He moved closer to the edge of the parapets, seeking a moment of brief respite from the laughter and small talk of the others. Most of them were typical tourists, adventure-hungry men and women with too much money on their hands. They sought the cheap frills of a good time, and found solace only in the company of a warm fire. Not Harlan though, who stood just beyond the periphery of light, staring out over the expanse of terrible beauty. No, his passion stemmed from an interest in Persian history. Unfortunately, the Iranian government had clearly stipulated only certain areas open to foreigners, and then only by guided tours. Harlan’s fingers brushed lightly against the stonemasonry, the slabs of weathered stone rough and unyielding. In all likelihood, they had been carved to perfection during the late 18th century; castle walls designed to stave off an invasion that never came. How ironic, Harlan thought to himself, that such a masterpiece of architecture could be reduced in a mere two hundred years to simply another tourist attraction. Pulling a cigarette from his rumpled shirt pocket, he cupped his hands and waited patiently for the tiny flame to catch. From behind, a particularly boisterous laugh echoed its way around the once-castle. Harlan tried his best to ignore his irritation, and once again gazed out at the broken city of splendor. Ashraf. Its collection of magnificent ruined palaces seemed distorted in the purple evening haze, mosaic tendrils that curved towards the sky. In the time predating the Bab’s execution, as many as six different royal households had planted their homes within the stone labyrinth. Now, however, the quarters of Mazoberan held little of its former opulent glories. To Harlan, the smell of decay was almost palpable. He flicked away his burnt stub and absent-mindedly reached for a replacement. The search proved in vain, however. With a curse, Harlan remembered that he had wanted to buy a new pack during the day’s expedition. He glanced again at the five or six people sitting by the courtyard. Judging by the noise, they would little miss him for the few minutes it would take to buy new cigarettes. Harlan recalled a tiny shop several blocks to the west. He had just about an hour’s worth of peaceful solitude, even if it did break the rules a little. Another shout echoed round the rooftop, followed by several whoops of delight. To hell with ‘em, Harlan decided, and slipped away towards the stairs.
* * * *A fresh cigarette clenched firmly between his teeth, Harlan pulled out a wad of bills and pushed forward enough to cover the cost of his purchase. The detached expression on the old man’s face never changed as the money disappeared into the folds of his white robe. A pair of cold eyes observed Harlan from beneath a mesh of wrinkles and creases. With a shrug, the tourist stepped away from the counter and began walking back in the direction of his quarters. As he stepped back onto the beaten path, a veritable horde of beggars and street peddlars assailed him from all sides. Harlan reprimanded himself for the unnecessary flash of wealth that had undoubtedly attracted them.
"Master, I have many watches for sale - "
" – very cheap - "
" – I can take you to a good place - "
Busy with curt replies, Harlan did not notice a man dislodge himself from the shadows of a nearby alley. Striding purposefully to the small cluster of people, the newcomer barked a short series of commands in some unknown dialect. Harlan noticed curiously that none of the locals made eye contact with the stranger. With a few last pleas, they quietly dispersed, leaving only the tourist and his savior.
"I am sorry. My people are – how do you say – very friendly." The man grinned at this last jest, revealing sharp pearl teeth. He was dressed in traditional cloth, perhaps that of a devout religious man, yet his pockmarked face and wild sheaf of black hair seemed to belie that guess. "You are an American, yes?"
"Yes. I thank you for the assistance, but I really must be g - "
"You are part of the tourist group, yes?" As Harlan made a motion to continue walking, the Iranian quickly kept pace.
"My name is Shalafi. I am the murishah – local leader? - of this street. I have seen you today at the khanum ruins. You were not like the others. You were… bored? Perhaps I can show you more – interesting – relics of our past."
Harlan checked the sky. A dull thick black had replaced the iridescent colors.
"I’m sorry, but I really must be headed back. Another time, maybe."
"Perhaps this will change your mind." From a hanging sleeve, Shalafi produced a thin catgut lasso. Harlan stepped back in reflex, but then pressed forward when he realized that it was a gift held up for inspection. He threw the cigarette to the ground and took the weapon with both hands – for so it was, in the old days of Persia – gingerly examining it. With a start, he realized that it was an original, dating back at least a century. Such an artifact would earn a hefty price from any specialist museum. And although no longer a practiced art, Harlan had no doubt that the Punjab lasso could serve just a deadly purpose now as in its royal days. He looked up at the motionless Shalafi.
"Where did you get this?" The native merely smiled enigmatically, a death’s head in the growing gloom.
"Come with me and find out."
* * * *The two figures stepped gingerly around the murky canals of human flotsam. Harlan quickly lost orientation in the urban jungle, and he privately wished that he had traded in his Western clothes for some more comfortable indigenous gear. At the time he had felt it a pathetic attempt to help the tourists merge with the culture – the humid atmosphere was doing much to change that earlier impression. The others had also probably found out by now that Harlan was no longer brooding at his perch; if anything, they would simply assume he had retired early.
Keeping up with Shalafi was also proving difficult. The sharp twists and turns had taken their toll on Harlan; at times, he felt as if the other was purposefully leading him astray. Certainly, the area that they had ventured into was one that Harlan had never explored before. Fewer people loitered in these parts, content simply to stare as the Westerner passed by. In spite of himself, Harlan began to feel very uneasy.
"We are here."
Shalafi had stopped in front of a rather large dome-shaped structure, the great age of which could be determined by its disuse. Rubble lined the earthen path; the second floor balcony rails almost entirely shattered in two.
"This – ah – once belonged to the first Shah of Ashraf. The daroga – how do you say – chief of police? – was a very cruel man. He built this palace in 1853. It is not a usual tourist site, because the area here is very bad. Very bad. There have been people disappearing, yes." Harlan, enraptured by the glory of the building, paid little notice to the ominous words of his guide. Nor did he see a predatory smile quickly disappear into the brown face.
"Come. I will show you inside."
