Dawn smelt the pine and beeswax as she descended the stairs. Isidrian moved methodically back and forth down the grain until it gleamed in the candle light. She wondered how he would try and break the news. Would he do it softly as he could, or just get it over and done with? Over a cup of tea? Whatever stale bread they had left?

“Father is dead.” Isidrian stated. His voice snapped her to attention. Cold. Emotionless. He continued polishing the countertop. “The message arrived last night from a man named Ash. He said you knew him.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that news. You’ve heard it before when you were small but I don’t think you would remember.” Dawn replied nonchalantly as she took a seat at the table in the corner. “Come, sit with me.” She motioned to the other chair. She watched him crumple inwards, but saw his eyes stayed clear and sharp.

He took the seat across from her and asked, “Why aren’t you upset?”

“Your father’s skill has gotten him into and out of many bad situations. I’ve seen it. It makes him hard enough to wound let alone kill.” Dawn reminisced, “I have no doubt he’ll be on the road again soon enough.”

“Ash watched him die.” Isidrian stated. His hands were shaking as he balled them into fists at his sides.

“Knowing Ochre it was a ploy to avoid more trouble.” Dawn said thoughtfully, “Ash tends to be emotional at the best of times. If a friend gave their last request to him, he would see it done immediately. Was that the entire message? Nothing else?”

Isidrian paused. “Wait here.” He said then climbed the stairs. He returned momentarily after holding a letter and a metal cylinder. “The letter is from Father. It says he will be in Rogain in fourteen days time.”

Dawn glanced over the letters then picked up the cylinder. Admiring the metalwork, she tried to twist the cylinder open. It did not budge. “What’s in here?”

“Papers. Something to do with being able to cross with cargo into the desert.”

“Open it.” Dawn requested as she handed the cylinder to him. Isidrian took it in both hands and strained against the lid. It did not open. He stopped, rolled it in his hands, and tried again. “Enough,” Dawn said, “There is likely a condition to opening it. Did Ash say anything?”

“No.” Isidrian said, handing the cylinder back.

Dawn bit her lip. “Then the only way we get to know what’s in there is to head to Rogain. Pack your things. If we leave tomorrow we’ll make it just in time. Vix will attend us, and have Terrance move his cargo out of the warehouse. We don’t need the inquisition here while we are away. Pay him to watch over this place while we are away.”

“He moved it out yesterday.” Isidrian replied, “I still don’t know where he sleeps at night.”

“He’ll be here in the morning, tell him then.” Dawn said. “In the meantime, have Vix begin preparing the wagon and bags. We’ll purchase supplies from the convoy and the farmers themselves as we pass, Rogain is known for its agricultural trade.”

“Will she be coming with us?” Isidrian asked, then added, “So I know how much to take from the float.”

“She will be. We will try to find her a suitable companion on this journey. There are many Gargans working the fields around Rogain.” Dawn replied coolly. Unnoticed by Isidrian, Vix had crept silently down the stairs as she cleaned. “Vix. Leave the mud and begin the preparations. You undoubtedly already heard the plan.”

“Yes, Master.” Vix bowed.

“You’d best begin preparing too,” Dawn said as she looked back to her son, “Take all you consider worthwhile for the journey with your father afterwards.” Isidrian nodded, turned on his heel, and left for his room.

When she was certain he was gone, Dawn reached for the half-empty bottle that sat on top of the table. She uncorked it, sniffed the contents, then took a deep drink. “You’d better still be worth this trouble, Ochre.” She said aloud.

The sun rose early. Dawn was sure the days were growing longer, ever since she was a child. More often than not the moons rose and set in the day. A bead of sweat rolled down the bridge of her nose as she looked down from the seat of the wagon at Two-bit. He never outgrew the name and still looked as ragged as the day he arrived.

“If a single splinter of wood is out of place when I return, you’d better not be here. Faith in the gods will not save you.” Dawn warned.

“Yes, Master Dawn,” Two-bit bowed courteously, “I will see to it that a fine carpet of dust is left to protect all the splinters in the store.”

Dawn reached into a pouch at her side and withdrew three iron proms. Waved them in front of Two-bit’s hawk-like gaze. “These two are for you.” She said as she placed two into his waiting hands. “This one,” She raised the last one before his eyes, “Is for the guild. Tell them I will pay the rest of the tax when I return, and that pressing matters had to be attended to.”

“Yes, Master Dawn.” Two-bit nodded. He knew better than to joke about money in front of her.

“Good. Don’t spend it too fast. And don’t get drafted while I’m away. Lay as low as you can.” She ruffled his hair motherlerly. “Isidrian, are we ready?”

“Vix is filling the last of the water casks, then we can leave.” Isidrian called from the back of the wagon. “How’s Noran’s horse?”

“Unsettled. She doesn’t like Vix. She’ll have to ride in the back. You’ll sit up here on the front bench with me.” Dawn commanded.

Vix approached from the customer’s alley, a string of water bladders hung across her shoulders. She moved with ease, but Isidrian knew she carried at least ten stone of water. The wagon sagged as Vix laid the bloated leather evenly across the other cargo. Isidrian climbed atop the back of the wagon and flamboyantly offered a hand to Vix. She smirked at him, took his hand, and pulled herself up.

If Dawn hadn’t been there, Vix would have chided her master, or perhaps pulled him into the mounds of cargo with her. Unfortunately, Dawn was there, and was laying her infamous deadpan glare upon them. Vix let go of her master’s hand and nestled herself in the far corner of the wagon between a stack of water bladders and an empty barrel for vegetables gathered on the way.

Isidrian clambered over the cargo and sat beside his mother. Dawn urged the horse onwards as soon as Isidran sat. Isidrian half-rose and looked back to Two-bit who was giving them a solemn half-wave. “Two-bit!”, Isidrian called, “Fifth blue bottle on the fourth shelf. Don’t drink it all before I get back.”

Two-bit perked up and began to whistle his shrill song as he crossed back into the post. As the wagon slowly edged into the distance he stuck his finger up at Vix, and even though he couldn’t see her, he knew she saw him. He hoped she would keep her hands off Icy long enough for Dawn not to get rid of her on the trip. Though, he reasoned, things would be a lot easier with her gone.

The sun was close to setting by the time Dawn stopped the wagon on the crossroad. She pulled into a small copse of trees slightly off the road, hidden enough that they would not be seen if they did not light a fire. There was nothing to cook anyway, as Dawn reasoned, and the day had been too hot to need one in the night. They slept nestled in the cargo, a blanket draped over Dawn and Isidrian, and Vix had buried herself amongst the warmed water bladders. They had spoken of Dawn’s trip to Frera, uneventful as it had been, and Isidrian told her the barest minimum of what had happened while she was away. He avoided talking about the lock, and hoped Two-bit would make something in the meantime to replace it.

Cascades of bright moonlight speckled the copse. Isidrian saw Vix shift from beneath the bladders, ears pricked high as she stared out into the dark. She sniffed the air quietly, then snapped to look at Isidrian, her eyes reflecting odd colours in the dark. She raised a finger to her lips silently, and motioned from him to wake Dawn. The night was quiet, crickets chirped and the occasional frog croaked.

Isidrian woke his mother, prodding her awake, she groaned a low “What?”.

“Vix sensed something.” Isidrian whispered.

Dawn slowly rose, then crawled to Vix’s side. “What do you hear?”

“I smell sweat. Horses and humans. Alcohol. They are loud, you will hear them soon.” Vix pointed down the crossroad from the way they had come and Dawn could make out the small pinpricks of lamps.

“Traders?” Dawn asked.

“They’re too far away in the night. They have wagons, but I don’t know yet. Master, I think we should move further into the trees.” Vix urged.

“Foolishness.” Dawn replied sternly. “If they are Gargans they will hear us move.”

“Master, if there are Gargans, they will already have smelled us.” Vix replied. She faced away and continued to sniff at the air. “If they pass us they will most definitely smell the horse.”

“Then it makes no difference how far into the trees we are.” Dawn stated. “Prepare yourselves.”

Isidrian reached into the small sack of utensils they brought, and handed Dawn a meat cleaver and Vix a short knife. He nicked his hand on a skewer in the dark and felt blood well on his finger. Vix sniffed the air and turned back to him worryingly. Isidrian withdrew the other short knife and put his bleeding finger into his mouth. He joined them at the end of the wagon.

The lights were closer now, and he heard them singing;

“Mircis Nas

Took to the lass,

With hunger and ingrace,

She gouged his eye,

And stabbed his thigh,

And scarred his pretty face.”

There were many of them, and if they were that loud they had no fear of being attacked. They were either well-guarded or pillagers themselves. Boots and hooves thundered as they drew closer. They were human, at least, which meant they weren’t a Gargan raiding party. Not just humans, Isidrian realised as they passed, Gargans were there too. Some shackled by neck and wrist and foot, some walked free, and a single Leopard sat atop a wagon seat with humans bound in chains to the undercarriage. The sight sent chills down Isidrian’s spine.

The Leopard’s eyes, reflective in the dark, looked into the copse where they hid. His muzzle twitched as he smelt the air. He continued to watch the copse as he carried past, and continued to even when he had to crane his neck. The procession continued after him. The silence that the slaves carried was deafening in counter to that of the merchant’s song. But even that silence was broken by the merchants who trailed behind, drunk, and slurred another verse of the song.

“Nascis Mir,

The prettiest I hear,

With hair of flowing silver,

Found Mircis Nas,

And kicked his ass,

And still gives him shivers.”

They sang and they marched and continued to sing.

In the darkness of the trees Isidrian waited, mouth tasting of his own blood, ready to strike. Slavers were as dangerous - if not more so - than raiders. At least you were dead if the raiders got you. The crooked bile that even their fellow merchants look down upon. Tales of slavers passing through towns and daughters going missing were never uncommon. They waited until the chirps of crickets were louder than the drunken songs. They waited until the pinpricks of lamplight died on the horizon. They waited until dawn broke, silent, and unmoving.