The Whoreson of the Purple Dust; "The Trade."

[TheGuyThatPlaysAsJames]

    The mage entered suddenly and without warning, and Darash held his spear tight.

    Five of them crowded the small tent, sharing the same thick, hot air within. The enclosed space combined with the desert heat might as well have made the tent into an oven meant for broiling men – an oven meant for holding three. There was business to be done, however, and watchful eyes with ready hands always replaced comfort in business. Darash scanned the other four occupants: the smiling, bearded merchant, sitting fat behind a table draped in red cloth and dressed in elaborate yellows and purples, oddly comfortable in the heat; the frowning mage - that, he noted, made no effort to obfuscate his profession with his scarlet robes, warped staff, and puckered frown hidden behind a square salt-and-peppered beard, sweat drawing lines from his hairline to his brow; the other spear, standing opposite of Darash to the right of the merchant, donning matching leathers and ring-mail, bald as the sun that tanned him, as was he, but Darash was taller by a head and thicker in the chest and arms. We have been on our caravan for three turns of the moon, he thought, and he has resisted giving me his name, as it should be. Darash had never traveled with the same spear for as long as this one; they usually fell from the perils of the Dust if they did not succumb to exposure, so names were only shared as needed. Such was the role of a hired spear. Stand strong, stand silent. His stone expression matched his nameless partner's, sweat beading down their shaven heads.

    The fourth occupant stood between the merchant and the mage, three feet tall at most, with his head held low to mask his face behind a head of hair that could just as easily be mistaken for a mop of spider's silk. Thick silence filled the remaining space of the tent, all eyes fixed on him.

    "He should be older," the mage finally said, as sudden as he had entered. "A teenager, I believe your words were. This boy is barely above my knee." Grey eyes darted to meet the merchant's. "Do you mean to take me for a fool, peddler?"

    A look of compassionate regret replaced the fat merchant's smile, an expression Darash had seen him perform a hundred times or more. "You must forgive poor Hasib," the merchant lamented, "for the Common tongue is not such a common thing in a place such as this. A misunderstanding, yes? Hasib apologizes, truly." He held his hands up in prostration.

    "That he does, I'm sure," the mage sneered. This would mean more gold would be exchanged than he had anticipated. Boys were sold for a higher price than teenagers, a fact both the mage and the merchant were aware of based on their dour expressions. Though one has a more honest face than the other. Darash shifted his focus to the mage; should the spellmaster feel betrayed enough to lash out, Darash needed to be sure that he could plant a spearhead in his belly before any incantations or strange gestures could be completed. And even should he succeed, he would not get far. Not in this place. He hoped the mage was as aware of that as he was.

    One step, and the mage's arm was inches from the boy when the spearheads halted him, a breath away from opening his belly at the sides. A quick and uninvited approach was attempted, and thwarted, in mere moments. The merchant smiled. Time stopped. Darash found his answer. Not in this place.

    "I would see his face," the mage stated, slowly and deliberately, as if commanding a child.

    "Ah," came the response, "so the looking must be with hands, then?" The merchant laughed. "What strange customs your homeland has. Hasib has heard of no such things before."

    "Some things can only be seen with hands," slowly and deliberately still, "if there is illusory magic at work here, you would prefer telling me rather than me finding out directly, peddler."

    He could be bled out in a blink, yet still demands the advantage. Darash kept his spear at its mark, as did the other.

    The merchant traded his smile for a frown, and leaned back in his seat. "It is sad that you distrust so easily. It is believed that a touch is not necessary for such a detection to happen, however."

    "This place is wrought with magic."

    "Such is the Purple Dust."

    "It would be bad business, then, for either of us to have been duped," he spoke evenly through gritted teeth and an icy gaze. "The nature of this place could make it difficult to determine where any one magically touched creature is, as you are aware. Contact would allow me to pinpoint it and dispel it," he paused to coat his words with venom, "if it is the case."

    A moment passed, then two, then three, and before the fourth came from the merchant a flick of the wrist, and the two spears returned to their original statuesque form, the butts of their pole-arms digging into the sand beneath their feet. Stand strong, stand silent.
 
    "A shame, yes," the merchant sighed, unblinking in return to the mage's piercing stare, "if your abilities are so limited, it falls on Hasib to permit your detection." A smile accompanied the glint in his eye. "It is only good business, as Hasib knows, and Hasib knows much about the world."

    The mage seemed to ignore the jab as he again reached out to the boy and, between his thumb and first finger, pinched the boy by the ball of the chin. "Look at me, boy," the mage said, though the order was hardly necessary as he eased the boy's face to look him eye to eye. The raised brow on the mage's expression told Darash that the boy was everything he had expected.

    An unknowing eye would assume that the desert sun had not touched the boy in his life; his skin was nearly as fair as his silken head of hair, combed and parted to fall over the left side of his face. On his right, the exposed iris was as clear blue as a diamond sky, the pupil a small onyx stone widening with the intense stare of the mage. Darash tensed as he watched a hand reach out to brush the hair away from the other eye, and the boy attempted to avert his face again.

    "Do not," the mage snapped, pulling the boy by the chin again to meet his stare, forceful this time, and now the boy did not look away. With a rough swipe of his hand, the hair was combed, nearly pulled, away from the boy's covered eye. The mage released his grip, his arm falling slowly to his side as frustration turned to awe.

    "It is hoped that you still do not think magic is at work here," said the merchant, still smiling his bearded smile. "Hasib is no trickster, but he imagines that what you see would be quite difficult to mimic, yes?"

    The mage swallowed once. "It would not," he responded, still looking to the boy agape, "but there is no magic at play here." One orange, cat-like eye was staring back at him, Darash saw, surrounded by a sea of thin, shimmering stones that had the hue of polished silver. Not stones, Darash realized suddenly. Those are scales.

    "Curious," inquired the merchant, "very curious, that one from your part of the world would come to a place as this for your stock. Hasib does not doubt that there is no shortage of capable boys and men in Thay, yes? " He twisted his mustache to a curl as he spoke. "Why come here, it is wondered, and why a half-breed as this one for simple tasks?"

    The mage's awe reverted to its former firmness. He straightened himself and cleared his throat with a growl, eyes back on the fat man observing pensively from behind the table. "That is absolutely none of your business, peddler." The boy looked down again.

    "It is not?" The merchant tilted his head to one side. "How very strange for you to hold such a belief. Sadly, Hasib regrets telling you that it is his business, yes; as this trade is Hasib's business, so too is the intention of the use of his stock. A half-breed as this one is a special rarity, and it would be a shame to see it misused. No, it must be told, the intention of the use of this one." The merchant's eye flashed to Darash for less than the briefest moment, but that was enough to signal him. He tightened the hold on his spear.

    "Your stock," the mage replied, "will show me service in apprenticeship. That is all I shall disclose with you."

    His last statement was ignored. "It is doubtful that a dragonblood would submit so easily, yes? Especially a silver by the force of one of the Red."

    He submitted to you simply enough, Darash noted, but you are no stranger to him.

    "Not all in Thay are Red Wizards. Or slavers."

    "And yet you don the garb of at least one of those things. How curious, Hasib thinks." His tone was dubious.

    The mage's eyes flashed. "You would call me the slaver in this appointment?" His knuckles whitened from the grip on his staff, straightening his posture with red-faced intensity.

    Stand strong, stand silent.

    "Ah, but no," the merchant smiled a lamenting smile. "Please forgive, Hasib's words only come from a place of concern. It is, after all, a rarity to find a half-breed of silverscale, even in a place as this. Especially in a place as this, to be told honestly. The circumstances were – how is it said – less than uncommon, and unlikely to happen again."

    The apology was, if anything, taken well enough for the mage to calm himself, even if it was not believed, and Darash's strain loosened. Thayans were occasionally visitors to the Purple Dust, given the nature of the place, and it was not strange to see those Thayan visitors leave with a man or child in tow for their return. The mage released a sigh and reached into his robe to produce a small leather bag that made the sound of clinking coins when moved. The sight of the bag made the merchant's face light up in delight. The deal was set.

    "'The spawn of a whore'," recounted the mage, "or so your letter said. My skepticism alone nearly kept me from making this little business venture, but his origins do not matter to me so long as the boy is what he is. Nor the price."

    "Hasib was equally surprised of the origin of the boy, yes," he said, never taking his eyes off of the bag, "but, as you say, it does not matter. It is certain that the life you choose for him will be better than the one he was previously destined for, yes?"

    "His well-being is not my primary concern," the mage replied, "but in a sense of words, yes, I suppose." He furrowed his brow. "Forgive me, peddler, but I am somewhat surprised that the boy's life is anything of an interest to you in the slightest."

    The response to the mage was rough laughter. "Ah, you overestimate poor Hasib, he thinks. There is only as much interest as a nomad could have for his stock, as his stock is his lifeblood. He would not want a bad reputation to poison the gold with which he so needs, yes? That would mean the end of a nomad's trade, as it is." He gave another short laugh. "To be truthful, if the boy even has a name, Hasib has not had the care to learn it."

    Names are only shared as needed, Darash noted.

    "No name?" The mage seemed taken aback by that. "That is... well, of many things, it is inconvenient, but I suppose I should not be entirely surprised. An apprentice would need a name, though, or something to be called when needed, at least." He seemed to consider that for a moment. "Tell me, peddler, do you know when the boy was born? You seem sure enough that he is the son of a whore."

    The merchant exchanged glances between his two spears.

    "Hasib is sure of that, yes, but as for when the boy was spawned... no. Hasib does not make the habit to watch the birthing of whoresons, much less noting the day it had happened. The only date of note is knowing that Hasib received that boy in the winter. But when born? Pah." He waved his hand dismissively. "There is neither the know nor the care for it."

    "No, I suppose there wouldn't be," the mage said, almost mockingly, then paused to look to the boy again. The look on the mage's face told Darash that horses were running in his mind, but he wasn't entirely sure what was being thought. I do not like that.

    "A problem?" The merchant tilted his head.

    "No, none," his eyes returned to the peddler. "You received the boy in the winter, you say?"

    "That is true, yes." The tone was inquisitive.

    "Winter Whoreson," the mage announced, "a good a name as any, I suppose," and Darash watched the leather bag leave the mage's hand with a toss and land on the table. The merchant only smiled.