Poor though Ram’s education had been, he had an excellent head for how far you could stretch any given amount of money. He’d asked Gelibara a lot of questions, and was now pretty sure that his four coppers might last for almost two tetrads in this pyre, assuming nobody picked his pocket and Kamenrag didn’t come looking for “rent.” It was enough money that he didn’t feel anxious, not enough to be worth being miserly over. Work could wait for tomorrow. He had a mind to see what this place had to offer.

He strolled easily past the long line of dead ensis, past the plaza and the Lugal’s palace, and headed left down the third road, towards the squat cylindrical tower he had noticed earlier. It was only the pyre’s common hall, where they held assemblies, entertainments, and meals for the general public. He’d have no business there until the evening, lunch being over, so he took the third right off the main road and headed down towards—if he remembered his directions correctly—the South Gate Market.

The pyre’s official market was held on the peak day of every tetrad, in the plaza. He was a day late for that, so South Gate it would have to be. There he would find, instead of duly inspected and taxed cargo off the docks, the random daily produce of the desert trade, just as it happened to come in, with little oversight and no guarantees. Which was why it was located at the southern gate, the farther of the two land entrances from the Temple and respectable opinion.

It was a long walk, down a much narrower street than the shaded main avenues he’d seen so far; here the buildings rose five or six stories tall, with a tangle of laundry lines between the windows overhead. It was still a pyre—the streets were clean enough, and flowers bloomed from rooftop gardens—but he kept a firm grip on the tanbirs in his pocket.

At its far end the road was nearly clogged with impromptu commercial arrangements, where men and women with no better prospects had come out of the wild and plunked themselves down to sell whatever junk they had direct from their packs. A few had not even bothered to take those packs off their donkeys or (in two cases) camels. These would be kicked out in a few hours by a regular sweep of the militia, unless they earned enough in the meantime to buy a reprieve. Naturally, they were inclined to aggressive sales tactics, and Ram had to all but bull-rush his way past them. There were also two flamekeepers at the gate, with the obligatory acolyte, but they kept their faces resolutely turned to the outside world. The South Gate Market was none of their concern.

And this street—with its wretched beggar-businessmen—was none of Ram’s. Most of them were dressed in rags, smelled none too fresh, and had little better to sell than wild herbs, stolen clothes, or dried bush meat. Instead he sidestepped down an alley and into a comparatively genteel warren of tiny stalls and shops.

Here his nostrils caught the peculiar, but not unpleasant, smell of wood smoke, mixed with something even more agreeable. He followed it to a very busy stall, where he readily surrendered an eighth of one tanbir for a smoked delver on a stick. Delver was less dear than pork or mutton, let alone chicken or beef, but Urapu still only served it at common meals a few times a month, and in stingy little bits. Here, it was cheap; well-to-do pyre folk who would happily wear the luxurious fur drew the line at actually eating a dirt-grubbing rodent.

Ram was just finishing off the last fatty bits, and contemplating blowing another eighth on a second stick, when something tugged at the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw three people walking towards him, with the rest of the crowd making way for them in spite of the narrow street. At least, two of them were walking: a huge, lanky, long-jawed man with close-cropped hair, and a hunched, hooded figure of unclear sex who swept a cane in front of its feet as it moved. The young woman who led them was not so much walking as strutting, and with good cause; Ram couldn’t recall ever seeing a prettier girl.

To be fair, most free adult women he’d seen wore veils in public, only taking them off for meals. This one, though at least three or four blooms older than Ram, was barefaced and brazen in a bright red dress. She tossed her gorgeous mane of thick brown hair about, pointing at the shops and chattering to the giant behind her. Normally no veil meant hearthless or bonded, but—ah. She had a broad black ribbon tied in her hair. The big fellow had a matching band tied across his forehead, while the hooded creature had an armband over its loose coat. Ram backed against the wall with the rest of the crowd.

His movement caught the eye of the girl, who looked at him, flashed a dazzling smile, and ran at him with an ecstatic squeal to match Mana’s a few hours earlier. Ram froze in sheer uncomprehending terror, only relaxing slightly when she flung her arms around him and shouted, “I haven’t seen you in ages! Where have you been?” She was slightly shorter than he was, and smelled like some kind of berry. Her face was round, with large eyes and full lips; the rest of her was pressed up against him too tightly to see clearly. “Oh, baby, it’s been too long,” she complained. “Why do you do that to me?”

“I … I don’t know,” he mumbled, shooting pleading looks at passersby. Unfortunately, they looked too envious, amused, or offended to be sympathetic. Meanwhile, she started nuzzling against his neck, and ran her hands down his back. He wondered if he would pass out. Her hulking companion stared blankly, but the hooded one groaned and said, “Darun, what kind of mess are you getting us into now?” The voice was female, and young, if a bit deep.

At last the girl stepped back from him with a teasing smile, taking her hands away last of all; Ram realized too late that they’d briefly dipped into his pockets. He clapped his hands down in a panic, but if anything his pockets felt fuller and heavier than they had before. “Ssshhh,” she whispered, and winked at him. “Wait here.”

Ram wasn’t inclined to move anyway. Aside from his sudden inability to breathe, these people were obviously blackbands, professional hearthless adventurers. It was universally recognized as a bad idea to get involved in blackbands’ business, but an even worse one, if you did get involved, to cross them. Whatever they were up to, it was probably nasty, and they had no reason to care if anyone else got hurt or killed when they did it.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The girl’s companions looked particularly dangerous. The big man was Father’s height, only leaner, and had a short sword at either side of his belt, along with a number of other blades tucked about his body. The dead-eyed stare on his bony, beak-nosed face was even more frightening. As for the hooded one with the cane, she looked like some kind of sorceress. Ram couldn’t see her eyes at all, her hood was pulled so low over her face. Only a very pale chin and mouth. No other patch of skin showed; she had on long leather gloves and a shapeless body-length coat, both dull-colored. He wondered how she didn’t roast in the summer heat. The beauty paid no attention to either of them, but calmly browsed a counter loaded with cheap jewelry.

Ram had no idea what he was supposed to be waiting for. As it turned out, he didn’t have long to wait anyway; seconds later, five more people came storming down the road. The leading three wore form-fitting midnight blue tunics and trousers that covered them from head to foot, showing no more skin than the witch-girl. Their faces were masked; two had crude iron plates with only a bare suggestion of features punched in, while the third had a more refined silver face, and a crownlike silver headdress besides. More to the point, all three had sickle-curved swords hanging from their belts, and bows in cases at their backs. They were Moonchildren from the desert, and silver-face was their chieftain.

Behind them trailed a pair of plainly reluctant Dul Karagi militiamen, more simply dressed, with only a sunburst-shaped copper badge and a truncheon apiece to distinguish them from the crowd. They froze in place when they saw the three blackbands. The Moonchildren continued striding forward without them; when they got close enough, the chieftain flung out an accusing hand and shouted something long, angry and sibilant at the girl in the red dress.

She put her hands on her hips as she turned to face him, tossing her head. Her giant took hold of his sword hilts. The witch only sighed, and growled, “Damn it, Darun.”

Now the three Moonchildren were ready to draw as well, and the chief was gesturing wildly with his free hand, pointing at the girl, her hooded friend, back down the street, up at the sun, at the Temple fire, and finally at the discomfited militiamen, hissing and gargling away in Moonchild the whole time.

One of the soldiers came forward. “All right, what’s he on about? I can’t understand his jabber, but you got that’n all kinds of pissed. You three got countenance to operate here?”

“If we didn’t, why’d you even let us in the gate?” the girl shot back.

“Shut up,” the witch commanded under her breath, then stepped forward and raised her voice. “We just did a trade with these three. Now they’re saying we stole back the stuff we sold them.” The chief hissed at her; she replied briefly and more calmly in the same language.

“Right,” the soldier said, running a hand through his hair. He looked around; Ram wasn’t sure if dealing with blackbands was in a lowly militiaman’s job description, but at least twenty people, besides Ram, were watching expectantly. “Right. So, what’d you sell him?”

The witch hesitated. “It’s hard to describe. They use if for religious purposes.”

Reaching in his pockets, Ram decided that ‘it’ was a bunch of small, dense spheres, possibly made of metal, valuable, and almost certainly illegal. But the last part was a given; these three were blackbands, after all. He repressed an insane urge to burst out laughing. His best bet was to shut up and keep their secret until it was all over, then leave quickly.

The soldier scowled. He was an older man, with grey in his beard, and probably a lot of street experience; he really didn’t want to know what kind of contraband they’d been shuffling around. Especially if it was for blasphemous Moonchild “religious purposes.” His younger comrade stepped forward, clapping his hands. “Fine. You know what’s coming, honey. Let’s go.”

The girl Darun calmly submitted to what looked like a needlessly thorough pat-down; her brutish friend got a far more perfunctory search. The hooded girl stood rigidly and clenched her cane, but said nothing as the trooper checked her last. He didn’t take long—was he frightened of her, too?—and naturally, he came up empty. He didn’t look disappointed, and shrugged to the chieftain helplessly.

“They’re clean,” he said. “At least, I don’t feel nothing but money. Now, if you want to learn to talk Flametongue like a normal person, tell me what the hell I’m looking for, we might get somewhere. As it is, nothing I can do.”

The chieftain may or may not have understood the words, but he got the message. He swept an arm around the street, gesturing to the crowd, protesting just as noisily and uselessly as before.

The first soldier laughed. “No, we ain’t searching the whole damn street. This is South Gate, buddy. You knew what you were getting into.” And they both turned to walk away.

The Moonchild at the chief’s right hand gurgled a curse, and reached for his sword. The giant, however, was quicker; he caught the man’s wrist before the blade was half out, swung him around, and gave him a brutal left hook to the kidney. The Moonchild screamed, and his sword clattered on the brick pavement.

Both soldiers paused. They looked back, then at each other. Then they grunted in unison, shook their heads, and continued on their way.

The chief growled some more, but Ram could tell he was beaten. One of his men was leaning against a booth, holding his back and crying through his mask. The lanky blackband still had his swords, and if they made a fight of it at least one Moonchild would be seriously hurt or killed. The survivor would get to explain the fight to the Karagenes, who loathed Moonchildren slightly more than they did blackbands, and needed them much less. So he spat one last curse at the girl in red, snapped something else at his wounded minion, and stomped off. The other two weren’t far behind.

A long, painful silence followed their departure, broken by Darun’s laughter. “That went well, didn’t it?”

“Yes,” the hooded girl drawled. “We got pawed at by some goatherd’s kid, and mortally offended a powerful chieftain. His whole tribe will be hunting us now. Great job. You get to explain this to Dad.” She didn’t seem to care who heard her.

“Oh, he’ll be fine,” Darun said, flapping a hand at her. She looked around, caught sight of Ram, and smiled. “And as for you … “ She flounced over, took his face in her hands, and kissed him, hard. She tasted like berries, too. Ram let his mind go pleasantly blank, and made no effort to keep her hands from wandering back down to his pockets. Whatever it was he’d been carrying disappeared. “Good job, kid,” she breathed, and patted him on the cheek. “Thanks for having a dumb face.”

“Are we done here?” the hooded girl said, loudly.

“Pretty much,” Darun agreed, with one arm around Ram’s neck. “No, wait, I think I left one behind.” She reached into his pocket again and squeezed; Ram squeaked, and she laughed. “Nope, my mistake. See you around, kid.” And she pranced off down the street, with the silent hulk and the frowning witch trailing behind her. “Now we’ve got the money and the merch! That’s how you play it, sister.”

When they were gone, Ram shook his head to clear it, and looked around. Somehow, every man and woman on the street managed to avoid making eye contact.