Chapter I, Part 6

Night had always been her favorite time of day. It did not matter where she traveled, the fall of the sun below the horizon never failed to bring relief. Now, her steps light and silent, she wandered through the emptying streets in search of a cheap place to stay. By chance, the young woman had heard precisely what she needed that afternoon. What had begun as a tale by a dying fire had blown into a whisper, which had twisted into an underground rumor that was barely confirmed in a hushed conversation overheard on a street corner. Ren had never been truly lucky, but today the gods seemed to have had a change of heart concerning her fate.

Spying a sign that spelled “Inn” in flaking green paint, Ren slipped into a building that most travelers would have cringed at and passed over. She plunked a few thalas onto the gouged wooden counter and was handed a rusting key with a number engraved at the top. At some point tonight, she would have to work; the purse concealed in an inner pocket felt dangerously light. More important, however, was constructing a plan for the next day.

In her room, Ren spread out several oddly annotated maps on the floor and closely inspected them. The people on the corner had said it was in Lochenhenge, all the way across the country from Rhelys. Alas, location could not be helped. To get there…by foot was out of the question; experienced as she was, Ren did not want to walk from end to end of Anaitis. She couldn’t afford a horse, either, and a horse would make her a target of thieves. To sail would take far too long. That left her the option of joining a caravan. Quickly, Ren scrutinized the maps again; if there were villages and towns along the route, she could work and easily pay her way in a coach car. The idea seemed better and better as she thought about it. A caravan would provide safe transport and a way to hear news. Ren smiled to herself and decided to visit the advertising navigators in the morning.

Rolling up the maps, she organized her few belongings and fastened a thin black cloak around her shoulders. The sea wind made nights in Rhelys chilly, and Ren knew that she would be grateful for the extra warmth the cloak afforded before dawn came. With a final glance at the shoddy room, she slid out of the window onto the roof below and dropped into a pile of hay. A horse regarded her with interest, blinking slowly. Ren scrambled to her feet and sped from the inn, eager to conduct her business.

There were many cemeteries in Rhelys, but the one she chose to visit that night was in one of the city’s wealthier districts. The Casini cemetery was always filled with offerings and gifts from the elite citizens, colorful, ornate things that screamed out to be taken by the businesspeople of the night. Ren glided through the wide avenues of the rich folk, not so much unseen as unnoticed. With only the quietest scrape she pushed the iron gate open, surveying the orderly array of marble laid out before her. Wandering deep into the tombstones, where her actions would be unobserved, Ren examined the contents of small wooden boxes and intricately designed compartments built into the graves. Her topical search yielded an antique garnet necklace, several pouches of coins, two pots of rare herbs, and a loaf of fine bread. The girl smiled as she stole out of the graveyard, silently thanking the dead for their gifts, and hastily made her way back to the inn.

Tomorrow, she thought, tearing a chunk from the bread with her teeth, tomorrow it will actually begin.

Chapter 1, Part 5

    This was it. This was the chance Sindri needed. A groan tried to work its way into existence, but was quickly stifled. Fate was dropping at this journeying mystic's feet a filthy, scrawny, starving and moneyless child to be taken care of and guided down the path of goodness. Benevolence… Propriety… The only result of these actions that Sindri's mind could project was the deprivation of scents, jewelry, tea - there would be two mouths to feed, and Sindri already consumed enough to rival a small town. It wouldn't be possible to take responsibility for the boy when there was already so much to be taken care of (Mainly Sindri)… And yet… a somewhat sour expression took over as the itinerant realized that this inner battle was lost before it ever truly began. The shame of turning away this virtuous duty would be unbearable. It was Sindri's job to teach this child sincerity, benevolence, and propriety… How could such things be taught when Sindri wasn't even able to abide by them without exception? It would be a difficult journey, yes, but a journey that must be taken. And anyways, that kid was just so damn pathetic, like a mangy, malnourished pup. The momentarily insincere spiritualist cursed a long list of things, and then focused once again on the boy standing there holding an oracle bone in his hand.

    Giving up completely allowed a broad grin to creep down past the mischievous psychic's ears, up above the pointed chin, and finally sit, triumphantly, on the pale face. A stray hand tucked white-blond hair behind an ear, pulled slightly down with the weight of the hoop.
    Intrigue glinted and danced between two ivy green eyes. "That's the wan-gu," Sindri said, speaking the last two words with a native Eastern accent. "It's considered one of the luckiest bones- that you chose it means you must be lucky too. I'll teach you to read them," The slender body twisted, unfolded and then folded again to face the piteous boy. "But only if you stop stealing. That which is gained through dishonesty is not worth gaining at all. That which is gained with hard work and virtue is worth more than anything money could buy. Unfortunately, most people here don't accept hard work and virtue in lieu of money. Would you like to eat? I'll treat you if you agree to be my assistant."

    At this Sindri paused, making faces as if suddenly tasting something bad. "Apprentice…" No, this was even less palatable. "Associate." That triumphant grin worked its way back up, and suddenly so did the fortune teller. The cards and bones were swept back into the pouch. Fingers fastened around the street rat's wrist and dragged him along as the flashy figure tromped with determination through the muck and mayhem of the streets of inner Rhelys.
    "Also, you mustn't lie. Well." Sindri stopped walking, a deep, sullen thought working its way across the expressive face. The blond gave a long sigh. "Alright. You can lie, if you choose to. The same goes with stealing. I… I won't stop you being dishonest, but if you choose to you must bear with the choice you make." The words hesitated coming out of the elder vagabond's mouth, their speaker desiring to tell the boy exactly what to do and feeling shortchanged by the obligation not to. "But you really, really, really should try not to lie or steal…" The thought that they were standing in the middle of a chaotic street suddenly occurred to the clairvoyant, who, with a quick turn, was off again with that same resolute march. "I'm working on listening more than I speak," Sindri projected over a gaudy shoulder, "So pinch me if I talk too much! There was this o-" Catching the mistake, Sindri's pale pink lips pressed shut, flickering green eyes narrowing to locate a specific destination.

    "Hello!" The vibrantly-clad wanderer called, peeking a head in the doorway. This time the eccentric fool had a victim. A scrawny boy, shock of dark curls hanging in his face. The big man at the counter couldn't help but bark a deep laugh.

    "Sindri, what poor lad are you torturing with your path to enlightenment, eh? I didn't think I'd see you back here. Come on in. That boy looks skinny as a vine! Sit down, I'll have a pot of tea out and something to eat in a bit." The man boomed, turning and stomping into a room in the back. Sindri, sporting a coiling grin, flung the grimy victim down at a table and took a seat across from him. Whether the fortune-teller's subsequent silence was intentional, allowing the boy that had just been effectively kidnapped to take in the recent flurry of events, or unintentional, a result of the thoughtless routine of pulling off earrings, massaging pink earlobes, picking at dirty nails, rubbing an aching right elbow, it lasted long enough for a pot of steaming tea to be brought out. At the interruption, those green eyes glinted, realizing that this time there was company sitting on the other end of the table instead of an empty chair. Sindri beamed, thrilled all over again with the rediscovery of this newfound companion. The contents of the sapphire silk pouch were dumped out on the table, bones and cards quickly pushed into neat little piles, and then the mystic's chin jerked up as yet another thought occurred, "Say. What do you think about caravans?"

Chapter 1, Part 4

            The sun was setting behind the taller buildings of Rhelys, casting cool hues over the dingy market street.  Blue and purple shadows stretched from the vendor stalls as their owners slowly started to pack up shop, trying to snare one last customer before the night truly fell.  The boy peered out from the alleyway, his dark skin and clothes serving as the perfect camouflage.  He wasn’t after the purses of the shop goers this time of the day, but rather the merchants themselves.  Merchants, so stupid, turning their back on their purses as they carefully packed up their wares into carts and rucksacks for the trek back to their homes. 

            Slowly, the boy slid out from his hiding spot, his bare feet silently padding across the dirt as he neared the closest of the merchants.  He never tried to steal a whole purse, no; the trick to being a proper thief was to not be greedy.  Well, be greedy, but not so greedy as to make his victims aware that they were missing their precious coins.  The man he was targeting now was an older one, hard of hearing on the left, and slow to boot…the boy had profited off of him several times in the past few weeks, never enough for more then a meal or two that he tried to stretch as much as he could.  It never lasted long. 

            He waited until the old man was turned away, painstakingly easing a clay vase into a fabric-cushioned cart, his veins standing out against his withered and ruddy hands, then the boy made his move.  He hadn’t moved five feet, however, before the merchant turned around to collect the next jar and spotted the pathetic sight of the raggedy boy with sunken eyes and ratty clothes.  The old man’s eyes softened, and he slowly reached into his bag, his withered hands digging for something.

            “Here you go lad, you look half dead.  Come here, let me help…”

            The boy stiffened.  Adults were bad, even old ones.  He didn’t mind stealing from them, but he’d never trust them.  A pang of terror racked through his body as his instincts took over.  Fight or flight.  He barely had enough strength to hold his head up, let alone fight…flight it was.

            “No…lad, I’m not going to…” As the boy retreated back into his alley the old man’s voice was swallowed by the silence of the shadows.  Expertly, he navigated the backstreets between the filthy buildings, moving parallel to the market street.  Dark forms lay huddled and slumped against the walls, several clutching bottles of some sort or another, and the stench that accompanied them was overpowering.  The boy felt his heart pounding like a drum in his chest.  He had to get out of there. 

            He emerged from another cramped alleyway, with barely enough space between shops for his shoulders to squeeze through.  Rhelad curse it, the boy thought, the bakery hasn’t baked anything fresh in hours, why does it still have to smell so good?!  His stomach throbbed painfully, partially from hunger, partially from the rats and discarded food scraps that he’d managed to scrounge the previous night. 

            A low humming tune next to him made him jump – well, he was always jumpy – and he whirled around in a panic trying to assess the source of the noise.  There, right where he had emerged from the alley outside the bakery was an interesting figure, clothed in a dusty robe of nonetheless vibrant colors, with small golden rings gleaming at their ears.  How many thalas would those be worth, the starving boy wondered, enough for months of food, surely! The person – was it a boy or a girl, he couldn’t tell – hadn’t looked at him yet, for his eyes are closed…perhaps he was blind!  Forget the earrings, if he was blind then the boy might be able to make off with a money pouch.

            He took the chance since the person still didn’t see him or seemed to be aware of his presence.  With all the skill that was honed in the education of the streets, the boy slipped his hand into the bag that hung at the figure’s waist.  He withdrew his hand with a single object grasped tightly in it.  It clearly wasn’t a coin; the texture was far too strange for that and the shape was all wrong.  He looked at it...no wonder the texture was strange, the thing he was holding a bone!

            His would-be victim opened their eyes suddenly and looked at the boy with a clear gaze.  Definitely not blind then. This person looked to be slightly older then the boy was, which kept the boy from fleeing at that instant.

            “Surprised?”  The brightly robed figure asked.      



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Chapter 1, Part 3

A curious figure: long, straight blonde hair tied back in a simple queue; thick black foreign boots, tufts of fur flying out at the ankles; and billowing behind him the sides of his bright white unbuttoned ankle-length coat as he rushed past the cars of the caravan.

His boots clomped abrasively on the red brick road, a combination of his inelegant stride and clear determination to conquer everything – literally – in his path. For while his gait shifted normally enough on the balls of his feet, and his knees bent naturally enough, his upper torso remained still, tree-like, half-paralytic in movement.

His face seemed similarly braced: firm-set blunt jawbone, hints of tension underlying his cheek muscles, and nearly-white pale blue eyes one could not quite tell if they were narrow or narrowed. There was little else one could glean from his body posture; he remained so casually stiff no one could truly pinpoint if this were typical or circumstantial.

The edges of his rebelliously white coat billowed as he stepped around the caravan. “Where is the navigator?” he demanded to the nearest human being he located, who happened to be a hunched-over old man half-buried in his own beard.
The old man snorted loudly before responding, “I dunno.”

“I need to speak to him about our inexcusably delayed departure!”

"I said I dunno, Master Rat Boot.” With a skeptical glance down at his addressee’s fur-capped footwear, the man fell silent.

“Rat boot?” With a sniff, he corrected, “These wildcat fur boots were sold to me by an authentic Rhayadan shoemaker from the northern region of mountains.” He spoke in an accent so implausibly absurd that it seemed likely to be his own invention, a distinguishing characteristic by which he tried to appear more exotic or eclectic. Still, regardless of his intent, the result ultimately manifested itself in the smirks that twitched up from others’ lips the first time they heard him speak.

His current listener, indeed, appeared more bemused than impressed by the peculiar inflection of his words. “If you say so, good for you.” And the man trudged away, leaving stiff-back Alcandor Mavros, second son of the esteemed Leonidas Mavros, no more informed, but all the more furious.

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Chapter 1, Part 2

    Nothing. For so long, she had been grasping at straws. What would her father say? Her brothers? This chase was foolish, unimaginably foolish, and yet chase she did. And this time she had come so close… Appollonia snapped back into reality as a woman filled up her cup of coffee. She looked down at the cup and sighed. One of the most unfortunate things about cities was that no one ever asked before filling up a customer's coffee. They didn't stop and wonder if the customer had, just minutes before, spent countless minutes creating a precise, perfectly balanced mix of sugar, cream, and coffee. Instead, they dumped a whole mess of plain, black coffee right into the equilibrium. Once again Appollonia lowered her long, pale face directly above the now steaming cup and, sugar in one hand, cream in the other, began the process all over.

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    A long, drawn out sip sent tea swirling down the throat of the gaudily-dressed transient. Within seconds, eyelids snapped open and tea was sprayed out onto the ground. Hideous. The last time a cup of tea tasted so bad, it was fate's passionately unpalatable way of informing the traveler that a grave mistake had been made. Experience had taught the highly spiritual itinerant that fate was not patient, nor was it indirect in its messages. It was time to go. The fastening of a small sack signaled the end of the blonde wayfarer's packing, though considering the few, small possessions of the psychic, the endeavor had not been that laborious. Not long after, two slippered feet were marching down the cobblestone street toward the nearest place that would take a person somewhere new and exciting.

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    "Umm, 'scuse me, miss… Would you, by any chance, know the best way to get to Niumea?" Appollonia asked the waitress when she came around again.

    "Yeah, the best way is by caravan. But you have to have your own caravan, and they're not cheap," The woman said while refilling coffee at another table. When she neared, Appollonia snatched her cup up to protect it from further violation. What a tiresome woman. Of course the best way to get to Niumea would be by caravan. What would the alternative be? Walking? Appollonia sighed again. She smiled, a look not suited to her and somewhat frightening to those forced to bear witness.

     "Hmmm, I'm sorry… I didn't ask you the right question. D'you know which caravan is the best to get to Niumea? I'm looking for a fast one, the price doesn't matter very much." At this the woman's face lit up.

    "Yeah! I dunno his name, but his caravan is famous it moves so fast. He used to only take cars with five legs or more! Just give me a second, let me… Hey! Thalia! Help me out, who is it that runs the fast caravan?" The waitress stepped away for a moment, still refilling the cups of nearby, unsuspecting customers.

    "I don't remember, but I know who you're talking about. Really nice guy, he stops by here sometimes after he finishes a route. Tall, blondish hair… Pretty skinny, all he ever orders is coffee with whiskey… Do you think you could go by that?" The young woman asked. Once more, Appollonia sighed. She left the coffee sitting on the table.
    The crowd gathered around the caravan cars would have made it difficult to see, but thanks to her height she had a fairly unobstructed view of the subjects of the gathering. Her eyes settled upon a tall, blonde man, most probably skinny beneath his clothes. It had to be him. She inched forward, retrieving a small, silk purse from somewhere in the depths of her coat and holding it in her hand. "Umm… good day…" The woman said, barely shorter than the man. "You see, I'm looking for a caravan. A fast one, in particular, to get me to Niumea. I've been told you're the man I need. Err-not you, per say, but your caravan… You run it, of course, so I suppose I'll need both, and… uh…" These words, she would soon come to discover, were meant for the tall, thin, blonde man at the other end of the caravan display, located behind his car haggling with a customer, and not Nestor Kokinos. But, of course, she would not discover this until it was too late.

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    Slowly, a crowd came into view. The rather unfriendly street vender had indeed pointed Sindri in the right direction. But there were so many cars! Which to choose? Eyes shut tight, a skinny hand reached into the bag and felt around until- It reappeared with a small bone clutched between the thumb and forefinger. The psychic smiled at the bone and dropped it back into the sack, the nearest caravan coming into focus. Before it stood a tall, lanky man and an uncharacteristically tall woman with a pink face staring at the ground. Perhaps best to come back later. The caravan didn't appear to be going anywhere any time soon. There might even be time for another reading before the caravan left… Though Sindri couldn't very well go back to the square, considering the previous events of the week. Gingerly, fingers traced along the swollen, bruised cheekbone mostly concealed by wavy, white-blonde hair. So, off to a new part of town! The best place would probably be deep in the city, the lower class area, where people all seemed so eager for fame and fortune. Few ever found it, and if they did, it only made their sorrows and ailments worse. How shocked Sindri was to discover that everyone else in the world was obsessed with wealth and power! It was disheartening, but the more troubles encountered on the journey to enlightenment, the sweeter the first sip from the cup of harmony and peace.
    Cobblestone quickly turned to dirt or wooden planks, and clean, well-dressed tourists quickly turned to people in patched, shabby clothing with the occasional smear of dirt along a cheek . Children wearing rucksacks and no shoes darted about screaming and laughing, mangy dogs chasing closely behind. The street widened, and situated along the sides were vendors, mendicants, and entertainers of all walks of life. Directly next to a bakery emitting explicitly delicious smells was an open space big enough for Sindri to set up at. The clairvoyant wandered around for a moment, dusting off a glimmering, vibrant, multicolored mystic robe and clipping golden hoops onto small earlobes. A large, rectangular plank of wood set on top of a crate made an acceptable makeshift table, and Sindri eased down against the wall on one side of the table. The crisp, colorful cards were spread out along the surface and the bones pushed into a little pile next to them. For added effect, the wandering fortune-teller sucked in a deep breath and began humming a song learned from a gypsy from a land far away from Anaitis.

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Chapter 1, Part 1

            Nestor Kokinos strode proudly along the length of his caravan, visually inspecting the cables and bolts that kept the contraption together.  His own car, the navigation car, up at the very front was polished, its treads clean of debris and its four spindly legs neatly folded in at the sides.  It was simple, but he didn’t need the amenities that some of his potential passengers preferred.  As long as he was able to get from one place to another, he didn’t much care about how smooth his ride was.

            He opened the hatch into his car and clambered down into its cramped interior.  His long legs and frame were cramped in the small quarters and he could barely rummage around without knocking four or five things off their shelves.  Maps, compasses, star charts, road reports…all were essential tools for a navigator, and had he the skill to deftly deduce where he was, they probably would have been useful for him too. 

            There! Nestor snatched the piece of parchment in one hand and a collapsible easel in the other and squeezed his way out of his car.  With a flourish, he placed the finishing touch on his display: a map of Anatis with the caravan’s route plainly marked.  Along the top the words “Travel in comfort, private cars, coach cars available.  Standard three leg and tread cars for rent, additional legs provided in upgrade” were written in fancy script.  Nestor couldn’t read much himself, but he’d paid a scribe good money to create the sign in hopes that it would draw in higher paying customers.  After his last meager caravan company, he needed to garner some more money, else he’d be forced into even more debt then he already was. 

            It took a lot, to maintain a business like his.  Especially now that the country was starting to truly become interconnected, with roads becoming more mainstream and travel between cities less of a novelty.  Steam power was revolutionizing the country, no, it was revolutionizing the world, and people were starting to travel more often out of both curiosity and necessity.  Unfortunately, this also meant that there was a market for caravans, and competition wasn’t the friend of a man who was lousy at his own trade.

            Nestor stood at attention beside his sign, his appearance a striking one.  He was a vision of earth tones, all tans and browns with the exception of his icy eyes…they swept the crowds that browsed the various caravans, lingering on the children that flitted between parents, running, laughing...they better not try taking anything from him, the little brats. 

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            The boy’s stomach was all he could think about; he hadn’t had anything to eat for…how long was it now?  A day?  Two?  All he knew was that the sharp pains in his abdomen were getting worse.  He shook his tangled, dark curls out of his face for what felt like the hundredth time as he scanned the crowd that was gathering around the various caravans that were vying for attention.  These people could afford to travel, which meant that they had plenty of money.  Perhaps them folks that had plenty of money wouldn’t notice if a few Thalas went missing.  Just two or three, just enough to eat for that day.  Ever since he’d woken up inside prison, he’d felt hungry, and it showed.  His ratty clothes hung loosely on his thin frame, swallowing up his dark form just as effectively as the darkness of the alley in which he slept. 

            Across the way from his alley was a new caravan leader – he knew he was new because he spent so much time lurking around the caravans…and thus had been chased away by most of the caravan heads at one point or another.  But this new man, he might not chase him away just yet.  And that meant opportunity.  Yet there was something about this new man that the boy wasn’t too comfortable with, perhaps it was the way that the man stared unblinkingly into the crowd, like a bird that is taking in everything about its surroundings.  Still, nothing ventured, nothing gained.  The boy casually started to make his way toward this new caravan leader, expertly slipping his hand into a purse or two along the way to little reward. 

            “You! Vermin!” It was the new man…the boy wasn’t halfway across the street and already he’d been spotted, “Come near my pockets, and Rhelad help me, I’ll snap every one of your thieving fingers.”  The boy didn’t even take the time to consider that the man might be bluffing, he’d had enough abuse at the hands of others just in the short time that he could remember.  He scampered away in terror, disappearing into the shadows once more.

            Further and further into the alleys the boy scampered, rubbing the scars that encircled his wrists in a nervous rhythm.  He hoped that the man wouldn’t follow him, or have him followed.  As far as the boy was concerned, kind adults didn’t exist.  Adults were the ones that beat him in prison.  Adults were the ones that branded him.  Not to mention, on the streets, it was best for a boy like him to stay away from the adults around him.  They sat slumped against walls, loyal only to the bottles that kept them from reality, sometimes ranting, raving, shouting, hitting…he shuddered.  His stomach complained loudly.  Rats again tonight. 

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