Songweaver's Awakening

Chapter 2 - Rajheem

Rajheem readjusted the rough-woven bag over his shoulder.  Men and women crowded the marketplace, and every so often, someone brushed past him, jostling his bag and moving on without apology. 

The gossip that was as ubiquitous in the marketplace as the smell of rancid meat had only increased since the last time Rajheem had been by.  Rumors are like food and drink to outskirters.  Bahavis’ voice drifted into the forefront of Rajheem’s mind.  They give us something to focus on other than our own misery.

Rajheem grimaced as the strap dug into his shoulder.  He moved the bulk of the bag to his front, attempting to use it to lead his way through the thickening crowd.  He craned his neck.  A wagon and a donkey blocked the narrow road.

“Did you see it?”  An old woman purchased a bag of millet to Rajheem’s right, leaning in to speak with the merchant.  “Two days ago, Farahd sent his Sendasian army to the Kainan district with water and grain for the locals.  Handing it out to anyone who would ask.”

The merchant scowled.  “I saw them go past, but I thought they were trying to quell another riot.”  His thick black mustache shifted as he pursed his lips.  “They didn’t look Sendasian.”

“You haven’t heard?” the old woman said, a gleeful tone in her voice.  “They’re former Sendasian slaves.  Most are from Malacho.  There are some from Talia too, and even some from Hajinn.”

“Malacho, hmm?” The merchant said, measuring out the grain on a pair of worn and beaten scales.  “I saw one or two with pale skin and red hair.”

The woman shrugged as she tied up the sack of millet and threw it into her bag.  “Maybe they’ve some relation to the Raja Helen.”

Rajheem stopped to reach into his bag and rearrange its contents.  The feel of the wooden lute beneath his hand was at once comforting and distressing.

The merchant leaned forward.  “I’m of the mind that Farahd’s made some kind of bargain with Sendasi.  Both my neighbor’s daughter and my nephew have disappeared, no trace.  Just gone from their beds in the morning.”

“Maybe they ran away?”

“Both were only five.  They were too young to get very far, but not too young to be taken for slaves,” the man said darkly.  “They’re not the only ones.  Ask around,” the merchant said, turning back to his millet.

With a creak, the donkey moved again, the rickety wagon pulling forward.  Rajheem left the conversation behind.  He needed to find a spot, a quiet out-of-the-way spot, where he could set out his pot and play.

His insides lurched at the thought.  He wouldn’t normally risk playing in broad daylight, so close to a market, but after all that Bahavis had done for him—plucking him from the scavenging waifs at the wall and teaching him music—he couldn’t now abandon the old man in his time of need.  He didn’t care if Bahavis was as mad as the chanters said, he was still the closest thing to a father Rajheem had ever known.  He would earn more coin with more people in the vicinity, though he risked his life.  Rajheem breathed in deep, loosening the knot in his belly.  He had a few tricks up his sleeve yet.

“You’re going to help us earn more rinhams,” Varun had said, jabbing a finger into Rajheem’s chest.  “I don’t care how you do it, just do it, or you and the old man are out.  You’re useless to us right now, boy.  You and Bahavis.  We’d make more money selling your spots in the hut to someone else.”

Rajheem hadn’t had the heart to argue.  He was just as hungry as Varun, and besides, best he earn back the money before any of the chanters discovered he had dipped into the common fund to buy himself new shoes.  They’d kick him out of the hut for sure, and probably beat him for good measure.