“Then we go to this ‘Begonia’s Shade.’ Lead on,” I commanded. The Hunter and the Rogue gave me a quizzical look but did not question the exchange.
“The lady can not speak. She can only speak with her hands,” I explained to them, seeing their looks. “The language of the unspoken words,” I decided to add, remembering Cordelia’s words from before.
We followed the mute woman through the main thoroughfare. Elwin walked alongside her, throwing her the occasional question, to which she just nodded or shook her head. This close to the gates, the city was bustling with activity. The press of traffic was heavy but was flowing in an orderly fashion.
However, just as I was thinking this, the gods decided to be contrary. A cart overturned, its goods spilling out like the innards of a disemboweled monster, and stopped traffic coming from the opposite direction. However, the guards quickly set up a small cordon, redirecting the traffic in a calm and professional manner.
Just a little further into the city, I could already see the stark contrast with Ansan. People generally wore clothes of a higher cut and quality, and their speech, what little I heard anyway, seemed a little freer and less guarded.
The guards within the city itself, rather than those on the walls, were equipped in a more ornate fashion, their equipment more like a badge of their office, rather than their tools of war. Their armor, resplendent in bronze gilding, at least visible where their robes parted to reveal the uniform craftsmanship, was adorned with motifs of running vines and blossoming flowers of the Dust. They wore no helms. Instead they wore keffiyehs of black and white checks, which shielded them from the relentless overhead sun. At their side hung, not swords, but small truncheons, their tips capped in gold. A symbol of authority, rather than aggression.
Along the road there were no beggars crying out for alms and the streets were, for the most part, clean of detritus and manure, common to primitive civilizations.
More importantly, I saw none of the trappings of slavery. No collars of iron did I see, nor did I hear the crack of the slaver’s whip. It seemed that Al-Lazar was indeed a free city.
This was a truly prosperous place and there was a spark here that energized me. So long had I been under the open skies and endless horizons that it felt cramped to now be rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi of Al-Lazar. The feeling lasted only for a moment, though, for I had always preferred the close confines of the city, with all of its trappings of civilization.
A small child bumped into me, an innocent mistake by all appearances, but I knew not to take this world lightly anymore. My hand, guided by the harsh lessons of this world, whipped out like a snake, catching the small thing’s wrist, with the snap of breaking bone.
His mouth gaped wide in a silent scream, unable to voice the pain he felt. As the horror of his situation dawned on him, all he could do was helplessly open and close his mouth. Was he another mute? No, that didn't seem right. A quick glance around, and my eyes caught Zariyah. She was making unusual hand gestures. When our eyes met, she offered me a small, enigmatic smile.
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Already useful, I thought to myself. I would have to remember that she had some mastery over the wind and air itself.
Panicked, the urchin desperately tried to struggle away, but my grip was iron and my mercy was in short supply.
Al-Lazar was a prosperous place but not, it seemed, free of crime, the cancer that ate away at the core of a real society. It was time to correct that. It was time to be the good that you wanted to see in the world.
With Elwin's help, we started to shake the child down, the passing guards remaining indifferent to the little one's plight, as he was invisible to them. Together, we relieved the would-be pickpocket of a meager haul, which included some cheap jewelry, a handful of copper coins, and most importantly, one of my precious potions, which fell from the disheveled thief's clothing.
The young scamp cried silently, tears flowing, but I harbored no sympathy for someone who had attempted to steal from me. In my mind, I believed I was merely seeking fair compensation for the inconvenience they had caused. Elwin, sure that the thief had nothing left on his person, delivered a swift kick to the thief's rear end, a smirk playing on his lips. The child swiftly vanished into a nearby alley, having received a lesson that, while harsh, was undeniably just.
The penalty for theft is a hand, signed Zariyah, her expression grim.
Larynda, who had observed the urchin with no small amount of sympathy, had refrained from voicing any objections about my handling of the cretin. Instead, she just shook her head, a small sigh escaping her lips and acknowledging the harsh reality of our world. We both understood that this was the unvarnished truth of our existence.
Proceeding down the road after that little introduction to city life in Al-Lazar, we veered away from the main thoroughfare. Turning right at another corner, we were greeted by the sight of a fountain, its central figure a mermaid, sculpted from the same yellow stone that formed the city's walls. Perched elegantly atop a smooth rock, her hair, intertwined with kelp strands, bestowed upon her an ethereal, almost mystical charm. From a pot nestled at her side flowed a cascade of water, its cheerful gurgle an almost melodic tune. Around the fountain, the city folk gathered, their actions reverent and measured as they filled their large jugs and amphorae with the life-giving water, participating in what seemed less like a daily chore and more a solemn rite.
Our new Hazagadami guide, upon seeing the landmark, picked up her pace, breaking almost into a run. We chased after her, and Larynda, unable to keep up, with her heavy pack and short legs, was scooped up by Kidu.
A minute later we caught up to Zariyah with an annoyed Patches in tow. She stood breathless, in the middle of the street, as the passersby gave her a wide berth and an occasional odd look. The exotic woman was looking, as if entranced, at a humble building, no different from the others, save for the multitude of potted plants of various shades that adorned the flat roof and hung over the wall. It was a riot of colors, with bright yellows clashing with light pinks and deep reds. Such a palette might have been considered garish on a person, but here, amidst the lush greenery, it bestowed upon the building a unique splendor. Rising above the green was a towering chimney, enshrouded in creeping vines. A Barajeel, or wind tower, I surmised.
Hanging above the entrance was a wooden sign depicting begonias in full bloom, the paint a little faded from the sun. Beneath the sign were brass chimes that tinkled and danced in the gentle breeze.
Humming an unknown melody, a woman with dark skin emerged from the doorway, cradling a watering can in her arms. There was something strikingly familiar about her features, which, despite bearing the gentle marks of time, were still vaguely attractive. The woman began tending to the plants near the entrance, her movements graceful and practiced.
Suddenly, her eyes caught sight of Zariyah, standing solitary amidst the bustling street. A mixture of surprise and delight transformed her expression. She brought a hand to her mouth, muffling a shriek of joy that escaped her lips, and her watering can tumbled to the ground with a clang.
I watched the unfolding scene with a sense of resigned anticipation. Was this to be another story event?