The Water Merchant
Quick Note: This is labeled "Egyptian Mythology" *only* because there is no way to post an original work on here. This is a sci-fi short story. Nothing to do with Egyptian mythos. Anyway, enjoy!
There was one basic rule for a Vossarian during the worst of the southern dry season: avoid being above ground. The southern deserts of Roya Vossar were no place for a northern jungle-dweller to be. But, per the nature of his career, Zha-ba'zhorae had no choice but to ignore that sensible rule. The desert township of Lok'arva had sent a request to the Matriarchs yet again, and he, as an esteemed water merchant under their command, had to oblige the request, dangers be damned. And the trip to and from Lok'arva was proving particularly hazardous of late. Four other water merchant caravans had been claimed by the sands to date; their bodies and their precious cargo lost. The job of a water merchant was hazardous, he knew that for himself, but such a high deal toll for one rather tiny mining town was unusual. The Matriarchs were wise to be suspicious of the new request. They had no desire to send more innocent merchants to their deaths, but there was the chance Lok'arva's requests were genuine. If not, however…
So, of course, they had chosen him to lead a small caravan of senior merchants to Lok'arva to deliver and to investigate. And why shouldn't they? He had experience with the deserts in a way few others in his ranks could claim. He would go prepared, over-prepared, and rightly so – when the danger was indeterminate, it was best to plan for anything. The huge form of his Idijin pack beast, and the beasts of two fellow senior merchants, were each loaded down with additional water and supplies; his travel gear and kit was in pristine condition; and the Matriarchs had hired a small squadron of locals from Istev, a sister-town to Lok'arva, to act as guides and bodyguards, all of whom were poised to meet him at the halfway point of Feragral. After all, sandstorms were not the only threat he might contend with on the journey.
Confident, though dreading the journey itself, he and his fellow merchants had set out.
The fluxes between the heat of day and the chill of night were always far more intense when one hadn't been on a trek of late. It took a few rounds of the sun for the unbearable heat to feel more like a malicious nuisance than torture. The wind might as well have been a fourth companion, an angry hatchling, whipping up sharp sand and flinging them into his four eyes. His damp facial mask, meant to protect his lungs from the granules, had to be shaken, cleaned, and re-moistened routinely with his pack beast's spit. It was gross, it smelled questionable at best, but the spit had the useful trait of not evaporating as quickly as water, and its viscous nature trapped sand far better.
They continued like that for seven solar rounds, and no trouble met them to worsen the journey. Then, the halfway point of Feragral, tucked in the shadow of an oasis, appeared on the horizon and offered a welcome respite. To pay for their brief night stay he traded some of the excess water with a local glass-shape, a grizzled old female he had dealt with many times before who had one dead moon eye but bore a superior sense of poise he quite liked – not to mention her impeccable fashion sense. Her brilliant, iridescent copper scales, large horns decorated with dangling gold jewelry and silver rings, and richly dyed blue fabric attire sent a clear message on her status in Feragral. Her work matched her finery; the elegant pieces with their vibrant hues and wild shapes would fetch a hefty price back home. Such finery could not afford to be lost to the sands. Southern glasswork was as valuable up north as water was in the south.
When asked about the other merchants who had come through prior over a shared meal of dried meat and northern desert fruits, she was forthcoming. They had indeed passed through Feragral, life and cargo intact. They had traded their water for goods, and one merchant had been sent back north to deliver while the rest had continued south to finish their deliveries. But that was the last she had seen or heard of the Lok'arva-bound caravans.
"You've no idea what might have happened to them?" asked Zha-ba'zhorae.
"Oh, I have plenty of ideas, Zha-ba," she grunted back. "Too many, and none of them good."
One of his fellow merchants wondered in a burst of naïve optimism if the missing merchants might be alive somewhere, somehow.
The black look the glass-shaper gave was all the answer he needed.
The conversation ended. They spoke of a few other trivial matters, unrelated to the disappearances, before heading to their rooms to sleep through the night.
Come morning, the glass-shaper provided them with a few small extra ration packs, and it was then their local squadron arrived. A rather ragged bunch in his opinion, but sturdy, healthy, and well-armed. The ones in charge of the group, two scarred and well-armed males, introduced themselves as Kel-ka'verus and Im-ha'jeval. Rough around the edges, both of them, but friendly. With the help present, a decision was made. Out of his small caravan, one fellow merchant dispersed his water cargo among the other merchants, had his lumbering brute of a beast loaded with the glass-shaper's goods, and was sent back north.
That only left the water.
Beyond Feragral the terrain flattened and dried out. No more soft sand, just windswept and parched ground. A few stubborn plants occasionally struck up through the cracks, offering shade for any tiny creatures that came to the surface. Sand-swirls appeared, danced and spun for a while, then dissipated. Heat mirages danced on the near horizon. Under his mask, Zha-ba'zhorae curled his lips in a distasteful snarl at the hot rocks burning the tips of his feet, and the sun baking his deep muddy-colored scales. He envied the paler hues of the locals. What he wouldn't give to have his scales just a few shades lighter.
The landscape went on like that for ten unbearably long rounds of the sun. Flat. Dry. Hot. Nothing alive wandering around save them, at least not on the surface. Such terrain made ambush impossible if nothing else, but it meant no shade or natural shelter. The monotony was interspersed only by the subterranean towns and settlements they stopped at. Jorkal, Hevlish, Toreth – each town remembered the caravans coming through from the north, too, but never back up from the south.
Two sweltering rounds of the sun passed by without incident. Then, on the horizon of the third, just at dawn, a tell-tale darkness loomed, stretching east and west in a great swathe.
"Rin'j'a! Sand wave!" cried Kel-ka'verus.
Zha-ba'zhorae calculated the wave's speed and cursed. It was approaching too fast, and there was no way they could walk around it.
"Where is the nearest settlement?" he demanded. "Where, from here?"
Kel-ka'verus pointed directly at the sand wave, where he caught a slight dip in the terrain, "There! Rek'velor is below!"
He cursed again. A sand wave was the last thing any N'jez wanted to be caught in. Sandstorms – those were survivable. But waves were what sandstorms themselves had nightmares about. "Sky-eaters" the southern folk called them.
The Istevian guides made ready. Im-ha'jeval and four helpers pulled the three pack beasts in front. Kel-ka'verus grabbed Zha-ba'zhorae and his compatriots and dragged them behind the hulking beasts. Not ideal, but it would do.
The wave rumbled into range.
"Brace yourselves!" warned Im-ha'jeval.
Zha-ba'zhorae made certain his face mask was tight and pulled out a pair of goggles. Everyone mirrored him.
The wave met them head-on, wrathful, strong enough to push him and make him stagger back. Sand grains and small stones whipped and flayed against any exposed scales and cracked against his goggles while the great dust cloud itself turned the bright desert day to night. It took only moments for the sand grains to slip past his damp mask, shepherded in by the wind to scratch his throat. Visibility was negligible. Even with the help of a lantern he could still only just make out the silhouettes of the rest of the caravan, their bodies hunched forward, right arms held up, as they trudged through the murk. And kept moving forward. After a while, he feared they may have overshot their destination. Then the terrain dipped. The wind died down, the sand cleared away somewhat, and he found himself in a large tunnel carved out of the stone.
It didn't take long for some of the town's residents to meet with them. Some took the beasts off to the pens. After they shook their equipment free of sand, the rest guided them into a main cavern where over two dozen citizens milled about. It was in that better lighting that he caught glances being cast his way. Tense. Nervous. They didn't look very good either. Their scales were flaky and their wings crimpling – a clear sign of dehydration. The previous caravans had been much larger than the one he headed, so why had Rek'velor not gotten the water it needed?
Curious, he detached from the group and wandered. Unobtrusive, he listened. The Rain King certainly wasn't liked but there was no answer as to why. Perhaps they simply didn't know any details, he supposed. Rek'velor was at the very edge of Ven-fa'zjoril's kingdom, a two-day trek from the capital of Lok'arva, and they were in no state now to be sending couriers to inquire.
Confusion warred with anger and pity. All three came to an agreement. He had four one of the Istevians help lug one of the hefty containers of water down from one of the beasts. When he offered it to the citizens in the main room, they were stunned. They tried to offer him some goods in exchange. He refused. The aid system was intended to be free, he reminded them, and it only seemed fair to offer them water in exchange for dropping in unceremoniously when they were not in a state to house an entire caravan. But they would not be staying for long, he reassured, only until the sand wave above had passed.
The delighted faces of the crowd, he noted, were marred by more tension.
"You are bound for Lok'arva?" one asked.
"Yes."
The tension became more pronounced. He could feel it in the air.
"Why? Is something the matter?" he wondered.
No answer came.
He and the other merchants left the main chamber in favor of a smaller, quieter chamber. He pulled out some of the dried meat and took a draft of his personal water canister. While he ate, he listened to the low murmur of voices nearby as they echoed off the stone. Though nothing much was said to illuminate the situation, he did catch negative sentiments expressed towards the King, and their worry about the fate of the other caravans and thus his caravan's fate. He had to wonder if the King was the guilty party. Water made a Rain King powerful; the more water they had, the greater their political power. Surely the King wouldn't have outright killed the merchants. Not only was a merchant legally protected from harm, that would be impractical. It was more beneficial to keep merchants alive so they could keep bringing in water. Of course, that would alert the Matriarchs – but then so too would consistent deaths.
Above, he could just barely hear the sound of the sand wave howling. With luck, it would soon pass over.
"You know, my nest-mother used to tell me tales of Dune Pirates who hunted from within sand waves," one merchant whispered. "They'd move with it, ambush anyone caught in one, and drag them back to their holdouts to cook them. She told me if you listened when caught in one, you could hear the cries of those they killed. She even said the dried meat some towns sell is from their victims; they sell excess meat for profit."
"Don't be daft, Cal-nu," another snorted. "No one can survive being in a sand wave for long. Pirates are degenerate scavengers, not semi-invincible hunters with a twisted sense of business."
That got him thinking though. Perhaps the King kept asking for merchants because the merchants never arrived. Pirates were not mere stories. There was a chance the opportunistic vermin were ambushing the caravans once they entered Ven-fa'zjoril's kingdom. That could explain why Rek'velor at least hadn't gotten water: supply lines were being interfered with, if not by Pirates then at least by something. But then why hadn't the King put a stop to it? Ineptitude? Or something more sinister?
He finished the water and dried meat from the ration pack and leaned back against the stone wall. He didn't want to step back out into the desert right away. The cool of the cavern was pleasant.
He woke up to one of the other merchants prodding him. He couldn't hear the wind above anymore.
"Wave's passed," he said. "We'd better get moving."
After a promise to the locals to uncover why water hadn't reached them, the caravan re-emerged into the light and heat. He kept his eyes open for any sign of the missing caravans that might prove his theory. Wreckage. Bodies. Evidence of subterranean holdouts used by ambushers. But there was nothing of the sort.
Covertly, the motioned the other merchants in close to him and let the guides fall to the front.
"The caravans are being lost in Lok'arva," he hissed.
"What?!" another hissed back. "Zha-ba, that's madness! Cities are required to protect merchants! That's the law!"
"Aside from legal retribution, there is nothing physically stopping anyone from ignoring or breaking a law. When we arrive, be on your guard. I fear we may not be able to trust the law."
Another two days of travel, blessedly without incident, and chimney spires of clay and stone were spotted on the horizon. Beyond, he could just see the opposite rim of a great crater.
Lok'arva. Capital of the region. Seat of power for the Rain King Ven-fa'zjoril. And, if his suspicions were correct, a trap.
While their pace quickened, his slowed. His eyes scanned the terrain while his nose tested the air. He didn't see anything out of place, and all he could smell was the scent of hot metal, coal, and cooked meat. Not strange enough to warrant immediate suspicion. So he rejoined the front of the caravan as they snaked down the path into the crater. His suspicion returned when no one came to meet them in the entry tunnel, but the Istevian guides did not seem bothered and led them in. His suspicion only increased when they reached the main trade cavern. There were a few stalls set up by traders – glass, metals, gemstones – but for a city of nearly two thousand the chamber seemed oddly…empty. There were only about two dozen N'jez browsing the stalls or wandering around. In his experience trade chambers were busier, especially when merchants arrived on the scene with water. Lok'arva certainly seem to be desperate to mob him for the water he carried like a desperate town might have.
"We'll take the beasts to the pens," one of the guides offered, and four of them split off to do so.
"Where's the ledger station?" Zha-ba'zhorae asked of Im-ha'jeval.
The sandy-scaled guide jerked his head and led him over to a stall set apart from the rest, near the eastern side of the great chamber, run by a buff-colored male with a collection of scars on his face and arms, and a smiling mouth missing some fangs. A hide ledger was passed to him, on which he input his name, his time of arrival, and the weight and manner of the goods he and the caravan carried. The ledger was thus signed off by the other male, a messy signature that was next to illegible.
"Delivery confirmed," he said cheerfully through a raw rasp. "Much appreciated."
He narrowed his eyes and sized up the male. He had expected someone more…refined to be in charge of logistics. And someone with legible handwriting for that matter.
"Might I ask you a small favor?" he asked him.
The ledger chief cocked his head to the side, "Yeah?"
"May I see your past delivery logs?"
Reservation gleamed in the male's moon eyes. "What for?"
Zha-ba'zhorae kept his expression and tone passive, "Professional curiosity, nothing more."
"I-I would, merchant, but I don't have 'em on me. They're stored away."
"Could you retrieve them for me?"
"If you really want 'em, sure."
He nodded.
"Come with me then."
The stall was left in favor of a tunnel, and then another, much smaller chamber. Shelves were carved into the walls and were filled with hide and parchment scrolls. He searched by section, then by date, and eventually found what he needed. Four ledgers were pulled out and unfurled. The first, and oldest, was signed in impeccable penmanship as Hez-lo'hygav in the ledger chief's slot, with the first missing merchant's signature just above it. The others had the rest of the missing merchants' signatures, but the ledger chief's sign-offs were different: the same messy signature as the one he had witnessed in the trade cavern.
He rolled the scrolls back up. He dared steal a glimpse behind him. The door was blocked. When the other male's sight turned away, he stashed the scrolls in his ration satchel. Something odd was going on in Lok'arva. The ledger scrolls were proof of that. Either the ledger chief had developed severe joint problems, or –
"You done?"
He nearly jumped. The ledger chief was now hovering over him. He hadn't heard him approach.
"Yes. Thank you for indulging my little whim."
"Then let's get you back."
His helper waited for him to pass the threshold, then followed behind him. When they reached the main cavern once more, he tensed. His fellow merchants were missing, and no one was acting concerned.
His wings twitched, "Where is the rest of my caravan?"
"In their rooms. I'll take you to 'em."
"Tell me where. I can find them myself."
"No, no. I insist. We'd love for you to stay a while."
Something in the ledger chief's voice had changed. He tensed. Something small, heavy, and blunt struck on the back of his head before he could turn around.
He woke with a groan. The clanging of metal bars and harsh jingling of keys made his head hurt worse.
"What is this? Number five?"
"Damn the king to the black sands. Allowing savages to run rampant…"
"Greedy egg-suckers."
Voices. New ones. Other N'jez? He rose from the cold stone ground and blinked his moon eyes. He didn't know what was stranger: being knocked out by a fake scribe or being in a wide cavern surrounded by what looked to half of Lok'arva's female and hatchling population. Some of the hatchlings were so young their horns were mere bumps on the backs of their heads. His fellow merchants were gathered around him, all accounted for, much to his relief.
"What in the…? How did…?"
"We were lied to!" one merchant spat. "All of us! The locals; even our guides, they –"
Laughter rang against the stone walls. Zha-ba'zhorae wheeled to find one Kel-ka'verus smirking at him from behind heavy metal bars, dressed very differently in bright red fabric and light armor made of bone. A distinct crest was emblazoned on a piece of shoulder cloth: two horns separated by a jagged slash. He knew that crest.
Dune Pirate.
"You can't pin blame on me, wet-scale, not when it's your desire to help that makes you so damn gullible!" he sneered.
"Gullible?" Zha-ba'zhorae repeated. "You seem to be under the impression we came here unaware. We did not."
Kel-ka'verus laughed again, "You mean to say you knew this was a trap and yet you still came? The King's right. You wet-scales really are stupid!"
"We didn't know the nature of the issue but thank you for the confirmation. Now if you'd be so kind, I'd like an audience with the King. I'd like to issue a formal complaint."
The Pirate's lips curled into a snarl, "Maybe I wasn't clear. You're. In. A. Cage. You're in no position to be giving orders around here, wet-scale, and if you keep being coy, you'll be dead way faster than your buddies."
He crossed his arms and twitched his wings, "Frankly, I am in every position to be making demands. I have been honest in leagues. My words inherently have more value than yours, Pirate. And need I remind you that if you kill us, you will invite your own deaths, as our failure to return will be a signal to send in the military. I rather doubt that's what you want."
He was sure he saw the Pirate falter. He endeavored to shrug off the threat with a laugh. He wasn't fooled. He spied a glimmer of fear in his eyes. The thought of retaliation probably hadn't crossed his mind.
"Y'know what? Fine. I'll humor you. I'll take you to him. Not that you'll get through to him."
He managed a tiny smirk, "You'd be surprised."
Kel-ka'verus unlocked the gate and shoved him out. Down the tunnel, they passed another series of large cavern-cells holding what he guessed had to be the real residents of Lok'arva, looking much the worse for wear. He swore he heard hatchlings in their midst.
He noted the offense down for later.
The doors to the throne room were massive things of fine dark wood and engraved with gold leaf. They were opened, and he was promptly kicked forward through them.
"Good luck," sniggered Kel-ka'verus. "You're gonna need it."
"As will you," Zha-ba'zhorae muttered to himself.
The doors closed in a low boom. He rose and dusted off his attire. The figure on the throne was a lithe and well-built young male bedecked in royal blue garb and other finery, his head resting on a hand held up by a crooked elbow, bearing an expression of poignant boredom.
"You really should hire better help," he suggested. "They're unspeakably rude."
"I care little for how they act, so long as they keep bringing you merchants in."
"Then you don't care said merchants are being killed? That your people are being held in cages by your hired help?"
The King shrugged.
His blood began to boil. He growled, "In that case, I suppose you don't care that you are breaking the Treaty, inviting retaliation? As a Rain King, and in particular because you are a Rain King, you are expected to abide by everything outlined therein. Breaking it once was idiotic enough, but five times?"
"Truth be told, I am impressed it took you so long to respond. So what is one more break, if it means I get what I want?"
"Your Highness, for the sake of you and your kingdom, I ask you to be reasonable. Let my caravan go. If you don't, if we fail to report on time, that will be the definitive signal for the Matriarchs to retaliate. If you continue to abuse and exploit the system, they will cease deliveries to your kingdom altogether. That is in no one's best interest."
The King's dispassionate expression warped into something a little livelier. His lips curled into a faint snarl.
"You are alone, at my mercy, and you have the gall to threaten me?"
"Yes, I do," he snapped. "If it means stopping you from making any more rash, reckless, arrogant decisions, and thus prevent more needless suffering, I will threaten you as often as I like until the reality of your situation finally gets through that thick head of yours! I feel I must also mention that if you have me killed for it, know you only prove my point."
Ven-fa'zjoril leaned back in his throne, appraising him. Then the snarl vanished. A peculiar smile formed in its stead, joined by a soft chuckle. Not necessarily the friendly kind, but there was humor in it.
"Your threats are not hollow, merchant. I admit my strategy was…reckless. I assumed threats of retaliation, not a genuine assurance of it. I have no desire to be attacked or starved of water. If I cooperate now, can you and your Matriarchs assure the water keeps flowing?"
"Only so long as you request it in sensible amounts. The system is meant to help the south cope with the dry season, not to feed an arrogant King's greed. You will still receive punishment for the deaths of the other merchants. No amount of cooperation will allow you to escape that. I have written proof of, if not your refusal to stop the deaths, at least your callous ineptitude. Know that they will be handed over as evidence for your trial."
"You came prepared," observed the King.
He drew himself up, "I am always prepared. Why else do you think they sent me?"
"You will be needing these then," said the King, passing him a bracelet of his and a ring of keys. "Keep my people in their cells for now. They are safer there. I will deal with their ire once the Pirates are gone."
He bowed, "You finally see sense. Good. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have Dune Pirates to threaten and a caravan to release. I suggest you provide me with the supplies I need to make a swift return. If I have not reported back to the Matriarchs in time, I will be the least of your worries."
He gave one final bow and spun on his heels.
Author's Note: This was the short story I revised in my fiction workshop class this past semester. Teacher gave the revision a 9.75 out of 10, so you know she liked it!
