The sounds of sandals flopping along the cobblestone echoed in Kur’s ears as his glossy amber eyes darted from shop to shop.

He made his way down the avenue past squat thatched stalls, plastered storefronts and scoured brick towers. The sun simmered throngs of merchants and bright-eyed tourists with woven baskets hanging on elbows.

Kur held his sack close to his side, and pulled his hood tight. If anyone saw the twin streaks of black that ran down his cheekbones, they’d know he was a marked man.

As he made his way, he spotted a broad, charcoal-skinned man guarding an archway. Beyond him a burgundy-canopied side street loomed.

“A drop of the oil of essence turns a house wine green,” Kur said boldly as he stepped up.
The guard was unfazed. “Code is good,” the guard said eventually, “but I’d better see yer face.”

Kur glanced left: a woman gazed back. Kur sighed, reached into his sack and palmed a gold coin embossed with the Caliph’s head.

“Here’s yer face,” Kur muttered as the guard took the coin.