In Pursuit of Bread

A small-time guard gets a bee in her bonnet about a certain small-time thief.

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Please identify your neighbourhood location in the Topic Tag: Arata, Deja Point, Hlunn, Cinnamon Hill, The Turtle, Nutmeg Hill, The Gripe, The Pipeworks, Carptown, Windward Market, and Three Flowers.

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Niusha pezre Tsel Rhokesh
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Fri Jun 14, 2019 12:46 pm

windward market, thul'ka
late afternoon on the 5th of loshis, 2719
today, more than ever, Niusha missed the steppe.

The air was as thick as soup, it seemed to her, and just as warm. In the open grasslands, up north, the Flood Season had brought her pleasure; now, it only seemed to compound the grime of city living. Her apartment had a leak which she had tried and failed to patch over many times. There was no choice but to keep the tiny window open – she felt she might suffocate if she did not – but she swore that she could smell the fish all the way from Carptown, carried by the heavy, wet breeze.

The Flood Season, though, meant business. If she felt lethargic, the city was the opposite, energized and buoyant. She’d never yet seen a summer in Thul’ka, but the fall and winter had seemed lively enough; it was the liveliest place she’d ever been in, and now that the temperatures were rising, it only seemed livelier. Her competition, the mercenary companies, were thriving: the Vein was stirring, the merchant oligarchs of the city raising their heads in search of profit. There was not a place in Thul’ka, not a place in the Eastern Erg, it seemed, where some deal wasn’t being made, where somebody did not need their precious goods guarded, swords to escort a caravan, someone out of the way so they could fill the vacuum. The whole city bloomed with power and opportunity.

And Niusha was guarding a tiny bakery in Windward Market.

It was one of the hottest days she’d seen this year, to boot. Stalls crouched all along the street, busy with bright awnings that rippled in the warm wind; shopkeepers sat and fanned themselves. People in all colors and manners of dress thronged along the street, poking their heads into stalls, chattering and laughing with one another.

Niusha had grown accustomed to the clamor of Thul’ka’s mercantile districts, the chatter of so many voices like a knot through which she could not even follow a single thread. For the most part, she had stopped trying, though she often wondered if it would hurt people to speak more slowly and clearly when they wanted to be understood. She understood Estuan very well – signed it more eloquently than many native speakers – but in a place like this, with the buzz all around, she could only catch snatches of words and phrases; she struggled to parse the language, had to shut her eyes and think of the words and sign them to herself before she understood. She was getting better, but throw Mugrobi and Riverword into the mix, and she was terribly confused.

Alin pez Kaveh’s wasn’t exactly the hardest establishment to guard, however – nor the worst place to spend your time. Even outside, you could smell baking bread from the opened windows, along with the pleasant, yeasty smell of rising dough; occasionally, you’d catch a whiff of nutmeg and honey and cardamom. A few freshly-baked loaves sat on a table near the door, looking crusty, flour-dusted, and perfectly imperfect. Niusha stood nearby, just underneath an open window, feeling sleepier and sleepier in the late afternoon heat.

So she leaned back, swatting a gnat that’d had the misfortune of landing on her arm. She rolled her shoulders, feeling them crackle with tension and then relax. Every once in awhile, she’d lean her head back against the wall, feel herself drift off… and then jerk awake again, scanning the street with keen eyes. Coughing and shifting from foot to foot, as if she’d never dared to drift off.

And then she would shut her eyes again.

A man’s sharp voice came swimming out of the market chatter: “Rhokesh?”

Niusha’s head jerked up; she grunted, blinking. The door to the bakery was open, and in the doorway stood pez Kaveh, face flushed deeply, apron and hands dusted thickly with white. Niusha stared at him for a moment, then inclined her head, resting her hand on the hilt of the knife at her belt.

“Huh.” With a raised eyebrow, the baker went back indoors.

Sighing, Niusha settled back against the wall. The smell of nutmeg was growing stronger from the window, and she wondered idly what had just come out of the oven. Something good, no doubt. With her palm still resting – loosely – on the pommel, she shut her eyes again.
Last edited by Niusha pezre Tsel Rhokesh on Fri Jun 14, 2019 3:16 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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Faizra pezre Taci
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Fri Jun 14, 2019 2:49 pm

Late Afternoon, 5th Loshis, 2719
Windward Market, Thul Ka
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Faizra sat against one of the walls of Windward Market, head resting back against the dirty stone, one scrawny arm extended with an open hand, gaze drifting over passing shoppers. A shadow fell over her, and the wika looked up with a scowl.

“Kofi’s lookin’ fer ya,” The scrawny urchin standing in front of Faizra jerked her chin at the older woman, bony hands on her narrow hips as if she was every inch a woman already. She spat off to the side, as if to clear the name from her mouth.

“What you know ‘bout it?” Faizra asked, closing her hand over the scant two coins she’d earned begging.

The girl thrust one filthy hand out, raising an eyebrow.

Faizra scowled. “‘N why should I give you more ‘n a smack?”

“You ent the sort,” the girl spat again, and wriggled dirty fingers.

“I ent soft neither,” Faizra rose from her spot against the wall, spitting on the ground, and turned to walk away.

“He says he’s gon’ t’kill ye,” the little girl called after her. “‘N those desemi ‘f his, they’ll tell ‘im ‘f they sees you sittin’. ‘Cause he wants t’ do it personal.”

Faizra scowled, standing still on the cobblestones still damp from that morning’s rain. She was light-headed with hunger; pouring rains had kept her inside all the morning, and she’d barely gotten settled against one of the walls in Windward Market when the urchin had come calling.

Faizra turned and walked back. Two coins weren’t enough for even a bit of food; if she couldn’t sit and beg, she’d need another way to get food today, and carrying around a few extra coins wouldn’t make much difference one way or another. She slapped the coins into the girl’s hand, then smacked her upside the head.

“Don’t go stickin’ yer neck out,” Faizra told her, scowling. “Ye ent got enough ‘f one f’r it, ye chen?”

The girl scowled, rubbing the side of her head. “Ye‘re t’ one who took his eye, ea?”

“Ea,” Faizra shrugged.

The girl nodded, gripping the coins tight in her bony fist. She turned and fled down the street, vanishing between the market stalls with the ease of long practice.

Faizra scowled. She ought to have known better - but Windward Market in the rainy season was like a fat, flopping fish in the river, shining its belly up at you as you stood above it with a spear. Faizra’s stomach rumbled at the thought of it, imagining the taste of fish speared and cooked over flame, torn apart with bare fingers, blowing on bites so you could eat them without burning your mouth.

Faizra walked down the street, idly weaving her way between shouting merchants and hurrying customers. She wore a once-white cloak, ratty and stained, over a breastband and flowing pants. A brightly colored shirt was wrapped around her head as if it were a scarf, the dirty bits hidden in the folds. Her stomach grumbled again, the ache of hungry making it hard to think. At least it was easy to keep from being thirsty during the rainy season; one just had to stand outside, hands cupped, and drink from Hulali’s open mouth.

She felt something tickle the back of her next and stopped, glancing around. She didn’t see anyone, but Faizra scowled nonetheless. Day was mostly gone already – getting to Windward market after the morning rains had taken most of it. Since Kofi’d forced her out, she’d spent her begging days in the Liar’s Market, but the takings weren’t anywhere near as good. His fault she’d come close to starving, or else hers for being oveka.

“Bhe,” Faizra spat on the ground again, ignoring a startled curse from a nearby shopper. She squinted up at the sun, shining thickly through the heavy damp of the afternoon. By the time she’d reach Liar’s Market, it’d be the night crowd, and it wasn’t much use begging from the night crowd. Faizra’s stomach twisted beneath her ribs, throbbing painfully.

The air smelled mostly like wet dog during the rainy season, but the market was the best place for something else. She could smell meat sizzling on a hot grill, fresh baked bread wafting into the air, the sour tang of yogurt. Faizra glanced around; the bread at least was coming from a nearby stall, the hot, damp wind that swept through the market picking up the yeast.

And the guard looked to be asleep.

Faizra weighed her options, hands opening and closing at her sides. She crossed towards the shop and joined the flow of people looking to pass it, walking with her gaze straight forward, looking at the shop and the guard out of the corner of her eye, not head on. She walked, walked, walked – and as she passed the shop, dirty but talented hands flashed out, snagging one of the still-hot loaves of bread off the table near the door.

Faizra pulled the bread tight against her side, shifting the cloak to cover it, and kept walking, never changing her pace or stride, not looking back, ears alert for any sound from the half-asleep guard behind her. Her mouth watered at the thought of the bread, but there wasn’t time to stop and eat, not yet. First, she needed to get away, and clean.

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Niusha pezre Tsel Rhokesh
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Tue Jul 02, 2019 5:26 pm

windward market, thul'ka
late afternoon on the 5th of loshis, 2719
nobody understood, Niusha had thought many times during the months she had spent in Thul’Ka, that the simple act of closing one’s eyes did not indicate that one was sleeping. The sun was hotter than any that had shone over lower Hox; the moisture in the air pressed at one just as much as the crowds. What scarce breezes reached her carried all manner of unpleasant smells. To close one’s eyes and attempt to shut out the world, she thought, was quite appropriate. Besides, whatever pez Kaveh thought, to close one’s eyes was a sign of confidence. A confident hunter had a sense of the world around her, regardless of what she saw. Each of the four other senses was as important as sight.

It had not occurred to her that one could not shut out the world and pay attention to one’s senses simultaneously.

She felt another gnat tickling at her cheek and slapped at it. Her eyes fluttered open for just a moment, but it was long enough for her to register that something was amiss. They fluttered, and then they opened wide. She studied the table a few feet from her, on the other side of the door.

There were not enough loaves of bread. She knew this because, in her boredom, she had counted them many times. There had been five loaves of bread, and now there were four. A small amount of time passed, during which she studied the empty space where the bread had been; she studied the stained, flour-dusted wood. Unfortunately, Niusha had been sleeping – she had been somewhere halfway between sleep and wakefulness, with the blanket of Flood Season humidity nestled around her as kindly as a lullaby – and so it took her a few long moments to rouse her mind enough to make sense of what had happened.

By the time she did, she was already in motion – and for whatever else you could say about her comport, you could not say that Niusha was not fast. One moment to scan the street, a dizzying whirl of color, to push herself off the wall of pez Kaveh’s bakery and halfway into a jog: as she moved, her gaze flicked from face to face, body to body. She studied the ladies clustered together under the breeze-ruffled awning of the stall opposite, laughing, baskets full of fresh fruit at their hips, hands glittering – too distractingly – with rings – she studied a man moving quickly in the opposite direction, fighting the crowd with his face a knot of tension, nearly bumping into her—

A bright headscarf and a white cloak caught her eye at some distance ahead, more than a few inches below eye-level. This person was walking fast; he wasn’t running, but he wasn’t moving at the same speed as everybody else, either. He stuck out like a saiga in the tall grasses, a gap in the flow of the grass with the wind. And he was getting away.

Niusha fumbled with her hands, as if she could shout with them – Stop! Stop right there! It was no use, of course; no matter how emphatically she signed, it only drew strange looks from passersby.

Letting out a quiet noise of irritation, she pushed forward through the crowd, trying and failing to move with the flow. She touched shoulders, sidled between slow-moving women. One man let out a help of surprise as she pushed him out of the way; he’d stopped mid-step, raising his head above the crowd to peer over at one stall or another that’d caught his eye. She tried to apologize, but they were blind to the movements of her hands, so she simply pressed on, a trail of complaints at her heel.

The white cloak was just ahead of her, though. Close enough to touch, almost; close enough for her to feel the tug of a glamour. Lunging forward and nearly tripping over a couple of children that’d just darted into her path, she stretched out a hand, fingers spread, to grab at the ratty, stained fabric of the wick’s cloak.

“Humph!”
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Faizra pezre Taci
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Tue Jul 02, 2019 7:49 pm

Late Afternoon, 5th Loshis, 2719
Windward Market, Thul Ka
Quick, even steps; Faizra walked smoothly and steadily away from the bread merchant’s shop. She didn’t look back, although she listened with all the focus she could spare from picking her way through the crowd. The bread was warm against her scarred, bare side; her stomach seemed to be trying to claw its way through her skin to reach it.

There was no outcry, no shouts of ‘Stop, thief!’ or ‘Hey, you there!’ or even the sort of ‘Bajea!’ or ‘Yar’aka!’ she might expect to hear when the guard discovered the theft. Faizra still listened, intent and cautious, not looking back; to look back would be to give herself away. In a few moments, she told herself, she would turn left onto the next street; then, out of sight of the baker’s shop, she would let herself take one bite. Just one. She thought she could almost taste it. She didn’t let herself speed up though, moving at the same even pace. As long as she didn’t draw any attention to herself – now, without no outcry raised, she must be –

Something pulled at her, the ties of Faizra’s cloak scraping against her throat, and she glanced back to see the shop’s guard scowling at her from just a few feet away, her fingers just gripping Faizra’s cloak. Standing, instead of sitting asleep against the bakery’s wall, the guard had a handspan of height on Faizra and considerably more weight as well. Their eyes met for a moment, not even a heartbeat.

One hand gripped the loaf tight to her side; Faizra’s other hand lifted and yanked at the cord of the cloak, a motion so fast that it had to have been made nearly without thought. The stained, dirty white fabric tumbled free, and Faizra took off as fast as she could, leaving the cloak behind like an echo, fluttering free in the gusts of wind that swept through the markets.

Faizra gripped the precious bread to her side with the full force of her arm, and ran. No thought, only instinct; she steered around a group of men, darted at the last possible second around a full cart rattling down the street, and snarled the words of a push spell to send a barrel tumbling behind her into the guard’s path. Something snapped in the air around her, and the spell knocked Faizra full off her feet instead, hurling her sideways down and along the ground.

Faizra held onto the bread with all her strength, bare shoulder and side skidding against the pavement. She gasped for breath and rolled at the last moment out of the way of a camel’s enormous, flailing hooves, its rider shouting down loud curses at the wika. Faizra staggered to her feet, her shoulder and side raw and bloody where the strength of her fall had ripped them open against the ground. She was dizzy for a moment, a throbbing headache spreading through her skull, but she ducked her head and spat out the blood from where she’d bit her cheek and kept running because to stop now – it didn’t bear thinking about.

The guard the guard the guard – the word beat like a drum in her head, in time with the throbbing ache the mona had granted her. Faizra dodged left then right without looking to see if any grasping hands were behind her once more, zigzagging through the crowded market path, putting as many bodies as she could between herself and the guard. At the last possible moment she shoved bare feet against the ground and nearly skidded right, taking a turn into a smaller but no less crowded street.

Faizra reached up with her free hand and yanked the shirt from her head, realizing too late that the bright color must be like a beacon for the guard, like a fish flashing its belly against the surface of the water. She left the shirt behind her on the ground and turned again, half-diving into an open doorway, running through someone’s courtyard to the sound of startled yells, and turning again into a narrow rat-warren of alleys off the main streets, doing her best to disappear into the secret small back ways of the city.

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