The man takes the satchel, his gaze lingers on the contents for only a moment before he nods. He takes a few diamonds and gives you the rest.
—We depart at dawn.
The hours drag. Sleep never comes. You lie on the silk mattress staring at the carved ceiling, the murmurs of Dahranjia’s night blending with the unease inside you. The weight of betrayal, of purpose, presses like a stone on your chest.
Before first light, you are already outside, cloaked and ready, the satchel secured. The courtyard is still, the air cool and sharp. The Baroness sleeps undisturbed behind shuttered windows. You choose not to wake her. What would you say, anyway?
When the guide arrives, he gives you a nod and nothing more. Together, you leave the shaded peace of the house and slip into the awakening streets.
You travel south. The sun rises behind you, casting long shadows on cracked stone and dusty palms.
After a long silence, you ask,
—Where are we headed?
—To look for a crew,— he replies, eyes scanning the horizon. —In the immediacies of Zahrabad.
You blink.
—Zahrabad? I’ve been there before.
He gives you a sidelong glance.
—Then you were lucky.
—Why?
He adjusts the cloth around his neck, voice low.
—Because you didn’t cross paths with the Death Squad of the Damascene.
The name hangs in the air like a blade.
—They work the roads near Zahrabad. Wolves in human skin. Mercenaries, deserters, madmen—call them what you will. They roam the outer dunes and strike without warning. Travelers vanish. Wealth disappears. And sometimes, so do whole caravans.
You stiffen in the saddle.
—And we’re going there?— you ask, incredulous.
—Yes. That’s the crew we’re looking for.
—Are you crazy?
—No. Crazy would be not to hire them. What they don’t take as commission, they take by blood. So we’d rather have them on our side from the very beginning. If we seek them, we hold a better bargain than if they find us mid-journey. They tax a heavy fee just for having to track “customers” in the desert, you know? Fair is fair.
He glances at you.
—They’re like Allah: give them their due praise, and they will grant bounties. Do otherwise, and they will send their pests.
You say nothing. Most of the journey continues in silence.
The surrounding darkness thickens with the weight of a thousand unseen dangers, but the guide gestures upward.
—Look up. The stars suffice as guides. They are our eyes.
You follow his gaze.
—See that? How that star shines through the clear darkness of the night? That means we’re near a city. Near Zahrabad.
—And this is the place where we find our crew?
—Simple,— he says. —By setting a fire. But not just any fire. If we burn the wrong kind, they’ll say they found us first. And then they’ll raise their price. No—we make the sacred fire of the Tadmoran, which burns white as the moon.
With practiced hands, he builds the fire and burns something pungent, bitter-sweet. You don’t recognize it. The smoke rises pale and luminous, curling like spirit-threads into the night.
He sets the tent with measured ease.
—We’ll camp here,— he murmurs. —After we’ve paid them, they’ll leave us alone till dawn.
And then comes the silence.
A silence so dense it breathes—encroaching on you like death.
You know they’re here before you see them. Shadows at the edge of flame-light. Hooded shapes on broad-backed camels. Watching.
The guide stands tall.
—We want your help finding someone,— he calls.
A voice returns, calm and unhurried:
—How much is this help worth to you?
—Three Samarkand Stars,— the guide replies.
He reaches into his robe and produces a diamond. Holds it up in his palm, gleaming like frozen light.
The leader of the mercenaries steps closer, cautious, like a suspicious dog.
He takes the gem and turns it in the firelight.
—If the other two are just like this one, we have a deal,— he says. —We’ll seek you at dawn.
Then they vanish into the desert again, as silently as they came.
Dawn breaks. They return, just as promised.
—First, we get provisions in Zahrabad,— their leader says. —Payment in advance.
As agreed, you hand over the two other diamonds—the very ones you had discreetly separated from your satchel last night, just as the guide had advised. He warned you never to show the full treasure. And now, the satchel is gone. The diamonds? Tucked into places on your body you’d rather not name—safe, secure, and deeply uncomfortable.
Once in Zahrabad, the mercenaries split among the market stalls, buying smoked fish and dates, loading goods onto their camels.
You hear a hiss behind you.
—Shhhht. Shhhht.
You turn subtly. A man stands beside a spice merchant, not looking at you.
—Your Grace,— he says softly. —I am Robert of Moravice.
You freeze.
—What are you doing here?— you whisper.
—I don’t know what brings you to this place in such bad company, but if you’re in danger, I’m ready to bestow my life to save yours. The reign is in peril. And so, it seems, are you.
—I’m not in danger. These men are… under my command. Of a kind. They’re helping me track Lord Hiacynt of Drevanyn and Lady Margaret of Velhradus. They betrayed me.
Robert straightens slightly.
—If that’s the case, allow me to offer my sword. I’ll feel better knowing you aren’t alone with these beasts.
—It’s a done deal,— you say. —You ride with us.
But the mercenaries aren’t pleased.
The leader’s eyes narrow when he sees Robert approach with you.
—We don’t need cumbersome help,— he says.
—He’s just tagging along,— you assure him.
The matter seems to rest—until the city is behind you, and the desert stretches wide again.
While riding, the leader motions you to his side. Robert lingers just out of earshot. The rest of the group forms a slow-moving tail behind.
The leader speaks without looking at you.
—Now, I don’t like making harsh decisions. So I don’t envy yours.
You glance at him, unsure.
—What do you mean?
—We don’t like sand in our shells. Some shells do, and make beautiful pearls out of it. But we don’t have time for adornments. We deal with the harsh world.
He turns his head slightly, just enough to meet your eyes.
—If you want to keep your end of the bargain, don’t invite third parties to our party again. This time, we’ll let it fly.
—What do you mean, “let it fly”?
—I mean… don’t worry about that man anymore. He won’t encumber us for much longer.
Your stomach drops. You glance back—men are veering closer to Robert, tightening the circle. The surrounding silence now carries weight, intention.
You know what’s coming.
And now… you must choose.
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