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hen they had better not realize it," Marika responds patiently. "It's not *that* hard. Just don't introduce yourself with your name and rank." Frankly, she'd like the comfort of bed to sleep upon, and there *is* that chance of a useful snippet of information overheard. Lynx nods along with Marika's judgement, and then goes a couple of doors down the hall to his room, waving goodnight to her as he opens the door and enters, catching his foot behind him as he closes it. Marika goes into her room and closes the door behind her. A lamp on a small stand is already lit. The room is small, consisting of the table, a rolled-up floormat, and a washbasin with a small, dented mirror over it. She pulls out the itinerary, and takes a look: Doesn't seem to be anything out of the ordinary except for this Commander Tirel fellow. Zerre said something about him a ways back, after he'd returned from a conference at Blackrock with the other Scout Commanders. A good man, concise and efficient. Keeping an eye out for hostile parties is a given. With nothing else to do, Marika turns in. How quickly one gets softened by the ways of luxury. The waystation's mat, in comparison to the bed at Tenu, is hard, lumpy, and generally poor. She gives up trying to find even a semi-comfortable position and settles for praying that she is not *too* badly bruised tomorrow. What did they put in these mattresses, she wonders; clay bricks? Or blocks of granite? Certainly no ingredient for the soothing dreams she seeks. The reminder that she has slept on worse is no comfort; at least not a physical one. Just as Marika's effort to get comfortable stop, the right position is found. Sighing contentedly, Marika nods off almost immediately. Marika's sleep is restless. She wakes the next morning to a soft knock at her door. She blearily debates rising to answer it for an entire heartbeat...then buries her head back into the (oh-so-lumpy) pillow. The effort yields no fruit; trained to stir at the slightest disturbance, her body is already tense and alert and far too aware of the hardness of the so-called mattress. Her mind, or what fragment of it is conscious, nags at her. Another knock. Light seeps in from the window. Then: "Psst...Marika, are you up? We should get going. Meet me downstairs. Should we take esyan here, or on the road?" Then footsteps. Was that Lynx? It's hard to tell...he's never whispered through a door at her before...Thudthudthud. Never mind...it was Lynx. Probably fell down some stairs. Marika nurses the hope that he fell on his face and will have his mouth so swollen that he will be unable to speak. But are the gods ever so kind? Hopefully he isn't damaged enough that she has to take care of him or do anything equally disgusting. Dimly, through the door, Marika hears the worried voice of the innkeeper: "Are you okay, sir? That was a nasty fall you just had!" Then a groan. Then: "Yes, yes, I'm all right. I don't think I broke anything, but there'll likely be a large bruise on my hip come later today!" Marika prays fervently that he'll keep his whining to himself. In her opinion, he was lucky to get away with only a bruise. Nasty spills off of walls have left her with worse. Esyan. She tests the thought and finds her stomach more than ready for it. It is to the accompaniment of growls that she lurches to her feet, pulls on rumpled clothing, smooths her hair into some semblance of civility, and drags her pack down the stairs. Standing up, Marika is a little dizzied. She shakes her head to get the cobwebs out, and discovers just how bad that mat and pillow were; turning her head a little to the right, a shooting pain courses through the back of her neck. She clenches her teeth, but a hiss of frustration escapes her lips. Having slept in odd corners when she had need of hiding *and* rest, the pain is all too familiar for her. She drops her chin onto her chest and rolls her head from shoulder to shoulder in a hope that the stretch will keep her from becoming completely immobilized. Working her neck around seems to have little effect, until something in her neck snaps back into position. She feels an ache as she repeats the stretch, but the nagging pain is gone. About 10 minutes later, Marika goes downstairs into the common room. Light comes in through a couple of windows, but it's still fairly dim. Scanning the room, she sees Lynx sitting at a table virtually central to all the rest. Sitting across from him is the griping merchant woman from last night. They are hunched over and deep in conversation. There is a hitch in Marika's step, the slightest movement of her expression as her brows draw together in bewilderment. Her thoughts flicker across several questions and settle on cautious irritation. What is he doing, sitting in the one place that will draw the most attention? And what state secrets is he divulging to that woman? One way to find out. Resigned, she lengthens her stride toward them, hoping she's not too late to undo any damage. Marika sees honey spread over the table beside and beneath Lynx's elbow. As Marika approaches, Lynx looks up. "Ah, Marika. Good morning. Did you have a nice sleep? The mats were quite comfortable, weren't they?" he greets her loudly, then whispers, "Actually, they were horrible. I hope we don't have to sleep in such poor conditions every night." He returns to his normal volume, "This is Madam Merchant Rohani from the far western lands." She's obviously deceived Lynx; she's at least half Ezinen. "She boasts spices, fabrics, and glasswares of a kind never before seen in these parts, and even rarer in Avrezin, where she is bound. She also seems to be lacking guards. She has seen our bearing, and has asked to hire us on to replace guards who have left her. I said I would have to wait for you to decide, but I think it would be an excellent complement to our journey now."
Back: Marika's Prologue 9 Coin graphic courtesy of Diamondeve's Pagoda Eve.
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