Pixie's Pad

Like a sheet of polished silver the Siashim lake stretched out from the shore to the mountains in the distance. It was a quiet morning with no trace of wind to lick the water into gentle waves and the surface stood still and glossy, reflecting an empty pale blue back up at the cloudless sky.

Oleipha curled her toes into the damp sand and felt its sodden grains cool and smooth against her skin. She had risen early, long before the second sun had crested the horizon and bathed the land in its golden glow, and stood alone on the bank of the Siashim soaking in the solitude. Later her village would be a bustle of activity; the men would head to the quarry and begin the daily stream of clay-filled baskets back to the village, the women would gather around the lakeshore and gossip over laundry, the children would see to their chores, and when done, they would play and their laughter would touch everything.

She took a deep breath of cool air and felt the hairs along her arms prickle. She had not worn her shawl, had left it at home intentionally so that the chill morning would touch her skin unfettered. This is how she connected to Tassis, her beloved broken planet. When she felt the crisp wind nipping at her flesh and the icy waters of Siashim licking about her ankles, she knew that there was life in Tassis still, that a heart still pumped beneath her broken crust.

With a soft sigh Oleipha turned away from the lake and padded on bare feet back to the village. Nyis, nestled on the verge of a dense forest between Lake Siashim and the craggy hills that marked the border of Athl, was the easternmost village in the Denmor province and one that arguably provided the largest contingent of pottery to the bigger towns further west. As for Athl, that once bustling country had been rendered a wasteland by the Shattering. Aside from some fringe settlements, Athl had been barren and empty for years.

The village torches cast pinpricks of flickering light on the forest verge ahead of her and she gathered up her skirts, stepping from the beach onto the dirt path that skirted this side of the lake. A brief overnight rainfall had left the ground spongy and soft. With her thoughts on clouds now she turned her face skyward, but the vast blue blanket was still unmarred. A distant glow caught her attention as she turned her gaze back to the pathway. Beyond Nyis, somewhere in the Ochae forest, something was producing enough light to penetrate the canopy.

Oleipha’s dark eyes narrowed and she quickened her pace. The Commensurate weren’t in the area – once a week, when the traders arrived from Tyst and Sayton, Oleipha would quiz them intently on the whereabouts of Commensurate activity. They had not been in this part of Denmor for years, not since before her Coming of Age, and she was itching to have the opportunity to speak with them again now that her opinions would be considered those of a young woman and not of a fanciful child.

It was more difficult to track the movements of the Missionaries, though. Despite preaching salvation through honesty, theirs was a devious path. They kept their movements quiet and their intentions moreso. Oleipha had heard rumours that a contingent had been dispatched to the north, but the glow in the forest was too near. Perhaps they had wandered from their original site? Or perhaps they had never intended being that far north to begin with.

The snap of a twig to her right made her jump. She stood still and picked apart the blue-grey dawnlight until she saw his shape there, crouching in the undergrowth.

“Ranal, you scared me.”

He stood on his long, slim legs and came towards her.

“You weren’t scared, just startled. How be?”

“It be good. It’s a still day; it will be hot later. How be?”

“Bored. Woke up early and followed your trail.”

Oleipha resumed her walk to the village and Ranal kept pace at her side, occasionally dancing circles around her shorter form in energetic protest of her slower gait.

“Have you heard of any visitors?” Oleipha glanced up at him. Time ago they used to be the same height, she remembered, and then some months before his Coming of Age he surpassed her and had yet to stop. He was a full two heads taller than her now and her neck hurt to look at him sometimes if he stood too close.

“The traders don’t arrive for a twoday,” he skipped backwards ahead of her.

“I know. Not the traders.”

“Then who?”

She pointed behind him, but Noss – Tassis’ second sun – was swift approaching the horizon and against the lighter sky the glow from the forest was barely visible.

“Something in the woods is creating light. It’s far out. I saw it moments ago.”

“I’ll tell Iteldu. He might arrange a hunting party! I’m sure as the bringer of news, I’ll get to go.”

“I’m sure.” Oleipha clucked and looked past him, boredom feigned in her expression.

Ranal was curious. Ranal was energetic, restless, impetuous. Ranal was reckless. Iteldu would not choose him for the Hunt because Ranal’s heart and his head were not in balance. Instead, Ranal had been given the task of Loadbearer shortly after his Coming of Age; his duty was to carry the wicker baskets laden with heavy clay from the quarry to the potters just outside the village. Ranal had interpreted this as an insult to his obviously capable, tall, lean body – Oleipha saw it for the challenge it was. The work would build his muscle, teach him patience, tame the fire in his spirit. It would prepare him for being a Hunter. But for Ranal, it was only a waste of time.

“You don’t think so?” Ranal tripped his backwards skipping, caught his balance, and settled to walk at her side with his thumbs shoved into his britches.

“I think Iteldu will thank you for this information and see you back to your Loadbearing duties while he prepares a team to take into Ochae himself. You will work doubly hard to clear your quota so that you can follow them when they leave. Iteldu will catch you – which you expect him to – but he will not, as you also expect, let you join the party since you are there anyway. He will send you home and double your quota for tomorrow in order to teach you respect and consequence.”

“How do you know my plans? Begone from my head!”

Oleipha cracked a weary smile at his chiding, and shrugged at her friend.

“Is it not true?”

“Perhaps,” Ranal replied. “So what if it is? I am only following my dream.”

“Dream of clay baskets,” Oleipha suggested as they approached the village boundary. “It will serve you better, for now.”

“You’re such a stick in the mud, Leiph. At least you’re doing what your heart sings for you to do. Anyway, be well – I am off to catch Iteldu as he leaves his hut this morning.”

“Be well, Ranal. And be respectful, for goodness’ sake!”

Ranal had already run ahead and she doubted that he caught her last remark – or had chosen not to hear it. He was right, though; she was following her heart. The Highers had granted her the task of education, and every day she took groups of the village children and taught them about the world – about Tassis, about the Shattering, about ecology and the Off-Worlders and Old Earthers and everything their young, inquisitive minds would soak up and more besides.

*

“Elder Iteldu,” Ranal dropped to one knee and bowed his head respectfully as the aged man stepped from his hut into the fresh morning air.

“Ranal. If you are here to ask me to change your task again, I shall triple your quota for a fourday.”

Ranal stood and walked at Iteldu’s side towards the large thatched yurt at the centre of the village. He may have been two heads taller than Oleipha but this wizened old man was taller than even Ranal, despite his age.

“No, Elder,” Ranal dipped into a quick bow. “I come with news of lights in the forest.”

“Lights? What kind of lights? Travellers with torches no doubt.”

“A glowing light, Elder. I did not see it myself; Oleipha saw it this morning while it was still dark. She said that something in the woods was creating light.”

Elder Iteldu paused a moment, looking out across the village to where Ranal pointed, at the boundary of the forest. He chewed his cheek, and Ranal’s heart thumped in his chest, positive that the Elder would ask him to show the way.

“Oleipha is taking the school all morning, is she not?”

“She is, Elder.”

“Mmm.” He paused again, and Ranal watched the old man’s sharp blue eyes flick across the treetops as the first warmth of Noss dipped that high, leafed world in molten gold.

“Very well. I will not disturb Oleipha; her work is more important. I will take a small group into the forest and find the source. Thank you, Ranal, for bringing this to my attention. I shall send your mother an extra loaf this evening.”

Ranal stood slack-jawed for a long moment before remembering his manners. He snapped his mouth shut and clenched his jaw instead, fighting back the urge to protest. Oleipha had been right – it would do him no good. Still, the anger was quick to rise like bile in his stomach.

“I see that look, Ranal, and I advise you to curb your enthusiasm. One day, perhaps, you will make a fine hunter. Before then, however, you have much to learn – of patience and humility, to begin with.”

“Yes, Elder,” Ranal all but growled through his teeth.

He dropped to one knee again and waited for Elder Iteldu to leave before standing and stalking off towards the quarry with his head full of thoughts.

The only people with the ability to manufacture light without fire were the Off-Worlders, and so it stood to reason that the glow in the forest was created either by a party of Missionaries or the Commensurate. Or, he reasoned briefly, some fool group had been brazen enough to steal some of their light-emitters, but that was highly unlikely, especially considering that there were some Missionaries out to the north if what Leiph had heard was true. Nobody would be fool enough to risk doing something like that and then to use the stolen technology within easy sight of its owners.

So the Off-Worlders were getting closer. A tingle shivered its sweet anticipation along Ranal’s spine and he found himself smiling, despite his lingering anger at Elder Iteldu’s easy dismissal of his skills. Everyone in the village had known, since the first sighting of those massive ships in skies that had been empty for long enough for people to forget where they had come from, that the Off-Worlders would find their village eventually. It was only a matter of time before either, or both, of the factions made first contact. Stories from the travelling traders were coming in more frequently with every visit; he’d even heard last cycle that a band of Missionaries had installed some water-drilling contraption in Sayton in exchange for only some hand-woven tapestries that the town, with its well-stocked grazing pastures, was known for producing. The mere thought of what magic the Off-Worlders would share with Nyis in exchange for their own Nyisian pottery made Ranal grin wide.

Oleipha didn’t like to see him get excited about contact with the Off-Worlders, but then Leiph didn’t get excited about much if it wasn’t the wind or some bug or showing the kids how to catch the small freshwater crabs from the lake as long as they put them back again. For someone as knowledgeable and wise despite her young years, he’d never understand why she couldn’t see the sense in opening relations with the more technologically affluent Off-Worlders. After all, everything they owned came from Tassis before the Shattering when the people were unified, so technically, it belonged in part to the Old Earthers too, didn’t it? But no. Oleipha had bristled when their village had heard news that the Off-Worlders were approaching their province, and she had bristled since with every mention of them.

*

Bishop Voris drew the long gown over his head and stroked the material into place, using the full-length mirror before him as an aide. The scarlet cloth hung exquisitely over his fine figure, accentuating his broad shoulders and strong chest. On the ship with its glossy polished walls he’d often follow his own reflection from the corner of his eye. He enjoyed how the light fabric danced gracefully around his heels with every step of his sweeping stride, how the hem flourished imposingly as he rounded corners. Down on Tassis he had no such opportunities at vanity. Their accommodations while in the field were uncomfortably bare, but Bishop Voris had insisted on bringing his mirror at the very least. It was important – he had urged the clergy – for a man of his position to appear clean-cut and respectable at all times. It would help their cause, he assured them, if the Missionaries were presented with utmost dignity.

Voris slipped the heavy golden chain around his neck and adjusted the medallion until it hung precisely over his lower sternum. He lingered a moment longer in front of the mirror, noting as he did every day how the gold of the adornment really complimented the amber hue of his eyes and how the sanguine robes matched so well his sun-kissed skin and black, black hair. Even out of uniform, Voris was an imposing sight. His Bishop’s draperies were such a fine fit.

“My Lord?” A voice at the tent’s doorway dragged Voris from his self-appreciation.

“You may enter.”

A squat man with puffed cheeks and a nose that suggested copious consumption of the local liquor ducked through the canvas flaps and into the Bishop’s temporary abode, and dropped to the floor in reverence before him.

“Deacon Ghas. You may rise. What news?”

The Deacon dragged himself to his feet with much puffing and took a moment to compose himself before addressing the Bishop.

“There is a small village to our south, on the eastern shore of Lake Siashim.”

Bishop Voris strode to the exit of his tent and bade the Deacon follow him. The transition from the dull interior of the tent to the bright sunlight of morning was stark and Voris drew an arm up to shield his eyes. After several months on the surface he still hadn’t acclimatised to the brightness of real sunlight. His eyes stung.

“Name?”

“Nyis, my Lord,” Deacon Ghas skipped to keep up with the Bishop as the taller man walked briskly through the camp.

“Nyis.... Nyis. Pottery?”

They had been mapping the settlements of eastern Denmor, keeping mostly to the periphery where the smaller habitations lay. The Missionary scouts had found a few towns and small villages nearby and their recruits from one of the towns in particular had been very helpful in filling in the holes in their knowledge of the region. Voris spent time every evening familiarising himself with the details of the province. Knowing his charge intimately was absolutely necessary for the task at hand.

“Is it suitable? I was under the impression that the village had frequent trade dealings with the larger towns.”

“They do, but they remain uninfluenced. Their village has barely grown in decades; we believe they are just far enough from the larger occupations to remain, er, culturally untouched.”

Culturally untouched. That was their adopted Ethically Sound phrase for ‘stuck in the dark ages’.

“I see. Population?”

“We estimate approximately one hundred and fifty, spread between some thirty families.”

“Nice.”

The smaller the settlement, the easier the Missionary’s influence was accepted. If Nyis had only distant relations with the nearby larger towns to remain mostly cloistered, and if its population was only enough to hold tenuous grasp to the title Village, then it would be very well suited for their purposes.

“How do you wish to proceed, My Lord?” Deacon Ghas looked up at him expectantly.

They had reached the large ghazebo that had been erected as a mess, and the smells of breakfast cooking from the shaded canopy were making Voris’ stomach growl with morning hunger.

“Do we have anyone here from uh... Where was it... Sayton?”

“I believe so. I can find out.”

The Bishop took a seat at the edge of the arrangement of tables and arranged the provided napkin neatly across his lap.

“Then do so. Find one man. Bring him to me.”

“As it pleases you, My Lord,” Ghas dipped into a low bow and then backed away from the table. When he had put a respectable distance between himself and the Bishop, he turned and scurried off towards the barracks tent.

A pot of hot taich and a glass of juice squeezed from some local citrus appeared before him. He didn’t pay the waiting staff any heed as they adorned his chosen table with cutlery and a slim vase of flowers, looking past them to the treeline as he sipped the steaming taich with more dignity than his need for the black stimulant was comfortable allowing.

From a hundred and fifty untouched residents he could, he approximated, comfortably persuade perhaps eighty percent to the Missionary’s cause, and of those eighty, maybe a quarter would be willing to leave with their contingent in order to spread the good word. Nyiss was the pottery village, he had heard of it – one quarry large enough to produce a steady stream of clay, worked by one village alone. It must be a hard life; it wouldn’t be difficult tempting those naive Old Earthers away. A flash of technology here, a taste of Off-Worlder life there – they’d be putty in his hands, and the Commensurate be damned.

Bishop Voris had almost finished his breakfast of smoked meats, bread, and cheese when Deacon Ghas returned with one of the locals in tow. Ghas looked hungrily at the Bishop’s near-empty plate – the Deacons weren’t afforded meat with their meals, not while on duty on Tassis at least. With a wry smile, Voris intentionally left a whole slice of pressed yormtongue untouched as he pushed his plate away and one of the kitchen staff carried it off. He took pleasure from the expression on Ghas’s face as he watched the plate leave with a weary sigh.

“Are you going to introduce us, Deacon Ghas, or are you more concerned with the scraps of my breakfast?”

“Er -” The Deacon fumbled, cleared his throat and turned his attention to the Bishop with a quick bow of apology. “This is Nofis Lovs, a merchant from Sayton who has made frequent trade runs between Sayton and the outlying villages. He claims to know Nyis very well.”

Voris wiped his hands clean on his napkin and gestured for the man to sit across the table.

“Thank you, Deacon. You may leave us.”

The Deacon floundered for a moment – clearly he had expected to be a part of this conversation between Voris and the townsman. One of the many things Bishop Voris had learned on his ascent through the Missionary ranks, however, was that keeping the number of people involved in a project to a minimum lessened the potential for deviation from the One True Plan. Ghas would bring nothing to the conversation. He was simply not needed.

When the Deacon had bowed and walked sulkily away, Voris turned his attention to the townsman and poured him a cup of taich, still kept hot from the heat-sealing properties of the jug it had arrived in. He watched the man take a sip, his eyes widening in surprise at the hotness of the liquid that was nowhere near an open flame.

“Still much to discover, hm? Nofis, was it?” Bishop Voris noted the local custom of addressing people, regardless of the level of acquaintance, by their first names.

“Nofis, yes. And yes, much to discover. I doubt I will ever grow accustomed to the magics the Missionary have to show me.”

Voris chuckled. “Not magic- technology. Work hard here, and perhaps you will learn enough to understand.”

“Oh, I doubt it. I’m a trader; I deal with people. Never had a head for fancy machines.”

Bishop Voris resisted the urge to sneer. These people were pathetic. They had completely devolved since The Shattering – not that they’d had much choice, being left on a planet that had been completely stripped of manufactured energy, forced to return to the old ways; stone tools, mud huts, manual labour. So tedious. But calling a simple thermal jug a fancy machine, a thing of magic? It bordered on disgustingly pathetic.

“Yes, well. We’ll see about that. How are you settling in?”

“I’m still finding my feet, but your people have been more than kind.”

“Our people,” Bishop Voris corrected him with a practised warm smile. “You are one of us now, Nofis, and we will treat you as such.”

“I’m very grateful,” Nofis met the Bishop’s dark eyes briefly and then glanced away. “There are many fine things here. A man could get used to this kind of life. A warm bed despite the cold nights, fresh water, good food without lifting a hand for it.”

“Mmm,” Voris smiled. It would always astound him how easily these people were swayed. In comparison to the luxuries the Off Worlders could offer, the Old Earthers had a veritable ocean of nothing. Hard labour, cold winters, scalding summers. Never a moment’s rest. A peasant’s life.

“Deacon Ghas said you wanted to ask me about Nyis?” Nofis asked.

“Yes. You are familiar with the village? How often have you been there?”

“Plenty. Sayton trades regularly with their pottery. Their quarry puts out the most clay in the whole province and the way they work it is particular to the village. It’s very sought after.”

“I see. And they trade openly?”

“Sure. They’re a bit cut off, out on the rim. There’s not much to their north and south and nothing at all to their east. They’re eager to trade; for a variety in food, wares, gifts – anything.”

“Good. We’d like to introduce ourselves to the villagers there, but the Missionary are of course always very aware of the potential to disrupt established cultures, which we absolutely would want to avoid.” Voris had run this spiel so many times the empty sentiments slid from his tongue like a fountain of fine silk. “We have many things to trade, however. One of the tactics we use to open communications with the local people is to approach on terms the natives are familiar with. Would you be willing to run a trade visit to Nyis with some of our wares?”

Nofis straightened his back and shuffled a little on the bench. He was eager; Voris had played his cards well.

“Yes, I’d be willing. It’d give me something to do. I mean I could walk around this place for days staring slack-jawed at all the things here but that wouldn’t make me very useful.”

Voris forced a smile. “Very well. I will prepare a small wagon of goods and arrange an escort. Unless you think the presence of a Missionary in your company would make the villagers uncomfortable?”

“I think it’ll be fine,” Nofis shrugged. “They know me well at Nyis; the Elder and I have shared many a glass of Orm’skel Cershy if I’ve delivered a good batch.”

“Orm’skel Cershy? Is that a local variety?” Voris considered himself somewhat of a connoisseur of liquors but had never heard of this particular variety of Cershy.

“There’s a monastery on the Athl-Denmor border that makes it. They grow the grapes on the eastern side, on the Athl mountains. Don’t know how they get them to grow in that dry soil, but they do. Very difficult to come by. I’ll bring you some, if I can find it. Delicious, but more than a few glasses and you’ll wake wishing you were dead.”

“Please do. Orm’skel isn’t a variety of Cershy we have listed on our ships; it must have come into production after the Shattering.”

Nofis shrugged. “No time like the present to get sloshed, then, and Orm’skel Cershy will certainly do it.”

*

Oleipha had just closed and fastened the door to the classroom when she saw Nofis emerging from the woods at the east, trailing a piled hand-wagon and accompanied by a man in flowing purple robes. She knew Nofis from his frequent trade-stops at her village, but always he arrived from the south or the west. She checked the binding on the door and then walked out to meet them.

“How be?” Oleipha greeted the two men when she was but a few paces away.

“Well; how you be?” Nofis dug into his pocket and then reached across to the young woman with a small wrapped parcel.

“Also well. What is this?”

“A gift, to open trade. Is Elder Iteldu about?” Nofis’s eyes wandered over Oleipha’s shoulder to the village proper.

“He has taken a hunting party into the woods to the north,” She watched Nofis and his companion closely as she chose her words. The man with him showed no reaction, but a hint of concern flickered briefly over the merchant’s eyes. “I am surprised you did not cross paths. What brings you to Nyiss from this direction, Nofis, and will you introduce your companion?”

The man in the purple robes stepped forward and executed a swift, dipping bow before Oleipha. Bringing his gaze up to meet hers, he awarded her a smile that set her skin to crawling.

“Deacon Kaiss. I am honoured to be in your presence...?”

“Oleipha,” She replied curtly. Deacon – so this man was a Missionary. Little wonder he made her uncomfortable. Oleipha forced a smile in return so as not to appear rude. “You come from the Missionary camp to the north, then?” Leiph returned her attention to Nofis. The Deacon, shunned, returned to the back of the wagon and followed with his head low as Oleipha walked with them into the village.

Her question surprised him. Bishop Voris had given him the impression that no contact had been made with Nyis, and so by rights nobody in the village should have known of the contingents’ presence yet. That was, of course, the very reason he had been sent.

“That is so – how did you know?”

“I saw the light in the wood before dawn. There were only two probable explanations, of course – the presence of the Deacon with you clarified which.”

Oleipha unwrapped her gift as she spoke. The thin papyrus wrapping uncovered a small woven-lidded box and within sat a chain and a pendant of metal woven into a curious knotting shape. It was pretty, and Leiph for a moment felt that tingling buzz of happiness when one is given something worth coveting – but she quickly chided herself, for the Deacon wore the very same knotted metal upon the breast of his robes. It was a symbol of the Missionary, and she would have no affiliation with it.

“It is beautiful,” She chose her words carefully. “I shall present it to Elder Iteldu’s first wife; she has a particular fondness for the worked metal of the Off-Worlders, and it will paint the Missionary favourably upon her canvas.”

“Ever were you wise,” Nofis smiled fondly at Oleipha for her clever suggestion, but she had seen Deacon Kaiss lift his hooded visage and narrow his gaze upon her.

So that was their relationship. The Nyis-familiar Nofis Lovs sent to innocently broker trade with Missionary goods; Deacon Kaiss at his side as pragmatist.

Oleipha returned Nofis’s smile. “Shall I see you to the yurt to await Elder Iteldu’s return? He left as the sun passed its zenith; I doubt he will be gone much longer.”

“That would be most kind,” Nofis nodded. “I shall begin arrangement of the goods in preparation for trade.”

A little hasty, Oleipha thought – but then checked that as her own personal reaction. Of course Elder Iteldu would approve the trade. It was in the village’s best interests to procure the blessings of the more powerful Off-Worlders. The thought brought a bitter taste to Leiph’s throat. Though she could see the merits of establishing relations with both Off-Worlder factions, the Missionaries just hadn’t ever sat right with her in all her hearings of them. Deacon Kaiss, a thin, gangling man with hooded eyes and a nose too pointed for its own good, did nothing but strengthen her notion that the Missionaries were not savoury folk.

She saw the two gentlemen and their hand-wagon into the Elder’s yurt to await Elder Iteldu’s return and then hurried off to the pottery to find Ranal. His shift would have ended not long back and if he had followed her advice and not snuck off after the hunting party, she would find him there gossipping with the potters as he did every evening to delay returning home to his mothers’ smothering embrace for as long as possible. Leiph smiled thinking about it. The tale was tragic, no doubt; Ranal’s young sister had died of bark fever not long after birth, years ago when Ranal was still a toddler. Ranal had not had time to form a bond with his sibling and barely even remembered her, but the death had touched his mother deeply and ever since, she showered her only son with attention at every opportunity.

“Ranal,” She found him talking shop with Achet, one of the younger potters who was already showing promise with his artistic flair. If Ranal did not get to be a hunter for any reason, potter was his second most coveted life path. Oleipha did not see it; his fingers were clumsy and his imagination flowed with as much force as a dead creek mid-summer.

“Leiph,” Ranal sprang up and towards her, only turning back to excuse himself from Achet’s company as an afterthought.

“I see you took my advice.”

“Or came to the same conclusion,” He chided, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Elder Iteldu warned me against trying anything rash.”

“He knows you so.” Leiph pressed her hand to Ranal’s shoulder in comfort.

“How were the kids?”

“Loud, eager, wonderful.” Oleipha smiled. She passed her knowledge to the village young with such unbridled enthusiasm that they couldn’t help but be caught up in her excitement. “Nofis is here.”

“The Sayton merchant?”

“The same. He arrived from the north.” She glanced at Ranal as she said this, and saw too that his brow furrowed in brief confusion.

“From the north? Did he change his route for the coming summer? No – he’s never done that before. Why from the north?”

Oleipha smiled smugly. “He has come from a Missionary camp, with a hand-cart of Missionary goods to trade and a Deacon instigator on his tail.”

“He has a Deacon with him? How do you know it’s a Deacon? What did he look like? What was he wearing?” Ranal hopped from foot to foot, eager for any and all tidbits she could provide him about the stranger.

Leiph rolled her eyes at her friend’s enthusiasm, though she felt satisfaction at knowing something he did not. Usually Ranal was the first to bring all gossip to her ears; he had a reputation for poking his nose where it did not belong.

“Thin, but not tall. He wears a purple robe with a metal charm pinned to his breast. Dark hair, groomed short; an ugly pointed nose and eyes like a Banit Python.”

“What kind of charm? Was it magical?”

“Don’t be a fool.” Oleipha scowled at Ranal. “Of course not. Here, like this one.” She showed him the contents of the box she had been carrying. He reached out to touch the twisted metal pendant, but stopped with his fingers a hair’s breadth from the surface and then pulled away. Oleipha tutted. “It’s not magical, there’s no such thing as magic. Nofis gave it to me as a gift for the opening of trade; I told him I’ll present it to Elder Iteldu’s wife.”

“What? You don’t want it?” Ranal gawked at her. “It’s beautiful, and probably worth a fortune in trade! Are you mad, Leiph? Why not keep it?”

She closed the box lid with a snap and stuffed it back into the folds of her tunic. “Because it’s from Them. Because it’s tantamount to accepting bribery. Because Wife Riskel would actually wear it, whereas I’d probably bury it someplace easy to forget.”

“Gah!” Ranal sighed in exasperation. “Still, passing it to Riskel is a clever move; you can be rid of it without guilt and it will still favour the trade offer.”

In their tattle-slowed meandering they had walked all the way back to the yurt. The gathering outside suggested that people were catching wind of a new trade, and the Nyis crest flapping high atop the pole indicated that Elder Iteldu had returned.

“Oh!” Leiph pulled the gift from her tunic. “I have to take this inside at once; the trade cannot be brokered without Wife Riskel receiving the gift!” She hurried toward the entrance but Ranal grabbed her arm and pulled her back.

“Can I come too?”

“Of course not! You know who’s allowed into the yurt during a negotiation.”

“But you’re carrying the gift; can’t you take me in as an escort or something?”

She scowled at him. “Let me go, Ranal, you’re wasting time. I promise I’ll tell you everything when I return!”

Oleipha twisted herself from his fingers and hurried to the yurt’s entrance. It was nice that Ranal was inquisitive, but his impatience and sheer fervidity clouded his judgement too often. She heard him complain and kick up dust from the dirt behind her and clicked her tongue; she’d have to placate him with every nuance of her meeting between the Elder and Nofis later or he’d hold that grudge for days.

She wriggled her slight frame through the small crowd at the doorway and pushed through the canvas flaps into the yurt.

“Ah, Oleipha! We were about to send someone to look for you.” Elder Iteldu welcomed her into their presence.

She dropped to one knee in obeisance, and waited until the Elder had cupped his dye-painted hands over her head before rising again.

“I am sorry, Elder Iteldu; I left Nofis and Deacon Kass here but I should have waited with them for your return.”

“No harm.” The Elder smiled warmly at her. She had never understood why Elder Iteldu treated her with such affection – she’d had brief admonishments for stunts others had received beatings for, and some small misdeeds he entirely overlooked. “Do you have the gift, Oleipha? Nofis tells me you wish to pass it on to my first wife, Riskel. She will be most pleased, not in the least at such a kind gesture. She should be here any moment now, I have sent for her – ah!” The Elder looked past her to the entrance.

“My husband.” Wife Riskel entered the yurt and sashayed to the Elder’s side. She was half Elder Iteldu’s age but was old enough that her skin wrinkled with the creeping of the years upon her. She had always been beautiful, though, and age had only refined her allure. Her dark hair cradled her head in a halo of ebon curls and her skin, rich like the forest dirt after a rainfall, was a smooth brown. Her eyes, though – even Oleipha could stare into those emeralds and be lost.

The Elder gently took up his wife’s wrist and kissed the back of her hand before turning to Oleipha expectantly.

“Wife Riskel.” Oleipha bowed in courtesy as she held the small parcel out to the woman. “I give you this gift, passed from Nofis Loft, Merchant of Sayton, trading on behalf of the Missionaries, as an offer to broker peaceful trade.”

Riskel took the gift from Oleipha and unwrapped it with her dainty fingers. Nofis Loft and his lackey Deacon watched from one side, where they had unpacked their wares from the hand-wagon and arranged them on the provided wooden tables.

“Oh my.” Wife Riskel purred huskily as she lifted the pendant from its box and handed it to her husband for him to drape the chain ceremonially about her neck. “It is beautiful.” Riskel said in turn first to Oleipha as the mediator, and then to Nofis and the Deacon as the givers.

“The gift is accepted!” Elder Iteldu clapped his hands before him. “Trade is open!”

And with that, the canvas flaps of the yurt doorway were pinned open and the villagers streamed inside, their arms loaded with ware to trade for whatever fancies Nofis had brought from the Missionary camp.

Oleipha bustled her way outside, where Ranal eagerly awaited her.

“So?” He asked impatiently.

“So she accepted the gift and trade is open.”

“That’s it?” He looked disappointed.

Leiph shrugged. “That’s it.”

Ranal sighed and slumped his shoulders. “Oh. Oh well. What now?”

“Now, I -” Oleipha began, but paused as she caught sight of Deacon Kaiss slipping furtively from the yurt and smoothing down his ruffled robes before heading off into the village. Her eyes narrowed as she watched him go.

“Leiph,” Ranal cautioned his friend. “Don’t.”

“What?” She looked up at him innocently, but he knew her – the game was up before it had begun.

“Let it be me who advises you for a change. You have no business interfering with this. None of us do. But I know how you dislike the Missionaries and I know your gut is almost always right, so let me go instead.”

She hadn’t been expecting that. “Really? What will you say?”

“I’ll say I want to talk with him about the Missionary,” Ranal said; “that I’m interested in joining.” And though he would not let Oleipha know, not until it had been decided and put in motion, he actually was rather interested.