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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment