Soon he couldn’t hear the men as they returned to defend their stalls, and he mashed the empty eggshell down flat, lifting the other one from his sash.
It wasn’t a bad life. He admired himself, – he was alive when he shouldn’t be after his father had died of a fever and then his mother and grandmother, too. As a foreigner in Al Musar he was on his own, – no local clan of beggars taking him in, no one his friend.
In various pockets in the nest of rags small pots were crammed, – one with a few figs he was softening up, and also a jug of water with a clay bung. Jammed tight to the sides was thick sacking he wrapped around himself at night, and all the layers were suitably laced with the spell-lady’s asofetida leaves to ward off scorpions and snakes, ( though maybe not so good against lice and fleas ).
Carefully hidden deep down in a hole were his prize objects, mostly old keepsakes and a few bright beads that were good for gazing at. He even had a silver dangly thing with a pretty green stone that would be good for bargaining if he ever had to plead for his life.
Dirt showered on him! The ceiling fell in!
“I’VE GOT HIM!“ a man yelled, gripping Hamar’s sleeve!
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