The wind and sand whipped around Ali bringing forth pain and the distinct sense that the land was disappointed in them. To most this would be a sour end to a difficult journey, but Ali held a great confidence that it would all be worth it. That this would be his greatest wealth.
Holding his tagelmust close around his eyes and mouth, he looked behind him, the long rope connecting traveller to traveller as they made their way home like they were mountaineering explorers. The sandstorm was hardly unexpected, but between raiders, befouled wells and a nearly fruitless expedition, the tribespeople were tired. They were all experienced travellers in this land, but even they felt the sting of failure, but not Ali.
As they crested the dune and moved into its protected side the wind began to drop away. Soon enough the group could gather around each other, lower their face coverings and speak easily. In the distance, barely an hour away the city could be seen, but their arrival would be a time of great business and discussion. One last chance to speak with their companions before the city swallowed them up would be ideal, and a warm coffee would seldom go to waste.
Dafir warmed the iron kettle over a small fire of underbrush and coals while the remaining members of their party kept to themselves. As their leader, it was only right that Dafir took time to feed them, he would of course get some of the profits of the endeavour. As far as he was aware, Ali was the only one who had succeeded on their journey to the ruins of Halifaz and he was happy to share the prestige with his companion and leader.
As the coffee was served the group of tribesfolk chattered with intensity but also relief. Discussion of Confederate raiders from the North, Zekartaal cultists from the East and the politics of the city were all very serious topics, but with hot coffee and distance all things seem easier to quantify. They talked long and happily, far longer than it would have taken them to reach the city if they had tried, but friendships are a journey all their own.
But in the end progress waits for no man and every pot of coffee is drank at some point. The group rose and said their goodbyes, grasping each other's heads in their hands and pressing their foreheads together, a sign of great friendship and a blessing of the belief sphere Lumos. Ali, Dafir and their bodyguard Sabeeha would go into the city proper, Muntasir and Majid would head south, hoping to trade in coffee and dates, while Nico and Maurico would also enter this city, but from its southern gate to reach the temple district. Watching his companions leave, Ali felt no sadness for he knew they were home now, although he would miss Majids supply of coffee.
As they approached the gates they passed many brightly robed warriors, Janissaries, elite mercenaries performing their yearly tithe to the city. One months time as city guard and customs official in return for leading their mercenary bands far and wide. The warriors were proficient at arithmetic as well as bladework and the main gate was kept an orderly experience. They looked over Ali’s meager travelling equipment; waterskins, a curved dagger, dried dates, climbing equipment including harness and a protective padded satchel containing his find. The Janissary did not force him to show his treasure, instead patting him on the shoulder with a wide grin.
“You are a lucky man, and we are lucky people for your skill.”
As the trio passed through the threshold the world erupted into colour, noise and life. In this lower part of the city, merchants called loudly to everyone and anyone, cafes were bustling with late afternoon trade and bands of warriors came and went from the arena or training ground.
The trio were eager to have their business concluded and pushed into the upper districts, drawing every closer to the winding spires that towered over the cityscape. They passed residences, brightly coloured and lively, weaving houses, silent in the evening darkness and fine eateries that were doing a good trade in the coming night. Soon enough they arrived at the tall sandstone walls of the Andashi School of Gifts, its towers illuminated by arcane sigils and its grounds busy even now. The guardian at the gate was a tall woman, taller than Sabeeha, and her armour and weapons glowed faintly with enchantment.
Dafir made the introductions, using their city names rather than the well-trod travellers titles. Dafir was Luca, Ali was Hector and Sabeeha was Saba. The guardian gave a friendly small nod and invited them to wait at a circle of fine stone benches surrounding a small fountain. Assuring them that a scholar would be with them soon. The trio sat, unrolling their personal effects from their travelling bags and taking the warm silence as a chance to clean the sand from their everything.
Sure enough, the wizard arrived, a fine blue silk robe trimmed with gold gave him a mighty appearance and his forked beard added to the spectacle, laced with golden wire such as it was. He bid them not to rise on his account, but his stance was powerful, bordering on melodramatic. Ali stood and bowed lightly to the arcanist before opening his small satchel. He removed from its protective quilted matting a small book of parchment lashed with decaying leather and protected by wooden covers. Images of grain and trees were carved into its facade. The gaudy warmage looked on the meagre book with awe and took it in trembling hands. His eyes grew frantic as he delicately moved leafed through its pages.
“A record of crop yields and trade prices. My brethren, this is a beautiful gift you have brought us.”
The scholar scrambled for his pouch and produced ten silver coins, freshly minted, the curves of the keyhole cutout glinting in the torchlight. He handed them to Ali who smiled and bowed again. The mage nearly ran back towards his school, eager to present the new tome of forgotten bureaucracy.
Ali handed three coins to Dafir, who in turn passed on two to Sabeeha. Of the remaining seven, he would give one to the gatehouse, helping to pay for the city's Janissaries, and another to the Wellworkers, for there were few labourers he loved more. And his tithe would be paid.
The rest would be his. It was a good night to be in the Lost City of Obregon.