Greywolf-Arrival in Bukhara

"Bukhara smells of brick dust."

Porthos, one of the merchants belonging to the caravan I've been helping guard with my mother, Asena, looks at me in surprise. "Greywolf, you can smell the dust from across the river while standing here?"

The caravan, made up of mostly pack mules tended by men in dusty robes, with rag-tag guards either walking or riding Daemo mounts, is settling up in the late afternoon among a village sized collection of buildings made of new red bricks. Across the river though, the red brick walls of Bukhara are slowly crumbling away. I shrug. "Every city pretty much smells the same, depending on whether or not they believe in sewers. But I can almost taste brick on the back of my tongue, it's so bad." I point at the guard towers, which are also crumbling, their soldiers leaning against the sides as if dozing. "Aren't they worried about being attacked?"

Porthos, lean as a desert hawk in his dusty red robes, chuckles. "The White Horde has already claimed all the lands east of the river that Bukhara used to hold, and has raided for many leagues in either direction. Bukhara could have called upon the Sasnayam empire for aid, but decided it was more prudent to forge a treaty with the barbarians instead, who now have their main camp only a few leagues away. No one else dares draw steel against Bukhara."

"Because the White Horde will attack anyone who enters their lands." He nods and I add, "It's like making peace with the Direwolf outside your door, but what happens if the Direwolf decides to attack you anyway?"

"A situation I hope Bukhara never has to face," Porthos says. He gives me a sidelong look. "Greywolf, I have greatly enjoyed speaking with you on this trip, yet now that it has ended, I wish to ask you about a matter I hesitated to speak of before." I make an inviting motion with my hand, and he says, "In appearance you seem human, with a bit of a wolfish cast females seem to find appealing."

Oh shite. "Porthos, I swear to you I was respectful to your daughter. Asena would've thrashed me otherwise."

"I know you were, and Star-blossom did too, else she would not have flirted with you as shamelessly as she did. I also knew you had slaked your lust upon the slender Daemo merchant who rode with us until Khor."

My face screws up as I wince. "I thought we'd been discreet."

Porthos smiles. "You were, and no word will pass my lips to Asena's ears. But females like to gossip and Daemo are the worst. Yet not Asena. She tells a rare tale when she's in the mood, though, and no one fights as ferociously."

"You're wondering how I managed to look the way I do, when my mother's a seven foot tall cross between a Direwolf and a short giant."

"I did not mean to be harsh."

I can't help but grin. "You're not, because that's exactly the way Asena describes herself on a good day. Most of my outside came from my Shadow-walker father, Ghostdog, but most of my inside came from her... more or less." My eyes widen as a thought strikes me. "Porthos, you'll keep the whole Shadow-walker business secret, won't you? Most people think my silvery-grey hair comes from my being a Celt and nothing else."

Porthos grasps my shoulder for a moment before letting go. "No word shall pass my lips, I promise. You and Asena both saved my life." I incline my head as he gives me a smile. "By the way, did anyone mention that Bukhara has begun its yearly Harvest festival? High Priest Muzen brought the Brittani servant priestesses with him from Tesiphon, and the tax official claimed the priest sacrificed one of them instead of the dozen or so daughters normally put under the knife."

I raise my eyebrows. "I wondered why all the merchants with daughters brought them along."

"Can you blame us? Anyway, between relief over their children being spared, and the effects of the blood corn, the official told me the festival is turning into the randiest celebration Bukhara's had in living memory." Porthos gives me a wink. "That should be music to your ears."

"If I can get Asena to let me off the leash for a while." I turn towards the wooden pens where the drivers are unloading the mules before turning them loose to be fed and watered. Asena's towering over the caravan master, Salazar, a bald headed fat man with a long beard, the two of them waving their arms as they argue. "I wish she wouldn't argue over money every time we settle up with a caravan."

Porthos strokes his own black beard as a sly smile steals over his face. "I believe I have a way to please both Asena and Salazar at the same time. Come with me."

Hopes rising, I walk with the lean merchant as Salazar's voice rises above the braying of mules and men alike. "Asena, we agreed on one piece of silver per bandit killed by you or your son."

Asena's voice is a wolf's growl to match her wild, part human face. "Greywolf and I saved your caravan twice without the need to fight. Or did you think those four-armed raiders were truly frightened of your sell-swords?"

"I grant you that, and shall make sacrifices in your honor to the gods. However, as per our agreement..."

Sigh. No wonder the merchants all call him Old Iron Arse. Asena glances at us as we walk towards them, the stink of mule almost overpowering the dust- wait, that's odd. Asena notices as I stop and sniff the air, catching an elusive scent. As Porthos halts just ahead of me and looks back, Asena growls, "What is it?"

"Wind out of the Shadowlands," I reply, pointing off to my right at a group of hills covered in scrub, perhaps a league away. "Somewhere in that direction's a place where the walls between the worlds are weak."

"The ruin of an ancient temple is there," Porthos replies. "Legend says if you touch the dead grey tree standing in the center of the temple, you turn into a ghost."

"Actually, you get pulled into the Shadowlands, without any way of returning unless a Shadow-walker finds you and brings you back. Otherwise, if you stand near the tree, which is actually tendrils of the Grey clumped together, you look like a ghost to anyone in the real world."

Salazar shudders. "And to think I was tempted to do just that when I was a boy." He blows out his breath. "Anyway, as I was saying-"

"If I might interrupt," Porthos says, "I have a solution to this question of payment. Close to the main gate is an inn catering to mercenaries and foreigners, 'The Dancing Direwolf', and the owner owes me a debt he will never be able to repay. I was going to have the temple priests officially forgive it, as a way of showing my piety to Bukhara, but he believes I am going to hire someone to take it out of his hide. Asena, what if I tell him to let you stay in the inn and drink for free, until you leave or reach the amount he owes me?"

"In exchange for accepting the meager pay Salazar offers?" Porthos nods, and Asena asks, "Will he balk when he sees me?"

"He will foul his breeches first. Besides, I am the only one with casks of wine from the Empire of the East, which most foreigners prefer over our sweeter ones. Nor does he realize what a capacity for wine you have. You will be able to drink your fill, and after you leave, I will bring in the priests to announce to the city my pious nature, which Parnax the innkeeper took advantage of." He smiles. "In Bukhara, reputation is everything."

"Plus this innkeeper will look like a fool if he protests." Asena laughs, baring her jagged fangs. "Porthos, you're the best scoundrel I've known in years. I accept."

Asena extends the black clawed fingers of her right hand towards his, her leathery finger pads touching his softer ones for a moment. Then they touch heart, lips, and forehead, sealing the agreement. Salazar's face sags a moment in relief before his stoic mask returns. "Porthos, I will arrange transport of your casks if you will take Asena and her son in hand to get them settled."

"Of course." Asena takes the leather bag of coins Salazar offers her, pouring them out on her palm and counting them before returning the silver to the pouch and securing it to a hiding place underneath her battered armor. Then she and I both grab our packs, our scabbarded swords attached and peace bound with leather cords so they can't be easily drawn, and fall in with Porthos. Leaving the caravan behind, we step onto the main street, paved with flat stones, that leads to the white stone bridge over the river. As we pass by shops made of new brick, Porthos says, "Asena, you mentioned earlier this morning your need to hunt down trolls or some other creature with a good deal of mana in their hearts. There is a mercenary named Karl who recruits other mercenaries for the White Horde, who frequents the Dancing Direwolf. He may know where such creatures can be found."

As we begin crossing the bridge, Asena frowns. "Bukhara tolerates members of the White Horde to enter?"

"That was part of last year's peace agreement. We get to trade with them, and they with us."

"That also means you're letting spies into the city."

"And spies into the encampment of the Great Khan." Porthos smiles. "Which also means counter-spies, and two-faced Janus spies, and spies who never realize they are spies, and-"

"Aren't there any merchants who are just merchants?"

"In Bukhara? Such a person would be suspected by everyone and driven bankrupt in a month. Spying for and against Bukhara is part of my family's tradition, dating back to Patriarch..."

Yawn. I begin to lag behind them, losing the thread of their conversation to look down at the swift flowing river beyond the waist high wall of stone. People hurry past Asena, giving her fearful looks, but both of us are used to that and ignore it unless someone decides we're a menace. A dark haired girl in traveling robes gives me a frank appraisal before noticing Asena and hurrying past. She reminds me of the young widow staying at the last caravan post we'd stopped at, who'd flirted with me as Asena drank, the widow asking me to escort her back to her room before inviting me inside. Her skin had been the light brown color of fresh baked bread, and just as warm and soft as she'd slowly bared one shoulder-

"Greywolf," Asena yells. I blink, the image dissolving... Shite! They've already reached the main gate, its large wooden doors banded with black iron, and there are soldiers wearing brass armor standing in a semi-circle around her.

All of them have iron tipped spears leveled at her gut.