The scorching rays of the sun beat down from a canvas of cloudless blue, the heat rising in waves that made the horizon shimmer and dance.
The market air vibrated with the loud, competing voices of sellers who had been shouting the same slogans for hours and would keep shouting until the light faded and the stalls closed.
"Limited time offer! Come and buy peak-grade weapons!"
"Buy one, get this sword free!"
"Idiot, that's not how you do it! Why not say 'buy one, get two'?"
"Because I'm the one selling here!"
Amidst the sellers' cries rose the heated voices of customers arguing and haggling, each transaction a small war fought with words and will, with desperation and desire.
Ashan observed the greedy glint in the sellers' eyes and the desperate calculations on the faces of buyers, and he saw the same thing he had seen in the Chaturanga hall, in the training facilities, in the temple where the faithful prayed for wealth they did not have.
Isn't this just another type of war?
All the shopkeepers had claimed their patches of ground in crowded rows, their carpets spread, their wares displayed, their voices raised.
Ashan walked through the chaos, searching for a spot to display his meager goods, his eyes moving across the crowded market, the packed aisles, the spaces that were already filled with the ambitious and the desperate.
It's packed.
The frenzy showed no signs of dimming.
The morning had given way to afternoon, the shadows shortening, the heat intensifying, and still the crowds pressed forward, still the coins changed hands, still the war continued.
After some time, he found a small, bare patch of earth at the edge of the market, far from the main thoroughfares, far from the crowds, far from anyone who might be looking for what he was selling.
He touched the storage ring on his right index finger, feeling the familiar hum of energy that lived there.
Shine!
A flash of white light deposited a simple black carpet onto the ground, its edges frayed, its surface worn, its color faded to something that was almost grey.
Well. He let the thought surface, darkly amused.
Yaren didn't charge me for the ring.
He spread the carpet and sat, placing his ten fireball charms in a neat line before him.
Their surfaces gleamed in the sunlight, the symbols crisp, the edges clean, the work of someone who had spent hours learning to make his hands do what his mind commanded.
Okay.
He let the thought settle, examined it from every angle. Now what?
He glanced around.
People flowed between stalls in a constant stream, their faces set, their eyes fixed, their hands reaching for things they wanted and things they needed and things they could not afford.
Should I advertise?
He cleared his throat, the sound small, almost lost in the chaos of the market.
"Fireball charms! Five bronze coins per charm!"
Swish!
A slight, mocking gust of wind was his only reply.
The sellers around him continued their shouts, their haggling, their wars, and no one looked at him, no one stopped, no one saw.
That was embarrassing.
He felt the heat rise to his cheeks, felt the flush spread across his face.
Not doing that again.
Forget it. He let the thought settle, let it calm him.
It's a game of patience and luck.
And if getting a second chance at life counts as good luck, then I'm lucky indeed.
His lips curled, the smile faint, wry. Though it came with its own downsides.
He observed for hours.
The sun moved across the sky, the shadows lengthened, the crowds thinned and thickened and thinned again.
People bought, argued, and haggled all around him, but no one approached his lonely stall.
They passed by without looking, or looked and saw nothing worth seeing, or saw and moved on to something that promised more.
Well. He let the thought surface, let it drift. I've only just started.
He closed his eyes and entered a light state of sadhana, letting his breath slow, letting his thoughts still, letting the chaos of the market fade to a distant hum that was almost music, almost peace.
Might as well use the time.
The sun's golden heat faded, replaced by the nightly cold breeze that swept through the market, that stirred the carpets, that sent the sellers reaching for the cloaks they had packed away when the day was young.
The crowds had thinned now, the serious buyers gone, the casual ones drifting toward the taverns and the brothels and the other places where the night's business would be done.
Nobody came, huh? Ashan opened his eyes, let the market come back into focus.
The good thing is there's no time limit or interest on my debt to Yaren. But...
His face contorted, the memory surfacing unbidden, the words echoing coldly in his mind.
"Your sweet time on this island is about to end."
Kumar Taevor's voice, soft, amused, absolute.
I'd better prepare for whatever he has planned.
He wrapped his carpet and his charms back into the storage ring, his movements quick, efficient, practiced.
The ring was warm against his finger, the weight of it familiar now, a part of him that had not been there before.
On the way to his hut, his gaze caught a familiar figure, and he stopped, his eyes narrowing.
Rokan.
He was talking in a low, husky tone with a seller who dealt in charm-making supplies, his head bent close, his hands moving in quick, sharp gestures.
For a second, their eyes met. Ashan offered a slight, neutral smile, the smile of someone who had nothing to hide, nothing to fear, nothing to prove.
Rokan's face went pale.
For a moment, he looked shocked, caught, exposed.
Then he returned the smile, strained, forced, and looked away. His condition was poor—a dull, sunken face, bloodshot eyes, a pale complexion that spoke of sleepless nights and something else, something that might have been fear or might have been the first stirrings of something worse.
Oh. Ashan let the thought surface, cold and clear.
And here I was worrying about how to sell my charms.
What better way than a public display?
He let the smile widen, just slightly.
My advanced thanks for your troubles, Rokan.
He walked on, the dim grayish-white hues fading from his eyes, his steps light, his thoughts already moving ahead to the days to come.
"See him? That's him."
Rokan's voice was low, angry, the voice of a man who had been humiliated and had not forgotten it.
"That's the one."
"Are you sure about this?"
The other man's voice was hesitant, uncertain.
"I don't want unnecessary trouble."
"What are you worrying about?"
Rokan's hand shot out, grabbing the man's arm.
"I already promised I'd take the blame if it fails. Don't be such a wuss."
He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Don't tell me you're afraid of a newbie?"
"The same newbie who defeated you at Chaturanga, even with your weighted dice?"
The companion's voice was dry, amused, the voice of a man who had seen his friend fail and was not about to let him forget it.
Rokan's face burned red with anger.
"That was because I wasn't paying attention! Enough about the past."
He waved a hand, dismissive, angry.
"Focus on the future. We start our plan in a few days."
"Hmm." The companion paused, considering.
"Sure. I'm in."
Ashan continued his selling routine.
The days passed, each one a copy of the last, and still no one came.
He sat at his stall from morning until night, his charms laid out before him, his face set in an expression of patient expectation, and the crowds flowed past, and the sellers shouted, and the wars continued.
No one came.
He didn't get depressed over it.
There was no time for depression, no space in his life for the luxury of despair.
He simply entered his sadhana, let his breath slow, let his thoughts still, and waited.
When will my first customer come?
He gazed lazily at the sky, at the sun that had begun its slow descent toward the horizon, at the clouds that drifted across the blue like ships on an endless sea.
Should I use Viksana to analyze the sky, or the sun, or the moon?
He let the thought surface, let it drift. What if I find out they're aspects of the Devas?
There is a Lord of Light, a Veiled Lady of Night, a Lord of Sky...
Strange ideas drifted through his idle mind, possibilities he had never considered, doors he had never opened.
He let them come, let them go, and waited.
Oh. He straightened, his eyes sharpening.
Finally. They've started.
His gaze landed on two figures moving purposefully toward his stall, their steps quick, their faces set, their eyes fixed on him.
They moved through the crowd with the confidence of men who had a plan and were not afraid to execute it.
They took their sweet time.
He let the thought surface, cold and clear. I'd better act the part—don't let them suspect anything.
The two men stopped before his stall.
Their expressions plainly said they were up to no good—the too-easy smiles, the too-casual postures, the eyes that measured and weighed and found him wanting.
Ashan didn't react. He simply displayed a professional, business-like smile, the smile of a merchant who had been waiting for customers and was pleased to see them finally arrive.
"Welcome, customers!" His voice was warm, inviting, the voice of a man who had nothing to hide.
"If you have something you need burned, I have the perfect item for you! Fireball charms."
He gestured to the neat row before him. "Five bronze coins only."