The air in the sūq (market) was thick with the scent of spices—cinnamon, saffron, and dried roses—mingled with the sharp tang of hot metal. The sun, already high, beat down on the mud-brick walls of the workshops.

Ahmad, a coppersmith, was meticulously hammering a decorative pattern onto a large basin. He paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead with the back of a calloused hand, and looked across the narrow alleyway.

"Salam, Nasir!" Ahmad called out, his voice slightly muffled by the noise of the market. "Are you still polishing that same dagger? It shines enough to blind a man!"

Nasir, a young artisan specializing in inlay and fine metalwork, looked up from his workbench, where he was carefully setting turquoise into a bronze handle. He smiled, a flash of white against his sun-darkened skin.

"Salam, Ahmad. This piece is for the Vizier’s treasurer, so every detail must be perfect. If I miss a spot, I'll hear about it until the next lunar cycle," Nasir replied, setting down his small chisel. "The heat today is enough to melt the wax off my thread."

"Heat and dust," Ahmad grumbled, taking a long drink from a ceramic jug. "And speaking of the Vizier, did you see the size of the caravan that arrived this morning? They were unloading bales of silk from Samarqand near the main gate. The taxes on that lot alone will keep the treasury full for a month."

Nasir sighed, leaning back against the cool stone wall. "Taxes. Always taxes. My father had to pay double the usual kharaj (land tax) last week, simply because the governor decided the river levels were 'too generous' this year."

"Generous for the crops, generous for his purse," Ahmad muttered darkly. "It’s hard enough to make a decent living when the cost of copper rises every month. I had to pay three dirhams more for the last shipment from Kerman."

"At least you have work, old friend," Nasir said, picking up a tiny piece of lapis lazuli. "My cousin, Reza, the weaver, says the demand for fine carpets has dropped since the Sultan moved his court north. People are afraid to spend when the political winds shift so often."

Ahmad nodded gravely. "The fighting in the west worries me. My brother, who trades horses, says the roads near Hamadan are thick with soldiers, both ours and the invaders. He had to take a detour that added three days to his journey."

"May God protect the roads," Nasir murmured, shaking his head. "We pray for peace, but all we hear are rumors of war and new decrees. Did you hear about the new muhtasib (market inspector)? He was here yesterday, checking the weight of every loaf of bread. He fined poor old Fatima for selling a measure of dried dates that was half an ounce short."

Ahmad chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Fatima? She could charm the scales into lying for her! But yes, he’s a zealous one. He stopped me and demanded to know where I sourced my tin. Said he suspected me of using inferior alloys."

"And what did you tell him?"

"I told him to look at the quality of my work, which has graced the homes of three generations of merchants! He huffed and left, but I know he’ll be back," Ahmad said, picking up his hammer again. "It’s easier to deal with the heat than with bureaucrats."

Nasir laughed softly. "True enough. Speaking of heat, did your wife, Zaynab, manage to get any of that new rosewater from the Perfumer's Quarter? Mine is complaining that the summer heat is spoiling the last of her supply."

"She did, early this morning, before the sun was high. She also bought some fresh figs. You should send your boy over later, I’ll give him a handful. They are sweet, blessed by the morning dew."

"That is kind of you, Ahmad. May your days be prosperous." Nasir paused, looking towards the main thoroughfare where the muezzin’s call would soon sound. "The midday prayer approaches. I need to finish this inlay before I close up shop."

"Go with God, Nasir. And may the Vizier pay you well for your blinding work."

"And may your copper shine brighter than the sun, Ahmad."

Nasir returned to his delicate task, the soft scrape of his tool against the metal replacing the men's voices. Ahmad lifted his hammer, and the rhythmic clang-clang of the coppersmith’s work resumed its place in the symphony of the Persian market.