those who seek wonders (petra)
"Put a glove on both hands."

"Why?" Sharaf asked lazily.

"Because I told you to!" his father grumbled.

Theirs was an odd relationship.

"Have you got any for the fee?" the wagon driver asked.

They'd encountered an odd fellow named Cully in the desert. He was a toothless cur, and old, but clever. He seemed to already know about the spider path through the dunes and into Charisat itself. He had no need of a Tracker to show him the way. Yet he'd let them ride along in any case. Only now was he addressing them directly, and he was doing that only to ask for money. They'd not even entered this city of flat stone yet, and the fellow wanted money already. Sharaf remembered now why he hated coming to this place. Between the fees for the roads and the twisting, snaking paths that remained forever half-finished in some cases, it took two hours to travel ten feet. Old Cully probably had enough coin to pay the toll.

Sharaf flung a copper at the man. Cully caught it, gummed it, and passed it off to a very cross-looking man of brown skin and black mood.

"You be keepin' that change," Cully smiled toothless.

Every city had a part of itself that it was ashamed of. Much like the people who lived in the city. If darkness was in the hearts of men and women who designed these focal points of civilization, then it was in the focal points themselves. Murder and theft and greed and lust could all be found centered around one section of any city. Usually organized and ruled by those who'd failed to reject the base in favor of the high. Charisat was no different. Never in his life had Sharaf come to a place like this unsure of his intent. Yet here he was with ob, and the alchemist was staring from stall to stall as though searching for something.

"Keep an eye out for dragon's talon," ob remarked idly.

They were surrounded by swarthy, sweaty, sedentary men who nevertheless looked as though they knew the uses of a knife. Sharaf would not have asked these men for anything, let alone an honest sale, and dragon's talon was expensive indeed. To say it aloud in the middle of the market was the height of foolishness.

"You cannot be serious," Sharaf grimaced.

Cully's wagon was a boxy thing of wood and nails and iron hinges. Four wheels, a yoke, and one angry camel. There was almost nothing of note in the wagon itself. A chest, with a bit of wax paper jutting out from beneath the lid. It was strapped in brass and iron, three locks of good design. It also contained a very angry alchemist named Petra who did not look as though she appreciated Cully's call for aid. Sharaf supposed he understood. Yet they were close to the chapter house, going this way, and qa Yvutha Pharath owned many of the roads around the building. They were available free of charge, which meant they were very busy and very accessible. So let Cully spend another man's copper as his own. They'd come this far because Cully was kind and had plenty of water with him.

They'd also come this far because Petra had finally told him where they were going. It seemed an odd thing. Charisat? Why had someone who was based in Charisat come all the way to Qas Burus to steal her work? It must have been a work of some import. Of course, she still hadn't told him what that work of some import actually was. Sharaf imagined that if it was worth knowing, it was worth seeking, but he could not see how he was going to find out unless she told him. She had told him, however, that they were meant to ask for the Blue Man once they were in Charisat. Since he'd been here only twice in his life, Sharaf was certain he had no idea who the Blue Man was. It made about as much sense as anything she ever said. And yet he could quite plainly see that it was the truth.

"Don't be too cross," Sharaf admonished her with a wink and a smile. "Our canteens were dry long ago."

"Do you have any idea what sort of trouble we're in?" ob asked angrily.

"The bad kind," Sharaf laughed.

They were shoulder to shoulder in a holding cell. Sharaf had pressed a cold, wet rag against his bloodied nose. It was broken. It would have to wait. Next to him, ob had not a scratch on his person. It was all well and good. There had been fifteen of them, after all, and Sharaf had not truly been trying to do more than hurt them a little.

"Did you have to break the fellow's leg?" it was clear ob couldn't let go of the past.

"He tried to kick me with it," Sharaf answered.

"Because you had his friend down and you were kicking him in the gut!"

"Which I only did," Sharaf held up a finger. "Because he jumped me while I was beating the first fellow senseless."

"Why," ob barked, staring straight ahead. "Have they not thrown you out yet!"

His leather coat creaked as he twisted about, looking for his first eyeful of the city proper. Charisat was a thing of stone and underground structures - much as the Perub cities and settlements were. In this harsh desert, you learned to survive, and to see the signs of survival all around you. Drab gray and brown stone for the most part, stretching out in a long row of rising and falling structures. This close to the Sand Sea it seemed there were never any storms of the terrific variety they'd just witnessed. Storms that could bury a city like this simply did not exist here. Oh, the occasional blustery night was not uncommon, but all of those indistinguishable boxes seemed resolute in their arrangement. Sharaf remembered navigating the narrow, winding streets between them as something of a challenge.

Perhaps this time he would be lucky. Perhaps this time the answers they sought would be nearby, and readily available for anyone who wanted them. Their other alternative was simply to hope. Ask for the Blue Man. Sharaf was going to ask, all right, but he wasn't going to ask just anyone. The master of this house was wa Abul, a member of qa Yvutha Pharath from long ago and probably the Tracker most familiar with the ins and outs of this city. Some held the post was little more than glorified mail distribution and innkeeper. Yet Abul knew everything that happened in the city, even if their arrangement with the Council of Eyes prevented him from acting on it. Regular law enforcement here thought like soldiers instead of thieves. Abul had navigated his way around the city with no trouble, and survived four attempts on his life for what he knew.

If anyone had heard of this Blue Man, it was him.

It wasn't simply that. Someone had told Wajih's son that Petra had been the reason for Wajih's death. Sharaf did not believe it for a moment. Yet in that moment, when he'd first heard the idea, he was ashamed to say he'd been... suspicious. Could a woman kill for pride? Could she labor for something intellectual so much that it became passion instead? Sharaf had seen it. He'd investigated for it, and arrested for it, and in the end watched criminals sentenced because of it. To think that Petra had become one of them was the very height of madness. Yet something in him could not shake the feeling that all of this was strange beyond words.

That Petra could have... She wouldn't have.

There was no chance of it. As the wagon rolled forward, into the collection of stone boxes and poor streets, Sharaf pulled his mask down and grinned at the Immortal woman.