Chapter 2: Arrival at Wadi Halaf

I show Mikheil the way to the caravanserai. We soon pass through the stout gates and into the walled compound. Wadi Halaf is an old fortress that used to be part of the city wall defences before the city expanded outwards. Few alterations have been made to the fortress’s structure, and if the city was under siege then Wadi Halaf could still be used as a bastion. The main building of the caravanserai is the old keep. The formidable walls of the keep are made of solid stone blocks with small slit windows designed for defending archers. The interior consists of five levels above ground and two below. The keep’s cells in the lowest level are still functional, and are often in demand to hold prisoners and slaves in transit. A mixture of stone and wooden structures that form the stables, barracks and store rooms have been added in more recent times.

The forecourt is crowded with several caravans. I assume the muddle and confusion in the main forecourt is the result of one of the periodic mix-ups between competing caravan masters. Wadi Halaf can easily accommodate multiple trading caravans, although there are rarely more than three here at a time. However, it appears Mikheil’s caravan is the fifth caravan requiring accommodation for tonight at Wadi Halaf. Normally the guards at Wadi Halaf quickly sort out any issues before fights break out. Somebody is going to suffer my father’s wrath for allowing this shambles to go unchecked. The forecourt is packed with an assortment of merchants, caravan guards, porters, slaves, wagons, camels, donkeys, and an elephant.

“What’s going on, Levan?” I ask one of my father’s more seasoned guards.

“Mistress Rachael! Thank the stars that you’re here. Aren will be needing your help. The recent storms destroyed the river bridge to the east, and caused a landslide that has blocked the road to the south. The city aldermen are trying to organise repairs. In the meantime caravans keep arriving from the north and west, but they can’t continue their journey.”

Even allowing for the unusually large number of visitors, this chaos could be better managed. Aren is my father’s loyal seneschal, but he is long past his prime. His household duties have been extended to cover managing the arrival and departure of caravans whenever my father is absent. Aren is too timid when it comes to dealing with fractious caravan masters. Unfortunately, my father has nobody else at Wadi Halaf to call on to help.

My father’s wife, Lady Gülnihal, has the social standing to command respect, but she has never demeaned herself by helping to run the caravanserai. Their son, Efrem, as the legal heir to Wadi Halaf, would be entitled to take charge, but he is only five years old. My half-brothers and half-sisters are in their twenties, but they are all slaves. They have never been allowed to learn any skills that would help Aren manage this situation. I only learned what I know because my cousin Zoe and I used to spend an excessive amount of time entertaining our respective uncles during their ‘business meetings’ before my manumission.

Although I’m eager to get back to my own home at the Halls of Valhalla, I sense that a quick ‘hello, I’m back’ to those at Wadi Halaf isn’t going to be enough. Levan was right when he said that Aren needs some help.

My younger half-sister, Mia, intercepts me as I enter the main entrance to the former fortress’s keep. She’s dressed as all slave women in Emarukistan commonly dress; naked apart from a spotlessly clean loin cloth. I notice that her old iron slave collar has been replaced with a newer style of collar from which hangs a small disc with her name and ‘Wadi Halaf’ engraved on it. She’s looking fit and well, but she is visibly worried.

“I’m really glad that you’re back safe and sound, but we haven’t time for a chat,” says Mia giving me a quick hug. “You need to see father urgently. We don’t think he’ll last much longer.”

This is the first indication I’ve received that the delay in resolving the chaos outside has something to do with my father’s health. I haven’t been inside his private rooms for several years, but I know the way well enough. I find him lying on his bed with my older half-sister, Jacinta, fussing over him. I don’t need Jacinta’s medical skills to know that his ragged breathing and sickly yellowing skin means that he is living on borrowed time.

Although I refuse to openly acknowledge that my father is lying on his death bed, I don’t delude myself into thinking that somehow he will miraculously recover. Apparently Jacinta has been tending him since he was injured by an unknown assailant a week or so ago. Even her healing skills can’t do more than provide potions to ease the pain of his wounds.