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.
* * * * * * * *
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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