ibn-Manarghi homestead had become their tomb. The features of a woman and her child could be made out from amongst the scattered debris, their faces contorted in agony. This was not the work of Hassari blades or poison. This was butchery.
I was shaken out of my daze by the booming voice of our dragonborn companion; more bodies lay out in the next room. It appeared that even the livestock could not escape this act of wrath.
Fortunately, we had not been summoned to look at more corpses, our assailants had made no effort to conceal their tracks and a path lay leading up to a small hatch which led to a lower floor.
With any luck, the men were trapped below. As it was, we did not have time to wait them out and we could not risk there being another exit, we needed to follow them.
And in retrospect, we should have realised that they too would know this. Raouf was first to fall to their trap, a machination of searing acid which turned the ladder slick. One by one we fell, the writhe form of Shade softening my landing.
After the blows had landed and the bodies had fell, we discovered the rest of the ibn-Manarghi family. The remains of 2 young boys lay discarded by the exit we feared we would find. By the smell it became very apparent that someone had broken into this house from the city sewers.
I'm no stranger to getting my hands dirty but I have certain objections to wading knee deep in cess and sewage. And yet that day something, some unseen guide compelled us to press on.
The sewers were dark, damp and frankly an experience I hope to never repeat. Navigation was practically impossible since the sewers spanned most of the city, and you were often too preoccupied with not stepping in something foul that you’d hit your head instead.
Our search brought us to a stone staircase that continued up into a room somewhere just above our heads. Voices crept down the masonry, carrying with them the incantations of a language long dead. With the voices still ringing in our ears, we ascended the stairs and put a swift yet bloody end to their ritual before it could be completed. When the dust settled and the last foe fell, I had the opportunity to fully take in the room. It was around 30 feet from wall to wall and the centre was dominated by a large stone altar. I strode up to the altar, brushing away a corpse when I heard a clatter. A finely worked staff fell from his grip, it’s surface was a polished black and it ended in a slight hook. Upon the altar itself lay an open leather folder with 2 sheets of ancient parchment. The language was completely alien but the contents we undeniably magical.
News of this subversion had to be brought before the law, to allow it to continue would rot the very heart of our city. I picked up the pages and staff and we made way for the surface, where after we send a runner boy to take news to the Sharif such that he could assess the danger with his own eyes. However, it was long past twilight and it was unlikely Umar would be available before the dawn so we took the opportunity to scrub the dross from our clothes and get a well earned nights rest.
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