A.S. Sleight Of Hand - Chapter 11

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Cover: arven92.deviantart.com/art/Aza…
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Adult content ahead. Reader discretion advised.

11 – Market place

“Ūg’err! Ūg’err!

    G’errack, y’afm’arrack!

    Ashàrr sh’osack r’usharrah,

    Sh’osbā!”

    Dancers had joined the cheerful song, agitating tambourines along with the music.

    Aznor sat on the floor of the lobby, right outside the Doctor’s room. This one had allowed him out so he could tend to his patients in peace. He had told a guard from the lobby to keep an eye on the boy so he wouldn’t run away, but Aznor had no intention to. He was still wearing the cloth in which the Doctor had wrapped him, his robe was still wet with lye and he was waiting for it to dry in the sun.

    It was mid afternoon, and the singers in the lobby finally concluded their music, it was probably time for them to eat.

    One of the guards, however, approached them menacingly, agitating its whip.

    “Keep singing, k’orrèsh.”

    Intimidated, the group of musicians huddled together and the dancers scattered.

    “Arcor, we’ve been performing for the whole morning. We need some rest,” spoke the male singer, a man on his forties. “We will be glad to resume after our meal.”

    “Silence!” hissed the guard. “You’re not the one making decisions here. I’m the one who decides if and when you eat. And you eat only if you sing.”

    The other members of the small band had already tuned in their instruments, ready to restart, frightened by the guard’s threatening words. The female singer cleared her throat.

    The male one, however, was still hesitant.

    He raised his head and looked at the Azara straight in the eyes with a challenging gaze.

    They were like frozen for a moment, their muscles tense, the guard standing almost a span taller than the man.

    Then, the guard furiously raised its whip and lashed the human right in the face.

    Aznor jumped with surprise and horror as the man fell backwards with a yell, rolled on his back and crouched on the floor.

    The rest of the band scattered, shouting and panicking, leaving him and the Azara in the center.

    This one raised its voice and addressed them.

    “Get back here and sing,” it growled, its fangs glittering in its mouth. “Whoever doesn’t will receive fifty lashes.”

    One by one, the members timidly approached the center again, whining and sobbing. The man who had got whipped stood up, pain and sorrow crowding his face. An open wound bled on his cheek, his face was livid with fear. He regretfully bowed his head to the Azara, who eyed him threateningly. As this one finally walked away, the band resumed their music, and the man started singing along:

    “Sh’osbā! Sh’osbā!

    Ashàrr sh’osack r’usharrah,

    Ashàrr sh’osack orrèshah,

    Ūg’err! Ūg’err!

    G’errack, y’afm’arrack!

    Ashàrr sh’osack r’usharrah,

    Sh’osbā!”

    Tears ran on his cheeks as he chanted, his eyes lost in the distance, his expression sad and resigned.

    Aznor cringed seeing that. The man was being forced to sing a cheerful song while being in so much distress. He never could have done that.

    “Huh. He got what he deserved.”

    The boy jumped as he saw the Doctor standing next to him. He hadn’t even noticed him being there, because he had been so concentrated on the singer’s fate.

    The blue Azara was laying his back against the wall, and smoking hircur.

    Aznor lowered his head.

    “He is tired,” he said, watching him as he sang almost in a whisper, fighting to repress the sobs.

    “He is a slave,” snarled the Doctor, loud enough for the man to hear. “He’s tired when we decide it.”

    The boy looked at the Azara, but said nothing. This one instead put out his cigarette and spoke again:

    “Come back in. Your robe has dried.”

    Aznor got up and followed him inside, not before he cast one last glance at the singer.

    His voice was trembling so much that his female companion had to sing twice as loud to cover it, preventing the guard from noticing and punishing him again.

    Aznor and the Doctor went back to the garden, where the boy found his clothes hanging from a rope and swinging in the wind. They looked whiter and cleaner than usual, and they had a strange, yet fresh and pleasant smell. The Azara grabbed them and led him in the building again, waiting for him to dress up.

    Finally ready, Aznor reached for the Doctor, who had returned to his bedridden.

    In the dim light of the building, the boy could make out his blue-grey fur as he crouched in one of the niches, next to a human boy who lay on his litter.

    A pungent smell of herbs came from the small hollow, and Aznor saw the Doctor gently nudging the human to drink from a bowl. This one, however, did not move, his gaze lost in the distance, his mouth half open, his breath coming out in fast, shallow gasps.

    Hesitating, the Azara slowly got up again and ominously shook his head, then he covered the entrance to the niche with the curtain as he exited it.

    Aznor stared at him, unable to understand.

    “What’s up with him?”

    The Doctor answered in an irritated tone:

    “He thought he’d be so smart to eat p’ackr’osh⁵⁰ while working in the fields,” he explained. “He was probably hungry, so he ate the first berry he laid his eyes on. When they brought him here, he was squirming with pain, and vomiting his bowels out.”

    The Azara then lowered his head.

    “Now he doesn’t react anymore. I’m afraid there’s nothing else I can do for him.”

    He walked away, a sorrowful expression on his face.

    Although saddened by the story, Aznor no longer knew what to think of him. One minute he seemed to hate humans more than any other thing, and the next moment he felt sad because he wasn’t able to help his dying human patient. The Doctor had probably noticed his confused expression, because he said:

    “I’m not made of stone. I’m the first to flog you if you disobey an order, but if you’re wrongfully punished or if something unfair happens to you, I feel obliged to help. It’s my job.”

    The boy looked at him, admiring his nobility. The Azara nodded toward the niche where the sick boy was, and continued:

    “He was still young. He might have been a slave, but he had full rights to live. Who knows, maybe he’d have been free one day. He was innocent.”

    Like my brother, thought Aznor, but he didn’t say anything.

    The boy didn’t even have enough time to feel sad, that someone knocked the door.

    Startled, he watched as the blue Azara went to open it, then dipped his head at the newcomer.

    It was Urbeth.

    Aznor instinctively bowed down in submission.

    “You come right on time,” said the Doctor. “Your orrèsh is ready.”

    The silver Azara nodded gratefully, but his expression was stern as ever. He reached for his belt and grabbed the brown leather sachet he was carrying, extracted a golden coin from it, and handed it to the Doctor.

    “For the bother I caused you.”

    This one was left speechless, he looked at him with a surprised expression, and finally bowed his head:

    “R’ishyā.”

    Urbeth turned his gaze from him to Aznor, who had kept at a certain distance. For a moment he looked at him curiously, perhaps eyeing his new haircut, then his face returned serious. He gestured with his hand, inviting him to approach.

    “Move it.”

    Reluctant to leave the Doctor, whom he had learned to respect, the boy felt forced to obey, fearing that he might receive a punishment as harsh as the singer’s if he didn’t.

    As he came close, Urbeth grabbed his arm and carried him outside.

    Aznor barely had enough time to turn around and nod his thanks to the Doctor, who had remained on the doorpost, acknowledging his goodbye and watching as he walked away.

    The boy followed the silver Azara in the lobby, and wondered where he had been during the morning. He could see that his once-messy, spiky mane was now combed and sleek, as if he had been washing it. Approaching him, Aznor even thought he smelled delicate lavender and juniper scents coming from his fur.

    Had he been dolling up?

    The boy had to repress a laugh at that thought, deducing that Urbeth didn’t seem like the kind of person who would enjoy such a thing. Then again, he might have gotten his personality entirely wrong.

    Looking at his belt more closely, he noticed he had hung a band with a bunch of red azaleas to it. Close to the flowers stood a newly bought, medium-length whip, its leather strings dangling from its shaft, each terminating with a small piece of bone.

    Sweating, Aznor swallowed hard.

    Something was definitely going on.

    That whip was for him.

    A bright beam of light washed over his thoughts. They were out of the castle and into the big square he had seen the night before. It was a fine, bright, warm and pleasant spring day, so the large beacon in the middle had been turned off.

    Urbeth gestured to a guard, who guided him to a corner of the square, that curved behind the castle and ended into a large wooden stable.

    Many horses were hosted in its fences, most of which, Aznor guessed, belonged to the Queen, as he was able to deduce from the brand they had on their rears: it was the same mark Lady Izkaph had imprinted on her slaves.

    Reins and saddles, spurs, bits and girths hung from hooks on the walls. Straw and hay and stumps of fruit were scattered everywhere, and a strong smell of manure clung to the fences. Servants were tidying up the surroundings, brushing and feeding the animals.

    Urbeth smiled as he spotted his horse standing in the first row, peacefully eating hay.

    He called one of the servants, who opened its fence and guided it to its owner. Only now did Aznor have the chance to admire it. It was a once-beautiful, sturdy, elderly stallion. His brown coat was untidy and irregular, his legs and muzzle were darker in color, and the tip of his nose was starting to grey out with age. His eyes, however, were glossy and lively, betraying his cleverness.

    “Did you miss me, Kāf’arr⁵¹?” asked Urbeth, gently scratching the animal’s muzzle.

    Kaphar seemed eager to see him again, as he snorted with happiness.

    Aznor smiled at that scene, although the large creature intimidated him a little.

    Without a word, Urbeth led his horse outside, telling Aznor to follow him. Resigned, the boy obeyed, and the two exited the stable and walked across the square, back to the road where they had come from the night before. However, instead of travelling along the exact same path, Urbeth turned left at one of the many forks in the street. Surprised, Aznor looked around, nervous about being in a completely new area he had never seen before. He remembered just how intricate and confusing the streets of Azca could become.

    Probably sensing his uneasiness, the silver Azara explained:

    “Last night we entered from the Southern gate. To reach my hometown, the shortest path is to cross through the market place and exit from the Eastern gate, so that’s where we’re heading.”

    That phrase generated many colliding reactions in the boy.

    Phew, at least we’re not crossing the forest again.

    What? So Lord Urbeth doesn’t live within Azca?

    Wait a minute. The market place?!

    The last thought sent shivers down his spine. Did they really have to cross the market place?

    He didn’t even have the time to ask Urbeth for explanations, that he suddenly noticed the large street they were walking on was unnaturally crowded. Azaras were walking past in both directions, some seemed to be on a hurry, some carried various merchandise and some, animals and slaves. The chattering and shouting had grown louder, and the place was more and more chaotic as they walked.

    “This road leads to the market. Stay close to me, or you’ll get lost in the crowd,” warned Urbeth, and Aznor clung to his side, almost willing to hold his hand, but he discarded that option.

    The houses started to part as the road became even larger, until the boy could see a wide wooden arch that acted as a gate in the distance. It stood tall above the heads of the Azaras who passed by, and it was probably the entrance to the market place, which seemed to be crawling with activity today. He imagined that it was nothing new, since Azaras were very devoted to their economy, and loved visiting the market even just to spend their free time.

    There were those who enjoyed weapons, rich females looking for expensive perfumes, and commoners looking to buy good quality meat or slaves.

    The river of Azaras, humans and animals and goods and voices seemed to have no end.

    Then Aznor thought he spotted something in the crowd.

    Among all the uproar stood out a single creature that walked right in the middle of the road. Its wolf-like head resembled that of Azaras, but the beast walked on its fours, its large, feline-like front legs slamming on the floor without a noise. Its massive, muscular body was covered in short, thick grey fur, a large mane surrounded its neck. Its crimson red eyes were fixed on Aznor, who froze on the spot. As it walked forward, the creature opened its mouth, showing its large, sharp fangs. The boy lost sight of it for a split second as a passerby stood in his way, and the moment after, the creature had already walked several meters in his direction, and it came closer with every step it took. Nobody seemed to acknowledge its presence, not even Urbeth.

    Aznor instead, shivered with sheer terror.

    It was an Azaroth, and it was coming straight toward him.

50, P’ackr’osh (Pakroth) = Literally “Red berry”, local Azarian name for the black nightshade, a poisonous plant.

51, Kāf’arr (Kaphar) = Literally “He who comes”, or “He who follows”, a variant is F’arrkā, which translates as “Follower”

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(Actual Artist's descrption)

Another chapter of this useless story no one cares about! Yay!
Oh well, I do care, so I'll keep posting it^^

Anyway, Aznor finally leaves the castle behind and rejoin Urbeth. We also get to know a new character, Kaphar, Urbeth's horse
In this chapter we find out that Urbeth doesn't in fact live within the capital, Azca, but somewhere close by.
For this reason, he and Azzy cross the market place in order to exit Azca. And it's then that they meet Aznor's worst nightmare: an Azaroth, the very creature that killed his younger brother.

If you're not following the story, can you at least take a minute to check out the picture?
It took a lifetime to make, and I appreciate your feedback^^
I wanted to represent how confusing and noisy a crowd of people at a market can be.
Also. Little pup. Put those apples down. Mom's gonna spank you. >:C

Enjoy!
Characters and art (c)