Sleight of Hand

The thing that Lyra loved most about this place was the complicated, ever-changing bouquet of aromas. Each stall, cart, and pagoda held something vastly different than the last. From vibrant and exotic dyes, dried fruits ranging from shriveled and sour to decadently sweet, and spices from every corner of the planet, to ancient and mysterious leather bound tomes, maps of varying detail of far off exotic paradises, and everything in between. Each of these and more tithed to the fickle and fluid tapestry of smells that made each and every trip through The Gilded Square a new and exciting journey. 

She inhaled deeply, savoring the new medley as she turned the corner and entered a new street of stalls. This area heavily featured clove, coffee beans, quill ink, and the musty aroma of old books unopened in an eon and a day. A smile, soft as silk danced across her narrow, angular features as she makes her way down this particular street. Another deep inhale and she feels sure she’s found the right spot for her. She removes the letter from the inside pocket of her hooded robe and scans it quickly. A comfortable, contented smile inches across her face, she knows she’s found what she is looking for. She entered the queue of the bustling coffee stand, content to quietly wait her turn, when behind her an argument arose between a vendor and a supposed thief. 

The altercation was loud, aggressive, but decidedly quick. The vendor, a Bahathee man of enormous stature, grabs the much smaller genis* by the back of his collar and lifts him into the air so they are face to face. The thief is filled with protestations, but when the vendor reaches into his bag and removes a necklace of silver chain, identical to those sitting upon cushions at the vendor’s cart, the crowd makes it’s judgement. After all, The Free City of Brach is a socially governed system, so this hasty transition from crime to punishment is commonplace.

Two genis grab the thief by his outstretched arms. Despite his thrashing, he is unable to break their hold. The Bahathee returns from behind his cart with a long metal rod in his massive hand, and he walks behind the counter and has a quick, silent word with the coffee stand cashier who nods and points back behind him to the kiln. The vendor nods, walks up to the kiln, and places the end of the metal rod into the blue-hot flames doing their work to roast the coffee beans to perfection. He then returns to the thief who is frozen in terror. The two genis tighten their grip and avert their eyes, as the vendor, with a searing hiss accompanied by shrieks and screams the thief, burns a circle on to the thief’s forehead, a permanent mark that proclaims him a criminal, but only a first time offender. When the deed is done, the genis holding the thief drop him and go back about their business in the marketplace, and the vendor lifts the thief up once more. 

Turning back with the rest of the queue, Lyra looked down at her feet, tracing her toes through the ashy sand, when the thief barrels into the back of her having been sent skidding away from the vendor in a final act of punishment. Lyra in turn slams into the genis in front of her, but the chain of reaction goes no further for this genis is solid and strong, bulked with muscle like iron. Lyra falls to the sand as the thief takes off and disappears into the crowd and the genis in front of her turns to see her. Lyra looked up to see an Eosar woman, broad shouldered with features chiseled out of granite. Her dark auburn hair is shorn on one side, and heavily braided, hanging over her left shoulder. She eyes Lyra with a cold intensity that slowly melts, softens, until she reached down and offered to help her up. Lyra smiled which lit up her face like a blooming flower, her wide, bright orange eyes and slender, pixied features become radiant, ethereal. The powerful woman can’t help but smile back as she helps Lyra back to her feet.

Twenty minutes later, the two are sitting comfortably shoulder to shoulder against a pillar behind the coffee stand. The bustling throngs of the bazaar had grown and frenzied since the altercation, and so the two are  hardly noticed by those passing by. A wry smile glanced across Lyra’s lips as she looked up into her companion’s face. Neither are upset about the privacy.  

“No, I’m quite used to it actually. I was born here, have spent my whole life here in Brach. That’s just the way it’s done.” Lyra says as she broke the gaze shared between them and scanned the crowd out in front of them.

“I guess that makes sense. Traditions and culture have their place. I’ve just never seen it up close. Does everyone carry a branding iron like that just in case?” 

“No, but there’s always someone close by who has one.” Lyra points out to their right at a spice vendor just up the street. “I’ve seen him use his several times, despite the fact he’s been branded himself.” The powerful woman turns to follow Lyra’s outstretched finger and so she does not see the small flask Lyra has pulled out of her boot, nor does she see Lyra tip the minuscule splash of vibrant green liquid into her cup. 

As Lyra drops her pointing hand, it falls across the larger woman’s lap, caressing the curve of her thigh in the process. She stares into her companions eyes and drinks from her own cup. The powerful woman’s eye glisten with mischief as she raises her cup to her lips and drinks deeply.

The poison does it’s quick work, and as Lyra pulls the hood over her head and disappears back into the bustling crowd, she never looks back.

*The word for the sentient species upon Centrilian. Used the same way we would use ‘people’ or ‘person’.