A twinge of embarrassment catches Miles. All that paranoia for nothing. Moving like a ghost amongst the boxes, Miles returns to Jade, a whispered apology already half-formed on his lips.
“Check the boxes, Miles,” Jade interrupts, “We don’t have time.” A quick wink punctuates the comment and takes some of the sting out of the words. Miles flashes a grateful smile in return.
Wasting no time, the two would-be thieves proceed to search the crates in earnest, picking like magpies for the telltale bags of Bright Morning.
It’s a misty night with fog hanging low to the ground in Saka Falls, which couldn’t have been planned for but it’s a nice touch. The man standing across the street, on the other hand, was indeed part of the plan. He’s “obviously” trying to pick up a middle-aged prostitute, also part of the plan. You’d think after doing this four times in a row to four bureaucrats over the space of half a year, someone would have sorted out the trend. Maybe you’re not the only one who has a bone to pick with the powers that be? Whatever. Stick to the plan and you’ll have a complete set…
The man waves to an apparent friend walking down the street. That’s the signal for everything else to fall into place.
Of course it’s a hot day in Gem. That’s like saying the West is pretty wet: it’d be pretty disturbing if that wasn’t true, like the whole of Creation had broken down. The city is, of course, designed to minimize such discomfort by living most of the day in the shadow of Rankar Peak, a dormant volcano whose gigantic crater is geographic testament to the power of Fire in the world. Baking upon the surface, only cheap mud huts of varying sizes dot the huge canyon. For all intents and purposes, the most major city of the far South looks like nothing more than an oversized peasant village; like the gems from which it derives its riches, however, the real treasure must be excavated from the drab rock.
As a member of House Arbani, you have wanted for very little in life. In an Age of Sorrow, the premier producer of firewands hardly lacks for custom from across Creation. In part that explains the door you’re standing in front of. The main outbuilding of House Petrox’s compound looms before you, only a tiny tower bothering to pop its head above ground. It scintillates with fine diamond powder baked into the clay, artfully accenting the riotous color frescoes depicting the glories of its various members, both past and present. Here a daring raid deep within a mine, detonating deposits to trap the vicious cannibalistic Dune People, there a man defending the city with the source of their wealth: firedust. You have wanted for little in House Arbani, but the product of Petrox (and only Petrox) remains a desire that you have been trained to lust over: without the highly flammable powder, even the finest pistol is just a very awkward club.
Hence the family’s desire for you to marry Petrox Esaya: to shore up contracts and relations during a crucial period of negotiation. It doesn’t hurt, of course, that she’s probably the most stunning and intelligent woman you’ve met. Hence the real reason why you’re paying her a visit without official prompt: desperate infatuation.
Friday sees the wave, as he passes a charred streak on the ground by the richly painted house. It was there, four days ago, a fire burned after a storm. Pungent the smoke rose, during sleep, disturbing and overpowering the night. The dance of the flames drew the attention of the sleepers after the air caught them by the throat and made them wake. The consul swore, as the servants hurried to douse the danger.
Why does Friday know this? He was there, of course, invisible on a cedar beam, an extravagance of the building. And why? It is true, it is always true, one always looks at what one truly is concerned about, upon awaking alarmed. Did the consul care for his wife? No. He went first for, cared first for a painting… or what was behind it.
At this time of night, the consul is away at a soiree. Tis the end of the day at the end of the week’s work… and thus, the official stamp is safely stored, and will not be known to be missing… for long enough.
Lightly, Friday ascends the creeper, carefully, he slides along a roof edge. A window over the necessary has been left unlocked… he saw to that the last time. It is large enough.
And so, carefully, checking for the unexpected, he enters the house, which, by all rights, should be empty of all. The watchers outside have been counting…
Dhorain’s breath catches in his chest. A real fighter. he thinks. He comes into my bar, brings this devil-woman into my domain, and thinks to stand there, passing judgment on me? He dares?
Dhorain’s vision is blurred and watery, but the man’s voice burns bright in his mind, and he knows he can find his way to the man’s position from its memory.
Him next. Her first. he thinks. Let’s see what this man has to say when his ‘real fighter’ introduces this devil-woman to six inches of good steel.
Dhorain shifts, miming a failed attempt to move, and lets his hand fall near his belt-sheath. The movement sends lances of agony shooting out through his broken ribs. The pain drives away all words, all other thoughts. He can feel the woman, standing arrogantly above him. He can feel the shape of the future, how she will move (but not quite quickly enough), how she will bleed. He can feel the texture of the knife’s grip in his hand…
“No.” Dhorain says. It’s a coughing gasp, barely audible and certainly unintelligible, but it is enough.
No. I do not choose this. thinks Dhorain. With mental effort greater than anything he has done this night, he thrusts the voice from himself, and nearly blacks out. Without the voice to sustain him, he now feels the true extent of his injuries.
Dhorain lays on the floor, atop broken furniture and spilled drinks, lacking the strength to speak, to offer either supplication or challenge to the newcomer or Ilana.