Persopolis, Tortall
Spring Equinox, 457 H.E.
The market place in Persopolis was crowded, mostly with the turbaned Bazhir. The only light skinned people were the merchants, who were busy setting up booths in the predawn. Even though the market hadn't opened yet, the Bazhir mingled, watching the northern merchants prepare their wares.
A man, his skin naturally lighter then the Bazhirs' but heavily tanned, intently watched this process. He was dressed in a tan colored turban and worn, brown breeches. He wore a sword openly on his waist, with the insignia from the Raven Amery on its plain hilt. His coal black hair and dark brown eyes allowed him to blend in with the other Bazhir. The cart he watched was loaded with fine weapons, many imported from Yamani, armor and artifacts from before the Gennature. Though he was an old knight, Raoul of Goldenlake didn't watch the wares but the youth that was unloading them.
He looked to be about seventeen, with a large, broad-shouldered build and muscles hardened by heavy work. He had black hair, cut shorter then fashion demanded, and fair skin. His sapphire eyes were framed by long, black lashes and veiled both intelligence and a secret sadness. The youth did his work with the grace of practice. No one, other then Raoul, gave him the slightest notice. Even the merchant who employed him often forgot he was there. He, however, knew that the reason for this peculiarity was a spell and not a flaw in his character. He remembered everything about his life before the Conquering, which had been quite different, including the spell the great mage Numair had put on him and his siblings that would keep people from noticing them unless their true identities were known. As Roald Wilima, he was an unnoticeable bondservant. As Roald of Conté, he was the disempowered heir to the Tortallan throne.
Raoul inched closer to the cart and booth where Roald worked. "Boy." The merchant called. There was no menace in his tone but Raoul winced at the unkindness of the title. Roald looked up, his blue eyes betraying no emotion.
"Yes sir?"
"Leave the keepsakes in the cart. These men aren't interested in legends of Tortall."
"Yes sir." Roald's voice remained flat and expressionless. The sun broke over the walls of Persopolis as he spoke, officially opening the market. A thick crowd had already formed around the merchant's booth and Raoul joined it. He ran his fingers over a particularly fancy sword but his real attention remained on Roald, who was now busying himself with polishing armor. Raoul wandered over to the cart and leaned on the side, glancing over the wares inside. Roald flicked his gaze in Raoul's direction, still working.
"What can I help you with, sir?" Roald asked in the same flat tone Raoul had heard him use earlier. "You can't be looking for a sword. Even the Yamani weapons we import don't compare with old Raven work." The dryness in his voice contrasted his words so much it took Raoul a moment to process what he had said. "We have other tings like it, keepsakes form before the Conquering. Perhaps you are looking for something you lost."
"Bond servitude doesn't suit you." Raoul replied pleasantly but quietly.
"It suits me fine."
"Not with a sharp tong like that. I don't recall you being so hostile. You might have just cost your master a fair sum."
"You weren't going to buy." Roald said confidently. He set aside the plate armor he'd polished to a mirror shine and exchanged it for a shield.
"As a matter of fact, I am looking to buy today. You see, a good friend of mine lost something very important to him in the Conquering. He saved my life and I've yet the chance to repay him."
"You think finding and buying this lost thing will repay your debt." Roald's tone had lost some of its hostility. "That's an interesting notion. The way I remember it, you weren't around when he was killed."
Raoul tensed at the renewed sharpness of Roald's tong. "No, I wasn't." They were quiet for a long while, Roald expertly putting a shine on the shield and Raoul absently picking at the wares.
"Boy!" The bellowing voice broke into their quiet ruminations. Raoul looked in the merchant's direction but Roald simply waited for a command. "Bring over those three short-swords with the blue hilts."
"Yes sir." Roald jumped off the edge of the cart where he'd been perched and set aside his polishing tools. He grabbed the three swords and stopped beside Raoul.
"Don't do anything. A merchants life is good here."
Raoul stared, not believing what he heard. "If you ever work your way out of servitude."
"I will." Roald said, glancing at the merchant. "And I want to do it myself."
Suddenly, Raoul understood what Roald was trying to say. "Well, when you're a successful merchant, drop by and day hello. I'm riding with the Desert Ravens."
"I'll remember. Good bye, Sir Raoul."
"Good luck, Prince Roald."