Camilla, Amon, and Alexandra left El-Farrah during the hottest hour of the day.
The hour when the city's inhabitants briefly stop their mundane bustle and seek shelter from the glaring white sun, frozen at its zenith. Everyone looks for shade and coolness, and everyone finds it in a manner suited to their station in life.
The beggars huddle under patched awnings, quarrelling and counting the morning's alms. Artisans and small traders are in tiny teahouses, quenching their thirst with plentiful drinks.
The merchants and the wealthier folk are in their spacious homes, where servants fan them with long fans, and concubines and wives bring cold drinks.
Yes, everyone fled the heat wherever they could. Everyone, except for the guards at the East and West gates. The guards had nowhere to escape. The small guard post was usually occupied by the sergeant, a scribe, and a tax collector, where, in silence and peace, they indulged in vice – forbidden dice games. And the guards...
The guards stood at the gates, in chainmail and helmets wrapped in black fabric. They sweated, exhausted from the still, dry air. There was nothing for them to do.
At this hour, El-Farrah was rarely visited and even more rarely left. Caravaners hid in tents behind the walls, waiting for the heat to pass, and few fools were brave enough to leave the city at such a time.
Usually, the guards were bored, waiting for the sun to shift from wrath to mercy and for evening to arrive. But this time, things unfolded differently. The camels bellowed loudly, the bells attached to their necks rang faintly, and the curses of tired camel drivers echoed.
A caravan was entering the city.
***
POV Caravaner
The sergeant immediately rushed out of the guardhouse, wiping his sweaty palms on his clothes and squinting at the sunlight. Behind him followed the scribe and the tax collector. At the sight of the commanding officer, the guard straightened up and assumed a proper posture, looking strict and incorruptible as expected.
"Welcome, esteemed merchants, to our glorious El-Farrah," the sergeant greeted the dismounting merchants. "State your names so I can write them in the city ledger. Without concealing anything, list the goods and their quantity, as well as from which lands they've come. And know that the governor has ordered us to beat with sticks and pluck out each beard hair of anyone who deceives or withholds even the smallest detail!"
"Greetings, gatekeeper!" said the merchant with a henna-dyed red beard, stepping forward. "Our caravan comes from the very Kog Caliphate and has lost considerable time on the road. Let me speak for all of us regarding the goods and their quantity, while my companions state their names. I will speak only to you."
The tax collector and sergeant exchanged glances. The matter was clear, but the question remained: what was the price?
"Make sure everyone gives their names and lands," the sergeant ordered.
"Ask them at least three times, for anyone who made up a nickname will surely make a mistake. This includes you, scribe!"
The scribe sighed. With his low rank, he had little hope of a significant share, aside from a couple of silver coins.
While the guards questioned the merchants and their servants, the red-bearded merchant, the sergeant, and the tax collector stepped aside.
"How much?" the merchant asked bluntly.
"One gold per camel, and I'll take your word for the description, esteemed," the sergeant replied, his eyes gleaming greedily. The tax collector blinked twice. This meant he agreed with the bribe.
"Just nothing illegal," the sergeant warned, nervously glancing around. "No one will check the quantity, but if anything monstrous comes to light, we're all in trouble."
"Nothing illegal," the merchant assured with feigned indifference, standing in such a way that no one could see how he counted the money. The sergeant accepted the bribe and discreetly slid half of it to the satisfied tax collector.
The merchant returned to his companions. After some time, all names were recorded, and the duties, assessed by the tax collector based on the listed but unverified goods, were paid.
"Pass them through," the sergeant rasped, and the caravan began to enter through the wide-open gates, three camels at a time. It would have passed smoothly, if not for the scent that hit the scribe's nose, who had an exceptional sense of smell.
The scribe jumped up as though stung by a snake and immediately rushed to the quietly conversing sergeant and tax collector.
"Alraune nectar!" he blurted out. "I won't be myself if you don't take me in on an equal share this time!"
"You're imagining things, scribe," muttered the sergeant, but still sniffed uneasily. "I don't smell anything except camel dung."
"No, this won't do," hissed the scribe. "I don't want to lose my head! If I must lose it, it better be for a worthy price!"
The tax collector looked at the sergeant tensely.
"Money's money, but the risk…" Without words, just with a look, he said. The sergeant began to hesitate. Should he extort more money from the merchant, or follow the rules? Of course, Mamono goods were forbidden to be brought in under penalty of death...
"Bah!" the sergeant spat, weighing the pros and cons quickly. "Hold on. Hold! Guards! Let them stop!" he barked at the guards standing along the street.
The red-bearded merchant's face changed, and the soldiers, dazed by the heat and the smells of the pack animals, froze in confusion. It was unusual for their commander to change his mind so abruptly.
The first to react was a young guard with a black, still-dark turban wrapped neatly around his helmet. He swiftly grabbed the reins of the nearest camel and turned it sideways, blocking the caravan's path.
"Stop, you jackal children, stop! You were told!"
The front rows halted. The rear camels crashed into them, and the gates were buried in dust, shouts, and the roar of animals.
"What's going on?" asked the merchant, running up in fear. "We're... "
"Silence, merchant, silence!" the sergeant hissed. "Your tongue is as false as it is long, like that of a desert lamia! Guards, search them!"
The soldiers began to throw the bales to the ground, ripping open sacks and ties. One of the guards uncorked wine skins and sure enough, thick, monstrous nectar sloshed inside.
"Mamono goods!" the soldier screamed, drawing his sabre before the frozen, terrified merchants. "Heretics, traitors to the faith, the Prophet and the Goddess!"
The red-bearded merchant's mouth dropped open, like a fish hauled onto the shore. His eyes rolled back, and his legs buckled, causing him to collapse to the ground. The sergeant angrily kicked the merchant's body and bellowed:
"Bind them!"
Chaos ensued. The guards grabbed the merchants and their servants, knocking them unconscious with the hilts of their weapons. The unfortunate tried to flee, while the sergeant ran around, glaring and shouting orders:
"Grab them! Hold them! Don't let them go!"