The Price of Good Business
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If she had not been expecting trouble, or not paying attention, she might have simply assumed the guards were being ignorant of their guest. Perhaps they had fallen asleep, the wisps of hookah smoke still spiralling up from the clove scented coal signs of a long morning spent in solitude with one another. Three weary souls, talking of home, wives, children, lovers. As she set her sights onto the backs of each of the men, who were sat at the table on rickety chairs, clad in the brown robes and headdress of the Ikkaram city guard, she drew together a scene.
The silver handles of the kukri embedded in each man’s back were clear indicators that members of the il’Jhain had been here. The polished hilt a clearer sign still that people meant to bring discord to the Ikkaram messengers. The dagger blow had been simultaneous; Mordelain could only wonder how three men had been set upon by at least three others when the only way into the barracks was through the door. Had they been so tired or cheerful their laughter and snores had drowned out even the most silent of footsteps? She shuddered, and slowly circled the table to look upon their death masks.
“Peaceful rest on weary faces,” she said softly, as if she were scared that her words might wake the dead. With slow movements, she leant in towards the table and picked up the scroll, and then stepped back with a rush of stale air. With careful fingers she unrolled the dry parchment and scanned the delicate script, set in Arial typeset and cast with a flourish of penmanship that could only have come from one of the il’Jhain scribes. They had a peculiar way about official documentation that somehow cast the strange Fallien alphabet in a light that even the novice linguist could understand.
As-Salāmu `alayk Monod,
They come once again, torches blazing, hounds barking. I do not know what to do. 'they take my spice, and the il’Jhain die to their blades. Is this the price of good business?
Help me brother, please,
Karachi.
She re-read the letter, ignoring the blood stain embedded with a fingerprint next to the signature as long as she could. She wondered more importantly if the bandits that had tried to pin her to the dunes with their leaf shaped partisans had been involved. Suresh had spoken of raids on the spice fields, as had many other il’Jhain amongst the ranks of the Freerunners. Witnessing it with her own eyes, she could not begin to compute what risk she was now in. With shaking hands she tucked the scroll into her fur-lined glove and bowed. Though she was no expert in life and death from the position of the kukri, all three of which were embedded between the shoulder blades the men were truly beyond help.
“I will help your brother in your stead,” she said absent minded, making another promise under the light of one sun she was starting to doubt she could keep. “Perhaps if I had ridden harder and faster, like I promised the old fool of a merchant, I could have helped you…” though even as she said it, her lip stiff and her eyes sullen from the haze and stagnation in the barracks, she did not truly believe it.
Thinking it okay, Mordelain helped herself to a glass of the date wine from the clay jug that rested by the bunks and drank it thirstily. Though stale, the sweet ichor ran down her throat and invigorated her with an instantaneous sense of gratification. Fallien liquor was a curious oddity, even amongst the nine worlds, because it was the only liquid known to never satisfy thirst. Even with ice, even with fervour, it could only inebriate, and never placate the arid taste buds and tongue of a nomad. It had other properties, by all means, but it required many more glugs to experience those. She set the jug down with a clang, wiped her lips with her furry tassel and bid farewell to the guards.
"It will have to do for now," she lamented.
As she walked back out into the sun the searing heat, cast to one side by the cooling shade of the mud hut returned full force. With a furtive glance to the right, she forgot about the risk of heat stroke as her horse trotted into the territory of the outpost, almost pre-destined. She was never glad to see someone else suffer for her own safety, but Kales’ struggle over the sands was something she was very glad for indeed. She ran to her and embraced her neck as though she were hugging a tree. Its warmth, and the smell of equestrian mane excited her, and she almost wanted to cry with joy.
“When we get back to the Outsider’s Quarters, I am going to feed you the finest grain and buy you a saddle fit for a stallion, because you are the only horse for me!” She patted her mount affectionately and came about to her right side.
She mounted with a quick step, having learnt the art of riding quickly following several awkward moments in public when Suresh had first attempted to teach her to tack. “Then I will make sure Suresh never whips you again,” she shuffled in the saddle and adjusted her muslin. The groggy and sweet taste on her lips brought her attention to the left saddlebag, from which she pulled with shaking hands a large poppy seed load, still warm, though by the sun’s grace and not the kiln’s kindness. She tore into it manically, forgetting her table manners in favour of fighting near starvation.