There was nothing particularly remarkable about Himli. It was a tiny, dusty old town in northern Vandram, adjacent to the Zainian border. The buildings on either side of the main road showed their age in peeling paint and crumbling facades and the shops lining the streets were warded by superstitious sigils and symbols borrowed from both Vandran and Zainian lore, presumably guarding the businesses against the djinns and demons of both the lands. Being so close to both, Shwaan supposed one couldn’t take a chance.
He walked at a leisurely pace through the dusty lanes of the border town, drawing curious glances and excited murmurs from the locals wherever he went. It wasn’t so much that Zainians were a rarity in this town. Quite the opposite, in fact. Shwaan could have sworn that at least half the citizenry had some Zainian blood in their veins, and he wasn’t even counting the hordes of Zainian merchants and travellers that thronged the streets and the market. Huge, decorated trucks painted with the colourful coats of arms of the different noble houses of Zaini were parked at every street-corner, laden with imported cargo. Their drivers crowded the various pubs near the border to take a break before continuing on their journey to Ragah or one of the other major cities of Vandram.
No, it wasn’t so much his assumed nationality as his (apparent) rank that drew the attention of the townsfolk. For all the Zainians it hosted, Shwaan was pretty sure it wasn’t often that the dilapidated little town received a member of Zaini’s storied aristocracy. The purple ribbon in his hair might as well have been a flashing beacon, turning heads and inspiring enthusiastic speculation wherever he went. Traders and merchants muttered about secret trade pacts between Vandram and Zaini while the labourers and urchins thought up more exciting possibilities, churning out stories ranging from political unrest in Zaini to clandestine love affairs between the rich and the powerful of the two nations. Had he wished to avoid making such a spectacle of himself, Shwaan could just have taken off the ribbon and allowed his hair to rest in a simple braid on his back. But for this particular part of the plan to work, he needed to be remarkable, to stand out and cause a stir. On earth, he had discovered, a little remarkability went a long way in getting people to give you what you wanted, without having to actually ask for it.
In the two weeks he had been on earth, Shwaan had travelled the length and breadth of Vandram, had been many different people in many different places, chasing trails – both Aeriel and mortal – to the elusive formula that had brought him to earth in the first place. He still wasn’t quite sure what it was he was looking for. Any information about the formula itself was buried under piles of secrecy, rumours and speculation, and Shwaan doubted he would be able to get the complete truth unless he walked into the SifCo facility and spoke to the Head Researcher in charge of the project personally. This he would have to do eventually, though how he would do it he couldn’t begin to imagine.
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For now, however, Shwaan had more pressing problems to deal with. Aeriel activity had been noticed near the SifCo premises recently. Nothing so conspicuous as a real Aeriel in full public view, but errant Aeriel feathers found around the premises and intermittent reports of minor break-ins and the theft of documents from some of the smaller labs and offices near SifCo.
The few Aeriels that had remained back on earth after the Rebellion – by choice or necessity – rarely appeared in their true forms, unless for an all-out attack on humanity. For all other occasions, they preferred some form of human disguise; as efficient a method as any to avoid a Hunter on your back and a sifblade through your throat when you weren’t in the mood for a fight. From what Shwaan could tell though, his earth-bound brethren weren’t planning to attack SifCo. At least not yet. Instead, they seemed to be casing the place. Which meant that there might be some truth to Safaa’s apprehensions after all, far-fetched as the whole thing was. All Aeriels on earth were controlled by their mother, and if Aeriels had their eye on the formula, Shwaan was sure it was with Tauheen’s knowledge, if not by her orders.
What was more worrying, however, was the fact that, as far as he could see, the humans seemed to be doing nothing about it. Shwaan found it hard to believe that the Vandran authorities and their much-famed Hunter Corps knew nothing about the Aeriels’ activities, when he had learned so much just by talking to the facility’s cleaning staff and the traders and shopkeepers operating around the area. The situation would have been impossible to ignore, unless someone was trying deliberately to cover it up. Someone with the clout to interfere with a project of this magnitude.
Despite Safaa’s claims, Shwaan still found it hard to believe that a human would deliberately conspire with Aeriels to undermine their own people. Humans were nothing if not bigoted and insular. In the past weeks, he had seen first-hand the prejudice and oftentimes, sheer hatred with which humans regarded Aeriels. He supposed it was natural. After generations of being saddled with nothing but his mother and her coterie, he was quite sure he would have hated Aeriels too – and he was one. But that still didn’t explain how Tauheen and her pack had managed to avoid detection for so long. What could she possibly have had to offer, to make someone powerful enough to influence such an important project, turn on their own?
Shwaan sighed. Well, if he couldn’t have all the answers now, there was only one thing for it: to delay the inevitable until he could understand enough of the situation to turn it in his favour. He came to a stop near the latest street-corner he had strolled into and looked up at the large, garish signboard across the street.
The Red Poppy was one of the better pubs in the locality, frequented more by merchants and travelling businessmen than truckers. He pushed through the heavy glass doors of the establishment and walked hesitantly up to the bar. Eyes wide and hair tousled in the early monsoon winds, Shwaan looked the picture of innocent apprehension as he sat awkwardly down at the bar and waited. If his plan had worked, his quarry should be here any moment.