Ozan the Hero

By Edwin C. Mason

In Nikye in the conquered land of Nesalia, Ozan lives the quiet life he enjoys, running a bookshop and chatting with customers of all stations in life. At least that's what he thought, until unexpected events occur with unprecedented regularity.

The appearance of a new thieves' guild threatens the uneasy peace between the authorities and the criminal element, and Ozan's delicate neutrality.

On top of that, trouble comes into his life in the form of hauntingly beautiful people with the darkest secrets imaginable. Soon, people are dying in the streets, and the secret to survival for a city full of innocents and criminals alike may lie in any of the thousands of books stored in Ozan's mind.

In the Age of Four Empires, distant kings lead distant armies, and bandits roam the land. Always, remnants of a darker age lurk beneath the surface.

This is a 28,000-word short novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edwin C. Mason
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9780992008390

Edwin C. Mason

Edwin C. Mason was born in 1964 in a house half full of books and dedicated his early years to similarly filling the other half. Now he dreams of filling other people's houses the same way. He started writing in 1977 after reading "Pirates of Venus" by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and in the intervening years he has made every mistake it's possible for a writer to make. He lives in Toronto with his dreams and delusions.

Book preview

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Ozan the Hero

Edwin C. Mason

© 2013 Edwin C. Mason

All rights reserved.

GND Publishing

Toronto, ON Canada

Smashwords Edition

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Also Available by this Author

About the Author

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Ozan the Hero

Edwin C. Mason

Chapter One

"Confess that you knew Aysu!" Zhubin said, his nose an inch from Ozan’s.

His partner, Ilmaz, corrected him again. "Aylin."

Ozan shook his head. Aylin kept house across the street and sometimes swept up for the coffee shop, and for me. Of course I knew her.

Try to keep your story straight. Ilmaz reached out and grabbed his tunic front. Did you know her or not?

Of course I knew her. I just told you that.

Then why did you shake your head?

Ozan sighed again. The narrow confines of the shop hardly had room for three people at the best of times, and these two tried to take up as much room as they could. Normally, when he hoped for a moment to think, Ozan scanned the shelves stacked with books and scrolls and maps. Sometimes he even took one down and pretended to look something up, using those few moments to dredge up some scrap of information he’d read a day or week or decade ago. Now, he didn’t dare look away from these two. Investigators usually came in and talked politely, but not these. Something must be very wrong.

Yes, I knew Aylin. I knew Aylin for twenty-five years, perhaps more, from the time she was a little girl playing in the sun. I don’t know who killed her.

Zhubin grabbed him by the chin. Who said anyone killed her? he asked, his accent stronger now.

You did. When you came in you said that ‘Aysu’ had been murdered, and Ilmaz corrected you and said it was Aylin.

Zhubin slapped his right cheek and as Ozan’s face swung around Ilmaz slapped his left.

Again, Zhubin’s nose came to rest an inch from Ozan’s. Who are you covering for?

This had gone too far. If only he had an idea of how to stop it. I cover crimes for no one, and I never have.

Ilmaz grabbed his ear. Who said anything about a crime?

You cover for criminals all the time. Who pays you to keep this shop open?

You did; murder is a crime. My customers keep this shop open by buying books and sometimes maps. I have a nearly new copy of Chenda’s treatise on alchemy if you’d be interested in reading it. Only seven pennies. What are you implying?

Zhubin shook him. Everyone knows Devrim comes in here for information about who is in town and who has what to steal. How much do you make for the information?

Thinking that shaking his head again might not be wise, Ozan shrugged. Devrim comes in for books now and then. Yes, we talk, but I talk to everyone. I’ll even talk to you if you come in without trying to push me around. How much does he learn from me that will aid his theft? Little, if anything. He doesn’t ask since he knows better. I’ve never taken a penny — not even a clipping — for information that will help a crime.

Ilmaz drew back his arm to strike again, but a voice interrupted him.

He’s telling the truth, you know. Dariush, thank the Merciful! He doesn’t help them, and he doesn’t help us. He’ll share what he knows, but will never betray a customer.

He would have talked, Zhubin said.

Dariush performed one of his characteristic shrugs, so tiny you were aware it had happened but could never say you’d really seen it. It suited his body, small and slight, like his moustache. He was already talking, just not saying anything he didn’t know. He turned to Ozan and asked, Do you know who murdered Aylin?

No.

Did you see anything unusual about across the street after sunset?

By sunset I was already at home and enjoying a good stew.

There, Dariush said, that’s all you had to do.

Ilmaz shook his head and started out. Zhubin snapped a quick elbow into Ozan’s belly before he left.

Dariush took a step forward and caught Ozan before he reached the floor.

They mean well, he said. It doesn’t seem that they do, but....

They’re savages! He took a step backward, feeling for the stool he knew was there, then sat, hands crossed over his ample belly. He smoothed his moustaches, rested a hand on his knee, and unconsciously rearranged his baggy trousers. As always, I will tell you everything, but you know I keep away from secrets for my life. This way they leave me alone.

You live on secrets. Dariush laughed, slapping his hand on a bookshelf for emphasis. Books are secrets, and you’ll spill any of them to anyone who makes a little conversation with you. If you charged for what you know, you could be rich.

And guilty.

Or I could pay you for information.

Ozan smiled at Dariush. Then they would not leave me alone. Truthfully, I know little anyway. Certainly not enough to get killed over. Come, it’s time to close for the day.

So early?

Ozan patted his own chest. I couldn’t sell a thing with my heart pounding like this. If you need me, I’ll be next door. He shooed the investigator out the door, then locked it behind himself. He knew the smile on his face looked odd, but that would be a benefit now. Please don’t need me for the rest of the day.

Dariush nodded, shifted his sword belt and looked down the street instead of directly at Ozan, as was his wont. Sometimes we forget how intimidating the public finds us.

Ilmaz shouldn’t. He’s one of us, after all.

Now Dariush did look at him. We’re all one of us now.

Now Ozan didn’t meet his gaze. Perhaps. But I’m speaking your language now, not the other way around.

This isn’t my language either. Dariush turned without another word swaggering up the street like any young bravo. That was for show. When he didn’t, his stride was as neat and trim as the rest of him. Ozan had never asked why he acted like a fool soldier instead of the intelligent man he was.

He turned to the cafe on his right, its sunken patio surrounded by low benches and cloth-covered tables and sheltered with a capacious awning. He stepped over the partition rather than use the gate at the front, and picked a table where he had a good view of two men playing draughts. Alp brought him a coffee and water without asking, and Ozan settled into his afternoon’s thinking.

They were all one of us now. No one believed that. Perhaps in another hundred years, or a hundred after that, but the Hoptian Empire hadn’t been here two decades yet. Memories of freedom were long. Not that the yoke rested that oppressively on their shoulders, not even like the Ashiki Empire to the east, and the Mittanian Empire was said to be even worse. Still, the administrators spoke a language that wasn’t Nesali, and even the Xaxarani had been conquered only recently.

But now the men who walked the streets of Nikye with spears and swords came from thirty foreign lands. Some had dark skin under their padded armour, others wore long beards under their crocodile-hide helmets. A conquered people, without hope of uprising. As he thought about it, just such a band passed along the way. Eight Black soldiers with hide shields and long spears followed an officer in rose silk who clinked softly, proving that the silk covered mail. People in the streets parted to make room for the armed and muscular men, for the ever-present threat of violence.

At least they had not touched the