image [https://i.imgur.com/7ZQbE80.png]

It was a short journey to our rendezvous at the caravan staging area, a little over an hour I'd say, and I was lulled by the rocking saddle as the rising heat of the day stuffed the air around us. The drumming of hooves filled the silence between Benezia and myself as we passed under a canopy of low branches weighed down by broad green leaves that mercifully soaked up the sun's direct attention.

When the small road opened up into the broad sunbaked expanse of the imperial highway, I faced a bizarre predicament which would soon become routine. Benezia went right and when I tugged Spinner to follow, I was only rewarded by a snort as she continued walking directly forward into some shrubbery. I cried out, pulling harder to the right but she only bucked and made a horrible whinnying sound. Finally in desperation, my face being struck by bramble bushes, I pulled left for any relief and found her immediately responsive.

Back on the highway I tested her a few times, with Benezia guffawing most unfemininely at me the whole time. I realized Marius' final trick on me — I'd be riding a horse that could only turn left.

Knowing her defect however, I could at least manage turns (granted with a bit more preparation required at times) by having her walk in a near circle, and soon after we crested a hill to reveal a massive dirt embankment just off the highway. Carts littered the dusty field which had been beaten bare by countless feet, hooves, and carts over the years. Drivers, riders, and merchants of all stripes milled about as sun worn caravan masters directed traffic with the wag of a ringed finger. Threadbare peddlers that plied their trade to the smaller farms and villages off the beaten path weaved between wagons on foot, sagging under packs nearly twice their own size, and on the periphery there were more than a few ragged laborers and their families — refugees seeking work outside the capital.

We navigated our horses with care. In places the earth looked like the victim of a knife attack, bearing the slash marks of wagon wheels rutted by long forgotten foul weather. Benezia led us directly through the middle of the madhouse.

The air sang like a circus, rocked by laughter, the excited chatter before embarkation, and somewhere in the distance a man had broken into singing a version of Maybe, my Beauties far bawdier than I'd heard in even the seediest of High Rock taverns. Around us were tents of every color forming impromptu neighborhoods, and tarps over crates and carts bearing the mismatched livery of a hundred different merchant houses, guard companies, and caravaneer guilds great and small.

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We rode through tobacco sweetened air, honeyed with a hint of skooma for the learned observer (sniffer?), until we found at last the pair of gray-blue tents we sought. Before them squated a pair of northmen, arguing over the last sausage upon a cold pan on their extinguished campfire.

"Just let me do the talking," said Benezia before nudging her colt forward. "Good morning, kinsmen. Are one of you gentlemen known as Sorvild?"

The two were silent for a moment. The younger one with raven hair and a pinched beak for a face flashed agitation at the interruption. The elder stammered as if physically struck by Benezia's dollish good looks. He resembled a bear who had grown soft off of a long summer, tall and with a broad chest now deflated over a sagging belly, brown fur running uninterrupted from a receded hairline down his chin and into the furry valley of a half-buttoned shirt.

"I am," said the old bear, almost tripping as he stood. "Sorvild, Captain of the Silversword Company."

I noted he had an ornate silver hilted sword at his hip. His badge of office I presumed.

Benezia bowed her head. "Then I am at your service, sera. My name is Benezia and I was told to seek you out."

"I know, that is, I was told to expect someone, but did not realize you would be — that is to say—" Sorvild masked a phlegmy cough behind a fist. "It is I who am at your service, my lady."

The dark-haired fellow's face grew even pinchier — I could sympathize.

Benezia dismounted and I followed suit, she was only chest height to the enormous man and I felt similarly dwarfed as his mitts engulfed mine in a handshake. We exchanged additional introductions and pleasantries. My nape prickling as she prefaced my name with the fact I was her 'assistant'. Sorvild had the soft grasp of a conscientious giant though, while his dark-haired companion, named Abbard, struck hands like a crow stealing a cracker.

Benezia, who had scarcely spoken to me all morning, now fluttered about with great excitement. It was strange to see her work her wiles from the outside, turning the show on as it were, for the nordic mercenaries.

We spoke of conditions at the city until Abbard finally asked the obvious. "Nice meeting ya both and all, but why are ya here?"

Benezia opened her mouth but Sorvild jumped in first. "Negotiators. Diplomats really, I've hired them on to help us win the best possible contract with the Mane."

"I thought that was your job. The other captains know about this?"

"Do the other captains know? They know enough, and that's all you need to know, and no more besides. This false Mane business is new to us so I hired some help I knew we'd need." I believe my eyes crossed listening to Sorvild at this point. He continued: "But until the deal is sealed they're just a part of the gang, understood?"

Abbard snorted. "Ya, I understand well enough."

Sorvild grabbed the sausage and stuck it in his mouth like a cigar. "Good. You two have a minute to rest, but Abbard and I should get to packing — the caravan waits for now man."