Harold cupped his hands around his eyes. He could see a glinting in the distance down in the valley, ringed by high inclined mountains and hills. Probably sunlight reflecting on the golden dome of a mosque. The hot winds of the desert blew gently around him.
“There it is... The city you seek!” declared Murat dramatically.
Murat was the guide Harold hired in Baghdad. Hajzour had formerly been a caravaneer, but his enterprise was bought out, so now, he worked as a guide. He was originally from Balochistan, but he was familiar with most of Persia and Bactria from years of caravanning. He was on the short side, sociable, and, thought Harold, cut a few corners here and there. But he was all Harold had, and he had not steered them wrong yet.
“I thought you said it was larger,” Harold observed.
“No, it has many people - as we ride closer you will see the full city,” Murat explained.
“Is it hidden?”
“Hidden!” laughed Murat. “Like Prester John? Hiding an entire merchant city is a bit tricky. It simply uses the cliffs as a natural wall, so only about two-thirds of the city is attackable. The high hills cannot be mounted by invaders, so it is protected.”
Harold nodded silently. He made a mental note to include that tidbit in his log later. The Command would find that useful.
A short ride later, Harold and Murat led their horses through the city gate. They were met by a pair of guards who welcomed them in the name of the Khan and inquired as to their purpose and origin.
Harold claimed he was a Bosnian from the Ottoman Empire looking to trade for exotic textiles. The same story he told Murat. The Middle Easterners, who had not seen a Bosnian, nor white European (as Harold was), assumed that must be true. As such, the guards pointed them towards the marketplace and left the visitors to their own devices. The horses were taken to the public stables.
Harold instructed Murat to take their belongings and find a room at an inn. Murat nodded his assent and left.
Once Murat had gone, Harold strolled toward the marketplace. He stuck to the side streets and looked out at the bazaar. Therein he saw stand upon stand of merchants of various nationalities selling myriad exotic products. Silks, spices, precious metals, funny little dogs, and much more was on sale from surely every corner of Eurasia. But Harold was not interested in the merchandise.
He stood in the shadows and surveyed the people in the marketplace for any sign of light skin like his own. He stood equal chance of finding his compatriot, Edward, with whom he was supposed to rendezvous with three towns ago, or worse, an agent of a rival foreign power.
Harold felt weary. The trails were rough in this region. And where had Edward gone to? Central Asia was no friend to the inexperienced foreigner, so he could have easily succumbed to bandits or some sort of accident on the trails. After the next day passed, Edward or no, Harold would have to make south for India. The intelligence he accumulated was necessary to his superiors in Calcutta, and he could not be risked for one missing agent. Hopefully, Edward had not been intercepted by a force of -
Harold felt a rough hand on his shoulder. A royal guard pushed Harold out of the street to make way for the Khan and his procession. Dressed in a large hat, magnificent robes, and surrounded by his men at arms, the Khan passed into the marketplace, en route to the city center. The Khan maintained a regal silence, and citizens scurried out of the way of him and his entourage. The Khan was middle-aged and weathered, but he held his head tall.
At the end of the royal queue, plodded a large man with a long, European rife, flowing pants, and a white face. He turned his head back and forth, scanning the crowd, and suddenly stopped at Harold, staring him dead in the face. He was not Edward. And he wore a tall, fur, Cossack hat. He smiled coldly then followed after the Khan.
