Ghorib had, at one time, been a farming village. Although those days were long past, the place retained some vestiges of its agricultural past in the form of quite a few large open fields and a deep aversion to apartment buildings.

The arrival of the mines had brought with it prosperity and pollution; and while the streets and the single-storey houses dotting the expansive landscape were better maintained than those in his hometown of Surai, Ruban could almost feel the dust and grime in the air. It made the air of Ragah feel fresh and clean by comparison.

As the jeep approached the main marketplace, bustling with the last of the Emancipation Day shoppers from Ghorib and the surrounding villages, Simani pressed down lightly on the brakes, slowing the momentum of the vehicle. “Well, we’re here. Where to now?” she asked, glancing sideways at Ruban. Behind them, Ashwin sat sprawled on the backseat with a bored expression. Ruban would have left the Zainian behind at the Quarter, but he didn’t trust his idiot colleagues not to sit the foreigner down and inundate him with state secrets, just for the heck of it. That idiot Faiz had apparently already given him a guided tour of the goddamn armoury.

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“Well, we should go to the local Hunter Quarters first, I suppose,” said Ruban. “We can think about where to take it from there, once we have the whole picture.”