Bazaar of Death: Eleven

“What happened to you?” Allamu asked, rising from the dusty ground at the foot of the city wall. “We were to meet here at sunset. Are you hurt?”

Sabit opened her parched mouth to speak. What had happened to her? She had been in the bazaar. She had looked for provisions. She had met Kehnan. Had they gotten a drink? Sabit was so thirsty. The new, faded scar at her wrist burned like a flame as she struggled for the memory.

“I met an old friend,” Sabit said slowly, her tongue thick and clumsy in her mouth. There was a hole in her mind where the memory of last night ought to be. Not the fuzzy hollowness of half-recalled images and emotions that sometimes followed a night too deep in her cups, but a stark, yawning abyss, as if the hours had been cut from her soul with a knife.

“Old friends are a blessing,” Allamu said. “Why didn’t you bring her? Qaansoole’s relations are very accommodating.”

Why hadn’t Sabit brought Kehnan here to meet them? Why hadn’t she gotten the provisions she promised? None of it made sense. Her whole arm trembled with the pain at her wrist. Allamu’s questions only made everything worse.

When Sabit said nothing, Allamu continued, “I sat here all night waiting for you.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I thought you were,” Sabit spat.

Allamu’s face fell. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out. Gesturing for Sabit to follow, he turned away from the gate, moving slowly, as if stunned in battle. The pain of Sabit’s wrist faded with the silence, as she focused on what lay before her. Turning away from the gate, she did not look back.



Wayfarings of Sabit: Bazaar of Death is copyright (c) 2017 by Michael S. Miller. All rights reserved. New chapters post every weekday. You can support this and other stories on Patreon: or