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nother hot day in Harava. The sun beats down like a gilded, glaring drum; even the wind is like a furnace's breath, carrying the heat rather than taking it away. The people in the streets, on the banisters, peering from doorways, take no notice. They merely walk in the shade, or pull up their hoods to escape a little of the glare. Too hot for a performance. It is evening, when the dusky sky can show off the scintillating magelights to best effect and the zills ring clearly through the darkness, that dancers are best-received. Normally Yasmaili waits in a guesthouse near the gates, for newcomers to Harava are receptive to evening entertainment. And today, as she sips her tea, she watches as caravaneers negotiate with the guesthouse's beastkeeper for their animals' accommodations. Watches them troop in and set the door's chimes tinkling, these desert folk who risk the clans' wrath by trading with the City of Tears, veils drawn up as they come inside, away from the sun. Deceptive, the veils, like distant mirages--only worse, for a mirage hides nothing-at-all, while a veil hides something that might be familiar. Like a face out of memory and distant sorrow. The hot wind lifts Yasmaili's hair, then dwindles as the door shuts, once more causing the chimes to tinkle in cheerful dissonance. And she sees that the second-to-last man is a man she knew very well indeed...who has yet to see her and, sands willing, will not see her. Too late. His eyes widen as he surveys the guesthouse's current occupants, letting the caravan leader handle negotiations: a "gift" to the guesthouse's owner in exchange for the "gift" of hospitality. A thin man, his face marred by something that can't decide whether it's a smile or a scowl, beard a slash of black against his pale woven robes. He speaks a soft, harsh word to the man in front of him, who nods curtly. He makes his way to Yasmaili's table, where she sits alone today--a pity that her friends here are not present--and smiles slowly. (in Tiesh) "A pleasure finding you here, my dear sister," he says. "All the plans you ruined by running away...it is high time that you made your way back into my hands." Yasmaili jumps to her feet, and with an attempt to look cold and repressive states loudly to the room. "I fear you mistake my profession, sir." She spits out the honorific, and pretending he is one of the many strangers who has propositioned her drips scorn into her tone of voice. "My performances are done only in public. I will not go with you." By his face, he expected a meeker response from a meeker person...but she is no longer the sister he knew. "Clever," her brother says viciously, too low for the others to hear. Now that she has provided a perfect excuse for doing so, Yasmaili begins to move away from him. Hopefully now that she has assigned an unsavoury implication to his actions he will be hesitant to try for physical coercement. Perhaps she can even send some further embarassment his way, to delay him further. He shakes his head, removing the scowl from his face, and returns to the other caravaneers. He gestures to the leader, who is apparently irritated at being distracted from his cold ale...but who is also willing, however grudgingly, to be distracted. Not a good sign. She glances about for a friendly face coupled with a muscular body, without ever taking her eyes off her brother. If he dives for her, well, she has a quick hand, and a dagger. But surely he will not wish to look bad in the eyes of those he trades with. Would not want to look surprised, or out of control. No, he will not want to start a commotion here...she hopes. If she can get a head start on him, she will be able to lose herself in the twisted streets, especially now that she has learned to turn a glamour on its head, and make herself ugly and uninteresting. He would search for her later, of course. But by that time... well, let the future watch out for itself. Now she will concentrate on getting out of the door without him following her. Several of the patrons here seem to recognize her, as she does them...not that they've ever exchanged more than a word or two after one of her performances. But that, surely, should make them well-disposed toward her and less so toward her brother, who is after all a stranger here. A couple murmur at each other and glare at her brother; and while their weapons bear peace knots, those knots aren't as tight as they could be. [In the desert, weapons aren't removed from guests; they are required to be bound by peace knots. To do otherwise is usually grounds for removal, or a duel at least.]
Forward: Yasmaili's Prologue 2 Sun image provided by Clipart Castle.
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