The Stars Were Right [Preview]

One

I blew into town like the murmur of a warm sigh. The air was muggy and hot—high summer in Lovat. Clouds churned above the city like cake batter, promising rain. The island caravansara buzzed with activity as I led my party through its gates and into the open courtyard. The smells of grilled meat, dust, sweat, and animal dung competed for the attention of my nose. I could hear someone playing music, the rumble of discussions, and raised voices arguing.

I was home.

Other road-weary travelers swarmed around us, moving in and out of the caravansara, slipping past the ponderous cargowain. I looked over my shoulder at the ridiculous thing. It was enormous, slow, bogged down by the massive crate that dwarfed its frame. The oxen pulled slowly and the large wheels creaked along. The crate was made of fresh pine the color of whiskey and a brand for Wilem, Black & Bright, the crate’s owners, blazed on the side.

This had been my charge. Normally a trip across the Big Ninety would have taken us a week, but with the laden cargowain behind me the trip had lengthened three times over. I was exhausted, covered in road dust, and hungry. Pierogi sounded good right now.

"By the Firsts, we made it. Another trip complete; more money in our pockets," mumbled Wensem dal Ibble, my partner in Bell Caravans. I looked up at the lanky maero. He smiled a wrinkled, crooked smile, his small dark eyes shining.

"That we did," I said, reaching up and clapping him on the shoulder. "What do you say we sign off on the delivery and go get our money?"

"Sounds good to me," agreed Wensem.

The driver of the massive cargowain dropped down from his seat and walked across the hard-packed earth to where my partner and I stood. He was a scrappy fellow with a rough tangle of white hair that stuck straight up. He pulled the goggles off his face and squinted up at me.

"Well, we're here," he said, swatting a fly away from his bulbous nose.

I grinned. "We are, and I'll need to have your signature confirming delivery."

He shook his head. "My signature won't mean a damn thing to the bosses. You'll need to get the cargo master's sign off. Wilem, Black & Bright have an office on the second story, right over there. See them."

He pointed.

I nodded, trying to hide my annoyance at being sent scrambling to get a simple signature. A few of the travelers who had accompanied my caravan approached me, shaking my hand, dropping extra lira in my palm to thank me for my guidance and protection. 

Don't tell anyone but, truth be told, the Big Ninety isn't that dangerous. It begins somewhere East of the territories, cutting West like a lazy river between the mountains. For me, the open road begins and ends at Syringa, the trade town to the East. From there, I guide caravans west across the open plains and through the lofty western mountains before descending towards Lovat itself. There’s something open and free about that big road that gets into my blood. Makes a roader crave its expanses. If you have the itch, it’s easy work. The Lovat Municipalities and the Syringa Nation do a decent job at keeping companies moving between the two cities: armed militias mean raiders and thieves aren't generally a problem. The route’s fairly straightforward as well. Sure, there's some knowledge needed in crossing the Grovedare Span, and there can be some confusion when you get to the mountain passes, but it's not like crossing the continent or trying to get behind the walls of Victory. Still, I graciously accepted their thanks, took their payment, and shook their hands, playing the part of a dutiful caravan master.

That duty finished, Wensem and I crossed the courtyard of the caravansara melting into the crowd as we made our way to the second story office of Wilem, Black & Bright, Import and Export.