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.
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