The Unseen Hand

Ch 25: The Tangles

Meldi, Twelfth of Sund'im, 445 A'A'diel

At the northernmost edge of Reyza, the ancient Jungle Gate loomed above the Southern Road like a giant woman squatting to relieve herself. Beneath the splayed pillars, hundreds of people milled about in a choreographed chaos. It was the B'hadia, Departure Day, the tumultuous spectacle that kicked off the perilous two-month journey to distant Dessia.

Brawny stevedores sang a bawdy tune to keep their rhythm as they tossed heavy crates from man to man. The reinforced boxes were hastily stacked upon stout, iron-wheeled wagons that lined the road, appearing more like fortresses than trade drays.

Threading through the lines, cursing teamsters guided huge, woolly-coated thrasks. Bred for the hard journey, the powerful beasts chewed their cud as their masters harnessed them to the sturdy, oaken yokes of the caravan wagons.

Scattered among the turmoil, caravan guards yawned in idle clusters, lazily rubbing the hangover from their wine-weary eyes. The guards, glorified sellswords and would-be adventurers, paid little heed to the preparations. Their commission began when the last crate was secured. It would be months before they would taste wine or have a full night of restful sleep. Until the call to set out was given, the guardsmen savored their last moments of lassitude while they still could.

Apart from the crowd, in the shadow of the towering gateway, seasoned traders held sideways conversations while their eyes tracked the movements of their cargo. Talk and gossip helped distract them from darker thoughts of what lay ahead.

Within the hour the cluster of wagons would begin their journey with a series of desperate sprints from outpost to outpost through the wastelands of Chaia and Ellaia. On the eastern edge of the savage tribe lands, the trek would transform into a grueling race against the elements and tribes of nomadic bandits. Despite precautions, one in nine wagons never arrived at its destination. The South Road was littered with the wooden skeletons of failure that inspired chilling campfire tales that often began with, "They headed out late."

A nervous young noble, tired of the veterans' teasing, chose to stand away from the throng. The youth's lips grew tight until his mouth was no more than a thin slit on a pale, sweat-slicked face. With an unsteady hand upon the ancient pillar, he appeared on the verge of spilling his breakfast onto the cobbles.

On the far side of the plaza, a street urchin watched the ashen-faced noble with the compassion of a lion about to pounce on a gazelle. Glick sucked his teeth with his tongue, seeking to draw out a bit of stray bacon while he watched and waited.

The young noble painted the stones with his bile, then wiped the vomit from his lips with a square of silk, his eyes darting about in embarrassment.

Glick smiled as he snuck behind a rain barrel. He felt neither contempt nor glee over the youth's discomfort. The man's anxiety was justified. Had life dealt him different cards, Glick could have been the one feigning confidence in the shadow of the stone gate.

Just shy of twelve seasons, Glick was as savvy about the B'hadia as any of the greybeard traders. In another time, before the Fates had shat upon his family, Glick had lived a life of privilege. Glick's father Huago had been a successful trader. Twice a year, Huago had braved the arduous road to Cartuj to trade imported Calantian olive oil for Dessian silk. Every departure, Huago hugged his son before uttering his habitual words. "After this B'hadia, we will have enough sequins for me to retire and live out the rest of my days with you and your sisters."

Memories of his father's broken promises fueled Glick's anger. Luck had turned her back upon him when his father had been reduced to a heap of vulture-picked bones on the dusty plains of Chaia. The death of the family patriarch and the loss of their goods to a raiding party had left Glick's family deep in debt. The creditors had claimed their due with the same mercy the barbarian horsemen had shown his father. Within days, Glick and his sisters had been thrown into the streets, and their modest villa repossessed. They were left with little save the clothes on their backs and a few personal belongings they had snatched before being shoved out into the cold.