Well Met in Molos

by J. Hepburn

  "There are always smugglers' routes," Kalle says with another flash of white teeth. "Has anyone burrowed underneath?"

  Tiglis gives him an odd look. "Some may think of it, but Molos is built on rock, and it would be hard going. No, there are sewer tunnels aplenty."

  Kalle snaps his fingers. "Sewers! Of course! Rare things."

  Tiglis gives him a withering look. "You are not commending the rest of this Empire to me," she says. "But before you ask: no. There are those tunnels wide enough to admit us, should we wish to risk it, but we would come out smelling too badly for any caravan to take us on. Besides, the tunnels have solid metal grates, and are moreover guarded, for those are known risks that city guards watch. Do not expect to be able to bribe these men. Even without the upset we have caused, all guards at exit points will have been paid off by Kedar or Melech."

  "Those two are becoming a confounded nuisance. There is no other way?"

  "No. I am afraid that we must walk through the gates like everyone else."

  "In disguise?" Kalle asks.

  "In disguise."

  "You have those robes, which should not arouse suspicion even after tonight's entertainments, but what about me?"

  Tiglis smirks at him. "Oh, we can steal you some robes to wear, and we have a couple of hours to teach you to wear them."

  "So you are getting me in one of your desert dresses after all, are you? Have you been planning this?" Kalle asks.

  Tiglis leans forward to kiss him. "No, my love, I am merely seizing an opportunity."

  The Other Side of the Wall

  So it is that as the sun rises and the great gates of Molos swing wide, two figures pass through them totally unnoticed by men in the employ of Melech and Kedar both.

  Before the gates of Molos sits the great courtyard, its sides formed by the fault in which Molos squats, where caravans camp to unload and to do business.

  A small boy of the desert, his walk arrogant, is joined, without any more than eye contact, by an equally short and apparently ancient woman in the face-concealing indigo robes of the deepest desert.

  Kalle heads straight for a caravan that seems on the verge of departure. Tiglis straightens her back, shedding the guise of age.

  "Ho, Master!"

  The caravan master hailed by Kalle looks up in annoyance, his hands and his mind occupied by inventory.

  He has to look twice at the apparent boy speaking to him, confused by the man's voice that hailed him. Then he sees the set of Kalle's eyes, and recognises an equal. "Yes? What do you want?"

  Kalle hands over a square of parchment with a seal on it.

  The caravan master takes it with a raised eyebrow. "Note of reference, eh? Yes, I know Logan, he's a good man. So, you're looking for a position, are you?" As he speaks, he cracks the seal and reads, nodding with eyebrows raised in new respect.

  "We are, yes."

  The master's eyes flick towards Tiglis, betraying his surprise. "Desert woman, eh? I've heard what they can do with their knives, but why should I take a risk?"

  "Be a risk not to," Kalle says.

  The master's calculating gaze moves back and forth between Kalle and Tiglis, taking in the way they are standing and the weapons at their belts. Tiglis has acquired—and left money for the shopkeeper, telling a dumbfounded Kalle that although weapons may be taken from opponents, they are honourable things and should not be besmirched by dishonourable theft—a curved sword of desert make, a weapon she knows little about using but which suits her well, while Kalle has his straight sword, and they both have large knives.

  The master grunts. Whether he has enough experience to tell posturing from prowess or merely believes he does, he seems prepared to believe them. And as Kalle impressed upon Tiglis, a master's note of reference is not lightly given. "Well, you neither will take up much space, so I have room for both of you." He fishes inside his vest for two stamped tokens, the design his sigil, and hands them both to Kalle, who flicks one to Tiglis, who catches it like a viper taking a mouse.

  The master seems unfazed by the speed of Tiglis's action, but nods once. "My name is Travon. Bronn over there is captain of the guards for this trip. Go and see him."

  *~*~*

  If the walls of Molos are tall and its gates imposing when viewed from within, they are mighty and forbidding when viewed from without. For most of Tiglis's life, their strength offered security; then, oppression. Now, they offer mute rejection even when the gates stand open for merchant traffic.

  She watched them until they became faint and small with distance, but has not looked that way since, and now even the great desert rift is lost in haze.

  As the caravan heads into farmland, she sits on the wooden roof of a wagon, cross-legged in desert fashion, holding her sheathed sword in her lap. The wind plucks at her mantle as her eyes flick from side to side to scan their path.

  Although raised in the city, she has much experience at seeing across crowds and rooftops both, and her eyes are adjusting well to the distances of the plains even if she is not yet comfortable so far from buildings and their easy hiding places.

  The caravan's regular guards and other mercenaries are giving her a wide berth. They have heard many things about desert women, and would avoid her even if only one of those rumours were true. Such men distrust and hate women who do not fit their expectations.

  Kalle swings himself onto the caravan's roof. He has added a bow to his sword, the quiver worn over his back. The regular guards avoid him and the mercenaries are wary of him, recognising in his eyes a killer even by their standards, but there is a jostling for hierarchy among the hired swords that Kalle intends to win.

  "We should have an easy voyage from here to Voren," he says as he squats beside Tiglis. "Only four nights, and this is farming land, which makes for slim pickings for bandits, who raid only rarely and that at harvest time."

  "After Voren, what then?" Tiglis asks.

  Kalle shrugs carelessly. "The city is fairly boring, but has potential. And I haven't been east. I'll teach you to ride a horse. We can make our own way, then."

  Tiglis considers this. In perfect seriousness, she says, "We shall have to see what we can teach each other about riding."

  Most of the caravan's guards and merchants jump, and many make signs of warding, when they hear Kalle's wild cackle of laughter.

  FIN

  About the Author

  J. Hepburn lives with his partner, several kilts, an Irish Wolfhound, two cats, an indeterminate number of wild birds and, sometimes, a passing python. He cares enough about coffee to not only grind his own, but roast it first. This says a lot about him, some of it complimentary. He rides a motorbike because it’s fun, and wishes they’d hurry up with a genetic cure for short sight.

  He writes because otherwise the words come out when he’s not expecting them to, and likes to explore any genre with “speculative” in the name. He’s been writing for more than a decade but only submitting for a couple of years, which was a mistake he doesn’t intend to repeat. He thinks romance is more interesting than violence and a lot more morally defensible, not to mention fun.

  He tweets sporadically at http://twitter.com/JHPeregrine, and is slowly establishing a web presence at jhepburnauthor.com.