Tahara threaded through the crowded market, her precious bundle held closely to her chest. A flood of bright colors assailed her, merchants hawking their wares and bargaining with buyers.

At the wooden stalls filling the area, one could buy everything from fresh fruit to glass ornaments guaranteed to bring good luck. Small carts contained fresh fish and vegetables, while, more permanent structures held armor and weapons. Large, three story buildings framed the market, housing homes, bookstores, butchers, and other larger establishments. Easily seen members of the Sentinels wandered through the crowd in small pockets of open space, respect doing what shouts and threats could not. They walked slowly but purposefully, on the lookout for thieving, arguments, or more dangerous threats to the economic center of the great city. As one passed her, Tahara shrunk away, melting into the crowd with practiced ease. So much was riding on this bargain…

Smiling to herself, she strode purposefully past the stalls and yelling shopkeepers. Or at least she tried to, until a merchant reached out and grabbed the sleeve of her loose shirt, trying to direct her attention to a cart filled with silver necklaces and rings. “Sun and darkness!” she snapped. “I have work to do. Get off before I set the Sentinels on you, you… Leaving the sentence perhaps better unfinished, she tore away and stalked of, promising herself once more to get out of the city when she could. Maybe this deal would give her enough to make a new start. Maybe…

Tahara took nearly twenty minutes getting through the press of bodies, but eventually found a derelict side alley that took her closer to her ultimate destination. From there, the going was swift, and few moments later she stepped out of the shadows into a smallish square, sheltered from the hustle and bustle that made up the city. In the center, a fountain rose out of blue marble, featuring a guild master in the midst of a spell. Out of his hands, a stream of clear water fell into the large basin at the bottom. As Tahra passed, she caught a glimpse of herself- a tall, thin girl, about sixteen, with shoulder length black hair, almost bluish, framing a solemn, azure eyed face. She lingered for a moment, then mentally berated herself- this is no time for gazing at my reflection like some sighing street dancer!- then looked around the square, searching for her contact. Around the square, several races mingled, doing business with one another. In one corner, a stocky, long bearded man sold swords and daggers, each inlaid with runes or boasting some ornamented features. A woman in a black dress stood talking quietly to a tall human, and several guildsman clustered around in a tight circle, discussing the mysteries of the stars and the rotation of the world. Nowhere, however, was the particular… person… she was looking for. Tahara gave a sigh, and sat down on a bench to wait.

It was more then thirty sunads until the figure of a dirty, short man dressed in ragged black clothes appeared in the frame of one of the alleyways. Motioning her over, he turned away and walked along the street without waiting to see if she followed.

She followed the man down the alleyway for a few paces. Abruptly, he spun and grabbed her by the front of the shirt. Peering intently into at her, he brought his grubby face close to hers. Ignoring his bad breath, she brought out the bag. “Is that it?” he grumbled, letting her go. “You know I need more then that.” “It’s all there is, Goral,” she replied curtly. “Do you want it or not?”

Snatching the small cloth bag out of her hands, he fumbled the top open, his glazed eyes momentarily coming into sharp focus. Tipping the sack into one hand, he allowed a fine stream of blue powder to run out. Sighing, he carefully tipped the powder back in, spilling much of it, and clumsily re- did the draw string. He turned and started to walk away.

Behind him, Tahara shook her head in contempt. “If you want more…” Goral spat on the ground. Turning around halfway, he tossed a single corroded coin in the slime on the floor of the alleyway and stumbled off.

Tahara cursed and bent down to retrieve the money. She picked it up, wiped off the slime on her pants, only to see that it was a single copper, about one hundredth of the worth of that much drunksalt was worth. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw her hopes of leaving the city fade with Gorals rapidly receding silhouette. She wanted to cry. She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t. She had to get out of the city. She had to, or she would go crazy! Somehow... well, I’ll would just have to make more. Quickly, she composed herself and headed home, face grim. No one tried to sell her anything on her way back.

Home was a small one room niche shoved against the wall bordering Mercantile- not really a house, but it was big enough to live in, and it was all she needed. The house’s white walls, about a length on the side facing the street and the wall and twice that on the two others, were in need of painting, but though the thatch roof leaked, the wood was sturdy, which was more then many of the cities less fortunate inhabitants could say. Edgedwellers, cityspeak for the lower classes of residents, tended not to be able to afford the space of a small home in Mercentil. Even Tahara only paid for the tiny place with the money from Goral and other addicts like him. In Mercentil, all the turning gears were layered with money, as her mother had said, and without the drunksalt she could make, she would have been caught in those cruelly meshing gears long ago.

And since she was out of salt- darkness take that fool drunk- it was time to make some more. Carefully, she removed a small leather pouch from by the bed, the rooms sole furniture, and spilled some of the white salt into her left hand. The salt she now held was legal and safe to have, and no Sentinel would question her for having it, though the fine quality might seem incongruous with her little wealth. What she was about to do, though, would make drunksalt, and that was illegal. And punishable by years in prison. Despite the money based life in Mercentil, drunksalt was illegal for one reason-- addicts were bad for business. Tahara smiled to herself. The fool merchants would sell their own noses for a profit.

Concentrating on the salt in her hand, she focused in a way she couldn’t explain, calling back a memory. Once, when she was little, her mother had taken her to the ocean. As she stood at the edge of the waves, Tahara had felt inexplicably at home. She had wanted to stay forever, and her mother had allowed her to remain the entire day playing in the surf. It was the best day of her life. She focused on the memory of that water… focused… focused… and suddenly, she gasped as the feeling of the water all around came back to her as strongly as it had on the day she went to the ocean. She poured that feeling of water into the salt in her hand, and it glimmered a vivid blue for a moment. Then, most of the blue faded out, taking her euphoria with it, and leaving her strangely tired. It was done.

Even when she knew what to expect, it always came as a shock. Forcing suddenly numb fingers to pour the salt into the sack, she painstakingly poured the new drunksalt back into the leather satchel. Stumbling to the bed, she tucked the precious bundle under her pillow and fell instantly asleep.