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"The fruit looks rotten."

"This one?"

"You don't need more shoes."

"Then... this one!"

"Emir, this doesn't even look like a real stall. What is he selling?"

"Well I don't know, Mani," Emir retorted with no little sarcasm, "maybe if we went over there and looked, we could find out."

Mouth flattening into an unimpressed line, Mani said, "Don't be sassy. We left Ahsan with Kunze for a reason."

Emir's shoulders dropped with a great sigh. "And we came to the marketplace for a reason!" He turned his wide, liquid eyes on his friend, who tried to protect himself by shying away from that gaze.

"Don't give me that look," he grumbled even as Emir's eyes widened in pain at this rejection.

"Mani..."

"Don't give me that look."

"But Mani..."

"Emir."

"Please, Mani?"

"Fine!" He tossed his hands up, abandoning Emir to his feet. "Just don't touch anythi--" Mani cut off his own words, seeing that Emir had already darted across the street and out of hearing. He followed Emir more warily: this stall looked about as reputable as an off-worlder in a toga, and just as pretentious. Its wares had no theme --- there were little boxes, delicate pouches, fat wooden sculptures, a hair brush, many spices, jars of things Mani hesitated to identify, and plenty of gadgets which, in their bungled state, surely indicated they had been stolen off unsuspecting bikes and ships.

In conclusion, the last place Emir should be allowed. (Excluding that sex shop two rows over, if only because Emir tried to push the buttons on every single toy. And thought they were toys.)

The merchant looked eager enough to greet Emir, flourishing his arms open in greeting. "Salve, salve, floscule! Or...maybe I should say salaam?"

It's almost unnecessary to point out that he had Emir at hello. The boy flushed in surprise, chirping, "Salaam'alaykum! You know Arabic?" The merchant did look like he could fake an Arabian ancestry.

"A little, my friend," the man replied, his gallant tone cancelling out any humility in his words.

"Are you from off-world, then?"

"Of course, of course." Leaning forward, the man said in a stage whisper, "All the best merchants are."

Emir laughed and caught Mani's sleeve, dragging his reluctant friend forward. "He knows Arabic," he informed him unnecessarily and Mani nodded without remark.

"Please, call me Pesan," the man insisted. He gave a little bow with his introduction, earning another of Emir's smiles. "But enough about me, yes? Let's talk about you -- and how I can help you today, my friend, what are you looking to find?"

"Mm, just looking," Emir answered with a cheerful shrug. "We're here on holiday."

"Ah, excellent, perfect. Are you enjoying her magnificence?"

"It is very magna..." Emir admitted with the usual shyness of an off-worlder's first trip to Roma.

Now came Pesan's turn to chuckle at the boy's cleverness and (naturally) compliment: "Your Latin is as lovely as your form, mi floscule." While the boy blushed in appreciation, his companion's unsettled expression plummeted into a full scowl. Taking his cue to back off, Pesan tugged the conversation back around to the situation at hand. "Are you sure there's nothing in particular you're looking for, though?"

"I suppose that depends on what you're selling."

"Savvy on top of clever." Pesan shook his head, laying a dramatic hand over his concerned heart. "You may be too good a customer for my little shop. But, we'll not judge too soon: come, let's see what I can do for you. I sell satisfaction, my friends," he gave a nod Mani's way for good measure, "of whatever needs filling. Wealth, luck, health, love, or maybe something less common..."

"So you sell charms," Mani flatly summarized.

"A few," Pesan said and swept right onward. "But so much more than that, so much more --- is there a charm for reaching inner peace? A charm for finding a long-lost friend? No, my friends, I sell satisfaction of all things worthwhile in life."

During their short debate, Emir had explored the tabletop. He leaned close to smell a dried flower here, observe how this curved mirror warped his reflection, and admire the tiny details woven through a handkerchief. When he looked up, Pesan had expectant eyes on him and Emir floundered into a smile.

"Um, I'm not sure I have very many problems I need satisfied..."

"Everyone has something they desire."

"But not everything desired is needed," Mani returned without pause.

Pesan pursed his lips before setting his hands flat on the table to lean over it. He addressed Emir quietly: "Or perhaps it is your friend who needs a problem fixed more than you do."

"Do you think so?" Emir asked innocently.

"Do you?"

"Maybe..." They both cast sidelong glances at Mani, who frowned equally at the pair. "Mani, what about something for...you know..."

"I don't think I do."

"Well, I mean..." Emir bit his lip. "For --- er, never mind." To Pesan, he smiled in apology. "I think we'd better stay to my problems. Mani's a good man; he knows how to fix his own."

"Fair enough. Then here, a question for only you: when I say 'frustration', what immediately comes to mind?"

Emir said at once, "Training."

"...training?" Not the answer he expected.

"Oh, I'm --- we're, me and Mani, on break from service right now."

"You're a soldier?" Pesan tried not to grin at the thought of this delicate thing flailing a sword around.

"Sort of."

He had encountered stranger puzzles before, and so Pesan blazed ahead without judgment. "And what frustrates you about training?"

"Well, I try my hardest at the exercises... No one can say that I don't. And I pay attention to the lessons, and I'm good at following orders, but." He waited until Pesan encouraged him with a gesture. "I'm still not getting very strong."

"Aha!" Pesan broke into a sunny grin, like a father beaming over his firstborn child. "Perfect, perfect, excellent. I have just the thing for you, my friend, one moment." He ducked under a flap of the tent, disappearing for hardly a second before he returned with a little jug. "This is everything you need, but you must listen very closely to the directions. Five sips every morning -- no more, no less, and at the same time if it's possible. Do this for five days. Five sips, five days. By then, you will feel an energy in your bones like you have never known and behold!" He struck a hero's pose, invisible shield bearing a dragon's blast as his sword plunged through its breast. "What seemed before miracles impossible will be dust beneath your feet."

Emir's eyes had widened so at this performance that by the time Pesan finished, the boy could have rivaled Nisha. "All I have to do is drink it..."

"Five sips. Five days." Pesan set the jug on the table between them and asked, a little breathlessly, "So what will it be, my friend?"

(Mani rolled his eyes so loudly that it stood in for his unspoken complaints.)

"I'll take it."

"Emir -- " Mani started and got fended off by a huff.

"I haven't bought anything yet. I'm getting it."

"You didn't even ask the price."

"...oh." Hardly shamed, Emir looked back to Pesan with a smile. "Um, how much is it? We don't get paid very much, you know."

"Of course -- I'll lower the price for you and your noble cause. Only five denarii."

"Are you saying that because it's five days? A denarius a day is too expensive," Emir pointed out.

"This is not for each day; this will last for your life!"

"And if it doesn't work?"

"It will."

Emir twisted his face in indecision, but eventually shook his head. "Maybe Mani is right."

"Alright, alright, so perhaps four denarii and two sesterces."

"Three even."

"Four flat."

"Three and a sesterius."

"Add two sesterces and it's yours."

"Done." Emir ended the negotiation with a little laugh of excitement --- evidently, he shared his kinsmen's delight in bartering. He withdrew his money pouch, counting out the coins and handed them over, only to receive a little data pad in return.

"One more thing, my friend, a tiny inconvenience... I'll need you to thumbprint this, just so there's no misunderstandings, of course." Pesan indicated where he should set his finger in order to make the contract valid and spent several more minutes running through the contract with Mani in order to assuage his concerns.

That complete, Pesan presented the boy with his potion, wishing him and his company all deserved glory and accomplishment. Emir thanked him greatly and promised to return some time and share his adventures; as soon as the boy was out of sight, Pesan sent up a prayer to whatever gods that that promise should never be fulfilled.

It seemed a week for pretty things, though Tuesday's young man was less soft and delicate, more tall and dashing as the little flower wished he could be. He had the easy stroll of someone who knew Roma's heart, her streets, her sewers, and all the temples in between. A man about town, Pesan supposed that this man was killing time between meetings, or perhaps waiting for a law case to settle or business transaction to finish. He swept away needling merchants like a bird tilts into the breeze, easing over trees and through narrows.

Pesan, honest to the gods, almost admired him too much to try to sell to him.

Ha, almost.

"Ave, iuvene, et valeas!" Pesan called out in rolling Latin. He had banked on both the unusual conservatism and sophistication of the phrase to nab the stranger's attention and it operated impeccably. The man turned, half-smiling in curiosity, and gave Pesan a nod when their eyes met. ((Hail, young man, and cheers to your health!))

"Si valeas," he returned with evident amusement. "I'm not walking into Cato's tent, am I?" ((a truncated greeting, basically, 'so long as you're doing well, I'm good too'. Cato explained above.))

Pesan couldn't resist a smirk. "Only if you deserve such a tongue-lashing. But I'm sure you're an upright citizen -- or," he paused, noting the man's expression, "maybe just an honourable visitor?"

"Both, I think."

"Ah, citizen status but foreign soul..." Pesan rested his elbow on the table, setting his chin in hand with a dreamy look. "Tell me, where does your heart reside?"

"Wherever the pretty girls lead."

Pesan slapped the table with a laugh, agreeing, "Very good, very good, excellent. You won't be needing any of my love assistance, then."

"Is that what you're selling?" he asked with a quick scan over the assembled wares. "More love potions?"

"To those who ask for them." As he did so many thousand times a week, Pesan flowed into his stall's explanation. Today, he propped his Latin up to a more elevated tone, leaving out some of the fanciful bullshit which satiated gullible souls. "You seem a self-made man, but surely there is still some desire something past your resources..."

"Many, in fact," the man answered with an honest smile. "Far too many, and most of them are married. Though." A frown marred his pleasant face, drawing his eyebrows down in what looked like guilt. "I did have a little slip last night."

"Hopefully not with her husband present."

A quick grin flashed between frowns. "No, no, I keep away from the matrons here; they know my type too well. I was over in Suburra." ((rome's red-light district))

"Ah." Pesan's knowing nod said more than his voice ever could.

"And, well... There was a woman, and it all went fine. Too fine, I think -- from what I can remember -- and I woke up to a slave delivering me a note."

"From her?"

The man nodded.

"...how did she afford..."

"Exactly."

The two men shared the sense of alarm as Pesan worked through the various implications of this. "Was she at least pretty?"

He shrugged. "I'm sure she was, but that's not the point. Pretty or plain, I'm not looking for a wife."

"A wife? She didn't think -- "

"Apparently she does." The man's frown turned stormy and he checked over his shoulder, just in case. "I don't know how she got a marriage proposal out of paid sex, but you know women - they can twist any pebble into an Olympus."

"My friend," Pesan said, and for once he meant the sympathy implied in it, "I am so sorry. But on the bright side!" The glimpse of sympathy vanished as he lapsed back into the energy of a merchant. "I have just the thing for you. Not a love potion, but anti-love."

"Shouldn't you mean a hate potion?"

"More of apathy," Pesan assured him. "Best for bad break-ups, you know, when one side can't quit. I've had people both in your situation and in hers buy this from me --- works for anyone who wants to cast a desire from their heart."

The stranger hummed his consideration. "And I'm sure those desperate souls were grateful enough to pay your price."

"You wound me," Pesan chided. "Of course they were, because it is such a reasonable price that no man would refuse it."

"Surprise me," he said dryly.

"Only three denarii."

The man laughed and waved his hand, already prepared to turn away.

"My friend, my friend, now, wait a moment --- perhaps you're not appreciating the delicacy of your situation! What if she tries to follow you off-planet, hm? Steal aboard your ship?" Though he couldn't be sure, Pesan was willing to bet this fellow had a ship of his own, or two.

"She doesn't know which ship is mine," he said, confirming Pesan's guess even as he rejected the logic.

"Women are crafty, and prostitutes even more resourceful."

"If she's silly enough to get enamored of me in one night -- "

"Emotion and intelligence have no correlation! And what of the next time you return to Rome?" His tone rose in volume and vigor, as if lashing a great mob into action. "Do you think she won't remember, or have spread the word of your infidelity through all Suburra? What happens then when you try for a relaxing night?"

This finally prodded the stranger into an uneasy state. With a sigh, he said, "I'll indulge you, but not for that kind of money. I'm not spending more on this than I did on her."

"Name the amount," Pesan declared.

"Three sesterces."

He harrumphed and slashed his hand through the air. "Impossible. You would be riddled with warts by now if you slept with those kind of women."

Leaning close, the man smirked and said, "As a loyal customer, I receive discount price."

"...this round is yours, my friend," Pesan had to concede with a rueful smile. "Well played indeed."

His smirk broadened. "You should know better than to haggle with a citizen, my friend."

"Ch, ch, enough lip from you, or I will bring out a speech of Cato's instead of this potion." Despite his threat, Pesan presented a slim bottle to the man. It had quite the aesthetic appeal, elegantly curved and an amber vivid enough to seem to glow. "You are robbing me, you know that --- it is three times the price you are giving me to buy such a delicate thing --- "

"Of course, I'm sure," the man said without pity, flipping Pesan a few coins. "You'll have to pass on my apologies to your ailing grandmother, virtuous mother, starving children, and sweet kittens."

In just as flippant a tone, Pesan returned, "May your conscience sting you worse than any disease those women give. Ah, but there is one more thing..." After he had compelled the man to stamp his contract, they shook hands and exchanged genial smiles, leaving Pesan with an unusually fulfilling end to a transaction.

But the next day, this pattern of lovely customers slammed headfirst into a tetraconcrete wall and promptly blacked out.

Nisha had just returned with an armful of goods, mostly empty containers snooped from recycling plants, to be filled with any variety of fake wares. She didn't mind this work, Pesan had found, because it was a definite step away from real theft. Inspecting a few vials, he murmured, "We'll have to sanitize these. Maybe paint a few. They look plain, don't you think?"

"I don't mind painting," Nisha answered with happy ambivalence. "But they definitely need washing."

He hummed at her, though whether in agreement or disregard, one couldn't be sure. Either way, his prowl through the containers was cut short: someone's hand struck the middle of Pesan's table and a voice ragged with desperation demanded to know if he had any crown.

Now for all Pesan professed to deal in satisfaction, there was one area from which he kept his distance. The drug market had too many players already, and far too many puppeteers on top of them. He had no interest in owing debts and protection fees to one of the many dealers. As elsewhere in the Empire, depth had taken a firm hold of Roma, competing with a few others for the most popular drug.

But along with depth had come its acclaimed antidote -- crown -- a supplemental and non-addictive substance that supposedly helped ease the need for depth. And the price of crown was climbing steadily, as people found their account balances dropping just as steadily due to depth.

Pesan found himself caught in a much worse spot than yesterday's customer had put him, for the fellow today was obviously an addict. He had the reduced pupils, the sunken bags beneath his trembling eyes, the hollowness and frantic intemperance of someone deprived, for whatever reason, of depth. Though the hollow, animalistic need was arguably the most disturbing part of withdrawal, Pesan was more concerned with the other side: the inability to restrain emotions.

There were plenty of reports in the city of arson and slaughter by addicts not given their fill. Rage was the most common symptom, usually homicidal, but enough fell to depression and suicide. The young man in front of him looked inclined to either (or both), his mind cut through with the despair of a shallow world.

"I need it."

"My friend," Pesan intoned, low and quick but without the usual enthusiasm, "I'm afraid you have found the wrong stall -- "

"I was tol' you sold it," the man growled, Latin chopped up by a foreign accent.

"It must be one nearby -- "

"He remembers you sellin' it."

"Then he's mistaking me for another; I promise you, I don't deal with any -- "

"Ciach ort," the man swore in a language Pesan didn't have time to recognize. "You fockin' sell it, and I fockin' need it. Now."

Nisha had emerged from the back of the tent, arms folded and a cool eye on this customer. He hadn't raised a hand yet, but if he so much as feinted for a weapon, she'd be all over it. She added to Pesan's protestations, "We don't sell that here. It's too dangerous."

"Go mbeire an diabhal leis thú," he spat out and then closed his eyes, forcing himself to take a shaky breath. When he reopened them, his voice was steadier, though his Latin was low and heavily accented. "Eugene tol' me to c'mere, so I am. Gi' me the crown, then; I'll pay yer price."

In a stroke of not-quite-brilliance, and just as Nisha unfolded her arms, Pesan put up his hands in surrender. "Alright, alright. We have very little and it's old, so it may not be very potent."

"Jest get it."

"Alright, my friend," Pesan said humbly. "Let me find it for you." He retreated with careful steps, keeping an eye on the man, and crouched down to rummage through what bottles he did have. Having never taken depth nor needed crown, he had no idea what would best approximate it: he had seen crown sold, though, and found something close enough in colour and viscosity.

"Here we are." He offered the bottle out slowly, like offering meat to a starving beast. The man's face drew into a frown at the strange bottle, but if it was crown, he'd take it regardless of its container.

"How much?"

"Only a denarius. I don't want to sell drugs," he insisted. "I don't want to make a profit from this -- " But his explanation fell on flat ears. The man had already found four grubby sesterces and dropped them on the table. Grabbing the bottle, he shoved it under his tunic, and before Pesan could even remember the contract, the man had taken off.

"...well," he sighed with a look at Nisha. "Maybe we should move our stall for tomorrow's sales."

"You could've let me handle him."

He waved a hand. "We don't need trouble with depth, glossy girl, not the drug, not its users, no one. As if the rods didn't come around often enough." Pesan didn't need to give them any further reason to investigate his dealings, never mind such a serious accusation as that.

Nisha gave in with a reluctant nod; after all, she trusted Pesan to know his business in the city. But, "What did you give him? We don't have any crown, do we?"

"Not a drop."

"So -- "

With a smile as curved as it was nervous, Pesan replied, "Not the slightest idea.

The universe being as it was, of course there came a hitch in Pesan's plan. Just as he had finished closing up shop, a small fellow came skittering over -- absolutely an offworlder, possibly a human-alien mix from the strange slope of his back and elliptical eyes. Nisha moved to fend him off, but he explained quickly that he had come from one of Pesan's suppliers. They had received a shipment this morning and spent the day organizing it: he wanted Pesan and Nisha at the stall early, early the next morning so that the exchange of goods would go unnoticed by the other merchants.

Pesan had to agree --- and after all, the addict probably couldn't find his way back here --- and so opened shop the next morning as usual. He kept Nisha occupied in the back, sorting through the new things, mostly herbs, roots, and stalks, all with professed medicinal powers.

"Here's a batch," she said, ducking up front, her arms crowded with long ruddy stems. She deposited those on the table in little bundles of three, along with a label along the bottom declaring their purpose.

Leaning over, Pesan murmured her description out loud, "For him and her, or her and her, or him and him... This Cherloxian marvel fires up everyone's desires and lasts the whole night. Guaranteed pleasure for eight+ hours." He pursed his lips, considering it as Nisha anxiously watched for approval. "Well done."

She bloomed into a smile. "Thanks! These always sell fast, so it's not like we even need to advertise much..."

"I love it anyway," he said, rubbing her shoulder to prove his sincerity. "It's excellent, very good work -- what would I do without you, my treasure?"

"Probably starve," Nisha chirped, her smile wide. "But I was thinking, for the Mandul root, that w-- never mind, customers." With a happy giggle, she scooted away, leaving Pesan to face a curious pair. More offworlders, absolutely, and he thought he recognized the woman's fashion but the planet's name didn't come to mind. She had on something simple and flowing, though it allowed bare arms and slits down the skirt for a full view of her very fine legs. Her tanned skin was offset by bright white hair, obviously natural but no less striking.

The girl had flair. A heavy stone rested on her throat which caught the glinting sun and her fingers held shining rings aplenty, but the most arresting was her hair. As she turned to look at something, Pesan realized that she had dyed the ends of her snowy hair --- in every imaginable colour, and to dazzling effect.

When she flashed a grin at him, honest to everything, he could not think up a clever greeting. He had to settle on a slightly breathless, "Good afternoon to you, domina," and hope for the best.

"Hello yourself," she answered in breezy Latin. Her soft accent only made the language more pleasant, Pesan thought with a smile, unconsciously leaning forward over the table.

And then he remembered that it was customers. Or rather, was reminded, forcibly. Her companion growled into the picture with a guttural remark to his girl: though Pesan didn't know the language, he did know that the meaning wasn't nice.

The man with her was big, dark, and mean.

Pesan laughed faintly and zipped right back from the table, leaving plenty of space between himself and the happy couple.

But the woman shrugged off the man's comment, pointing to a few baubles on the table and chattering about them in her native tongue. Already weighted down with several bags (of her purchases, Pesan assumed), the man looked severely uninterested.

"These pearls?" she asked, pointing a couple out.

"You have a remarkable eye for jewelry," Pesan began, but immediately switched tracks when he saw the big man's muscles tighten. "Yes, pearls, absolutely. From the waves of distant Eoa. Very pretty place, perfect for a honeymoon, you know," he added with a weak smile at the man.

He didn't smile back.

"Um, but yes, very fine quality pearls, I don't know if you've been to Eoa before --- "

"Yeah." She quirked him another smile. "Cute place. Too empty for me."

"City girl?"

"Something like that." She moved to pick one of the pearls up and Pesan cleared his throat emphatically. "No touching policy?"

"Something like that."

"Huh." With a knowing grin, the girl passed over the so-called pearls. It had been awhile since her last drop into Eoa, but she didn't remember any pearls at any time. Skimming over his wares, she came to the newest product and smirked. "Oh, kore wo mite," she called to the man, "mite yo. Okashii, ne?" ((Oh, look at this, look here. Funny, huh?))

With a frown, he looked over at the love stems. "Omowanai." ((I don't think so. =/))

"Tch, kare wa naze ga cho tsumannai?" she complained. "Kaou to omotteiru. How much are these?" ((Tch, why are you such a buzzkill? I think we should buy it.))

Following her lead in ignoring the man's discontented growls, Pesan said, "For a bundle of three, a denarius. But," he jumped in before she could protest, "you only need a quarter of a stalk per person."

"For one night?"

"Precisely. So, that's -- "

"Ruiko's a pretty big guy," she contended with a glance at her partner. "I think he'd need more than a quarter."

"Well, it -- " Before Pesan could even try, the man butted in with a low growl.

"I don't need any'a that s**t." Despite his brutish appearance, his Latin sounded reasonably decent.

"Come on, it'd be fun to try it out."

"What?" He turned on her, dark-faced. "You unhappy with what we've got?"

"I didn't say that." She rubbed his arm and kept up a smile, making sure her voice was good-natured and appeasing. "It's always fun to try new things, right?"

"You think I can't do eight hours on my own?"

"Baby, I think you can do whatever you want with me." She punctuated that with a kiss on his cheek, and finally her attempts at mollifying him had some effect.

Grumbling instead of growling now, he repeated, "I don't want it anyway."

"Maybe," Pesan tried, edging into the conversation, "only the domina could here take it and see if she likes it. No need for both of you to do so, if you don't want." Piling his smile on top of hers, they appealed to him jointly.

The man eyed the stalks with a narrowed gaze and looked on the verge of agreement before something changed his mind. "Nope."

"Why not," she asked, dropping the pretense of a good mood. "I'll buy it with my own money."

"Don't ******** buy that. I don't want to be ******** you with some quack's drugs running through your blood."

"Oh, really?" As she turned on him, Pesan took a quiet step back and murmured Nisha's name. "And since when have you given a s**t about what's in someone's blood?"

The pair slipped back into their own language to properly argue, voices raising and (more alarmingly) hands too. Nisha popped out from the back and waved off Pesan's explanation: the problem was pretty obvious. Nisha made her way around the booth as the man threw down the bags to grab one of the woman's arms and clench it tight. She shut up quick after that, the threatened violence subduing her as easily as it had Pesan.

Nisha cleared her throat. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to move along."

The hulk of man turned on Nisha, dragging his girl along unwillingly. "What'd you say?"

"I'm going to have to ask you to move. You're blocking the stall."

"We'll move," the woman answered quietly. "He's just tired from being out all day. Souda? Ikou. Ruiko." She drew her arm back a little, pulling him in the right direction. "Ikou, onegaishimasu. We'll come back tomorrow," she promised Pesan. ((Right? Let's go. // Let's go, please.))

He put on a smile for that, although all things considered, he could do without handling them again. "Then...have a good day, yes, and please return whenever you..." They had already turned their backs on him and his words, leaving Pesan to sigh and look at Nisha.

She nodded. "This is not good."

"What did we do to upset the gods, hm?" He glanced upward, as if the cloth covering of his stall might reveal a few secrets. "Too many angry ones lately."

"It's getting hot," Nisha pointed out, leaning against the stall with crossed arms. "Everyone gets heated up when it's..." She realized her unintentional pun a moment too late.

Smirking, Pesan finished for her, "When it's too hot?"

She smacked him with a bundle of love stalks.

What happened the next day was no one's fault, and especially not Pesan's. It began with the blooming of a little flower -- a familiar flower, one whose loveliness had graced his stall before. And one whose loveliness he had never wanted to see again.

But with a hopeful laugh, Pesan clapped his hands together in greeting. "Floscule! Hello again, my friend, and well met." His smile fell on deaf eyes, for the little flower was frowning almost as much as his tall friend. "Is something wrong?"

Emir said, with the bluntness of a wronged child, "It didn't work."

"Not a worry," Pesan said with a sweep of his hand. "Don't be concerned at all. I said five days, didn't I?"

"But it should be doing something by now..."

"No, no." He widened his smile, with no little effort, trying to play off of the boy's amicable nature. "That is why you must never skip a drink, and take it for precisely five days, or else -- "

"He wants his money back," Mani interrupted.

Pesan's smile froze. "I am afraid there are no refunds possible."

"He wants his money back."

"Well," Pesan gave an opulent shrug. "I think you should let him speak for himself, hm? And even if there was an issue," he continued quickly, "you have already signed the contract and agreed to no refunds. That was very clear."

"What's not clear," Mani said, "is the legality of that contract. What's your merchant registration number?"

"Ah-ha, um, 4-1-... It's 4-"

Mani stonefaced. "They begin with a letter."

Pesan tapped his fingers together. "Oh. Do they?"

"You aren't registered with the Roman market, which means legally your stall has no right to be here -- which means," he raised his voice over Pesan's objection, "that your contract is not binding under any Roman legislation nor protected in its courts."

By his side, Emir was beaming, excited enough that he had covered his mouth with a hand to keep any giggles in. Apparently this sort of thing happened often enough for Emir to be unconcered by it and rarely enough for it to be a fun spectacle.

"So." Mani stopped and Pesan, for once, did not fill the silence. "He wants his money back."

Mani's heroics were completely ruined by a squawk from Emir as the boy got jostled sideways. His spot was filled by the hulk of bad attitude from yesterday --- but he was all lazy smiles and slimy arrogance now, an arm tight around his girl and his other hand laid flat on the table. He said, "We'll be taking those sticks now."

"Um, excuse me," Emir piped up, half-crushed into Mani.

Barely registering the little sound, Ruiko glanced down at him.

"We're trying to work something out here, and you're going to have to wait."

The man snorted, replying, "******** off, kid. Hey, merchant -- gimme three of these things."

"Excuse me!" Emir repeated, straightening up; simultaneously, Pesan was trying to say, "Certainly, but one minute, let me call my assistant, if you don't -- " and Mani chimed in with Emir's complaints, to which Ruiko repeated his earlier expletive, Pesan calling out Nisha's name in the jumble of voices.

And then a very strange and stupid thing happened, which Pesan definitely refuses to claim any responsibility for whatsoever. Feeling like a brave bunny that day, Emir tried to push the man out of his spot. Of course Ruiko didn't bother to resist, because the little flower was not even half his weight, and this made it all the more baffling when the man staggered backwards, almost tripping over his own feet in the process.

He looked at the boy. Emir, with the widest eyes, looked at his own hands, and then to Mani. "The potion worked!"

"Oh, fantastic!" Mani quipped. "I do not think this is the time for celebration, Emir -- " -- considering that Ruiko had let go of his girl to roll up his sleeves and line up with the boys like a bull ready to charge.

On the other side of the stall, Nisha and Pesan exchanged harried mutters:

"What did you do?"

"Nothing! The boy's strength potion must have -- "

"And why are they back here?"

"No idea, but you should -- "

"I'm on it." Cutting to the chase, Nisha hoisted straight over the stall, landing on her feet between the Arabs and the big fellow. "Really? Picking on kids, big boy?" She tutted at him, hands on her hips.

Leering down at her, Ruiko asked, "And what the ******** are you going to do about it, girly?"

She smiled bright, and dropped her hands to whirl and slam a foot into his stomach. He grunted and dropped back a step, but recovered all too quickly. Behind her, Mani stepped up to offer his assistance --- as Pesan slunk deeper into the stall, quietly pulling items off the display and stuffing them in bags.

He trusted Nisha to handle the brute up front, and so had his head down and back turned when someone's hand snagged the back of his robe. He hardly had time to murmur a prayer before the hand yanked him around and he came face to face with trembling eyes.

"Oh no," Pesan sighed, head dropping back in a despairing glance at the heavens. "Please don't say you've come to kill me -- I've had a very stressful day."

"Is cuma liom sa diabhal," the depth-addict spat at him. "That you sold you me -- t'wasn't crown."

"Well..." He smiled sadly, expression pulling to one side. "No. It wasn't." The addict paused, obviously not expecting a confession. But Pesan was never stubborn enough to get things beaten out of him, and so he continued in humble earnestness, "I was not lying that day. We sell no depth, nor crown, nor any drugs. And I should add that it's a very admirable thing, your trying to quit."

"Shut yer mouth," the man snapped, attention switching to the fight upfront as someone's body slammed into the stall, rocking the table. "The fock?"

And just then, one good thing finally happened. Over the addict's shoulder, Pesan sighted another fellow making a rash beeline for the stall --- his recent friend, the Roman citizen and lady's man! Eyes brightening, Pesan perked up and tried to catch the young man's attention with a subtle gesture: he succeeded in flapping his hand ridiculously and almost hitting the addict in the face.

"The fock are you doing?" he growled, catching the front of his robes now, near the neck.

"No, no, sorry -- just behind you, there's -- my friend!" Pesan gave up all delicacy. "Over here!"

The young man slowed as he reached the stall, trying to take in the whole hullabaloo at once. He must have something urgent, for despite the blood being spilled out front, he stalked right forward and demanded that the addict unhand this man. The addict told him in no unclear Latin that he oughta step off or he wouldn't have a mouth to speak from no more.

Pesan quailed. "Maybe...everyone should take a breath... and we can all sort this out...friendly-like."

"Or maybe," the young man said stiffly, cold eyes on the addict, "I can have a fleet of rods here for assault and substance abuse." The addict considered this for a second and then shoved Pesan away, letting go of his robe and stepping back. Durant smiled slightly and added, "Actually, that threat was empty. The rods," he said with a glance over his shoulder, "are already here."

Indeed, among the crowd gathered to watch the fight, numerous policemen had appeared. Some tried to disperse or at least restrain the audience, while a few approached the fight. Visibly tensing, the addict swore and moved further back into the tent's folds as his gaze darted up and down the street for an escape route.

"You brought rods down on my tent?" Pesan hissed at his semi-savior, to which the young man made a face.

"Somewhat. Not quite." He glanced over his shoulder again, explaining quickly, "Whatever you gave me was not apathy-inducing; I was right to call it a hate charm." He turned back to Pesan, baring one arm to show him a great and mottled bruise down the length of it. "She did this."

"The woman who wanted to marry you?"

"The same."

"So the rods are here for -- ?"

"Her, me, regardless," he said in a huff, "I need something to negate that last one."

"Look at my stall!" Pesan threw a hand toward the tottering table, scattered boxes, and clumsily-stuffed bags. "Does it look like I can help you today?"

"Well -- "

A crackle of static, then a magnified voice spoke over a speaker, obviously the commander ordering the crowd to disperse and return home. In the meantime, Pesan looked at Durant and murmured, "Help me pack these things and we'll find whatever you need."

"Done." The two men scrambled to heap up armfuls of goods, Pesan shouting his assistant's name. The stall's table had since been flipped fully over, and Nisha shoved that out of the way to answer his call.

"We are leaving!"

"And not too soon," Nisha panted, wiping blood from her mouth. She yanked a few bags out of Pesan's arms, tucking them under her own. "As if this could get any worse," she breathed out, and both men winced.

"Why would you say -- " "You should not have said -- "

And then, to answer her prayer, the neighboring stall exploded into flames. The three were thrown sideways, their falls hardly cushioned by the bags of glass and hard stalks they carried. In the confusion, Pesan caught a glimpse of the addict shooting through the crowd and ducking into a backstreet, well out of the rods' reach. And good riddance, he thought, before Nisha dug her nails into Pesan's ear and dragged the man up.

"We have to go! Come on!"

Hacking through the smoke, Pesan hurried after her with the young man close behind. He couldn't see any of the other customers past the blaze, only glints of rods and the panicking crowd.

"I'm sure they're fine," Nisha said between short breaths, jogging along beside him.

"Oh!" He smiled, despite the situation. "I'm sure they are too." What a nice girl, always expecting the best of him. He had been checking only to be sure that not a single soul followed them.