Buying the Stairway to Heaven

The strange thing about delusions is that if they go unchecked they become reality. Oman functioned well in her psychosis. The tea she used for quelling the visions worked well enough. For that, she seemed to be in control of the matter. And still, they came to her in times of crisis or high stress. Perhaps this was one of those times. The mentor vision, Fire, painted her back with a broad soft brush. She could slowly see the birthmark there disappear under the golden paint. In the mirror she watched him, arms crossed over in front of her chest. He was tall, this memory. His strokes had delicate attention to detail. There were chance glances to her in the reflection. Beloved. She was comforted in his presence. She longed to reach out and touch him. This was good. For it would not be easy for her this act against her nature. It challenges everything she is, truly. But, coin is coin. A contract would be fulfilled. The order undertaken.


Before the looking glass, all that glitters is gold. Oman donned the golden chain skirt, and top. She admired herself, thinking how much she looked like a statue in the square. Imagine if you were apprehensive of being beautiful? What if society rewarded great beauty with slavery and defeat? Such is the lot of a Gorean woman, Oman was no different. Normally, the disguises she chose shed the invisible cloak of plainness or marred ugliness. Tonight she would be seen for what she was, breath taking and beautiful. She had to find Her, that creature within. Long ago tucked away, and hidden even from herself. The act had to be believable, real. She had to get close to the dais. Close enough to kill a man. ' I wonder if he can feel me? I am closing in, Peacock', she whispered and fitted the bracelet on her wrist. There was a click as she checked its mechanics. Ibrahim was a skilled jeweler indeed.


After the nine veils, they garbed her in a black haik, so that Ibrahim could enter the tent. He was courteous, and turned his back. " She, I will signal the lights for you, " he had said with a nervous tension. " You have the strong box, and seating near him?" she asked quietly. " Yes I do. You will be safe, " this assurance was strong even though he dared not look at her. The giant exited and headed towards the House of Bonnane. Oman smoked and paced the carpets underfoot,' Where is She? She, that will come and take my place. A self long since dismissed, a part long suppressed.'

The nine men of Black took her to the house. It was not quite the dinner hour, so they were readying the room. From the ceiling hung two lengths, thirty five feet each, of golden fabric. When yanked on it had some give, or stretch on the bias. She told the men to face away from her. It had been ordered that they not gaze on her directly. The First had been adamant. The nine would not have the privilege of seeing her in this predicament. It is the only reason she acquiesced to the order, aside for the debts she was paying.

Oman lay in the cradle of gold, checking its length for safety. She began to wrap it around her waist, turning, hoisting herself up as she went until she finally was near its rigging. Like a giant golden cocoon, she would wait for the lighted signal and be born anew.

" I am here Peacock, you shall know my scent. My face will be the last you see. For him. For the glory of Ar. "

The Order

" I will not."


"You will," the First had said succinctly. There would be no argument strong enough to dissuade his decision. This was not the Caste of before. No, this was a Caste of new ways and new rules. She would do what was necessary to hunt the target, for the Brotherhood. Amongst all of her faults and idiosyncrasies' she was nothing if not loyal. " You will take a guard of nine, of your choice," he added as if this would soothe her. He had won. She would be painted.

Since coming to the city of Ar her life had taken a turn. No longer could she travel as she pleased, nor was her time her own. With high profile work came a consequence of constant vigil. She no longer felt the ease of anonymity. This price for reputation was greater than anticipated.


Sitting in front of the great mirror at her vanity she contemplated her fate. Was she going to be able to pull this off ? Once she took this path, would she be able to veer off it again?
Antollicus rapped on the door. " Miss, it is smelted down and I mixed it up with the paint base, jus like you asked. Shall I leave it 'ere for ya? "

She heard him going down the wrought iron stairs. No tea tonight, she thought.

On the Catwalk

Night grew along the watchtowers. Their ivory shade exchanged for a rosey dim. Soon the time would be near. It was cold, much colder here than her previous habitat. Breath came like freezing fog from her lips. Two Brothers had come with her summons. She could not do this alone. The three waited patiently for the black of sunless skies. It must be dark, for they must go unseen. On the rooftops of the Magisterial Offices they crouched low against the catwalk around the building. Intrepid in their silent vigil.

It was only a week ago, Ibrahim of Tor had returned the iconic dagger of Josephus the First of Firsts. It once again rested in its velvet nest in the libraries of the Black, safe. Now she was charged with finding its thief. Somewhere below her, in a locked desk the answer waited nestled amongst other prized documents.

Sundown came and went, leaving in its glory a wake of darkness. She felt overwhelming peace. The two men in her company signalled. Oman fitted a woven silk harness around her legs and waist with carabiner's and locked them into place. The larger of the Brothers, Basle, wrapped the rope under his thighs, and brought it round his forearm. He nodded his ready, and leant back some. She went over face first, gloved hands guiding a path between the windows. Four floors down from the top she halted, taking out a spike to pry at the window. Somewhere in time it had been painted shut, making it difficult but not impossible open. Its give was louder than she would have liked it, the crack of paint peeling apart making her wince. She peered into the darkened office room to be sure no one had heard and if they did, they were not on the way. The two came down after her, following her path against the smooth concrete. Both were larger, encumbered by muscle and weight making the task more difficult and less graceful.

Once inside Basle stood ready at the door, while Oman and the other Brother took to searching. Hours ticked by in quiet. They went through file after file until their eyes became dry. On the desk had been a guest list for the upcoming celebration. She noted most of the names, pausing at one in particular. A smile pressed her lips. Finally, in the false bottom of a drawer, the killers found what they had come for. One receipt for the sale of a jeweled dagger and a personal accounts journal of the Peacock, Arpaeus Bonnane. The latter she would take and stuff down the front of her shirt for safe keeping. Perhaps it would be enough to buy forgiveness. The receipt would be returned to her First.


" I am only a day away, Peacock, " she whispered to herself, " Are you ready for me?"

Ibrahim of Tor

I am coming for you.



It was not talked about much, dirty deeds done by lowly men. Occasionally someone would request inquiries into certain unspeakable acts of nature. Predators who hunted the most delicate of treasures. Children were a beloved future for the men of the Deserts. However unimaginable these types of treacheries were, there were times when fact and proof were needed. Oman would be the Sister usually sent when discretion's were of utmost importance. States could not accuse without proof. Contracts could not be taken without fact. She had met Ibrahim of Tor while on one such mission. His first born son had been involved in such a case. For Ibrahim, she had become a vengeful wrath. An eye for an eye. Ibrahim's payment for a Killers service were more than adequate. Her silence on the matter had made trust between them. So when this merchant of the Kasbah had written telling her that he was in possession of the jeweled dagger of Josephus the First, she knew it to be true. He had offered to bring the dagger back to Ar, for a price.

Ibrahim had arranged to meet her at the Players den called the Golden Beetle. She was agreeable, for in truth she enjoyed the games. In exchange for all of the documents of his fulfilled contract, he had agreed to sell the Caste the name of the Merchant who had brought the Black Castes Icon to the Kasbah. The papers he requested would be, aside from Oman herself, the last link to the ugly truth. In the mind of the man Ibrahim, the whole sordid act would now be erased from history. Dust to dust.

In the den of men she might stand out, so Brother Basle had accompanied her. Basle had been set upon her for her own protection. He was young, New Black, but had a steady sword hand. She took a seat at the bar and ordered black tea. Talk of salt was heavy around Ar, and especially thick in this Den. The eyes upon her burned wholes in her back. A twitch of paranoia came over her.

Ibrahim of Tor had arrived to take away the bore of eyes. A giant of a man filling the entirety of the small alcove doorway. Carefully she rose from the bar as entered. Her gloved hand signaled him of the close watchers. Ibrahim, in a show of courtesy had allowed her to sit first at the Kaissa table. When he took his seat opposite her his hand rested on the hilt of a gleaming scimitar. " Tal Woman, " his voice had boomed over the din of the busy den, " set the pieces and we shall play."

As was custom she lay her wager to the left side of the board, nearest the wall. It was a small parcel kept with a hemp tie. Ibrahim too, had set his wager down, a folded slip of paper was placed under one of the pieces on his side. She would have to win it. He cocked a grin towards her, before his deep voice rung out, " Bring drink, for I fear this Woman will best me ! " , he was mocking her gender but not her person. A black slave girl brought a tray. She had a graceful gait and powerful lines. Though she was not blond or blue eyed, the man of Tor took an interest, for she was a beautiful creature, and he was a Gorean man, after all.

In the end, Ibrahim of Tor had allowed her to win. Oman had taken the piece of folded paper and opened it. The name on it had brought her concern, as well as inner elation. A smile pressed her lips against the veil, and for a moment she was lost in the revelation. The paper had been stamped with the name Arpaeus Bonnane Magisterial Accountant. This was the man Oman called the Peacock. So shall the Seas tides turn at the winters full moon. She hunts you, Peacock.

Ibrahim took from the table the parcel she had brought, tucking it in his sash. As they said there goodbyes he shook her forearm, leaving behind a letter in her palm. They exchanged the polite thanks of Free People, as Oman and Basle left the establishment. The great giant had outdone himself, they were now even.


She,


There is to be festivities at the home of Arpaeus Bonnane, two nights from now. I have been invited to attend. I have responded that I will most happily bring a gift of entertainment for the affair. Enclosed is the invitation you will need as securities will be high.


May you always have water,

Mechamet El' Ibrahim of Tor

Hand to Mouth

Grave Dust

" This was unexpected, Oman," the First had said coolly, " You almost killed him. "

She took a deep breath, still weary from the two days she spent blacked out in some gamblers den. She poured herself a glass of water. " But, my First, I did not kill him. Just as you requested, " there was pleasure in her voice. It had been as much a question as an statement. In truth she did not know if the Poet was dead or alive until just now. Were he dead, she would have to suffer consequences for her actions. Face the Music as it were.

" Do you think there will be repercussions? " she asked. The First paced behind his desk, his hands joined behind his back. " I do not," he offered simply. She had hoped for more detail with this question, but settled for the good outcome. Oman stood and moved to the window. Relieved. Slowly she remembered to breathe. It was not her place to ask. A Killer needn't know the details. One question did burn her for an answer, but did she dare to ask it? Wait, she heard in her ear.
" What news of the theft, Sister? " he was watching her. Here was her second test come to fruition. The First was elected to the Leaders seat while she was away. They were not well known to one another except on a casual basis. He was trying her loyalties this time now that her skills were known.
" I know where the goods are, my First. With a retinue I could retrieve them if that is your wish, " she drank her water, handed him a slip of paper and continued, " I do not think it is a job for one. " To be a good judge of body language one must invoke all of the senses. He seemed pleased, but unsure how respond. His pacing though steady and with even strides was without purpose. He was pensive. The name on the paper must have troubled him.

Oman waited. Ever the patient inquisitor the time for her question would soon come. A talendar scented slave girl brought them tea. The First spoke as she began to serve it, " You shall have what you require, but She Killer beware, this is delicate a matter. Justice for our own could provoke war."
" More than killing the voice of the Lower Castes, the People ? " she had struck her question with a cunning caress. " Yes, " he answered.

Tar and Happiness

On A Bender.

Ice cold. Through the haze of lashes stuck together she peered. Her mouth was dry and yet tasted as if she had literally licked the bottom of an aged barrel of paga. There was a sickly sweet smell that clung around her head like a fog. Her eyelids peeled apart rather painfully and she looked around. White curtains billowed with the chilly autumnal breeze. It was after dusk or maybe before dawn, at the moment she couldn't tell. Oman lifted off the white marble floor she was sprawled over to perch on her elbows. Her fingers were blackened with sticky tar. 'Damnit', she thought, 'how in nine levels of hell did I end up here.' Her answer sat before her on a lounge chaise of white brocade. There lay a man in black. He was young, fair haired, and full of himself.

She pushed up to sit. " Who the bloody bosk are you, and why, please tell me why, you are in my personal home? "
He puffed up with pride and stretched out on her custom chaise. The taste in her mouth was becoming most foul. " I am Basle, Sister. I found you and brought you here to safety, " he had jumped up and posed like a temple statue. Oman was stunned by this dramatic explanation. Pushing herself to her feet, she swaggered off towards the facilities.
' You have got to be kidding me. I have been rescued by Herakles,' she thought as she stared in the large mirror. The sight of her was shocking. She was in quite the state. Certainly she didn't look like a beautiful maiden needing to be saved from anything. Her eye kohl was smeared to her lips. He wasn't the picture perfect Heraklean monument either, really. In fact he looked familiar. She washed her face and mouth and pondered where she knew him from.

Now more or less come-round, she went back to the main room of her Apartment. For not being home in more than seven years, it appeared clean. Perhaps the Cylinder's manager was taking care of that. " Did we have relations then? " she asked rather frankly as she whipped her hair into a knot. A look of shock and awe struck his features. He was handsome but not really her type. 'Not bad for a night on the bends, ' she mused to herself. " Sister I would never, " he stumbled for the answer, " It would never be my intention to, " he rambled on, her head was throbbing so much she could no longer hear him. When he had stopped blathering about honor and pride she asked soberly, " Do I know you ? "

" He wishes to see you, " Basle had said moving for the door, " I will wait until you clean up and escort you through the Anbar. "


' Fuck,' she turned around to go change.

The White Castle

The path to self righteousness.

A day is just a day, even for a killer of Ar. Most of it spent on the daily duties necessary to afford her comfort. Oman was pensive, tense even. She busied herself with filling jars and brewing more tincture for the itch.

The boy apprentice now known as Paes came with more water for boiling. He was a good boy. It seemed too that he had an understanding of her mood swings. Impressive read for someone not versed in her ways. He kept quiet this day, offering her a smile or two for his own comfort. Certainly not hers.

The small Kiosk was packed, its tent folded down for the night. She sent Paes on his way with a bucket from the grocer for his mother and a coin for his days labor. His mother might be worried, it was late. Picking up the push-handles Oman headed for the colonial home she'd recently acquired.

The man Antollicus had been working steadily on the homes repairs. His companion Antiope had proven to be a good learner. They were enjoying the purse of a Peddler just fine, for she was not without mercy. Moments of justness were good for her. They reminded her she was not an empty vessel (or vassal as the case may be). She was doing some good in the world after all.

Oman entered the homes gates, and turned to re-lock them. Antollicus came and put away the kiosk for the night. " I greet you, Madam, " he had offered before taking her burden. She turned to him, " I am not feeling well Antollicus. I wish to be left alone for the evening." Nodding solemnly she hobbled up the stairs to the residence, and locked herself in its newly painted white walled glory. The White Castle of a Killer. White was clean and peaceful. Murder after all was a chaotic act of nature. Night would be upon her soon enough. In the respite of this place she garbed herself. Tensions often causing her to drift off and see things not truly there. Sometimes the herbs she used for calming nerves helped her, tonight however she might need her invisible comrades. Hallucinations. She decided to forego the tea and bring them along.

The one known as Air was the first to come. He of the shadows kept lookout at the window and listened intently to the streets. She smiled to his reflection in her vanity mirror. Perching on the trunk at the foot of her bed came The Earth into view. His feet clung like talons around the domed lid, he watches only her. Next to her, as always, her Mentor, Fire. His hands were steadily fitting her weapons belts. He was as ever, beloved. They were all here as guides. Simply a torment that had afflicted her with time, and the acts she had committed therin. They would show her the way. Keep her safe in times of need. Give her guidance when none could be afforded by her alone. "Stay with me tonight, " she had said aloud to her delusions.

The night had seemed ordinary enough. The rooftop she had laid upon, was warm from the days sun, penetrating her. She observed the Free People who mingled with a carefree banter. The gathering appeared happy, no pretenses for disquiet. Distant the stalker fitted bolt to bow. Prone against the top of an office building. Fire the Guardian beside her, leant her his strength of will.

Leather creaked as the butt of the bow was nestled to her shoulder. Her mood was reposeful, her breathing even-timed. Concentration heavily on her as she lowered the sight. The wind blusters, she must wait. It is the essence of her to be patient, she of the Sea. The gathered below will soon name her a target. The shot will be taken and coin will be had. She felt the figment of Air's cheek beside her own. His eyes pierced the target. A gloved shadowy hand aimed the bow for her.

Her heart stopped in utter disbelief. She looked to the visage she called Fire confused beyond measure. Limbs wrought with a pain so deep she could almost not bear to feel it. A moments pause catches her off guard. She holds her breath and tastes blood on her lips. So succumbed to the task and yet so faltered by the true deed now to be done, she had bitten herself. This is not happening to her. She has been used as a pawn in her own spiral. The crossbow trembles. The cool night air has drowned her, gulping for breath. Decide now Oman, Fire had demanded. She had been sent to kill the Poet, Szol.

One decision to change her life. Take the shot and all would be lost.

'Resolution, Absolution, Joy. All found in one pull of a sharp trigger. Steady my skill, Resolution. Make this shot true, I pray to you for Absolution. Aeolos be sedate and Joyful, grant me this. '

The wind relented on cue. She had taken the opportunity, and fired. The Magistrate of the People faltered. Szol, the Poet of Ar bled much. She saw her fate ahead, the consequence of this act of treason. Be true my skills, let him not suffer death.

Earth's ashy hand came down and helped her up, there was relief on his face. She crushed a clove-root wrap on the ground with her boot leaving it where she had laid. Drawing the hood up once more to cover the Mark-born forehead she took a route away from the scene. Quietly leaving behind a piece of herself. Her heart had beaten like a drum. It was done. She had chosen. The truth to never be known.

" I'm not here, this isn't happening."

Truths and Consequences

Plausible Deniability part II

It had taken her quite a while to walk to the Anbar District. All around her the seedy shades of life happened. She was no longer invisible to men. Their eyes were upon her like thieves. If anyone dared too close she would lift her head, the mark was now her protector. It was not fear that electrified her, but the thrill of being home. Her blood teemed with it. Her limbs pulsed with it. Ahead she could see the alley of her destination. The street lamp on the corner flickered. The great gates before her were flanked by men in black.

She approached with caution and handed them the seal. They bid her entrance and afforded her respectful nods. Once inside the compound a cavalcade of killers followed her in escort.
At the stairs she stopped in her tracks and turned to the Brother behind her, " I was followed by a man in a brown tunic. He is still at the flickering lamp. Dispatch him."
The young killer, in fact the same who had been paid at the office of the magistrate on her first day in Ar, nodded. " Yes Sister Oman so shall it be done. I shall do murder for you, " he put one fist in the other hands palm and bowed slightly. She handed him one copper as was custom.

Before her lay the doors to the office chambers of the First. It had been long since she had seen their carved ebony glory. Beyond it she knew her task awaited her. A voice commanded, "Enter," she did so with reverence. He was First, and she his myrmidon. He stood for her behind his desk. She kept a regal pose though the shock and surprise of this act made her mouth dry. To his left, was a man dressed in the usual fluff afforded the high of caste. The purple brocade tunic he wore sparkled gold, matching the glinting of many trinkets on his fingers and wrists. He was balding, and rotundas. She bent at the waist not deterring her gaze and spoke low, " I was summoned to the First and to the First I have come in service." The ceremony had ended.

The First took his seat, and the man near the fire and gave her a perfunctory smile. " Sir, you cannot tell me that this is your sure shot," he had said incredulously, " a woman, seriously, " he scoffed at her, laughed even. Anger welled up from long forgotten depths. Who was this fat peacock to question her? She is Oman Fucking Khan. Her skill-set aside, she was a killer for hire who could basically do as she pleased, especially in this office.
" I assure you, " the First said with quiet conviction, " She of the Sea is as gifted as she is relentless. "
Oman turned to face the man full on. Held tall by pride of station she stared at him, the ghost in her loosed. The man she now thought of as 'Peacock' ruffled some and stared to her with skepticism. She wanted to walk out but the First caught her by the eyes. The Peacock watched the unspoken and frightening conversation that happened between the two killers. He who was First stood up and leaned on the desk, his eyes held Oman with forcible regard. She turned up her chin, and folded her arms before her. A moment of tension filled the room when he brought a fist down with gritted teeth. Her apparent denial acerbating the situation.

The First spoke, " Sister it is my Wish that you, and only you, secure this contract, " he was not going to yield. She relented, her fealty winning this argument. The First had told her without words, take this or else.
The Peacock spoke now with a more agreeable and somewhat fear-filled tone, " I am sorry I questioned you with, ehh, errhmm, it was not my intention. I apologize for my disregard of your station." The First nodded to Oman, an unspoken cognizance between them.
" What is your fee, Woman of Black? " the man had queried with a jovial pat of his own round belly. This attempt at cordiality masked by sciolism on matters on murder for hire.
" What is your task? " she had returned the volley, albeit bitter-sweetly.

" It is my wish, " the peacock spoke with the pretension of his ilk and dramatic gesticulations, " that you kill the Magistrate of the People. " The peacocks forehead glistened with sweat. It was no wonder the First had been so adamant. A Magistrate would bring half an Ubar's price. The coffers would fill for both the Caste and the Killer. This news stole all the spite she was brewing, and like so much dust in the wind, it blew it away. She welled with pride. He Chose her.

She looked to her Leader and nodded. Moving towards the bar leaving the men to the discussion of compensation. She poured a modest glass of wine. The First wrote a number on a piece of fine linen paper, folded it and handed it to the man. The man bit his lip and turned a sure shade of grey. The sum must be very large. Her countenance exchanged itself for exhilaration. She finished her wine in one gulp. Oman returned to the desk of the First when the discussions of compensation had finished. He took a salt-pressed tablet from his top drawer, it was embossed with a dagger and half dipped in red ink. He handed this seal to Oman, who held it out for the affluent Free Man, now forever thought of as the Peacock. He held onto the inked half. She broke the tablet with him. The contract now sealed. "I shall do murder for you, man of Ar."

To thine own self be true

Plausible Deniablity part I

Business was good. The markets were exceptional here in the Great Square. The stable boy, once paid well watched over her wares. His family was given groceries along with his stipend. She found trust in this boy for surely his family would reprimand any foolishness on his part. This boy was not yet a man. He could read and write, and he was kept clean by someone who cared for him. Not a typical urchin running the streets. Every day since his hire, she had taken to teaching him a recipe from her books. Today she would teach him a tincture for the itch, her best seller. It was not a difficult task as he seemed eager for apprenticeship. The stall or slip as it was called here, was well kept. Shelves on the kiosk were freshly painted, the boy had been busy.

"I am not to be disturbed under any circumstance," she warned the boy with a glare. She entered the gypsy-esque covered wagon and closed and tied the flaps. " Bring me water."

Oman's task was upon her. It must wait for nightfall, she reminded herself as she scrubbed her arms and face with the water the boy had promptly brought. There were things she would need to acquire before heading for the Anbar. Things to gather without this escort that had been set on her for the last few days. Some non-plussed fellow in a hand-made rough linen tunic that hung around the street corner opposite her wagon. At times he even followed her so close he had stepped on the back of her robe. He should have been more careful.

She folded her grey cloak of silk gently and put it in a trunk. It was prized and she treated it with delicate care smoothing it down along its folds. To wear in its place a heavy robe of black fine linen which had lay dormant in the trunk for an eon. The scent of it caused her pause. Black richness with a hint of myrrh, she lifted it to her nose. It was necessary for the change of persona, this ritual. In the trunk under the robe she had found her leathers. They were made of Verr-kid skin, soft and buttery with an earthy scent. Her mind reeled and her mouth watered as she fingered the gloves. These gloves had made much coin after all. Last out of the box of life was a long bloodstained dagger. This she held like a lover. Taking it from its sheath and tracing its blade fondly along her neck.

The mirror reflected a half naked, moon-glow of a woman with black shining hair. She admired the powerful lines of her body and the scars she had earned like badges born on it. Most were very old and all but invisible. The one which most heavily marred her was between her breasts. This scar was darker, wider, and more thick-skinned. She had been cleaved there. Along its edges were the small dots where she had been sewn back together. It reminded her of life, of the deep desire to live. She caressed its roughness with a slightest of fingertips.

After bathing, she applied her garments of Black. Oman sat down before the vanity table and assessed her face. She pulled out her own guise amongst the makeups, powders and glues. Her eyes should be lined in kohl soot and her hair should be tied back sleek. Affording herself a deep look into the cheval glass to daydream, she lit a clove-wrap. In this reverie she saw her Mentor standing behind her near the door, his visage framed by the mirror. She smiled to him, and took weed from the tip of her tongue. He came in closer and took a seat beside her on the vanity bench. Though he was but a figment, she could feel the warmth of him. She admired this mirage with a softness and deep seeded respect not usual to her nature. She loved him. Not in the way a woman loves a man with lust, but more the way a Sister loves her Brother. He took the paintbrush from the inkwell before her. She craned forward and he painted her forehead with the mark. He was deft and gentle with the calligraphy before handing her back the brush. His thumb outlined her cheeks hollow. He was only with her for a moment and the moment was gone. When she looked back to the reflection it was simply Oman Khan, a vacant and pale eyed killer marked for murder. The paintbrush in her one hand still pointed at her brow, and a cigarette in the other. At last glance she found inner quiet. She put away the face of a killer behind its hooded cloak.

Of Change and Happenstance

Antollicus and Antiope

He was a man fallen from grace. In her own way, Oman pitied him. As much as a murderer could afford the luxury of pity.

Antollicus was aged but not old. The lines of time were cut deep in his face and crossed with scars that told his tale of woe and loss. Oman scrutinized this man, left hand on her right elbow, right hand curled near her mouth. His companion was young and plain but seemed of good demeanor. You could tell she simply wanted to please her way out of this dilemma. He seemed bitter. This bad blood was not brought on by Oman's presence in this his former residence. It would seem to Oman that this inclination for anger was truly more directed at himself for being in this predicament at all.

There is a point in a duel of silence that one person might give in. Oman was patient to a point that it would annoy most. She waited for this release to be evident in this mans body language.
When finally his rigidity gave way to defeat, she spoke to his companion first, "Can you cook then?", she asked simply.
The Woman Antiope spoke, her hands clasped in front of her, " I think so Madam, no one has ever complained that is to say, not directly to me and all."
"Can you follow direction?" Omans eyebrows lifted with this query. The Man known as Antollicus tensed. It is one thing to defeat him with coin, but to defeat his property with wit seemed to make him uneasy.

Such is the delicate manipulation of man. A man's power is unbridled. When challenged it postures to the offensive. A Free Womans machinations are a delicate defense. It must be subtle and have keen sense. To truly know a man, a woman must know herself from the outside inward. The affable and eager nod from the woman Antiope was a keystone.
" Very good, " she gestured towards a cart filled with groceries from the Market, " I wish everything to be washed well before being cooked. " Antiope looked utterly confused.
" I do not like dirt on my plate, " she explained slowly as if to a child, " I do not like age-filth on my meats." Oman looked at the man to convey he should explain. He turned to his companion, and explained. Oman has exposed him, his weakness pleased her.

The oldest of her memories is that of her aunts home. It was not expensive, nor were there trinkets of adoration around the rooms. It was a simple farmstead home away from the hustle of the city. Her Aunt was called Hadas, she was dark haired and swarthy skinned. Oman and her twin Jara had come to this place before she could remember.
Hadas had found Oman playing in a corner of a large pantry. She came to her, always smiling. "I have a game for us to play Oman," she had said while crouched down low on the eye level of Oman.
"I wish you to turn around," she turned her pointer finger around in a circle and Oman the child turned. Hadas took 12 jars of pickled vegetables down from the top shelf and set them on the bottom one.
She reached out and turned the small girl around. " Pick for me, the one that is different from the rest. Do so quickly and I will reward you."
Oman had taken a survey of each, standing in front of them one by one. They were all in the same jars, all had the same vegetables. She came to the last jar, and pointed to it, Hadas gave no notice and asked, " Why then is this one not like the rest ?" The child Oman was calculating an answer, her Aunt seemed pleased with this.
When Oman finally looked up her eyes had been fixed on Hadas, " Because it is older than the rest. " The girl Oman was rewarded for her efforts. "Have this knife then Oman, you are ready to learn to cut fruit. " Hadas had never questioned how the girl knew what she did, she seemed content that she had known. In thinking back, Oman remembered that this jar was the only one that had dust on the top of it. The rememberence of this provokes a desire to slice the thick skin of a fruit, in one continuous piece.

While Antollicus took to repairing the staircase, Oman went to the door in front of the courtyard. There on the stone-worked ground lay a package. The bundle was of plain brown paper, embossed with the symbol of the Sea. The cord was stained dark brown. Oman picked the package up, she smelled the cord. 'Blood', she said to herself not surprised by the taste of copper. She put the parcel under her robe and into her belt. She went to the woman Antiope, who was almost finished with sorting task. Oman came into the food closet with a length of chain from the stable. Without much care she chained Antiope to the stove with her companions own shackles. They were of good solid construction, he was skilled. Oman yanked on the thick rings to check it was secure. A bold move indeed.
Oman limped out of the pantry on her walking stick to the fountain and looked up at the man Antollicus, "I have chained your woman to the stove," she held up a key, "I am going to my kiosk in the Great Square, if you leave I will see she is put to slave on the streets for coin."

A House for a Peddler

Habit and Habitat.


Some things never change. And though the city had changed so much over the years she'd been gone, it was good to see life went on. Bargains are struck through the streets she passes through. Vats of dry goods line the carts of peddlers along alleys. Price banter, and the finesse of trade happen all around her in a loud din. She is focused, acutely aware of her guise. Tavern music fans along the clay-made walls and bounces back off the cobblestones underfoot. Up the hill there would be residences befitting her station in this particular invisible life. She will need a courtyard and a stable. A smithy's forge and stone would be nice, but not necessity. However, running water and facilities are not something she will bend on. Fastidiousness was a key to a clear mind. On this she was unyielding.


At the Community's center, where they read the daily news, she would find posted information on real-estate for sale. It seemed a bit silly and frivolous to purchase yet another residence in this city but her grand apartment on high, with its billowing silk curtains, white marble sinks, and limestone baths would call attention to a hobbled Free Woman who peddles as an Apothecary in a street kiosk.

One residence posted seemed to meet her criteria and price range. It had been seized for back taxes. The listing said it was 4 blocks south west and 11 blocks west of the Great Square. The area was home to some mid-level Brothels and Gambling dens the grunt level Warriors frequented. Not quite the Street of Coin and far enough from the Street of Brands, which could become a hecklers last address, she mused as she walked. Now is not the time, she snapped-to with the click-click of her walking stick. This new task was time sensitive, to say the least her reputation was being challenged. She was being tested.


Oman had been in Port Kar previous to her arrival here in Ar. It had been a long time since her services had been called upon. In her time of unemployment ( or vacation, if you will ) she had taken to learning the art of Poultices from the local Herbalist. The Herbalist, a sort of low caste physician, had imparted much of his knowledge. So she delved deeper into her new found role as an invisible. On one day while shopping for dried fungus on the docks she came upon a small parcel wrapped in brown paper. They of Black did not use names, only symbols to address orders. Oman's symbol was four waved lines stacked, the Sea of Information. The parcel had been placed on her wagons seat by unknown unseen hands. A rushed, hollow excitement had overwhelmed her when she pulled the cord which bound it. What hands had tied this? Inside was a gold coin and a Seal Tablet the size of her palm, it had been made of pressed salt and weighed one quarter a stone. The salt cake had been decorated with gold flake and dipped half in red ink; blood on the dagger. The coin symbolized payment. The embossed tablet told her to whom she would send the bill. Seasons change, but unchanging are its tasks, taxes, and trials. This trial would be fraught with danger. That thought had electrified her with an accompanying chill. A smile had lifted a corner of her mouth and her eyes had become fixed and dilated. There had been theft. There would be murder. Breaking the Seal in two along the red ink, she whispered out loud on a brisk sea wind, " I will do Murder for you, my Brethren." Black hair flew freely around her alive with the static of thrill. Salt crumbled and blew away as she ground the tablet in her fingers. The pact sealed and the contract accepted. That which had remained of the package tossed into the sea.


The streets in the area of the home for sale were cleaner. Down a wide alley, there was the residence, its outer wooden door fortified on both sides by a high stucco wall which bore a sign 'Property For Sale Under Foreclosure.' She entered the receiving area. Beyond it was a wrought iron gate and fence which lent further fortification. Passed the second gate was a courtyard of stones and in its center was an iron-clad fountain of sorts. The well had gears which when turned would draw water up into a large hammered copper basin. If you pumped it every day, water would flow freshly without mechanics. This had been a metal workers home perhaps, she imagined. On the ground floor of the residence there was a stable large enough for her small wagon and pack animal. To the stables right were servants quarters they were small but accommodating. The living quarters were upstairs. The stairs that lead up to the second story needed welding, their wrought iron brackets askew. Perhaps there had been a scuffle, she wondered. Looking around the courtyard to assure herself no one was watching, she jumped two stairs that were in dire need of repair, landing firmly on the front doors stoop. This door was locked.

Her ears twitched first the left then right. She pulled the hood of her cloak up, and drew it in towards her face. She knocked slowly three times, returned her hands to her walking stick, and waited. After a few minutes many locks began to click and shift behind the heavy door. She steadied herself, her hands clammy with adrenaline. The door opened carefully a crack, but no one showed themselves.

She spoke clearly, " I have come to purchase this home and your debts."

Day One - The Return

Re-inventing the Wheel

Time stood very still. The wagons wheels turned over and over along the roads, kicking dust up on the hem of her robes. Hustle and bustle of the city happened all around her, but for the Alchemist it was a dream scape she was living in. In this happenstance, she didn't exist. An invisible meant to move along. These streets so familiar seemed so old and worn now. It had been seven years since she had ridden along them. Seven arduous years and yet it seemed someone else's life she was holding memories for. Glorious Ar, somehow fallen from its once pristine grace.

She pulled the wagon into the Magistrates Offices, it was early, just after dawn. She of the old ways, must remember to be hobbled. Slowly she eased off the seat. Crumpling herself, pretending to catch her breath, hobbling up the grand marble stairs. She opened the offices doors, and stood in a long line of others. She leaned on her walking stick and let her mind drift. Peasants, Low Caste, Exporters indeed. They all need something. Perhaps a good bath would be in order, she thought as her nose with its acute sense of smell wrinkled in protest under its simple veil. A man in black watched her from his peripheral. He was in an altogether different line, a chit line. This to receive payments due. Were she anyone else, she would have thought his attention was on the slave girls being led into the back offices by a Slaver to be accounted for and taxed accordingly. But, She knew he surveyed her. He seemed rather young and ambitious, but she was impressed with the instinct. Letting her breath be labored slightly, she lifted a hand to hold the upper most part of the long walkers stick. He seemed to ease with the sight of aged un-gloved hands. Hands that were those of a low caste woman. Burn scars, calluses, and short cropped fingernails.

" Yes," she trembled with some crumpled money at the offices teller like window, " I will be needing a kiosk license for the Marketplace, " ending this with a long hoarse breath and a caught up choking cough behind a handkerchief. The Woman behind the window winced. She paid her fee and signed the license to sell wares and services. Once finished she made her way to the wagon. A slight nod to the man in black as a 'Good Day to you Killer.'

Black was familiar. She could still smell the color black, heavy and rich. She heaved herself back onto the wagon, labored and grunting, one leg stiff as if crippled. The hem of her robes caught the wagons brake, she fussed with them. The Killer exited, her pale eyes watched the him in black walk his merry way down the High Street. Paid for services rendered the Magistrate, she thought. How interesting. Pirates and Vagabonds, Killers in the daylight. And all of them seemingly owed from the Magistrate. Interesting indeed.

The wagon churned its way to the market place already busy with shop keeps and traders. Slip 1301 was on the corners near the fork of the High Street. A good a spot as any, she mused. The wagon pulled into her space, she unhitched the beast of burden and brought it around. She spotted two stable boys on their way back to the shacks. " You boy," she warbled to one of them, " Take this to the stables and pay for a months boarding, food and water," she dug around a haggard looking purse. " Come back to me with the receipt, and I will pay you handsomely eh? " She patted the boy with a coin filled hand. He dutifully took the pack beast. The tent that was her shop went up with two pulls of the ropes. She tied them off one by one, now it was she that surveyed. Good enough exits, a close-by alleyway, this comforted her. After she puts up the well made sign that read: Alchemical Solutions, Medicines, Herbals Supplements and Barbering, she stepped into the tented area of the wagon. Its flaps closed and tied behind her.

Oman stood up tall and stretched her aching back. A long sigh accompanied this moment of peace. Sinking down for a sit on a trunk and partaking of a clove root smoke-wrap. She unlaced the prison of robes and yawned. Thank goodness, she thought, they weren't High Caste robes this time. All the fluffs and puffs were so tiresome. A mirror hung before her was filled with the sight of a tall, lean, and athletic woman. Her face and arms darkened with powder. Much more than the rest of her which was fair in complexion. Hair black as a new-moon night swung thick like a blanket just below her shoulders. She eyeballed the braid hanging from the mirror in front of her like a trophy.

More than a year ago while covert, she had posed as a hideously scarred kitchen slave to a Delegate of Port Kar's House. When you are crippled or marred in some fashion, Masters and Free People leave you alone for the most part. Function and provide adequate service and you become invisible like sidewalk bricks. They realize you are there, but pay no mind as they walk over you. A good cover for someone definitely not a slave. Kitchen staff and slaves hear everything a House has to say. At one point however, this Diplomat had laid eyes on her. She with the hair of shining black. The large prosthetic burn on her right eye, cheek, and down the full side of her leg had not dissuaded this sighting. 'You, drudge', he had stated, 'Come here.' He had pointed to his feet. 'You are a vision aren't you?' he had said with bitterness. 'Your hair is lovely, but to look at you!' he shook his head. At moments like these she remembered the thoughts of killing him slowly, but remained calm and passive. 'You do not deserve this.' With that he shore her braid off, and left it at her feet. He stomped away. She picked it up, the murderous hate brewing. One moment of a Free Man's whimsy, and it was gone. 'I shall,' she had thought, 'strangle you with this very braid before I am done here.' After she retrieved what she needed to prove his guilt to her Employer, that is exactly what she did. Her hair has since grown back some, thankfully.

She smoked slowly and deliberately allowing herself moments grace before continuing on this journey of illusion. This new disguise had proven itself in city after city. She had perfected it for this specific task, adding age spots to her arms and hands. Around her eyes were deep creases made with glue. A dark line here, and some shadow there gave her a revelation of what the future might hold. In truth she wasn't aged at all, or wrinkled. Her eyes however were a doorway to be sure, a weakness, she thought as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. In the long sojourn away from the streets of Ar so many people she had known were gone. Only two, she feared might know her if they caught her by the eye. But they would not be meandering this shop, she assured herself with confidence. She redressed, and took a moment to find her alter-self. The stable boy would return soon, and she would pay him well as promised.

It was truly amazing what people will tell an alchemist. They will spout off at the mouth about affairs, politics, and personal information no one should have to endure, really. This is what made a good filtering system. When she would mix, blend, or cut, she would ask politely the well wearing customers to refer new customers. She always was quite the talent with sharp objects, scissors were certainly no different. She would soon have the clientele she needed to obtain bounty she sought. If the paying customer seemed in her target market she would offer them a jar of salt. Salt was indeed a good topic amongst the waiting customers here. It so happened that many years ago she had been paid in salt. Currency of sorts, it would do the trick nicely.