Chapter Four
Kha’atib, leader of the White Watchers, Protector of the Scrolls of Hateeb, Emissary of Sira’an, stood fuming at the edge of his chambers as he stared across the vast, open desert beyond Johsala. The city waited with bated breath as to the implications of Hakri revealing himself as Abd ar-Rahman. Many had fled the city after Kha’atib’s raids to find the false prophet, but Kha’atib feared that many who remained held out hope that Hakri was indeed the man to unite Johsala in al-Din’s name. If Kha’atib wasn’t careful, Hakri would become a symbol of freedom in his own right.
“I warned you,” he heard Ba’ahir say from inside. “If only love would kill us all in the end, but it’s never as quick as a dagger through the heart. Hanir betrayed you. She may be seductive, she may earn me a lot of coin, but she’s not one of mine. I told you she could not be trusted.”
Though he was loath to accept that Ba’ahir was right, Kha’atib felt some sympathy to his chief financier’s cause.
“Your man. Hadaar. You set him free?”
“The moment Simak told me it was Hakri, not Hadaar, that she met in secret outside the walls of al-Din’s tomb.”
Kha’atib nodded but said nothing more to seal Hanir’s fate.
“What news from the city?”
Ba’ahir shuffled outside, shielding the mid-morning sun from his eyes.
“We’ve begun solidifying the catapults on the walls surrounding Burghat. Raids between Qaris and Ma’ar Shaheer still hamper our efforts to ease the merchants’ pockets, but much less so than before. You’ve managed to instil a measure of pride within the new militia between here and Qaris. The outskirts of al-Qurut is being cleared of peasants. Some have joined our ranks. Others have drifted off.”
“And where do they drift to?” Kha’atib asked, glad to be distracted from Hanir’s betrayal at last. Ba’ahir joined him at looking beyond the desert, though his gaze searched past the morning haze north of al-Qurut.
“Some no doubt drift to the Third Ring. Some find work in the mines. Many have joined Atlah’s men, though we won’t know who we can trust until they all return. Either way, we’re ridding ourselves of those unwilling to become loyal to our cause.”
“Which swells Wahid’s army.”
As Ba’ahir turned, Kha’atib cursed himself to revealing even the slightest hint of fear.
“Perhaps you were wrong to imprison the boy,” Ba’ahir said. “You promised Johsala a fair trial, that if he showed himself, Abd ah-Rahman’s concerns would be heard.”
Kha’atib grunted his concession.
“As far as they’re aware, the boy claiming to be Abd ar-Rahman and I are still in discussion. Hakri will be dealt with, publicly so when the time is right.”
He turned upon Ba’ahir. “Johsala is at a point where it must decide who it follows. We must shape that decision, but we cannot do so if the real Abd ah-Rahman is loose within the city.”
“I agree,” Ba’ahir said. “I cannot openly search for ah-Rahman when the city believes he remains as your protected guest.”
“I wish that boy had died with Ha’amturah,” Kha’atib growled, desperate to keep the pretence alive. Ba’ahir stepped away, offering Kha’atib one last piece of advice.
“For those loyal to Ha’amturah, Hakri may as well be the Qhabir himself. He said he carries Ha’amturah’s final instruction, to remind us of our loyalty to al-Din. If they believe him, Sattah’s reign will collapse, as will your grip upon our people. It won’t matter if the threat comes from Wahid or the Kjatmi’ir. Johsala will ignite, and the Holy City will burn to the ground.”
Hidden in a prison cell beneath the city, exposed by a pale firelight, Hakri limply hung with his feet barely touching the ground, suspended from the ceiling by chains strapped to his wrists. He’d lost consciousness several times, the blood no longer oozing from his swollen eye. It had sealed shut, and Kha’atib wondered how much clearer Ha’amturah’s aide would see if Simak continued beating Hakri the way he had.
“Wake him up,” he commanded, so Simak hurled the fetid contents of a slop bucket over Hakri’s face. In pain, Hakri tried to rise upon his feet.
“Why do you protect him?” Kha’atib asked with feigned sincerity. “If Ha’amturah is alive, then it is he who claims the name Abd ah-Rahman. Why suffer for his mistakes?”
Hakri groaned, the effort of standing almost too much. Kha’atib leaned close, his hand gently pressing upon Hakri’s shoulder, pulling the chains against the boy’s wrists. He knew Ha’amturah was Abd ah-Rahman the moment Hakri revealed himself in the Temple of al-Din, but Kha’atib could do little without proof.
“I know you too well, Hakri,” he solemnly said. “You have a gentle heart. The acts of Abd ah-Rahman are not of your mind. Yet Ha’amturah knows also of your desire to please. That’s why he sent you. He knew you would suffer in order to save him. He knew you would die in his place.”
With heroic effort, Hakri gathered his feet beneath him and rose to face Kha’atib.
“I am Abd ah-Rahman,” he rasped through swollen lips and bloodied teeth. “You have lost. All those who follow me… escaped into the desert. You have lost, for I know not where they have gone.”
Kha’atib held Hakri’s baleful gaze. There was determination and belief, but there was also a hint of defiance that Kha’atib knew hid the truth. He glanced at Simak, signalling it was time for a different approach. Simak nodded and left the room, allowing Kha’atib to drift quietly into the shadows. Hidden beyond Hakri’s sight, he waited, slowly mulling over everything Hakri had said, until the door gently clicked open, and Hanir nervously entered.
She wore a fine, black robe. Despite its purpose to hide who she was, it clung alluringly to her figure. As she pulled the hood from her face, her sweet perfume lingered in the room, a tease amid the smell of sweat, blood, faeces and fear. She looked around, afraid. Kha’atib became concerned she’d seen him hiding in the dark, but her eyes glanced unseeing into the corners of the room, then her gaze returned to what the firelight exposed. At first, she flinched at the sight of the broken figure hanging in the centre of the room. Then recognition finally stole through.
“Hakri?”
Kha’atib watched silently from the darkness as Hanir rushed to Hakri’s side.
“What have they done?”
Clearly afraid to touch him, Hanir looked to where the chains attached to the roof. With no way to release him, she gently cupped Hakri’s cheek. A tinge of jealousy twisted Kha’atib’s heart, yet he remained quiet, anxious for what Hakri would reveal. He saw the boy respond to her delicate touch, forcing Kha’atib to remember that she was nothing but a well-paid whore.
“There’s no need for you to suffer,” he heard Hanir whisper. “The people are safe. They give hope to those that remain.”
Hakri attempted to stand, but the effort proved too much. Hanir tried to lift him, but she could not bear his weight.
“For pity’s sake,” she cried out to the guards. “Cut him down. He’s suffered enough.”
Kha’atib knew no one outside would come, and he saw the realisation dawn on Hanir as well.
“I was brought here by Simak,” she said, stoically this time. “They don’t care about the people who left. They’re someone else’s problem now. All it means for Johsala is less mouths to feed. Kha’atib just wants to know who Abd ah-Rahman was.”
“I am Abd ah-Rahman,” Hakri whispered in response, and Kha’atib felt it was the only response Hakri had left, countering any form of torture he was made to endure. He knew there was nothing more Hakri would say. Hanir kissed him softly on his bruised cheek, then half turned away. Expecting her to leave, Kha’atib watched with intrigue as a thought made her linger, and she placed her hands lovingly around Hakri’s face once more.
“Remember our journey here, in the Great Caravan from Sira’an? You were so young. So innocent. I was proud that you chose me to be your first. And only, from what the other girls have said.”
She smiled and placed her plush lips softly upon Hakri’s mouth. He did not respond, but the sight made Kha’atib want to string Hanir up before Hakri and gut her like a fish. Brooding as he suffered through their long kiss, Kha’atib held his anger in check as Hanir finally eased away.
“He didn’t want you to come, you know. He always thought this life would prove too much. Oh, sweet Hakri. Why couldn’t you stay behind? You could have made his death so much easier to believe.”
Kha’atib breath stopped, realising she was talking of Ha’amturah.
“He cannot keep you here forever,” Hanir continued. “I will look after you. Find me when you are free.”
She reverently lowered her head, and for a moment Kha’atib wondered if Hakri truly had taken the mantle of Abd ah-Rahman, but as Hanir knocked on the iron door and a guard led her outside, he stared bitterly at Hakri, knowing somewhere in the desert the former Qhabir of Sira’an had escaped. Alone with Hakri, he slipped a thin blade from his robes, desiring to pierce it deep into Hakri’s side, but he was interrupted as Simak quietly entered the cell.
“Any word from Za’im?” Kha’atib asked, slipping the blade back into his robe.
“None,” Simak said. He stood before their captive; the firelight throwing sharp shadows across his hooked face. “We were unable to penetrate deeper. Whatever prevents us entering al-Din’s Tomb also seals the Priests’ Inner Sanctum. Wherever they’ve gone, we cannot follow.”
Kha’atib cursed, knowing the tunnels could lead anywhere. He knew it was the same way Ohrl had escaped, but then a thought took hold.
“There’s only one path to freedom and the Third Ring,” he said to Simak, his voice revealing a glimmer of hope. “And soldiers on horseback are a lot faster than peasants on foot. Find Atlah. Take a hundred loyal men, armed with swords and spears. Make for the Pass of A’anket. Make sure Ha’amturah never reaches the desert. I don’t care about the others. Let them become mouths for Wahid to feed.”
That night, Kha’atib eased his tired frame onto the cushioned bench in his personal chambers. All day, he’d been irked by the thought that, in his historic water caravan right under his nose, Ha’amturah had escaped Sira’an and had been living freely within Johsala all this time. They’d checked all merchants and soldiers when they’d crossed the Ji’ruk, but he cursed his own men for not having the courage to enter the whores’ tents. Hakri and Ha’amturah had clearly secured passage that way, and he was determined to find all those responsible and make them pay.
Yet his feelings were conflicted, for Hanir knelt over him, her expert hands kneading oil into the muscles of his aching back. Despite what he’d seen that day, he trusted that she would ever be duty bound to say nothing, to stay loyal and save her own skin. Yet, as he lay beneath her, revelling in the touch of her naked thighs sliding along his waist, he felt the tentative prods of a woman whose mind was elsewhere.
“What does loyalty mean to a woman like you?”
He felt the slight hesitation in her touch, yet she continued as though the words meant nothing. She lowered her oiled, naked chest over him, reaching out to massage his outstretched arms. Her breath was warm upon his neck, but it was measured, revealing she was afraid. He enjoyed her touch a moment longer, then rolled over beneath her, forcing her to straddle his groin. She smiled a whore’s smile, then her eyes went wide as she realised he held a thin blade, one he’d purposefully strapped to the underside of the table.
“Today, you were reacquainted with Hakri, former aide to Ha’amturah, the man claiming to be Abd ah-Rahman.”
Hanir immediately pulled away. Clearly afraid, she reached for her sheer robe cast at the end of the table, but Kha’atib gripped her waist and held her in place.
“I do not believe he is Abd ah-Rahman.”
He gently took the robe from her hands and let it fall to the ground. Nervous, she eased back down, naked and exposed.
“Nor do I have any desire to harm you,” Kha’atib continued, “yet I am not clear on your desire for me.”
Taking her hand in his, he wrapped her fingers around the hilt of the blade. Utterly defenceless beneath her, he let his arms fall.
“How long have you known that Hakri had come to Johsala?”
Tears welled in her eyes. He felt he fidget nervously with the blade, and he waited for the moment she would raise it high and plunge it deep into his heart.
“I know the life offered to the women of the Red Road,” he continued. “It is not a life many choose. Protection is hard to come by, and those lucky enough to find a strong patron must sacrifice much for their chance to survive.”
Kha’atib let the thought linger. He could see her conflict. Clearly, she knew more of Hakri’s decision than she was letting on, but he hoped that seeing Hakri chained and beaten would prove which side her hopes of survival relied.
“There’s only one man Hakri would do this for, though I watched his body burn in Sira’an.”
Sensing she would not use the blade, he sat up and placed a gentle hand upon her cheek.
“I understand, Hanir. You once lied to protect Hakri. Simak asked you whom you met before the Tomb of al-Din. Instead of betraying Hakri, you let Hadaar be imprisoned instead. It was your only chance to let a man pay for treating you poorly. In a way, I admire you for what you’ve done.”
At that, Hanir’s sorrowful gaze fell upon Kha’atib.
“Hakri is my only link to the life I left behind,” she said, to which Kha’atib gave a reassuring smile.
“Am I such a poor substitute?”
He saw her fear subside, so he slipped his hands around her waist, and gently lowered her to lay across his chest. He held her in the comfort of his arms, hoping she would feel at ease, enough to reveal what he most desperately wanted to hear.
“Had Ha’amturah survived, he may have truly united Johsala with Sira’an. Sattah does not have his diplomacy, and I am but a servant of the Qhabir. It is a shame he did not live long enough for the people of Johsala to get to know him as we did. In uniting Johsala, I would have proudly stood by his side.”
He held her close, giving her this one chance to expose Ha’amturah’s survival, yet she remained silent, her decision made. He lifted her chin with his finger and placed his lips upon hers. It was a lover’s kiss. As their passion stole through, Kha’atib felt himself harden beneath her embrace. Acknowledging his arousal, she ladled a cup full of oil over her naked form, then took him in her hand and plunged him deep inside. Kha’atib groaned, knowing that this gift of pleasure was the only thing keeping her alive. Their love making turned into a frenzy, the slippery oil glistening off her tanned skin until Kha’atib could take no more and his seed exploded amid spasms of wonder. Hanir collapsed over him, her breathing heavy, her thighs trembling around his waist.
“Never forget who protects you,” he whispered in her ear. She rose, smiling an intimate lover’s smile, but Kha’atib simply glanced into a dark corner of his chambers, to where an armed guard had remained faithfully silent all this time.
“Chain her and take her to the dungeons,” he rasped. In Hanir’s eyes, he saw confusion. She turned to the approaching guard, alarmed that she had not seen him before. As the guard reached out to claim her, Hanir lunged for the blade, desperate to claim Kha’atib’s life. He caught her wrist well before she could strike, but with her free hand she raked her nails hard across the guard’s face.
“You will never claim Johsala,” she yelled as the guard ripped her from the table. “A thousand people just like me will rise up to kill you.”
“Yet they have all disappeared,” Kha’atib said, rising to wipe what remained of their love from his groin. “You and Hakri are all that’s left. If you don’t want to hang in the dungeons, beaten by his side, I suggest you convince him to reveal where Abd ah-Rahman has gone.”