Newsgroups: alt.pub.dragons-inn
From: arsmith@nyx.cs.du.edu (Alan Smith)
Subject: [NTY] Hello, I'm looking for...
Message-ID: <1993Jul16.104408.12863@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu>
References: <1993Jul7.002828.17536@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu> <1993Jul7.103155.22208@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu> <1993Jul12.212306.10736@mnemosyne.cs.du.edu>
Date: Fri, 16 Jul 93 10:44:08 GMT

"The Shaheran would like to see you in his private office." the messenger
said as Palandun was getting ready to turn in.
  "Can this wait till mornin'?" Palandun asked, wondering if pajamas would
make a particularly cutting figure at The Court.
  "No.  He commands you to come immediately."
  "Oh, all right."  Grabbing his lowvis cloak and throwing it over his Jammies,
Palandun stalked after the liveried messenger, determined that if he was going
to be dragged out of the prospect of a good nap, he could damn well look as
goofy as he pleased.

  "You look distinctly goofy." The Shaheran remarked by way of breaking the
ice.
  "If you just called me here to insult me, I'm going back to sleep."
  "You have been a great burden to us." the Shaheran abruptly canged the 
subject, getting down to business in a roundabout way.
  "If this is about how much I ate a dinner I'm sorry, but it *was* good food."
  "We have fed you, sheltered you," The Shaheran pushed on through Palandun's
interruption, "guarded you and guided you.  Now it is time to repay.  We have
decided to allow you to help us counter the Alasirian threat."  Here Palandun
found himself on thin ice, he left his sword in his room, so if the kid 
decided to have him summarily executed the was kinda screwed, but he also 
couldn't sign anything like *this* and expect to have it stick.
  "Um, thanks, I think.  Um, I'm afraid that's gonna be a little difficult."
  The Shaheren held up his hand in a 'don't worry' gesture, "We will provide
the ships for transport and contribute to your soldier's pay, never mind
that."
  "That's not what I mean.  Lissen, Shaheran," Here Palandun sat down and looked
into the eyes of the kid ten years his junior, adopting the tone of a friendly
teacher, "The bismanian citizens are the ones who decide  on the laws there,
not some ruler like on this continent, we got rid of him a thousand years ago,
if he ever existed, which I doubt.  That means that if I sign a treaty with you,
I have to get the citizens back there to vote for it, or it's just a sheet of
paper with both our signatures on it.  And, to be perfectly honest, there ain't
no Alasirian threat in Bismania.  The only war we fought with any eastern
power was with Ydoine, a hundred and eighty years ago."
  "Then why don't you quash your citizens, put them under your iron fist."
  "Because that's not my place, and that every fiber of Bismanian culture
resitsts having any one person or group of people gain too much power."
  The Shaheran debated this new information for a while.  Finally he had an
idea:  "Then a trade agreement, every trader between our two countries must
be lisenced by me."
  "That's worse.  That falls under 'misusing your station for personal gain'
and stands as grounds for disenfrancisement.  They'd recall me and send me
back here, a stateless person and refugee criminal, penniless and destitue.
As for you, you could make the declaration unilaterally, spare me the time
and trouble of a trial, and only face an increase of smugglers as each 
Bismanian mercant promptly ignored the order, assuming they didn't stop 
trading with you altogether.  Remember, we don't need the Silk Road."  
Palandun was reffering to the fact that Bismanian merchants could just as
easily get goods directly from the orental realms as Rameshan could, probably
much, much easier.
  "Then what can you do for me?"
  Palandun stood up, pitched a trio of gold coins in the Shaherans lap,
"Here's for the room and board.  The advice was pretty useless, so I won't
pay you for that."  Palandun headed for the door, but stopped as the Shaheran
called to him.
  "If your man really is a slave trader, there's a good chance he might be
part of the Amber Crescent.  If he is, and you find out anything about their
internal workings, telling us will be considered payment in full of your debt."
  "Coolness."  Palandun said, then went to bed.

The next morning found Palandun with two problems: 1) How to find the Amber
Crescent, and 2) What to do when he got there.  It was, oddly enough, the
apparently incompetent Master of Spies who rescued our hero from his 
perdicament, first by producing a busboy who once worked for a prominent
A.C. merchant (until he was beheaded) and gave him a contact place: the Khosh
Pearl, a tavern in one of the seedier parts of town.  After the busboy left,
the two of them hammered out a cover story.
  A good cover story has three key ingredients:
    1) It must be easily remembered.
    2) It must be free from internal conflicts or conflicts with established
facts.
    3) All false statements must be nonverifiable.
After a morning's work they hammered out a good one, A bismanian merchant,
(THis would account for the accent and mode of dress, as well as the fact
that Palandun could not behave like an integrated member of Rameshander
culture) here to find Gunther Toodie to have him run a similar scam in
Bismania, where the 'undesireables' had been piling up for longer than anyone
cared to remember.  Removing the parts of his dress that marked him as a
citizen and changing his appearense slightly (largely by changing the hairstyle
and altering his color-scheme) served as a partial disguise.

Palandun entered the _Khosh Pearl_, looking rather anxious at being in 
such a seedy part of town, it was not an act, as his sword was back at the
Court.  He sat down and caught the bartender's (a little gnomish fellow
with glasses) eye.
  "What can I get for you?" The Barkeep asked.
  "Well, actually, I'm not thirsty, I'm just looking for someone."
  "My name is Sirroch, not Mabell."  The Gnome was refering to the goddes of
Directories and Lists of Names.
  "Pleased to meet you Sirroch, I'm Arband Fana-esse," the name meant
'Out of Bondage Vieled-Name.'  Palandun felt that if anybody actually managed
to translate it from Quenya and spotted him, then it was a sign that the gods
really didn't want him to do this, "I'm a businessman from the big island
of Bismania, and I have a proposition for one of your businessmen."
  "We mostly sell wine here, I'm sure you can make your own."
  "I'll have some of that."  Palandun said, flopping down three fat gold coins
for the glass.  Sirroch poured the wine while mantaining his composure.
Palandun poured it on the floor.
  "Same again?" Sirroch asked.
  "There's hundreds of thousands more where those came from, for the right
person.  Let's not beat about the bush, word of Gunther Toodie has spread
to Bismania.  My...investors want him.  You know where he is."
  "Another Bismanian is searching for him, wouldn't that lead him into
the lion's den?"
  "That other Bismanian is here, and not likely to leave without finding 
reason, and even then he won't go back."
  Sirroch finally broke down.  "I'll send word to him." He said.
  "Wrong.  I'll go to him personally.  My investors are very finicky about
who they let in on the deal.  The less you know, the less chance there is
of the deal falling apart."
  "You can write a letter and send it by messenger."
  "And have it read before it leaves Pashar?  No thanks.  I go myself, and I
bring my own guards.  Where is he."
  "Alamatar, there's some catacombs beneath the city, from the dead empire
of Ahmey.  He's heading up our expidition down there.  I would exercise care
down there, not everything is dead.  Bring some guards."
  "Thanks for the warning."

That evening found Palandun in a ship for Orluccar, where he would pick up
one of the mini-convoys that went to the Silk Road Terminus at Alamatar.