“We’re going for a trip this morning, good friend,” he said as he rose up onto the saddle. People scuttled in the streets, carrying their buckets to get their water before the hot sun impeded such strenuous work. As customary, the crowds parted to the sides as the Captain strode down the center of the street.
When he arrived at the city gates, a government caravan of four wagons was preparing to head out. The suon flicked their tongues. A few of the guards were suited and ready for the escort. When they saw the Captain, they snapped to attention.
“I will be traveling with you this morning. Let’s get this caravan going,” the Captain said. The heavy metal chains groaned and creaked as the doors were pulled open. The suon grunted and snorted as they slowly inched the heavy wagons forward. The Captain and the rest of the guard followed. The caravan traveled west for a mile with the wind at their backs before turning northward towards the city of Linnouse. The wind whipped around the caravan. The Captain grimaced as the sand bit at his eyes. He tucked his hood further over his face.
When noon came, the wind stopped blowing and the heat of the sun poured onto the desert. Salty sweat rolled off of the Captain’s face and mixed with the sand in his eyes. He rubbed the moisture with his sleeve, but the hot cloth yielded no immediate relief. The white horse was covered in a mixture of stirred up sand and sweat. The lead caravan driver whistled and they stopped.
“Water,” the driver called out. The lead caravan driver jumped down from the wagon and opened a panel near the front of the wagon. In the opened area was a spout with a rusted metal lever with crust white deposits of minerals at the base of the handle. Next to the spout was a stack of oilskins. The guards and the drivers lined up along the wagon. The Captain purposely placed himself last in line. The caravan driver filled an oilskin and handed it to the first person in line. The group was silent as they drank their water. When the Captain approached, he was given an extra oilskin, leaving none for the driver. Both were filled, but he only drank a little.
“What about you?” the Captain asked.
“One is for you, and one is for your horse. We are grateful that the Capital is sending you with us. Drink often. This sun will kill you if you do not,” the caravan driver said. His face was covered with the dark grey mesh cloth and he wore dark goggles that hid his eyes. The Captain drained the waterskin and the caravan driver filled it again.
“Is there a dish that would be more suitable for my horse?” the Captain asked. The driver climbed into the wagon, returned with a large pan, filled it with water and carefully handed it to the Captain.
“Thank you,” the Captain said. He returned to his horse, placed it in front of him and drained the extra oilskin into the pan. The Captain dipped his hand into the water and then rubbed his hand on the horse’s nose. The horse understood and began to drink. The horse drained the dish and nibbled the Captain’s arm. The Captain patted the horse and returned the dish. The caravan drivers were the last to drink and each drained their waterskins and refilled them. Once everyone had a decent drink, the lead caravan driver whistled again and the wagons slowly pulled forward.
The Captain took the caravan driver’s advice and drank when he felt the need to. The sun seemed to travel slowly across the sky and the heat rose in intensity. Water breaks were taken more often, and the caravan driver seemed to know where the shaded areas of the trails were as he weaved between dunes and ridges. As they came out from the shadowed areas, one of the guards doubled over and heaved. A small amount of green viscous liquid came from his mouth. The Captain raced over to him. The caravan stopped and the lead driver jumped from his wagon and ran to the guard.
“This is why you need to drink often. Come, I will put you in the wagon,” the driver said.
“Does this happen often?” the Captain asked.
“Not too often. Sometimes the heat makes us forget to drink,” the driver said as he helped the guard up to the wagon.
The afternoon finally disappeared and the dark of night came quickly. The caravan stopped in between two ridges. The captain raced towards the front.
“Why are we stopping here? This is the perfect spot for an ambush.” The Captain circled his horse around, checking each dune around the caravan.
“We are not stopping; this is just the first checkpoint. We have goods that are to be delivered and payment that is to be received. Our contact will appear over that ridge. He will light a torch. I will then light a torch. He will put out his torch. I will put out mine, and then I will light mine again. He will see us and appear,” the driver said.
“I thought that this was a government transport. I was unaware of private business being conducted. Does your contact buy government goods?”
“No. We transport a few packages for him when we have a run out this way.”
“Do you know what’s in the packages?”
“No. The packages are set outside one of the syndicate member’s offices. One of our drivers picks them up, and we deliver them. We earn a little extra this way and we can feed our families a little better.”
“Our contact wouldn’t happen to be a member of the syndicate would he?” the Captain asked.
“Yes, he is.”
“Why? The government caravans are a direct competition to their business.”
“Most times that is true. But the syndicate does not place much confidence in their caravans. Their drivers do not know the sands like we do and that leads to attacks by the nomadic tribes.”
“Recently, the tables seem to have turned,” the Captain said. “Government caravans are being attacked while the syndicate is going unharmed. Do you know why?” The caravan driver shook his head. The Captain dismounted from his horse and stood next to the wagon, looking up at the ridge. “You were once a nomad. How did you come to be employed by the city?”
“My people could survive for years in the desert,” said the driver. “There is food and water enough you just need to know where to look. When leaders become greedy, the people starve and resort to ambushes to provide. My family was starving and I knew that raiding government caravans would only postpone the inevitable. Each raid was met with death.
“The nomadic tribes know of the deal offered by Tessír. If a nomad comes to the gate, seeking protection, and signs an agreement of peace, they are hired on to drive the wagons and lead the caravans. I came to the city with my family and signed that agreement. My wife began a school here to teach those who wanted to be drivers and taught some of the nomadic skills we are taught as children. I am able to feed my family off of the pay so there is little room for complaint.”
“Do you know of anyone who has ever gone back to the nomads?”
“It happens enough. When a family cannot find food, they go where the food is. I have seen drivers who have left attacked caravans that I have driven.”
“Do you think the syndicate would hire nomads?”
“I don’t see why not. And I am sure if they are not compensated, they would go back into the desert.”
A man appeared on the ridge holding a torch. The figure waved it above his head. The lead caravan driver and the figure exchanged the lighting of torches. The figure was quickly joined by five others and they cautiously slid down the ridge. The Captain turned the syndicate ring on his finger so that the signet was visible. A small wagon appeared in front of the caravan pulled by a young suon. As the figure reached the bottom of the ridge he lit another torch and held out a scroll.
He was a small, thin man with a tan face. His long, scruffy blonde hair covered his forehead. The four figures that surrounded him were dressed in desert clothing. Their faces were hidden behind black cloth.
“Driver, here is the list of goods we have ordered. You and your crew may load them into the other wagon. Please be quick.” He then turned to the Captain.
“Captain! You chose to personally escort this caravan?” asked the man. The Captain nodded and held out his right hand to greet this individual, purpos
ely showing the ring. The man received the offer and looked down at their hands as they shook. “I see now why you did.”
“Consider it a part time position,” said the Captain. “Are you in charge of the syndicate’s dealings in this area?”
“No, I only deal with purchases and acquisitions. Why do you ask?”
“If I am not mistaken, Aldair lives in Linnouse and he is one of the leaders of the Three Brothers. I need to ask him some questions.” The man chuckled.
“I will take you to him. My name is Soren by the way,” he said. The lead caravan driver whistled loudly and moved the caravan forward. The Captain turned to his guards as they passed by.
“Stay alert,” he said. He mounted his horse and followed Soren and his group to the smaller wagon.
They journeyed northward, following the government caravan, navigating through the large mounds of sand. After an hour, they came around a large dune and began descending a hill into a dry valley. Linnouse sparkled in the middle of the valley. It was one of the few gems of the desert. Its beauty and grandeur were outmatched only by the stars above them in the night. Few went hungry because there was plenty of work to do in the mines, and the pay was often a loaf of bread and a portion of minerals extracted that day by the laborer.
After they traveled down the hill, the caravan broke off and headed northwest while the Captain and Soren’s wagon headed to Linnouse. Within an hour, they were within earshot of the gate.
The outer wall was very similar to Noiknaer. It encompassed the city and was made from dark red cement. A tower oversaw the city gate. A large torch hung outside the tower window and illuminated the entrance to the city. A man appeared and called down to them.
“What business do you have at this hour in Linnouse?” the guard called.
“It’s Soren with the Three Brothers. I have a late caravan that I need to deliver to Aldair. I also have the Captain of the Guard with me.” The figure disappeared into his tower and the gate rotated open. Soren whistled and the group moved inside the city wall.
There were a few citizens toting buckets of water in the streets. As the Captain caught their eye, they quickly stepped to the side of the road and waited for him to pass. Their clothing was ragged and torn, and they walked with hunched backs from years of working in the mines. The underground mines were a cold escape from the desert heat but the labor was hard and strenuous. There, workers chiseled out salts, ore, and precious metals, constantly breathing dust filled air and choking on stagnant air.
“You might be wondering how these people get bread every day,” Soren said as they walked through the city. “That, my friend is the beauty of our company. We have our own mines here in Linnouse and use the metals extracted to buy wheat that comes through Caite, into Port Rasmú, and occasionally from the Western Wiles on the other side of the Broken Blades. Traveling through the pass in the mountains is dangerous and we risk a large loss though it is quicker. We order the grain, they process it in the city, and we sell the flour to the city or citizens as well as using it for payment for our own laborers. It’s a very profitable system.”
They turned down another street and stopped next to a large building. There were three entrances wide enough for a caravan wagon to pull into. Inside the building, there was enough space for each wagon to turn around and exit the building. Five men, wearing only tattered pants, stood in the center of the building. Standing a little ways off was a pale-faced, tall, thin man. He held a wooden tablet with a piece of paper nailed to it. A small vile of blank ink was on the tablet, and he held a feather quill in his other hand. He wore a grey robe and white shirt with a belt that had a golden oval buckle. The buckle was like the ring that the Captain wore. Next to him was another man, not as tall, but tan with short brown hair. He seemed well fed, but not portly. He walked with his hands behind his back and looked eagerly at the caravan.
“Soren, I am glad you have returned. Was there any trouble?” the tall man asked.
“Not at all and we even had the Captain escort us here from the checkpoint,” Soren said. The pale faced man turned and bowed slightly.
“Captain, we are indeed grateful for your services,” he said in slow, slithery tone. He turned back to Soren. “Your bill of lading lists certain amounts in bolts of cloth, liters of dies, and two bushels of wheat. Is that correct?” The pale face man handed Soren the quill and wooden tablet.
“It is. I will get a final count for you. Captain, this is Aldair, our Master of Inventory for the Three Brothers and Thuane is our Master of Finances.”
“Ah, good, I have some questions for Master Aldair and Thuane.”
“Then I will leave you to it.” Aldair waved at the group of men who followed Soren to the wagon. Inside the building, crates were stacked on top of crates, vases and barrels lined another wall. At the back of the building was another large door. Pairs of men, wearing dust-covered pants, shoes, and brown vests, walked towards crates, and carried them out the large door where they came.
“I was unaware you were a part of the Three Brothers, Captain,” Aldair started. “I doubt that bodes well with the council.”
“Consider it a part time position.”
“I also heard you seized some of Beoran’s documents and threatened to shut down business, in a legal fashion I might add, but didn’t. So what questions do you have for me Captain? Or are you here simply to flaunt your authority?”
“I need to know if the syndicate has ever taken in a nomad for hire and if so, have any nomads left the syndicate and gone back to the desert.”
“This is about the attacks on the government caravans, isn’t it,” Thuane said hotly. Aldair put a hand out to calm his friend.
“Some of our drivers rejoice when we come across such a disaster, but Thuane and I, as well as other officials in the Three Brothers, are disheartened. The caravans provide for the people and I applaud the efforts. We have, in the past, taken nomads in and hired them as drivers but stopped that practice in recent months due to… repercussions.”
“Repercussions?”
“Our caravans saw significant losses due to abandonment,” Thuane said. “Our drivers would make agreements with the nomadic tribes for leadership positions in the tribe, securing water and food for their family in exchange for trade route information. We discovered it by keeping a close watch on our drivers. One of our own students was assigned to watch the drivers and see who leaked information and what was talked about. When we found out which drivers were betraying us we cut them off and changed our routes. Whether they went back into the desert or begged in the city I am not sure. That was the source of our problem, perhaps you should check there.”
“I’m curious Aldair,” the Captain said, “did any of the nomads tattoo themselves with the Three Brothers’ symbol?”
“Many did. Many members of our guild, nomadic or not, mark themselves on the shoulder, forearm or wear the mark of the guild.”
“What about the neck?”
“You must mean Iserum. He was one of our best drivers. Because of his talent, he was often given high profile assignments. It wasn’t uncommon for him to run personal caravans for higher officers within our guild. As far as I know, his last caravan was for Beoran and the caravan was ambushed. He and the other drivers joined with the nomads. When Beoran found out, he fired every nomad and hired out from one of the schools in Noiknaer.”
“Caravans are ambushed quite often. Why would he fire all of the nomads over one loss?” the Captain asked.
“You have two places where you can get that information, Iserum or Beoran,” Aldair said. “He never mentioned his reasons to us.”
“One other question before I go. The Three Brothers will sometimes hire out the government caravans to transport goods. I doubt you worry so much about grain, cloth and ink. What else was in that caravan? And did you pay anyone to make sure that it arrived safely?” Aldair wrung his hands together and watched as the bags of wheat were offloaded into totes
. Thuane cleared his throat.
“Nothing more than personal items Captain,” Thuane said. “I personally paid for this shipment and it has nothing to do with any affairs of our guild.”
The Captain sighed as he watched the men finish offloading the wagon.
“Aldair, your sympathy for the failure of government caravans is much appreciated, but the Three Brothers benefits when the government fails, do they not?”
“When the government caravans are attacked and unsuccessful, demand for our goods goes up and we are able to charge a higher price. If anything, it is helping our margins.”
“Why wouldn’t the Three Brothers attempt to ambush government caravans more often?”
Aldaire chuckled softly and shook his head.
“You are under the assumption that the Three Brothers is the reason your government caravans are not as successful as they once were,” said Aldair.
“We don’t ambush your caravans Captain,” Thuane said flatly. Aldair’s demeanor quickly changed and he gave Thuan an icy look.
“It is as I said before,” Aldair said, “most officials are disheartened by the attacks. The removal of the government caravans would be profitable for our business and it does present and strong motive for the acts that you are suggesting. What evidence do you have to support your claim?”
“You haven’t answered my question Aldair.”
Aldair snorted and lifted his head slightly.
“Honestly Captain, I am insulted that you would insinuate that the syndicate has had any involvement in the attack of the government caravans. They provide a valuable service to the people, people who we sell to. Without the support from Tessír, we would have no market base in the city and would be at a loss. Chances are the Three Brother’s wouldn’t exist.”
Emblems of Power Page 15
