Trip to Bazi

What are your orders, Captain?

The caravan halts. All eyes are on you.

Lina leans toward you, lowering her voice: "If we can secure salt and silk rights here, House of Zoe will control the northern route. But the Bey of Bazi is... particular about who he deals with."

"Captain Ortossi. They watch us. What is your assessment of the gate?"

Lady Zoe's voice comes soft from behind the curtain:

Below, the low mud-brick walls of Bazi shimmer in the heat. Banners of the oasis traders flutter. The gates are open, but guards line them, spears glinting.

Beside her palanquin, riding a graceful tarn sidesaddle with the ease of a born free woman, is Lina — free, proud, ink-stained fingers still clutching the trade proposals for Bazi.

You are Ortossi, Captain of the Guard of the House of Zoe — steel at your hip, scarlet cloak snapping in the dry wind. Behind you, in a curtained palanquin borne by eight stalwart porters, rides Lady Zoe herself, veiled in white and gold, her eyes sharp as a sleet's over the ledgers of her House.

The dust of the trade road hangs low over the Tahari as your caravan crests the last dune.

You raise your fist — the caravan halts in perfect discipline. Your guards, twenty spears of the House of Zoe in their blue and silver, form a shield wall around the palanquin.

From the gates of Bazi, a herald rides out on a kaiila, his robes dusty orange. He stops ten paces from you and calls out:

"In the name of the Bey of Bazi, state your business, strangers!"

Lady Zoe parts her curtain just enough for her voice to carry, clear and cold:

"I am Zoe, Mistress of the House of Zoe of Ar. I come not as a supplicant, but as a partner in profit. We seek audience to open a trade route — salt, silk, and tarn feed for the fair price of Ar's steel and coin."

A murmur runs through the gate guards. The herald narrows his eyes at Lina — a free woman riding openly, carrying scrolls like a scribe.

"Free women who do the work of men?" he scoffs. "The Bey will find this... amusing."

Lina's jaw tightens, but she holds her tongue, glancing to you.

The herald wheels his kaiila. "Follow. But your guards remain outside the inner walls. Only the Captain may enter with the Lady."

Your men shift uneasily. To enter Bazi with only you as blade would leave Lady Zoe exposed.

Lady Zoe whispers: "Ortossi... your decision."

You raise your fist — the caravan halts in perfect discipline. Your guards, twenty spears of the House of Zoe in their blue and silver, form a shield wall around the palanquin.

From the gates of Bazi, a herald rides out on a kaiila, his robes dusty orange. He stops ten paces from you and calls out:

"In the name of the Bey of Bazi, state your business, strangers!"

Lady Zoe parts her curtain just enough for her voice to carry, clear and cold:

"I am Zoe, Mistress of the House of Zoe of Ar. I come not as a supplicant, but as a partner in profit. We seek audience to open a trade route — salt, silk, and tarn feed for the fair price of Ar's steel and coin."

A murmur runs through the gate guards. The herald narrows his eyes at Lina — a free woman riding openly, carrying scrolls like a scribe.

"Free women who do the work of men?" he scoffs. "The Bey will find this... amusing."

Lina's jaw tightens, but she holds her tongue, glancing to you.

The herald wheels his kaiila. "Follow. But your guards remain outside the inner walls. Only the Captain may enter with the Lady."

Your men shift uneasily. To enter Bazi with only you as blade would leave Lady Zoe exposed.

Lady Zoe whispers: "Ortossi... your decision."

So be it," you say, your voice iron.

You turn to your lieutenant, a veteran named Marcon: "Hold the gate. Spears grounded, but ready. If I do not send word by the tenth Ahn, ride for Ar."

Marcon salutes, fist to chest. "Yes, Captain."

You walk alone beside the palanquin as it is carried through the outer gate, Lina riding close on her tarn. The great wooden doors boom shut behind you — your twenty guards left in the dust outside.

Inside Bazi is a maze of whitewashed alleys, the air thick with spice, sweat, and the braying of kaiila. They lead you to a low palace of cool stone.

In the audience hall, on cushions of crimson silk, lounges the Bey of Bazi — fat, jeweled, eyes shrewd.

"So," he purrs, looking not at Lady Zoe, but at Lina. "The House of Zoe sends me a veiled lady who does not show her face... and a free woman who carries scrolls. Curious."

Lady Zoe steps down from the palanquin, unveiled now, tall and regal. "I show my face to partners, Bey. Not to gate guards."

Lina steps forward, unrolling the trade charter with steady hands. "My Lady offers..."

The Bey raises a hand, stopping her. His gaze flicks to you, Ortossi.

"Captain of the Guard. You gave up your men to walk into my house with only one sword. Brave. Or foolish." He smiles. "Tell me, Captain — why should Bazi trust Ar?"

All eyes turn to you. Lady Zoe's honor, Lina's trade route, hangs on your words.

You step forward, hand resting lightly — not threateningly — on the pommel of your sword. Your cloak still bears the dust of the road.

"Because, Bey of Bazi," you say, your voice carrying in the cool hall, "Ar does not break its contracts. And the House of Zoe does not come to take your trade. She comes to double it."

You nod to Lina. She understands instantly, spreading the scroll on the low table before the Bey.

"Your salt sits in your warehouses half the year because the northern caravans fear raiders," Lina says quickly, finding her courage. "Captain Ortossi has broken the raider hold at Tor. Give us right of passage, and his guards will ride your salt north under the banner of Zoe. You lose no men. You gain Ar's markets."

The Bey leans forward, his jeweled fingers tracing the proposed routes. Greed wars with pride in his eyes.

Lady Zoe speaks then, soft as silk over steel: "And I offer more than coin, Bey. I offer a permanent house in Ar for your merchants. No tariffs for three years."

A long silence. Outside, a fountain trickles.

Then the Bey claps his hands. Slave girls enter with wine — but his eyes never leave you.

"You speak well for a soldier, Captain," he says. "I will consider this... over a feast tonight. You and your Lady and your bold free woman will be my guests."

He smiles, but it does not reach his eyes.

Lady Zoe bows her head graciously. Lina exhales in relief.

But as you are led to guest chambers, a boy — no more than twelve, a stable lad — brushes past you and presses a scrap of parchment into your palm before vanishing.

You unfold it in the shadow of a pillar. In hurried Tahari script:

Do not drink the wine. The Bey means to keep the Lady.

Your blood runs cold.

The feast is at the 18th Ahn. Lady Zoe is already being dressed by Bazi attendants. Lina is waiting for you in the corridor, pale — she saw the note too.

"Captain?" she whispers. "What do we do?"

You are alone, deep in a foreign palace, your men locked outside the walls.

What is your plan, Ortossi?

You crush the parchment in your fist.

"Lina," you murmur, pulling her into the shadow of the pillar, "listen carefully. Go to Lady Zoe. Tell her to feign a headache from the heat — she will take nothing but water sealed by our own hands. You will do the same."

Lina nods, her face set. "And you, Captain?"

"I will drink," you say grimly. "Or pretend to. Someone must watch the Bey's men."

The feast hall that night is low and lamplit, heavy with the scent of roast bosk and spiced wine. The Bey sits at the high table, Lady Zoe to his right in her finest gold, Lina to his left. You stand behind Lady Zoe's chair, as is proper for a Captain of the Guard — silent, watchful.

Goblets are filled. The Bey raises his.

"To new trade! To Ar and Bazi!"

Lady Zoe lifts her cup but does not drink, pressing a hand to her temple. "Forgive me, Bey. The sun has given me a cruel headache. I will drink only water tonight, that I may keep my wits for business."

The Bey's smile flickers — just for an instant. His steward glances at you.

A dancer troupe enters, drums beating. In the distraction, you see it: one of the Bey's guardsmen near the back door gives a subtle hand signal. Another slips out.

Lina catches your eye. She has palmed the small vial you gave her — vinegar to sour the wine if forced to sip.

You lean down as if adjusting Lady Zoe's chair, whispering so only she hears:

"My Lady, when I give the word 'Tarn,' stand and walk to me. Do not hesitate."

She gives the barest nod, her hand tightening on her armrest.

The drums grow louder. The Bey leans toward Lina, his voice oily: "Tell me, free woman... does your Captain always hover so? Perhaps he needs wine to relax him."

He gestures, and a slave girl brings a goblet directly to you.

All eyes are on the Captain of the Guard of the House of Zoe.

You take the cup.

"To the Bey's hospitality," you say evenly, and raise it to your lips.

The wine touches your tongue — bitter, wrong, with a metallic aftertaste beneath the spice. Soporific, you realize. Not death, but sleep. He means to take them alive.

You do not swallow.

In one smooth motion born of twenty years of drill, you turn as if to cough into your cloak — and spit the wine into the thick folds. You then lower the goblet, half-empty, and sway slightly on your feet for effect.

The Bey smiles, satisfied. He thinks you are drugged.

The drums hit a crescendo. The back door opens again — this time four armed men slip in, scimitars low.

Now.

"TARN!" you roar.

Lady Zoe is on her feet instantly. Lina overturns the table between them and the Bey, sending goblets and plates crashing.

You hurl your own goblet into the face of the nearest guardsman and draw your steel with a ring that cuts through the music.

"To me!" you shout. "House of Zoe!"

Lina grabs Lady Zoe's wrist and drags her behind your blade as you back toward the pillar corridor — the only ground where they cannot surround you.

The Bey is screaming: "Seize them! Alive! Alive!"

Two guards rush you. Your sword takes the first in the shoulder, the second you kick back into the banquet table.

You are outnumbered, deep in his palace, your men outside the walls.

But you are Ortossi, Captain of the Guard — and no one takes your Lady while you still stand.

Lina has a dagger in her hand now — where did she get that? — and Lady Zoe has seized a heavy silver ewer as a weapon, back to back with you both.

The next wave comes through the curtains.

What is your next move, Captain? Fight for the door, or make for the high windows overlooking the courtyard?

Windows! Move!" you bark.

You parry a wild cut, your blade sparking off a scimitar, and shove Lady Zoe toward the tall, arched windows at the side of the hall. Lina is already there, tearing aside the heavy silk curtain.

Below — a fifteen-foot drop into the moonlit courtyard where your tarn and Lady Zoe's palanquin-bearers wait with the kaiila. Beyond that, the outer gate. And Marcon.

"Jump, My Lady!" you order. "I'll catch—"

"No," Lady Zoe says, and for a moment she is not a merchant, but a warrior's daughter of Ar. She hands you the silver ewer. "You go first to break the fall, Captain. We follow."

There's no time to argue. You sheathe your sword, swing your legs over the sill, and drop — landing hard in the sand, rolling to absorb it. You look up.

Lina jumps next, skirts flying, and you catch her around the waist, staggering but holding.

Then Lady Zoe. She hesitates only a heartbeat before leaping into the dark. You catch her, and the three of you tumble together into the dust.

Above, the Bey's guards crowd the window, shouting.

But the courtyard is waking. Your palanquin-bearers — loyal men of the House — are already grabbing harness. Lina sprints for her tarn, vaulting into the saddle like a born rider.

"Ride!" you shout, lifting Lady Zoe onto the tarn behind Lina. You mount the spare kaiila yourself, drawing your sword again as the first guards burst into the courtyard.

You wheel toward the outer gate, where Marcon and your twenty spears wait beyond the walls — unaware, but ready.

Behind you, the Bey's voice echoes from the window: "Close the gates! CLOSE THE GATES!"

Dust rises. Hooves thunder. The gate ahead is beginning to swing shut.

Lina looks back at you, hair wild in the wind. "Captain — the gate!"

You spur your kaiila forward, sword high.

Stable wall! Follow me!" you shout.

You wrench your kaiila hard left, away from the grinding main gate. Lina follows without question, Lady Zoe clinging to her waist, the palanquin-bearers scattering behind you on foot — brave men, but they cannot keep pace with riders.

The stable wall is lower, mud-brick, with only two sleepy guards posted by the hay carts. They look up, startled, as three riders thunder toward them out of the dark.

You don't slow.

At the last second you stand in your stirrups and leap — boots hitting the top of a hay cart, then the wall itself. Your sword flashes twice. The guards drop their spears and run.

"Lina! Now!"

She drives her tarn straight at the stacked feed sacks piled against the inner wall — a makeshift ramp left by careless stablehands. The beast grunts, scrambles, and clears the wall in a shower of straw.

You grab a trailing rope from the hay cart, swing up after them, landing hard on the other side in a cloud of dust.

You are OUT.

Outside the walls, in the darkness beyond Bazi, you hear it — the tramp of disciplined feet. Marcon and your twenty spears of the House of Zoe, rushing toward the commotion, shields up.

"Captain!" Marcon roars with relief.

Behind you, the alarm bells of Bazi begin to toll. The Bey has lost his prize.

Lady Zoe, dusty, disheveled, her gold torn — but alive and free — looks at you and laughs, breathless.

"Ortossi," she says, "I think trade negotiations are... concluded."

Lina, grinning fiercely despite a cut on her cheek, holds up the trade charter, still clutched in her fist. "We still have the maps. We can go around Bazi — to Tor. Open the route without the Bey."

The desert wind cools your bloodied sword.

Your men form around you. The road north awaits.

Where to now, Captain of the Guard?

You do not hesitate.

"Tor," you command. "We ride for Tor before the Bey can send riders to poison them against us."

Marcon barks orders. Your twenty spears fall in around the tarn in a hollow square — shields out, eyes on the dunes. Lina, still holding Lady Zoe behind her, takes the center.

You ride through the night, the bells of Bazi fading behind you. The desert is cold now, the stars sharp as spearpoints.

By dawn, you make camp in a wadi, hidden by rocks. Your men share water without complaint. Lady Zoe, to her credit, refuses a tent until the wounded are seen to.

She finds you cleaning your blade by the fire.

"Captain Ortossi," she says quietly, so only you hear. "You disobeyed a Bey, broke his hospitality, and stole back my freedom with a hay cart." A smile tugs at her lips. "My House owes you a debt."

Lina sits down beside you both, unrolling the charter, her cheek bandaged. "Tor is three days north, if the wells hold. The Tor merchants hate Bazi — they'll listen. But..."

She hesitates.

"But what, free woman?" Lady Zoe asks.

Lina looks at you. "The Bey will not let this insult stand. He'll send his own guards, or hire raiders. The road to Tor is... not safe."

As if in answer, one of your outriders comes running into camp, breathless.

"Captain! Dust on the southern horizon. Riders. Many."

You rise, hand on your sword. Lady Zoe stands. Lina rolls the charter and tucks it inside her tunic, next to her heart.

The men are already forming line.

The trade route to Tor — to a future free of Bazi — lies ahead. But first, you must survive the desert.

You scan the wadi in an instant — rocks to the east, high ground to the west, the narrow mouth to the south where the dust is rising.

"Marcon! Spears on the west ridge! Archers — no, we have no archers — slingers behind the rocks!" you snap. "Lina, take Lady Zoe into the cleft behind us. Stay low. Do not come out until I call."

"But the charter—" Lina protests.

"Will mean nothing if you are dead," you cut her off, not unkindly. "Go."

Lady Zoe grips your forearm for a heartbeat. "Come back to us, Captain."

Then they are gone, hidden in shadow.

You take your place in the shield line with your men, sword loose in your hand. Twenty against... you count the dust plumes. Forty? Fifty riders of Bazi, scimitars glinting.

Marcon grins grimly beside you. "Good odds, Captain. For us."

The riders pour into the wadi mouth, led by the Bey's own captain, his orange sash streaming.

"Give us the women of the House of Zoe, and you may live!" he shouts.

You answer by raising your sword.

"HOUSE OF ZOE!"

"ZOE!" your twenty roar back.

The Bazi riders charge.

The wadi echoes with the crash of kaiila and steel, dust choking the air. You meet their captain blade-to-blade, turning his cut aside, your riposte opening his thigh. He screams and wheels away.

Around you, your guards hold like a wall of iron. A spear takes a rider through the chest. Another Bazi man goes down under Marcon's axe.

But they keep coming, trying to flank around the rocks toward the cleft — toward Lady Zoe and Lina.

You see two riders break off, veering east.

Lina's dagger flashes in your memory. Lady Zoe's silver ewer.

You are needed in two places at once.

You make the choice in a heartbeat.

"Marcon! Hold the line!" you roar, and you are already running, boots pounding over rock and sand toward the eastern cleft.

The two Bazi riders have dismounted, scimitars drawn, creeping toward the shadow where Lady Zoe and Lina hide. They haven't seen you yet — their eyes are on the cleft.

You hit the first from behind like a falling stone, shoulder-checking him into the rock wall. His scimitar clatters. Before he can rise, your pommel cracks against his temple and he goes limp.

The second whirls, slashing wildly. You duck under, take a shallow cut to your forearm — hot pain — and drive your sword up under his guard. He staggers back, eyes wide, then flees limping into the dust.

Panting, bleeding, you turn to the cleft.

Lina is there, dagger in hand, standing in front of Lady Zoe. Lady Zoe holds a sharp rock. Both are pale but unharmed.

"You came," Lina breathes.

"Always," you say simply, pressing your wounded forearm to your cloak

Behind you, the sounds of battle are fading. A final shout — then silence, then Marcon's triumphant roar: "ZOE!"

You lead the women back to the wadi mouth. The ground is littered with Bazi saddles and dropped spears. Your men stand battered but victorious, chests heaving. The surviving Bazi riders are fleeing south, their captain slumped over his kaiila.

Marcon clasps your good arm. "The line held, Captain."

Lady Zoe looks at the field, at your bleeding arm, at Lina still clutching her dagger. Her voice is steady, regal, but her eyes shine.

"Let it be known," she declares to all your guards, "that this day the House of Zoe was saved not by walls or gold, but by loyalty."

She turns to you. "Bind his arm, then we ride. Tor awaits, and I will not let Bazi's treachery stop our trade."

Lina steps forward and gently wraps your forearm with a strip torn from her own veil — a free woman's veil, given freely.

As the caravan reforms and turns north toward Tor, the sun climbs high over the desert.

The route is still open. The House endures.

And you, Ortossi, Captain of the Guard, ride at its head.

[The road to Tor lies open before you — shall we continue to the gates of Tor?]

Three days later, the white towers of Tor rise from the heat haze.

Unlike Bazi, there are no great walls here — only a bustling market city built around deep wells, where caravans from a dozen cities water and trade. The air smells of fresh bread, not suspicion.

Your caravan limps in proudly: twenty guards dusty and bandaged, a palanquin with a torn curtain, Lina riding tall despite her bandaged cheek, and you at the head, your forearm still wrapped in her veil-strip.

Word travels fast in the desert. By the time you reach the central well, a crowd has gathered.

An old woman, straight-backed and sharp-eyed, pushes through. Her robes are the deep blue of a Merchant Matron.

"I am Sana, Keeper of the Wells of Tor," she says. "We heard Bazi closed its gates to you. We heard you broke the Bey's trap and bloodied his riders in the wadi."

Lady Zoe steps down from the palanquin, no veil now, head high.

"Then you heard true, Matron Sana."

Sana studies Lina — a free woman carrying scrolls, a dagger at her belt now — and smiles approvingly.

"Tor has no Bey. We are ruled by council and coin. And we hate Bazi's tariffs." She turns to your guards. "You need water, rest, and a market for your goods."

Lina steps forward, unrolling the charter — creased, dust-stained, but intact. "Matron, the House of Zoe offers steel and silk from Ar, protection on the north road by Captain Ortossi's guard, for your grain and tarn feed. No middlemen. No Bazi."

Sana takes the scroll, reads, and laughs — a bright, true laugh.

"Captain Ortossi," she says, looking at you, "if your sword is as sharp as your free woman's tongue, Tor accepts."

Cheers erupt from the crowd. Your men, exhausted, grin for the first time in days.

That night, Tor feasts you as honored guests — and this time, the wine is safe, the songs are true.

By the fire, Lady Zoe raises a cup to you. Lina leans against your shoulder, asleep on her feet. Marcon is already haggling for new spears.

Lady Zoe's voice is soft: "You have given my House a future, Ortossi."

The stars wheel over Tor, bright and free.

Your contract is fulfilled. But in the morning, new contracts will come — raiders in the north, slavers in the south, always needing a strong sword and a loyal heart.

For tonight, you rest, Captain of the Guard of the House of Zoe.