The Great Bazaar and Brayan's Gold by Brett Peter V

Author:Brett, Peter V. [Brett, Peter V.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Harper Voyager
Published: 2011-05-16T04:00:00+00:00

* * * * *

They hitched their horses to Brayan’s cart, but in Messenger style, kept them saddled and packed in addition to the yoke. They might require speed if a wheel cracked close to dusk.

The cart looked like any other, but a hidden steel suspension absorbed the bumps and depressions of the road with nary a jostle to the passengers and cargo, keeping the volatile thundersticks steady. Arlen hung his head over the edge to look at the mechanics as they rode.

“Quit that,” Curk snapped. “Might as well wave a sign we’re carrying thundersticks.”

“Sorry,” Arlen said, straightening. “Just curious.”

Curk grunted. “Royals all ride around town in fancy carts suspended like this. Wouldn’t do for some well-bred Lady to ruffle her silk petticoats over a bump in the road, now would it?”

Arlen nodded and sat back, breathing deeply of the mountain air as he looked over the Milnese plain spread out far below. Even in his heavy armor, he felt lighter as the city walls receded into the distance behind them. Curk, however, grew increasingly agitated, casting suspicious eyes over everyone they passed and stroking the haft of his spear, lying in easy reach.

“There really bandits in these hills?” Arlen asked.

Curk shrugged. “Sometimes mine townies short on one thing or another get desperate, and everyone is short on thundersticks. Just one of the corespawned things can save a week’s labor, and costs more than townies see in a year. Word gets out what we’re carryin’, every miner in the mountains will be tempted to tie a cloth across his nose.”

“Good thing no one knows,” Arlen said, dropping a hand to his own spear.

But despite their sudden doubt, the first day passed without event. Arlen began to relax as they moved past the main roads miners used and headed into less traveled territory. When the sun began to droop low in the sky, they reached a common campsite, a ring of boulders painted with great wards encircling an area big enough to accommodate a caravan. They pulled up and unhitched the cart, hobbling the horses and checking the wards, clearing dirt and debris from the stones and touching up the paint where necessary.

After their wards were secure, Arlen went to one of the firepits and laid kindling. He pulled a match from the drybox in his belt pouch and flicked the white tip with his thumbnail, setting it alight with a pop.

Matches were expensive, but common enough in Miln and standard supply for Messengers. In Tibbet’s Brook where Arlen was raised, though, they had been rare and coveted, saved only for emergencies. Only Hog who owned the General Store—and half the Brook— could afford to light his pipe with matches. Arlen still got a little thrill every time he struck one.

He soon had a comfortable fire blazing, and pan fried some vegetables and sausage while Curk sat with his head propped against his saddle, pulling from a clay jug that smelled more like an Herb Gatherer’s disinfectant than anything fit for human consumption.

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