Quoted By:
No matter how many times you closed the box it made the same noise. Open, shut, open, shut. The same squeak of the hinge, the same clack of the lip. You were sure there was something in that fact, something about inescapability. You turned the word over in your mouth. It was a clumsy one.
You sat in the meeting tent at the center of the <span class="mu-i">pèstal</span>. It adjoined your personal tent, but featured significantly more space and a long, solemn table carved in an old-fashioned style. Your mother’s smokebox was the object of your meddling. Open, shut, open shut. The rich, painted brown of the heavy, wool felt walls made you drowsy. The great dark green and gold carpets made you comfortable. The filigree around the edge of the table was chipped and cut and, at least in one place, somewhat burnt, but it was still quite a piece of artistry.
A shuffle outside. The great flap opened and let in the light, still the same cold clouds as the day before. It burnt the deeper earthtones of the tent’s interior gray until the girl responsible let the flap fall closed behind her. She was younger than even you, twenty eight or so, a rarity for any family elder and one well-deserved in your opinion. Zita had a mousey face and small, delicate hands. Her brown hair was cut short, like a man’s, to keep it out of her way so she said. One major responsibility of a <span class="mu-i">Dormidor</span> was medicine, surgery, and dentistry, but fortunately for you Zita handled it all, along with her apprentices. She approached the table and stood behind her chair, doing a double take as she noticed you.
“Cold morning. Good for those corpses from last night…”
She made her sign to you and shuffled in place. She looked behind her at the tent flap, then back at you, something warring on her face. You raised your eyebrows at her. She took a short breath in to speak when the flap opened again.
“...the only real risk in the thing is the distance but it is absolutely navigable from our location you must admit.”
“Mmm.”
“We are also much more trustworthy, you must admit. I told the man that he’s going to go through half a dozen sharpers by the time he gets anywhere near a proper Inimois and from the Ring of all places can you imagine?”
“Mmm.”
“Now I know it isn’t necessarily your purview but you must admit that the opportunity for a real line of goods is only present with some certain expertise that I may or may not possess.”
“Mmm.”
The two men who had wandered in were relatively recent to their positions. Sergi was probably the largest man in the <span class="mu-i">pèstal</span>, tall as the sky and twice as wide, he was responsible for the communal chattel which made him equal parts farmer, forager, botanist, and hunter. The <span class="mu-i">pèstal’s families fed themselves from whatever he and his men grew, gathered, or killed and more turned on his competence than almost any other.</span>
