. (sharaf) wrote in caeleste, @ 2010-09-10 01:18:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | adward sharaf |
mahragan (narrative)
Sharaf eyed the steps leading to this more-than-modest home with the intense scrutiny that everything received, upon being seen for the first time with these humble eyes. The steps were cut from stone, and accurately. Must have cost a good deal of money. There was even a porch. Not much of one. Stone bricks built in behind the stair held this platform of heavy wood aloft. Heavy vibrant cloth was hanging from hooks above the door; it seemed to sway in the wind no matter which way the breeze flowed. This was a time of wild winds, at Mahragan. Blues and pinks and yellows and greens and whites and golds flowed in interesting but meaningless patterns upon the cloth. And though the heavy door, with its fanciful archway, stood open... he hesitated. Inside there was the sound of laughter. No doubt Sal had set the table with every glittering bauble that she and his father could locate.
He said he'd come, but...
"Adward!" the old man's voice boomed from the doorway. "What have you got there, son?"
"Wine," the son replied as they embraced. "Red grapes, from Charisat. They say the heat brings out the flavor of the grapes, or some nonsense."
ob Made a show of inspecting the wine, with his eyes narrowed and lips pursed while he peered at the label. Sharaf took that opportunity to look up. It was the first time he'd visited his father's new home. Six stories. Business must have been very good for Nhamata Ihrigud at this time of year. Father was a specialist in the elements - not that ob would have said such about himself - but it was telling that they'd obtained this place when one of the two made nothing more than a soldier's wage. Sharaf knew well enough what that was because he gambled against them so often. Every now and then, a silver, but coppers in the main. Not that he had any problem with coppers. In sufficient quantity, they spent just as well as anything else. Somehow knowing his opponent was walking about with a purseful of coppers made it more entertaining instead of less.
"Stand back, let me look at you," ob had the wine bottle under one arm, and now he was gripping Sharaf's shoulders to hold him at arm's length.
It was then and only then that Sharaf felt the first stab of shame this evening would provide. He'd come in from the road hours earlier. It was tradition on Mahragan to wear something new, but for Sharaf the story was the same. He had not shaved in near a week, as the sun rose and fell. The leather coat had accumulated a fine dust from the road; some of that dust had made its way onto ob's blue robes. With their many times and varying hues the robes appeared quite brilliant save that sheen of gray. By his smile Sharaf knew that ob understood his son's thoughts. One hand brushed away the dust while the other shook Sharaf by the shoulder. Despite his background as an intellectual ob still had a firm grip. And he was smiling through that massive beard of his. Sharaf couldn't help but grin back. They entered together, arms over each others' shoulders.
Dinner was excellent. The conversation was good. And the wine was just as perfect. ila smiled when she saw him. Even ot managed not to look put-upon. Sal complimented his wine, and...
Crack.
Sharaf was spinning 'round them, face pressed against cool stone, gloved hands supporting him in his effort not to fall. There were raspy, jeering voices all around him. How long had it taken him to dream up that fantasy of a father glad to see him? He was becoming punch-drunk on top of regular drunk, and it was due in large part to the fact that he'd arrived in the city two days ago. He knew for a fact that ob had come to the house looking for him, and ila, but he lay flat on the roof smoking those fine cigars they made in Mol Ardas and never troubled himself to answer the door. Things that weren't real became so, and things that were real became less so. Until here he was, having his face punched in by some gutless musclebound fool on Mahragan. The only reason to be in the pits today was if you had nowhere else to go. As well as, Sharaf had decided. As well as.
The circle of dirt was carefully measured. They were roped off from the audience that watched, and though it was small by normal standards, he thought he counted at least six dozen people. Famar was there with that black face of his, pink lips twisted into a smile. Probably his comrade had bet on this soldier. Name of Ox, and apparently that was for good reason. Sharaf was hanging over the ropes, trying to grab at someone's wine with his gloved hands. The coat was stripped away - all that remained were the gloves, an undershirt, his trousers and his boots. A tonfa would have put this fellow in his place - but weapons weren't allowed in these sorts of matches, and anyway Sharaf hadn't come here to make quick work of someone. You never came to the circle looking to make quick work of someone.
"I always knew you trackers were gutless," Ox sneered at his back. "Can't take a little real pain, can you?"
With some effort - and with wine spilling down his chin, mixing with blood and dirt that had leaked onto his shirt - Sharaf managed to stand upright. Don't lose focus now. Ox wasn't one to feel very much pain, but he'd just asked for as much as Sharaf could give. Unfortunately it was reaching a point that Sharaf didn't know how well his balance would hold. Ox had only hit him five or six times, but each one felt like Bahamut's tail whipping you in the face. Until now there were three of them. All of them. Famar was holding up a ticket and shouting. Sharaf squinted to see what it said. Five. But on whom? Did it matter? After this was done, Famar would buy him a drink, or Famar would gladly punch Sharaf's face into the back of his skull for winning when he should have lost. Either way it sounded a joyous affair. Ox was coming forward again with those massive hands reaching out.
Forearm block, across the body. Sweep the left arm back, drag vertical arm across the body to bat away the right. In the same movement Sharaf jammed his fist into Ox's unprotected gut. The big man was staggered perhaps half a step. That meaty hand closed around Sharaf's throat. The other hand reached out to drop another vicious hammerblow in his eyes. Sharaf moved as quickly as he could. The right hand slapped down on Ox's exposed elbow. The left hand caught the back of the big man's neck. Despite the one last brutal punch to his stomach, Sharaf launched himself into the air, using the big man's neck to pull himself up. As soon as his feet were in the air both hands slipped to Ox's arm. Up and over the head, trapping Ox's arm between his thighs, laying one hard boot across the side of Ox's head. The other leg went around the big man's torso.
For a half-second, Sharaf was suspended this way. Momentum and the pressure of the hyper-extended elbow did the rest. Ox fell limp as Sharaf's boots slapped into the ground with Ox's arm trapped between his legs, Ox's face on the ground and eating boot heel. Two seconds was all it took for the big man to slap his hand on the ground. He knew when he was beat. Papers flooded the ring. Losing papers. Sharaf let go of the man's arm without an argument as the soldier who refereed these sorts of things descended on them in a hurry. One of the losing tickets was picked up, then two. A whole fistful of them. And Sharaf flung them back into the crowd, grinning ear to ear. Only now Famar was not laughing, even though his ticket seemed to be a winner. The black man jerked his head to one side. Sharaf's grin slipped; he nodded all the same. Famar wasn't here for fun, or at least he was pretending that he wasn't.
A cork popped.
"You come to have a little fun?" Sharaf wiped his brow with the back of one arm before he drank from the bottle.
"You know I didn't," Famar replied.
One of the girls had kohl around her eyes, with the beads laced into her hair, and she was smiling at him. She, too, had a winning ticket. Nothing better than making a girl wealthy at a festival to help you meet her. Sharaf wondered precisely how drunk he was. And precisely how long that was going to last. Her dress was a many-layered thing of purple and gold and crimson, all of it lace, and he knew that any one layer would reveal everything he wanted to see about her. Together they were just enough for modesty's sake, and with her veil lowered, she seemed more exotic to him than any woman he'd ever looked upon in his life. She even winked beneath the veil. Winked! Maybe she wanted him to do the same thing to her that he'd done to the ox. Famar made an angry gesture at her, a rude gesture, and the girl moved in a hurry. Well, Famar was seven feet of angry darkness. Sharaf supposed he'd move along too. Still, didn't mean Sharaf had to like it.
Another pull from the bottle.
"I came because you have a job to do, still," Famar replied. "I was given a paper and told to deliver it to you."
Sharaf accepted the scrap of paper with one hand, still drinking with the other. When he read the name and the place, he spit the alcohol out as though it was burning his cheeks. Famar had the good grace not to say anything, but he was still dripping in alcohol, and festival or no it would never do to seem a drunk. Crowd was thinning out.
"I take it you know the name," Famar finally remarked, more placid than Sharaf would have been.
"I know the name," Sharaf replied angrily. "You know damn well I do."
"Then you'd better get a move on," Famar's smile was only partly malicious. "You know that she hates it when you're late."
Famar shoved the leather jacket into his hands. Sharaf's face was sour. All of that changed when an idea seemed to light his face. The grin was spreading, too quickly, and his eyes were alive with mischief. Famar had just enough time to shake his head before Sharaf turned the bottle sideways and slung more alcohol on him. It was immediately followed by the fastest set of running boots that Mahragan had ever seen. Chasing after him was Famar, up the ramp and into the desert sand, waving an empty bottle above his head and shouting. Sharaf was cackling into the night. They must have looked like a pair of drunken louts, but it was festival. Everybody looked that way.
He hoped.