The Qrahr - An excerpt from Shackles of the Storm

Hey there, traveler!

It's excerpt madness , especially since I've just finished the self-editing of our second english draft. To celebrate, I'd like you to meet a yet unknown but very important character, championing the political subplot within our desert fantasy WIP, Shackles of the Storm. He's Kherim, younger brother to the prince, commander in chief (or as they call it, the qrahr) of Kahlaran and according to one of our betas, a character with bick dick energy. Enjoy!

The Qrahr

~:O:~

Kherim turned a corner and walked by the shady traders populating every inch of the roadside. They were an interesting bunch, somewhere between charlatans and beggars.  Some of them were selling fake jewelry or miracle ointments, while others sold more dangerous things that needed no advertising, if people knew what they were looking for. 

Kherim stopped, squatted down in front of a man, and gently picked up a small vial of translucent liquid.

“What did we agree on, Jashmid?” he asked, but the man just wrapped his arms around himself. He was thin as bones, and he could have been twenty or two hundred.  Kherim would have believed both.

“That I won’t cause any trouble. But that doesn’t mean I can only sell my knowledge and my goods to you!” he lashed back, but Kherim let it go this time.

“So, you know what happened. It’ll spare us some time, which is good. But you’re going to waste this time apologizing for yourself, which is not good. I’m not here to drag you to prison, nor to judge you. I’m here for answers, Jashmid.”

Kherim gave up the squat and sat down on the ground in front of the man with his legs crossed.

“If time is so important to you... Tell me what you want.”

“Who ordered the choking air?” he asked, even though he knew he’d never get an honest answer. He had known Jashmid too long and too well, from the day he stepped in front of him at the war camp near Qajar and waved that milky white, mist-filled bottle in front of him.

“What do I get for   ratting out one of my customers? You know I’m sensitive to that,” Jashmid asked, weighing the risk and profit. Kherim didn’t have time for him to decide which one would be worth it. He needed answers, quickly.

“Delicateness is a luxury for you, poisoner.  Can you imagine what Charta would do to you if he knew you poisoned Saleel? Do you even know who he was?”

Jashmid shook his head. “I know Charta. Naturally. But not this Saleel, only that he was some important man.”

“Quite important,” Kherim nodded. “Important to the city, and important to my brother. Whoever set you up knew his business, or got unlucky in picking targets. Four years ago, someone who was equally important died in a simple robbery.” Kherim leaned back and pointed towards the city’s border.  “If you walk far enough outside the east gate, you can find the skeleton of that killer. The falcons still scratch their claws on his bones.”

Kherim leaned closer to Jashmid’s horrified face. “You know that sound? That horrible scraping that sounds like they are doing it on your own skull?” he whispered, poking the poisoner’s forehead with his finger, causing him to snap back. “It’d be a shame for your head.”

“Well…” Jashmid began very slowly. “That sounds like a fair offer. However, the customer only messaged me through a servant. He called himself the Marid.”

There was a short pause.

“Listen, I don’t want to stick my nose in demons’ business. Maybe you shouldn’t either, qrahr.”

“Kahlaran hasn’t had a djinn since my grandfather’s time, Jashmid. It’s not a demon, it’s a street rat with a showy name. Although he knows what he’s doing.” Kherim scratched his beard. “What did this servant look like? Did he have a name?”

Jashmid shook his head. “He was like every other boy at the docks. He didn’t introduce himself, but he brought a lot of money, so I didn’t ask questions.”

“Since when don’t you ask questions?” Kherim asked, leaning back, but then let the conversation drop. He knew well enough how to recognize a lost lead.

“Tell me something about this Marid. Is this the first time he’s bought from you?”

“Not before, not since,” the poisoner answered, shaking his head. “He paid fifty sungold for that bottle. I mean, for the contents. The boy brought the bottle with him.”

“And you didn’t get suspicious? Have you heard of him before? Did he do business with anyone else on the street?” 

Jashmid hesitated for a moment, and then leaned closer to Kherim, keeping his voice down.

“I don’t know exactly who, but I’ve heard things. They say I’m lucky he knew I wouldn’t ask anything if he paid well. But others... He made them do despicable things, mostly through extortion. The people here believe he’s a demon because he always knows how to cause the most harm. He knows everyone’s secrets.”

 “A pile of sungold lets you learn a lot of secrets,” Kherim said, getting up. “He’s not a demon, but he’s dangerous. Next time he sends a boy from the docks to you, you’ll remember his face. Scratch a mark into his forehead if you must, but I want to know who’s delivering his mail.”

Kherim reached into his pocket, pulling out two shimmering gold coins and tossing them in Jashmid’s lap.

“Choose your customers more carefully, Jashmid. It would truly be a shame for your head,” he said walking away. From the corner of his eye, he saw the poisoner put the coins in his bag with relief.