By this phase in the journey, his legs no longer felt fatigue and he made quick tracks to where the living lands curved south and then east once more. He was curious to see the world ahead as it was marked by a most peculiar feature in the atlas: a river that flowed east though not into any lake or sea, but rather ran itself dry irrigating the farthest peninsula of living land in the eastern world. There was a township there on the tip of it named Mar Valda. Gahre could no fathom why men would settle at this furthest eastern point in the world when boundless virgin lands were ripe for plucking in all other cardinal directs. What use was the Sea of Sand to man? It was a resource of nothing. Sand and more sand; heat, wind, and death.
He soon found sign of man, then track, then road, which he followed along. More weary bands passed him going west. They did not fire upon him at least. Nor did they do more than grunt in response to his friendly hails as they passed, looking straight forward as though they could not see him. Queer and unfriendly folk he thought with each encounter. He could see their garb was far more suited to this environ. For all the heat, the thickness of their hoods and robes surprised him. They seemed to be of two layers, pitch black on the inner lining and bright white on the outer shell. Custom or function? He pondered this til deducing it was the latter. The white reflected the relentless rays of Cearulei as the black absorbed the heat of the body. He prayed there be a provisioner of ample wares in Mar Valda, and fruit, and guides for hire of such dialect he could comprehend to instruct him on the secrets of the desert.
Mar Valda, to his delight, was a lovely small township, with clean streets and well-dressed children skipping about and playing ballgames in the evening. The town came alive in the evening and stayed that way through night. The people spent the hot awful daytime slumbering away in insulated darkness. He needed to do more here than resupply. He needed contacts if he were to lay the proper groundwork for his most formidable challenge yet.
He boarded at the inn and felt secure enough to leave his gear there. For safety's sake he buried the bulk of his remaining gems safely off the road outside Mar Valda. On the outskirts, where Mar Valda met the Sea of Sand, the caravan that shot at him days before was parked and camped, perhaps unwelcome in the town limits but still permitted to trade. He approached their group. There was a man in his fifties of rugged weathered features who appeared to be their leader. Gahre dropped a dozen arrows at his feet. These were their property after all. They laughed at his audacity and agreed to talk. When Gahre told them of his intention to cross the Sea of Sand to a land beyond it, they laughed all the more, but they gave him a name of a Mar Valdian man, Javal, who had led previous explorers on expeditions to the second oasis. None went beyond there, they told him, because all what lay at the end of that expedition were the bleaching bones of those who had tried before and a place among them for the next fool who followed.
Gahre got some children to point out Javal, a swarthy fellow of nearly Gahre's stature drowning in a bottle of fruit liquor at the tavern. Gahre had never been any kind of tavern goer or a drinker himself, having seen first-hand in Tulan how the old demon liquor could fell a man into an early grave. Despite the orderliness of Mar Valda, it was in many ways a lawless place, or at least one of very different values than those to which he was accustomed. The barmaids were dressed... provocatively, to say the least, some sitting upon men's laps and displaying intimacy in full view of the patrons. The heavily tattooed Javal was thrusting coin at one demanding her company and becoming ever more infuriated by her rebukes. Gahre almost walked out before even introducing himself, not wishing to associate with a man of such low character and lack of self-control. But, he had heard from more than one source that Javal was the resident expert on deep desert expeditions and earned a living as such as a guide. So Gahre, against his screaming better judgment, sat with Javal and told him he had a business proposal. Javal was in an ornery state and insisted he did not do business with any man who did not know how to hold a drink. Gahre thought that was an odd standard to judge a man by, but agreed to a drink or two and declared that he was buying. The liquor burned as it went down but his constitution held it well, and soon he came to find himself having quite a fun time with Javal. He was a strong man like Gahre. They took to arm wrestling and proved worthy opponents, attracting a crowd among the patrons, some of whom even made wagers on their matches. It was a confusing series of wins, losses, and draws. Gahre had not before met a man who could beat or equal him in a feat of physical strength, at least not in his adulthood, and he was duly impressed.
Gahre thought better than to mention anything of a full crossing. Instead, he claimed only an interest in an expedition to the far oasis. Javal went on about the expenses: the camels they would need, the jars, and paying water fees to those who controlled the first oasis, without access to which no journey to the second was possible. To Javal it was purely a matter of gear, beast, water, and patience. They would need hundreds of jars to be buried in the sand at further and further intervals, a sled of sorts to cart them across the sands, and shovels and tarps to build cool shelters in which to rest out the grueling heat of day. First thing’s first, Javal told him, get on a night schedule, because they would only travel under the red mantle of Rubeli, and not one step would they take under lethal glare of Cearulei. His fee alone was a staggering sum of 1500 coin, and then there were the camels, the jars, the water fees, and the gear. That accounted for the bulk of wealth he had brought with him, and probably the entirety of it in reality since surely unexpected costs also would crop up, like the evenings bar tab.
Many of the women in the bar, he realized, were nightwomen! Several had sashayed up to him displaying their propped up bosoms and bare cleavage and offering him “services.” Gahre was intrigued and offended and frightened all at once. He had heard whispers of such practices in the Far West, but apparently the societal mores here in the Far East were similarly lax. He politely declined each offer. He was inebriated, and he felt it. Reminded of the Cloudy Moss Pod's effects, he resolved himself to stop his consumption. Javal began to exhibit extreme behaviors, cursing and threatening other patrons, who mostly ignored his antics. They must be used to him, Gahre thought. He got Javal back to his own room at the inn and laid him in the bed before his own mind too gave way to dizzying intoxication. He vomited in the washroom, which disturbed the hostess of the inn. Gahre clumsily apologized for waking her and made it back to his quarters where he passed out fully clothed on the floor.
That floor turned out to be the coziest bed he had known in weeks, and he slept hard into the next day. He awoke after noon with a dry mouth, a throbbing head, and a sapped sore body. Javal was in even worse shape, so Gahre left him there to complete his recovery. He set out and found the local tailor and ordered desert robes fitted to him, in the same style as Javal and others wore, with layers of black and white, formed of breathing wool. From the cobbler he bought hiking sandals of the highest price and best claimed durability. When all was done, he looked at his reflection and nodded with a smile. It all felt right, and he was virtually indistinguishable now from the locals.
As the sun set in the east, Javal languidly came back to life. He brought Gahre first to eat with his family, his parents and siblings that is. Javal was unmarried and seemed to like things that way. The cuisine was more vegetarian than Gahre was accustomed to, but its lightness seemed to suit the climate better, and ultimately it did the job of sating his ravenous appetite. Following dinner, or breakfast, or whatever one would call it, it was off to barter with the camel breeder, and Javal filled his ear about all the nuances of camel ownership. Not too old, but not too young. You needed one that knew the desert itself, and was hardy enough, and most of all had a fair disposition. Gahre had never handled one of these beasts and found himself taking an immediate dislike to them, in retaliation to their immediate dislike of him and, well, everything else.
He initially trusted in Javal's judgement and let him barter on his behalf, but the more they “bartered” the m
ore Gahre suspected he was being double-dipped upon in every trade he made with Javal. Wheeling and double-dealing seemed to be a way of life here. He soon even found himself counting his change for tavern meals and small items, lest he be cheated for a pittance. It was a vexing aspect of the culture, but one he would need to come to terms with since there surely was no changing it.
Negotiations tended to carry on and on at great length, and Gahre began to understand the role patience and nuance could play in lowering costs. He never outright acknowledged his suspected collusion between Javal and the sellers but did hint at it in the right moments. The endless waste of words and mistruths that had to be maintained in the name of face wore on his nerves. He much preferred the concise and honest business dealings he was accustomed to back home, but he played along, held his ground when necessary, and even walked away at times. He was alarmed to watch what he had once regarded as a small fortune dwindle away so rapidly. Shovels and tarps for the day shelters, sleds, camel packs, saddles, ropework, and jarring. Jars, jars, and more jars they purchased in bulk from the potter til he was out of stock, and then they pre-ordered even more. This high volume was necessary because it was with these jars that they would bury caches of water further and further out into the desert until it was possible they should reach the far oasis and return to the first without dying of thirst. It was a maddening process Javal described, because moving further than the previously laid cache required one to drink more, and to consume a portion of the first cache on their return trip to gather more jars of water and repeat the process. It was a system of diminishing returns, so the farther you laid your caches the more you consumed. Thus there was a limit to how far one could stretch his resources before it became a zero-sum proposition and no further caches could be laid. The second oasis was within reach of this range, but Gahre agonized in secret over the stretch he sought to conquer beyond it. The Sea of Sand had never been crossed and no one knew, at least among the common people, what if anything lay on the other side. This was due to one simple unavoidable fact: It was physically impossible for a man to get there.
Together they made their first expedition to the near oasis to negotiate the water fees from the men who controlled it, as well as gauge Gahre's mettle in the desert. Gahre again suspected collusion between Javal and these men. What other reason would they have to inhabit the oasis but to collect these fees from expeditionist types like himself who had come from afar to test themselves in the Sea of Sand? According to Javal, Gahre was the only such explorer who had arrived this season. That made Gahre the sole source of the entire industry's income, and he sensed that they were determined to squeeze as much out of him as possible. Gahre did not care if they ended up with his very last coin so long as his ends were met, but it was a long road ahead, and the money was going far too fast. These “water fees” were surely illegal, and his overall success in this venture depended on getting them down to a much lower rate than the parasites likely had their sights set on.
The trek from Mar Valda to the first oasis could be made in six days by Javal's reckoning, though he claimed on his own he could manage it in four. The reason was that the typical tourist was an outsider, not acclimated to the harsh desert environs, who required more rest and more water. Gahre was as hardy a wayfarer as there was to be found anywhere, who had walked the span of a continent to get here, and so told Javal to aim for five.
They hydrated themselves and their camels and headed out as Cearulei set over the horizon. The brilliant night sky was clearer than he had ever seen. Many newly visible stars and striations in the cosmic clouds revealed themselves. The redmoon Oberion was new and waxing, and Rubeli shone with all the sublime luminescence of an empyreal throne. Gahre knew something Javal did not: the great secret that were men who traversed these heavenly bodies, and that out there were stars upon stars, worlds upon worlds, without end.
He had no trouble keeping pace with Javal and rationed his water sip by sip, only to be scolded by Javal for it and told that one must drink long and hard to hydrate the body deep within. Mere sips would be stolen away by the dry air and bring a man to death. He also told him that there were aquifers hidden beneath the sands, and as such there were, though rare and hidden, low points where a man could dig and find water. He knew of one of such hidden oasis that would aid them greatly in the future of their campaign, but bid Gahre to keep this a secret from the other locals. Hmmmm... if there is a hidden oasis between the first and the second, perhaps there are more to be discovered in the span beyond?
Well before dawn Javal scouted a depression between the dunes, a former pitcamp, refilled by the shifting sands. They shoveled for an hour until the pit was once more. To Gahre it seemed like an obscene amount of labor for a mere day’s sleep. They covered the pit with poles and then thick tarp to block the solar rays, and even brought the stinking camels in with them. For nourishment they ate salted rations, and then all slept together in that hole like so many burrowed animals.
When he woke, he understood the benefit gained from the previous day's expenditure of energy. It was several degrees cooler inside the pit than it was on the broiling surface above. As evening fell they packed up camp and set upon the next leg. Javal was obsessive with the compass and sextant, yet had no map. Javal told him that the map was ingrained in his mind. Gahre, who had something more than a passing familiarity in the art of cartography and stellar navigation, bid Javal to teach him how to precisely record locales in the desert so that they might be found again, as there were no concrete landmarks in the everchanging sands. Javal had a better understanding of the astral cycles, the circling of Polestar North and the annual and monthly cycle of the redmoon Haven, how the four Kings travailed the seasons, and the steady precision of the oppositional relationship between Cearulei and Ignis Rubeli. Taken all together it was such a multifarious mishmash of relative factors that Gahre's head reeled. Night by night he quizzed Javal, who often needed to repeat the same things over again as Gahre forgot them. By the time they reached the near oasis, the jumbled mass of it had begun to coalesce into a more manageable model in Gahre's mind.
On the fifth night, where the land descended from the high dunescape, the first oasis came into view. It was neatly circular and the size of what one would not call a lake but a large pond, contrasting the colorless landscape with its still blue waters and surrounding greenery. There were lanterns lit and wagons, wagons he recognized at once as being from the very same caravan he had tracked to the north and met up within again the previous week in Mar Valda. It was not the full contingent, but a squad of eight of their strongest men, among them the same leader who recommended Javal to him, and three of their womenfolk, who busied themselves about the camp attending chores.
What this told Gahre immediately was that these men who collected “water fees” at the oasis had only just arrived there themselves, and entirely on his account. They were greeted gruffly, but Gahre could see by the familiar looks they shared with Javal that even this was a show put on for his benefit -or rather detriment. Their camels were allowed to drink, and hot food and tea were offered in a cordial enough manner. Then the negotiations began, and began badly. Ten coin per jar for water. Javal had estimated they would need many hundreds of jars buried in caches, and most would need to be refilled multiple times as they would also have to consume them on the return trips. That alone worked out to thousands in coin, and he would need even more in the as-yet-secret third phase of the campaign. Javal was of little help, arguing more on their behalf than Gahre's. No man owned the oasis, and it was infuriating that these caravaners considered it their water to sell. He wanted to tell them off completely and just take of it as he willed, but he understood that would lead to retribution and sabotage of his venture. Gahre held his ground and only offered a monthly water fee of a hundred coin, telling them that any more than that would lead him into cost overrun which would force him to forfeit the entire expedition and sell his gear to recover what he could of his funds. In response the
y not-so-subtly threatened that he would fetch no more than a trifle of what he had paid in Mar Valda for his gear, to which Gahre replied he would take it all to the city of Tokinga further east to recover its worth. All night it went on: the lying, the brinkmanship, both parties standing up and threatening to walk away from any deal only to be lured back to the table by the slightest hint of compromise. It was a torturous way to do business, but he knew he held all the cards really. The bottom line, as he would have them believe it to be, was that if he aborted the venture, they got nothing. That itself was a lie since he had no intention at all of giving up, but he made them believe they were driving him to that point nonetheless. Lying, he hated it more than anything, to be dragged so deeply into the same mire he ultimately sought to ascend. He was reminded of Indulu and the filthy wheels of governance he bemoaned. Hours of argument and theatrics later, and they tentatively agreed to a three hundred coin per month water fee. Worn down from it all and anxious to conclude the tedious negotiations, Gahre made the mistake of showing an eagerness to accept. Thus it was quickly followed by demands for new fees, for camping and stabling the camels and everything else they could dream up. He asked them how much the air might cost and if they thought they owned that too. This at least elicited a hearty laugh. Gahre changed his displayed disposition to appear unenthused by the three hundred coin fee and insisted he would additionally expect them to haul food, provisions, and empty jars for him from Mar Valda for that kind of money. And really, what else did these people have to do?
DUALITY: The World of Lies Page 23