Shadow blocked the glare of Uttum’s twin suns.  Saleem looked up at the source, a man dressed in robes pale as bleached bone.

“Offering for the poor?”  Saleem kept his tone weak and pitiful, offering his wicker basket to the stranger.

            “I have more than offerings for you, my young friend.”  The stranger crouched down to look Saleem face to face.  Eyes green as palm fronds regarded him with benevolence.  Strands of ebony hair poked from underneath a spotless turban.

Saleem tensed.  Anyone who called him friend usually wasn’t.  Yet he didn’t run.  Anyone foolish enough to run in the heat brought attention, and in the City attention equaled guilt.  “Have I offended you in some manner, Isha?”  He hoped to flatter the stranger by using the formal address.

“Isha?”  The man flashed straight white teeth and looked about as if to see no one overheard.  “You may call me Hendari.  I am told I should talk to you.”

Saleem’s eyebrows rose a fraction.  Hendari.  The god of prosperity.  Only the wealthy and powerful were so bold to name their children after gods.  “What would a great man need of a child beggar?”

“Is this part of the bartering?”  Hendari’s green eyes glistened with mirth.  “You are less a child, and more than a beggar.  I know who it is I need, and that is you.”

“That doesn’t entirely answer my question.”

A soft chuckle, deep and masculine.  Saleem wished to have such a voice should he grow so old.  “I need someone--removed.”  A beatific smile crossed Hendari’s face.

Saleem blinked once.  Removed?  He saw then the danger lurking behind Hendari’s kind face.  A rivulet of sweat tickled his bare chest.  Murder!

 Run, his mind screamed.  Get away before it’s too late!

But here was work and few coins filled his basket.  Beggars of all ages now lined what was once his wall that bordered the marketplace.  Many of them were former merchants, masons, horse herders, and their children.  They all wore the expressions of the lost and forlorn, unable to cope with the cruel twist fate bestowed them.

The City’s economy rose and fell like the sun and the moon, but the extent of the latest low frightened him.  With luck the tides would soon return to prosperity.  Until then he needed to eat.

“I’m just a boy, Ish--Hendari.  What do I know of such evil deeds?”

“Boy?  I have no doubt you have seen more than most men do their entire lives.  With experience comes knowledge.  I am in need of both.”  Hendari fixed him with another toothy smile.

Saleem feigned contemplation.  This Hendari played the game well.  Did it matter?  Hunger churned his stomach.  He had better finish with the bartering before its growling forced him to lower his price.  “Your words humble me.  Still, what you ask is beyond my abilities.  However, I may know those able to do the task.”

“Well, then, if you could point me in the right direction, I will leave you.”

“I’m afraid it isn’t that easy.  They only speak through me.  I speak--and negotiate--for them.”

“I see.  Very good.  You have heard of Mohamed Ben-Sinar?”

Saleem struggled to remain calm.  “Forgive me.  The heat of the sun has affected my hearing.  Did you say Ben-Sinar?”

“You know of him?”

“I do.”  He had expected some petty criminal or seducer of Hendari’s wife.  Mohamed Ben-Sinar was one of the city’s main usurers.  Even the shrewdest merchants were indebted to him.

Saleem silently cursed himself.  His greed and hunger had trapped him.  How could he turn the man down?  Hendari would never allow him to live with this knowledge.  Only a ridiculous price might get him out of this with honor, and his life.  “My friends will require much gold.”

“Cost is not a question.”

His hopes evaporated like water in the noon sun.

“Here, take this.”  Hendari placed something in Saleem’s grimy palm.

His heart fluttered.  Two gold emperor crowns glinted in the sunlight.  A year’s worth of begging might gain him half as much.  Dirty fingers closed around the coins before anyone saw what he held.

“Consider that a finder’s fee.”  Hendari straightened to his full height.  “When you are finished, name your price and I will pay it.”

Saleem’s eyes narrowed.  “How do I know you will?”

“It is a large city, but not that large.  A few well-placed words and my life would soon be forfeit, as would yours, should you choose to be less than honest in our contract.”  Hendari’s tone was casual as if he were talking of the weather.

Saleem thought of the fortune in his fist.  It promised riches he couldn’t ignore.  “What has Ben-Sinar done to offend you?”  He looked up into empty space.  Hendari had disappeared into the throng of buyers and sellers.

Saleem rose from his place along the wall, picked up his basket and made his way into the crowds.  Twisting and turning, he wound deeper into the City.  He saw yet another shop boarded up.  More beggars for the street.  More competition.

The shop had belonged to a baker.  Often, Saleem had stolen bread from him.  His stomach gurgled at the memory.

He entered a long alley between a tanner and a blacksmith.  He’d chosen this alley carefully.  The rotting fat scraped from animal skins did not mix well with the heat of the smithy’s forges.  On some days, even he had to fight the occasional retch.

Moving an old crate to block his actions from the street, he used an iron bar he had stolen from the smithy to pry open a sewer grate.  He retrieved a small chest and tossed in the gold crowns along with his basket.  His dagger lay among the jumble of coins.  He took this and, after some thought, a coin to buy food.

Saleem left the alley and headed down the street, his thoughts turning to Hendari.  Who was he?  He always tried to note the City’s influential citizens. It was good business practice.  However, he had never heard of this man named after the god of prosperity.

He snorted at the foolishness of the man’s parents.  Saleem had little use for gods of any sort, learning from an early age their true nature.  When the priests of Nar, had taken him in as an orphan, he saw where donations truly went--into the pockets of the temple priests.  One night a priest had entered his room, expecting repayment for the god of charity’s generosity.  He had escaped after a quick kick between the man’s legs.

Left with few career options, begging offered the best and safest course of action.  Dangers still abounded and he did what was necessary to defend his meager earnings.  Some called him Mother Crocodile, as he protected his horde much like the reptile protected her young.

“Saleem!”  A girl's voice called out and he grimaced.

Oset hurried from the opposite direction, waving happily.  Silent curses filled his head as he watched the waif make her way through the crowd.  Oset had also chosen the way of the beggar to other possibilities, and was the closet thing to a friend he had.  However, he didn’t want her company now.

“Saleem, what are you doing here?”  Her bright smile contrasted with her filthy shift.

“Stop shouting,” Saleem hushed.  “Not everyone has to know my name.”

“Oh, you’re too modest.  Everyone knows Mother Crocodile.”  She playfully punched his arm.

Saleem scowled, but couldn’t fend off her infectious good humor.  “Have you eaten?”

“Does it matter?  I’m always hungry.”  She patted her flat stomach and giggled.  Dark hair flowed over her thin shoulders in haphazard curls.

What would her hair be like washed with sweet-scented soaps?

“Come on.”  He led her through the crowd toward a vendor charitable to the younger beggars of the City.  They ate their meal of bread and cheese in a shaded alcove.

“Why aren’t you at the beggar’s wall?” she said.

Saleem bit into his cheese.  He knew no killers.  He alone would kill Ben-Sinar.  There was no need to involve Oset.  Why taint what little was left of her innocence?

“Well?” she persisted.

“It’s the heat.”

“The heat never bothered you before.”

“What are you doing here?”  He hoped to change topics.

Her smile withered.  “My rat, Fouthy, died.”

“I’m sorry, Oset.  How?”

“It wasn’t from hunger.  I fed him well enough, but he’d been acting funny lately, sleeping all the time.  Maybe he was sick, but I think he was just old.  Who can say with rats?”

“You’ll find another pet.  There are plenty vermin seeking a generous patron such as yourself.”

She smiled weakly and Saleem surprised himself by putting his arm around her shoulder.  Odd, comforting her over a dead rat, but it had been the only thing that gave her any joy in life.

She settled into him and her body trembled.  He held her closer as she cried.  Her warm breath brushed his bare chest, long hair tickling his skin.  His loins stirred and he immediately disengaged from her.

Oset looked at him in confusion, then for some reason glanced down.  When she looked at him again, her tanned face had turned darker, but her deep brown eyes didn’t waver.  Without a chance to react, she leaned over and kissed him on the lips.

Saleem’s eyes opened wide, his palms instantly clammy.  Her bluntness astonished him, yet he leaned into her touch with a rush of anticipation.

SHE placed a firm hand on her chest.  “Not yet,” she breathed, husky and low.

The day had suddenly turned hotter.  No one had ever spoken to him of such things.  Sex was frequent in the streets, between men and women alike, but notions like love were rare.

He became aware that, in holding Oset as his only friend for so long, he had pushed aside subtle arousing nuances like the scent of her hair, the curve of her hips, or the beauty of her eyes.  But now that he had felt the warmth of her lips, their relationship would never be the same.  Never again could he look upon her as the slender young girl who ran to him in the streets.  She left him with little choice.  He could walk away without ever seeing her again or . . .

As if in a dream, he reached over and held her in his arms.

The sun had set and with it came cool night air.  The darkness, however, could not conceal the rotund Mohamed Ben-Sinar.  A thin wispy moustache drooped nearly to his waist.  He wore enough red silk to cover Oset ten times over.  Two large men with hard faces flanked the usurer, their sheathed scimitars plainly visible.

Saleem hugged the shadows, his small knife clenched in a sweaty hand.  Hendari would pay a high price, enough for both him and Oset to live a real life, like normal people, away from the City.

The bodyguards hadn’t been a complete surprise, but he had hoped Ben-Sinar might be alone.  It could have been so easy.  Who would suspect a beggar boy to be an assassin?  He stepped out into the street and watched the three men march away from the house.  His chance would come.  Even the great Mohamed Ben-Sinar must heed the call of nature.

“Saleem!”

The familiar call made him wince.  Earlier, he had taken Oset to her home, an over-crowded shack on the far side of the City.  Spinning around, he clamped his hand over Oset’s mouth and flicked a glance at the men.  They hadn’t heard and he exhaled in relief.

“What are you doing here?” he hissed at her.  Her face blanched and he willed himself to relax.  He removed his hand and repeated his question.

“I followed you,” she said.

“That much is obvious.  Why?”

“You’re keeping secrets from me, Saleem.  We should have no secrets between us.  Unless,” she faltered, “there is another.”

“There is no other, but you cannot know what I’m doing.”  He turned back.  His quarry was quickly disappearing.

Oset followed his gaze.  “What’s so important about those men?”

Saleem’s brow furrowed.  Should he tell her?  She was a beggar, like himself, and no stranger to the ways of the street.  Would she think less of him if he told her the truth?  His concern of her feelings took him by surprise.  Still, she was right.  They should have no secrets.

He grabbed her hand and hurried down the street before he lost sight of Ben-Sinar and his bodyguards.  “I’m going to kill one of them.”  Once the decision was made the words came easily.

“What!”  She tried to stand still, but he yanked on her arm, propelling her onward.

“Will you be quiet?  Listen.  Another man wants this one dead.  I don’t know why, but he’s willing to pay very well.  Enough for me,” he stopped and grabbed Oset by the shoulders, looking her full in the face.  “Enough for us to leave this city.  Buy a house, or a farm, or whatever.  Live the way people are supposed to, but to have all those things I must do this first.”

“But to kill a man?  I wouldn’t want any of those things at the price of a life.”

Saleem shook his head.  He’d made a mistake in confiding with her.  She would never allow him to kill Ben-Sinar.

“Who is this man you must kill?”

“Mohamed Ben-Sinar.”

“The usurer?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

Oset’s brown eyes narrowed to cat-like slits.  In them he saw a hatred he’d never seen before.

“I know him,” she said.  “We’ll do it together.”

“No, it’s too dangerous.”  Her desire to help outweighed his curiosity in her change of heart.

“Saleem, it’s our future this man holds.  If you were to die, then my life would end the next day by my own hand.  If we are to die, I would have it we die together.”

“But--”  He felt unworthy faced with the evidence of her love.  Could he ever return it?

She swept past him and hurried down the street.  “They’re getting away,” she said.  Whatever her reasons, he knew nothing would change her mind now.  He chased after her, shaking his head in exasperation.

They followed Ben-Sinar to a warehouse.  Slats of light shone through shuttered windows.  The upper floor remained dark.  Beside the warehouse stood another building.  Decrepit and abandoned, it had once been a hostel, but now served no better purpose than kindling.

The fat man entered the warehouse, his bodyguards remaining by the entrance.  From a distance Saleem and Oset circled the building, searching for another entrance.  They found one on the opposite side, but it also had armed men standing guard.

Saleem pulled Oset into the shadows and pointed up.  “The roof,” he said.

The hostel was near and high enough.  They crept in, trying to peer through the enveloping darkness.  Places like this were home to thieves and beggars.  Though he had nothing of any value except his knife, no one knew this but him.  He gripped Oset’s hand firmly and moved forward.

“Who’s there?” a voice called out in the night.

Saleem froze.  He could feel Oset’s grip tighten.  “Mother Crocodile.  I’m looking for a place to rest for the night.”

“You cannot stay here.”  A small flame danced in the night, stopping at the tip of a candle stub.  By the dim light Saleem saw people filling almost every inch of floor space, more beggars in one room than he had ever seen.

The man who had lit the candle spoke again.  “I think you should go look somewhere else.”

Saleem recognized the baker who had closed his shop earlier in the day.  Around him huddled his family: a wife and two young girls.  Saleem looked into eyes frightened and unsure of a future Saleem knew only too well.

“I’ll look upstairs if you don’t mind,” Saleem said.

“If you wish, but watch your step, you might break someone’s leg.”

Saleem nodded.  He found the stairs easily by the candlelight.  The ceiling above was holed in several places, allowing pale moonlight to illuminate the upper floor.  Men, women and children crowded the hallways, the air heavy with the stench of unwashed bodies.  They stepped carefully among the sea of legs and arms, making their way to another set of stairs.

Saleem climbed them to the top.  A small door barred his way to the roof, the bolt-lock rusted beyond moving.  He pushed on it and after a moment the rotted wood gave way.  The trapdoor swung open and Saleem inhaled the fresh, night air.  He then led Oset carefully onto the roof.

The area looked unstable, and he was afraid to move lest he fell through.  To the right loomed the warehouse, a gap the size of two grown men separating the buildings.

“Too far to jump,” Oset commented.

Saleem scanned the roof, found what he needed and pulled out his dagger.  He pried up a length of board from the roof, ignoring the curses and insults from below.  Oset helped him to stand the narrow board on its end near the building’s edge.  Saleem held his breath and pushed the board forward, hoping it would reach the other side.

The opposite end hit the warehouse roof with a loud thunk and bounced.  Saleem grasped his side of the board to keep it steady.  Once the wood had settled, he peered over the edge to the alley below.

A guard entered the gap between the buildings, his hand on the grip of his scimitar.  A dog barked, and the guard shouted a curse.  Satisfied, he returned to his post.

Saleem let out a long rush of air, then adjusted the board.  Would the wood hold his weight?

“I go first,” he whispered.  “When I get across, you come.  Whatever you do, don’t look down.”  Oset nodded and Saleem could tell she was trying to be brave.  “Look, you don’t have to cross.  You can wait here.”

“I’ll be okay.”

Saleem smiled and turned toward his makeshift bridge.  His own courage was rapidly evaporating, and he knelt onto the board before he completely lost his resolve.

The wood bowed and bounced as he neared the center.  He kept his eyes on the warehouse roof and inched forward.  The board groaned from his weight but he didn’t stop.  If he did, he would freeze in place until the board broke or the guards found him.

Then he was across.  He wiped the sweat from his forehead and motioned for Oset.  Pride swelled within him as she climbed on the board without hesitation.  “You’re doing good,” he whispered.  “Keep your eyes on me.”

Her slight frame barely affected the bridge and she crossed with little effort.  When she was finally across, he held out his hand and she gripped it with surprising strength.  She planted both feet on the warehouse roof and flung her arms around him.

He hugged her back.  “It’s okay.  We made it.”

“We leave by the front door,” she said.  Saleem nodded his head vigorously.

They searched the roof for a way into the warehouse.  Oset waved and he hurried over to a trapdoor similar to that of the hostel.  A quick pull confirmed his fear.  “Locked.”

He inspected the area and found the wood nearly rotted.  Together they yanked on the door till it tore free of the lock.  Licking his lips, Saleem descended a ladder into a dark room, Oset following.  Muted voices floated through the air like ghosts in conversation.  A heady mixture of strange scents filled his senses.  Crates of all sizes surrounded them.

Taking Oset’s hand, he led her through the darkness to a stairway leading down.  The conversation was clearer now and Saleem stopped to listen.

“Enough of this idle chatter, Mohamed,” said an unfamiliar voice.  “Have you brought your offering?”

“Have you brought yours?”  Saleem recognized the voice of the portly usurer.

“Why do we play these games each time we meet?  This is no way for disciples to act with one another.”  Saleem frowned.  He did know the other voice, but couldn’t put a face to it.

I must get closer.

“We are not disciples just yet.  First, we must make the final offerings,” said Ben-Sinar.  “Perhaps he will make us his first High Priests, or even more.  I am thinking--immortality.”

The stranger answered with a harsh chortle.

Saleem threw Oset a questioning glance.  What was this about High Priests and immortality?  “Stay here,” he whispered.  Hugging the shadows, he placed his foot on the first step, then the other until he cleared the floor.  He sucked in air at the sight before him.

Ensconced torches illuminated open chests filled with silver coins and colorful gemstones.  Bolts of silk and other rare fabrics were piled without any sense of organization.  The aromas of spice and perfumes filled the air.

In the midst of the chaotic riches, knelt Ben-Sinar.  Before him was a white marble statue of a thin, frail man sitting cross-legged, holding a small dish--a beggar.

Ben-Sinar upended a small pouch and gold coins clattered onto the stone dish.  Beside the usurer, another man dressed in fine robes was bent at the knee.  Saleem’s mouth opened in stunned amazement as he placed a face to the unknown voice.

Ali Shakrim, Ben-Sinar’s chief rival, emptied a purse filled with gold coins onto the beggar’s dish.

Rumor was Shakrim and Ben-Sinar were bitter enemies.  What were they doing together in this warehouse filled with inconceivable wealth, making offerings to a statue of a beggar?  Before he could ponder the question further, a motion caught his attention, causing his blood to go cold.

The coins on the dish melted, pooled together, then disappeared as if absorbed by the stone.  “You have done well, my children.”  The statue spoke, though the lips didn’t move.  “Soon, I will be complete.”

“Soon?” said Ben-Sinar.  “We have given you all that we have, Quatim.  How much more do you need?”

“I need what I need,” said Quatim.  “Do not falter now.  We have come too far.”

“I think we have gone far enough.”  Ben-Sinar lurched to his feet.

“And what of your immortality?” said the statue.

Ben-Sinar licked his fat lips.  “You can grant this?”

“Once I am complete,” said Quatim.  “I will grant you all you could possibly desire.”

Now Shakrim had gained his feet, standing between Ben-Sinar and the beggar idol.  “Let him go, my lord.  I have enough wealth for your needs.”

A beefy hand pushed him away.  “I knew you would betray me,” said Ben-Sinar.  “It was only a matter of time.”

“Stop this bickering,” said Quatim.  “I need you both.  Only together will we succeed.”

“Quatim speaks the truth,” said Shakrim, his hand resting on the dagger at his belt.  “We can call in more debts, foreclose on more buildings.  We can do it.”

“Yes, I suppose.”  Ben-Sinar eyed the other usurer suspiciously, then pointed.  “I warn you, if you betray me . . .”  He spun on his heel and stormed from the warehouse.

            Shakrim watched his rival leave.  He then reached out to the statue and brushed the smooth white surface with his fingertips before leaving by a rear door.

Saleem moved down the stairs and nearly shouted out when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder.  He turned to look at Oset’s wide eyes.

“Don’t,” she said.

“Ben-Sinar is getting away,” said Saleem.  “I might yet have a chance.”

“No,” said Oset and took his face in her hands.  “I will not allow you to do this.  Not for us.”  He tried to shake his head, but found her grasp too appealing.  “Listen to me,” she continued.  “My mother was a servant to Ben-Sinar.  He accused her of theft and had her arrested.  She died in the prisons.  When you said you intended to kill him, my heart filled with revenge.  Then I realized that his death won’t bring my mother back, but it might take you away from me.  I would have died on the streets if I hadn’t met you.  You saved my life, and now I want to save yours.”

Saleem gently took her hands in his and kissed her fingers.  “Follow me,” he said and led her down the stairs.

“Gods be praised!” said Oset, her eyes shining with greed.  “Saleem, we can finally leave.  Start a new life where no one will ever find us.”

Saleem jammed his hand into a nearby chest.  So much wealth for a beggar statue, he thought as he picked up a fistful of silver coins, letting them filter through his fingertips.  “This is the usurers’ doing,” he said.  “They have driven the City’s people into poverty to make their offerings to a---a god.”

“God?” said Oset.  “What god?”

            “Our god.”

            Saleem jolted as though hit by lightning.

Ben-Sinar stood in the doorway of the warehouse.  The small chest he held appeared to rest on his ample belly.

Saleem cursed.  The usurer hadn’t left, but went to get more offerings for Quatim.

Bin-Sinar huffed at the sight of Saleem and Oset, and his moustaches billowed like gossamer.  “Some rats after my golden cheese, I see.”  He dropped the chest onto the ground.  Grunting, he turned and bolted the door closed.

            When he turned back, he had a dagger in his pudgy hand.  “I tell you what boy.  You leave the girl with me, and I will let you live.”

            Oset sucked in air.  “Pig,” she said.

            “Pig is it?”  Bin Sinar waddled toward them.  “Very well, you both can die.”

            With his left hand Saleem pulled Oset closer to him, with his other he flashed his own dagger.  “Stay back,” he said, hating the cracked squelch of his voice.

            “The rats have teeth,” Ben-Sinar said.  By now he had made it to the opposite side of the warehouse.  Saleem swore at his own stupidity.  He took two steps forward, but the fat usurer was already at the other door and bolted that one shut, too.  “A fine trap now,” he wheezed.  “Now, tell me.  What are you doing here?  Who sent you?”

            Saleem licked his lips.  “Hendari,” he said, hoping the name might give him some sort of power over the man, or at least put him off balance.

            Ben-Sinar frowned.  “Never heard of him.”  He moved closer and his beady eyes narrowed.  “Enough lies, boy.  Tell me the truth, now.  It was Shakrim, was it not?  I knew he couldn’t let all these riches alone.  Do you hear that, Quatim?  You have been betrayed.  I am the loyal one.”

             “Who is he talking to?” whispered Oset.

            “His god,” said Saleem, nodding toward Quatim

Oset frowned.  “The statue?”

“Trust me,” said Saleem .  “That is more than a statue.  It lives, and has a name.  Quatim.  It spoke to Bin-Sinar and Shakrim promising them things only a god could fulfill.”

“And now that Shakrim has revealed his true nature,” said Ben-Sinar.  “All the power shall go to me, is that not right, my lord?”

Quatim remained silent.

“Why do you not answer me?”  Ben-Sinar stood before Quatim, seeming to lose interest in Saleem and Oset.

Saleem pulled Oset away from the corpulent usurer, nearly tripping over bolts of silk carelessly tossed about the treasure chests and artworks.  He had learned much from the two-faced priests of Nar.  Foremost, gods were ethereal.  They had no need for the material.  It was the offering, the worship that they craved.  If the chests were any evidence, Quatim had been worshipped a great deal.

And the god wanted more.  It just didn’t make sense.  Why would a god need so much worship, and why only riches?  Most temples accepted anything from gold to livestock.  A piece of copper would make any true beggar happy, but not this beggar god.  Looking around he saw plenty of copper, silver, and gems, but no gold.  That precious metal was reserved for Quatim.

They were closer to the door now, further away from Ben-Sinar’s increasing ravings.  Why so much gold?  What was the link between the city’s beggars, so many filling the streets crammed into abandoned buildings much like the hostel next door, and their supposed god.  Would they worship this deity?

            Saleem’s mouth went dry.  No, he thought, they wouldn’t, but what if it didn’t matter.  What if gold was not what gave Quatim life?

Poverty.  More riches gathered meant more poor in the city, more souls from which Quatim can draw his true power.  Their misery was his worship.

“Let’s get out of here.”  Oset placed a delicate hand on his shoulder.  “Ben-Sinar is mad.”

Saleem agreed.  He wanted to run from this temple in the guise of a warehouse.  Yet would it matter?  He had lived most of his life with hardship and danger.  To be quit of the City and its streets was his greatest desire.  If he ran, though, not only would he lose his chance at a new life with Oset, but Quatim would become ever more powerful.  More poor would fill the streets, line more beggar walls to keep him strong, until the entire city became one immense slum.  Then he would move on, devouring every hint of prosperity to build his flock until only misery was left in the world.

“There is no where to hide,” said Saleem.  “I have to stop this now.”  His shoulders slumped, daunted by his own words.

“Saleem, we cannot defeat a god.”

“No,” he said.  “No one can kill a god.”  He moved closer to the statue, white as ivory.  He could feel power radiating from the stone.

Yes, he thought, it is alive--and aware.  Ben-Sinar furiously thrust gold coins onto Quatim’s beggar dish.  The gold melted and disappeared as if the statue had sucked the metal into itself.

Oset gasped at the sight.  “Where did the gold go?”

“I’m wondering the same thing,” said Saleem.  Quatim had said it needed more to be complete.  A lie.  This god would never be complete.  It needed gold like food, like—

Saleem searched the warehouse floor, his gaze settling on a nearby sconce.  Jamming his dagger back in his belt, he rushed towards it.  He grabbed the thick metal stand with both hands, whirled and charged at Ben-Sinar.  Lifting the bar with all his might, he brought it down, not on the fat usurer, but on the beggar statue.  His arms vibrated with the force of his blow, and he readied himself for another strike.

A heavy meaty arm thudded against his head and he toppled backward.

“What are you doing?”  Mohammed Ben-Sinar stood over Saleem.  His face was purple with rage and sweat rolled along his pale cheeks like rain, but his eyes blazed like a wildfire.  He held his dagger out as if to carve Saleem like a roasted fowl.

Saleem rolled to his right, but Ben-Sinar stomped on his ankle.  He cried out as the fat man leaned his full weight down.

“Now, you die, little rat.”  Licking his thick lips, Ben-Sinar leaned forward, his long moustaches brushing the warehouse floor.  Then he grunted, and the fire fled from his crazed eyes.  Slowly, he leaned to the side, teetering like a fallen tree before settling onto the warehouse floor in a doughy heap.

Oset towered behind the fallen usurer, readying the sconce for another strike.  “I like rats,” she said, then seeing Saleem was not dead, added, “and I love crocodiles.”

Saleem grinned back.  Testing his wounded ankle, he rose to his feet.  He took the sconce from Oset, then impulsively kissed her full on the lips.  Smiling at her shocked face, he hobbled to the pale statue and struck it hard with the sconce.  Chips of white stone bit his face like insect stings.  He struck again and again until on the fourth swing Quatim’s hand broke free sending molten gold spurting from the open wound.

“Blood,” Oset whispered.

“Gold,” Saleem corrected.  “It uses gold for blood.”  The gold was congealing, stanching its own flow.  He hit the statue further up the arm till that broke away, too.  More gold flowed from the stump but Saleem didn’t stop there.  He attacked the entire idol, chipping away at the stone.  When he knocked the head off he thought he heard a wail of pain on the wind.  Finally, he stopped, heaving in great draughts of air.

“Can we go now?” said Oset.

            “No.”  Saleem picked up a chunk of stone.  “We have to get rid of these pieces.  Throw them in the sewers; throw them as far as we can in all directions.  Leave nothing for the usurers to find.  I want nothing for them to worship.”

            “But what about the guards?”

            Saleem scowled.  Ben-Sinar’s bodyguards must still be waiting outside.  It was a wonder they hadn’t come in yet.  The doors, of course.  They had been bolted closed.  And by now they must be used to the unusual goings on within the warehouse.  They had time, but not much.  No where near enough.  “We’ll have to do our best.”  He snatched Quatim’s head off the floor.  “Starting with this,” he said and led Oset toward the door from which Ali Shakrim had left--hopefully taking his personal guards with him.

The next day Saleem was at his spot by the beggar’s wall.  He could barely keep his eyes open.  They had managed three trips to the warehouse, spreading the chunks of marble around the city, before Ben-Sinar regained consciousness and his outraged cries had surrounded the warehouse with mercenary guards.

Saleem knew he should sleep and keep his head down, but there was unfinished business to attend to before he and Oset could flee the City for good.

“You’ve done well, my young friend.”

Saleem was startled to see Hendari standing next to him.  “Isha, I did not see you approach.”  As if bidden by my thoughts, my "unfinished business" appears.

Hendari chuckled and, in his rich, smooth voice said, “Are we back to the formalities?  Come with me.  Let us walk.  We have much to discuss.”

Slowly rising, Saleem weighed the odds of boldly walking in plain sight with this man where any of Ben-Sinar's agents might spy them, but Hendari strode away without waiting and left him precious little choice.  Quietly, he stood and hurried to his patron's side then walked meekly beside him through the market place and into an unusually empty side street where they came to a pause in deep shadow.

“I thank you,” said Hendari.

“Why?  I did not kill Ben-Sinar.”

Hendari laughed again.  “I said I wanted someone removed, not killed.  And I did not say who.”

Saleem gaped in shock.  “It was Quatim?  But why didn’t you take care of him yourself.”

Expressing helplessness, Hendari shrugged.  “I could not.  There are rules I must follow, and not killing another god or his followers is one of them.”

Saleem’s eyes grew wide.  Much made sense, now.  He remembered the public reason the Priests of Nar gave for becoming priests and for gathering adherents.  They proclaimed that becoming a follower of Nar imbued believers with immunity from the other deities.  Thus, only unbelievers were subject to a god’s random wrath.

Hendari's words gave proof to what Saleem had long considered horse dung.

But the priests of Nar went far beyond "protection", using the faith of Nar's followers as a weapon, their worship and alms to satisfying their own needs.  Until Hendari had stepped into his life, Saleem had never witnessed favoritism by one god or another.  He had believed in nothing and no one but himself.

You are less a child and more than a beggar.  Hendari’s words now came back to him, but with new meaning.

I know who it is I need, and that is you.

In his vanity, Saleem had thought that his skills were sought, but his faithlessness was what Hendari had required.  Without a god’s protection, Saleem was free to do as he wished.  What Hendari needed.  And, considering the foul source of Quatim’s power, what other gods willingly allowed.

Had he killed Quatim?  Unlikely, but he had destroyed the idol.  Already rumors flew about the city of a growing war between Ben-Sinar and Shakrim, of accusations of betrayal, though of what no one knew for sure.  Some believed it was over a woman, a rumor Saleem readily suggested when possible.

In time each would destroy each other and Quatim would soon be forgotten.

And a god without disciples is nothing.

            Saleem swallowed knowing his part in this play was not yet done, and wished he had seen Oset one last time before his death.  “What are you going to do with me now?”

            No answer came.  Hendari was gone.

Saleem nearly collapsed with relief, until a glint of colored sunlight caught his eye.  Looking down, he saw a handful of gems lying in the bottom of his basket.  Shocked, Saleem lost his grip and the basket tumbled to the dirt street.  He swore as he fumbled for the precious stones.  “Thank you, Isha.  Thank you.”  He shook his head in wonder, and reached for the basket.  His hand stopped midway.  Another pile of jewels lay within the wicker.

With trembling fingers, Saleem tipped the basket over, spilling rubies and emeralds onto the road.  By the time he righted the basket it was again filled.

He stared at the stones unable to comprehend so much wealth.  And it was all his.  Or was it?  Saleem looked up and down the side street and thought of the homeless baker and his family crowded in with all the others downtrodden by the greed of Ben-Sinar and Shakrim in the derelict hostel from the night before.

"Ah," he murmured, "I understand, Isha."

The young beggar held his bowl up to the white-robed man striding towards him.  “A few coins, Isha,” he croaked.  Small eyes grew wide as the stranger dropped a handful of jewels into the bowl.  “Hendari be praised!” he exclaimed.  “Thank you, Isha.  Thank you!”

The man chuckled in a voice rich and full.  “You’re welcome, young friend.  And he delights in your praise, trust me.”

The boy looked up at the man, whose smile within a well-trimmed beard beamed down at him.  Beside his benefactor stood a woman whose thinly veiled beauty surpassed even the gemstones now clutched in his hand.  She smiled too and the boy's heart filled with joy and promise.

The man held a simple wicket basket of his own, which he tucked into the folds of his white robes without comment when he rose.  Then, taking his woman by the hand, the couple strolled deeper into the City.  They walked slowly, seeming to savor not only the sights and sounds of the bazaar but also each other's company until they disappeared beyond sight into the crowd.