Crisis or Opportunity? (2)
Damascus's dawn air was quite chilly. The sweat soaking his back from cold sweats had dried crisp by the time he arrived at Souk Wadi Barada, well before the sun rose.
"Y-you're back?"
Peeking his head through the door of his home sweet home office, he scanned the room like a man who'd just finished overtime or a late-night feast and was sneaking in past his wife's watchful eye.
Ah, Father. I finally get it...
As memories surfaced of his dad coming home sheepishly, lacking any boldness, the office door creaked open carefully.
Was she waiting for him? Miriam, with dark circles under her eyes like she hadn't slept a wink, lay slumped over his desk.
Hearing the noise, she lifted her head. Spotting him peeking through the open door, she bolted toward him with astonishing speed—where did that energy come from after a sleepless night?
Rushing up and plastering herself against him, Miriam inspected him from neck to face without a care for her own disheveled state.
Only after confirming his unharmed face and bright expression did she let out a deep sigh of relief.
The problem was, that relief quickly turned into a barrage of slaps on his back.
"Ow! You damn jerk..."
After several smacks, her anger seemed overshadowed by worry and heartache, her voice growing hoarse.
"G-good... I was so worried..."
Her eyes welled up like she might burst into tears any second, her words slurring.
He playfully tugged her tear-streaked cheeks with light smack-smack sounds, then flicked her nose bridge.
"Come on, wipe those tears. I've got something amazing to show you."
He pulled out the bundle of parchments, still bearing the fresh imprint of the malik's seal, and tossed them onto the desk.
"What's... this?"
"Land transfer deed stamped by Duqaq. Solves our secret factory site headache—totally legit now. Oh, and I snagged an order for aerial cavalry weapons too! By the way, they fronted 200,000 dirhams as startup cash to get production rolling ASAP... yeah, received it."
Flipping through the other documents, Miriam completely short-circuited.
He couldn't just watch her glitch out forever, so before her brain reboot, he spilled the whole tale with Duqaq in a rapid-fire rundown: the supplemental Crusaders' status, the malik's worries, new weapon specs, and plans for the upcoming arms factory.
"So... the malik didn't catch on to our deal—he actually summoned you to make weapons against the Crusaders?"
"Spot on."
"And you used the 'forge complex too cramped' excuse to snag land and budget from the malik?"
"Yup, nailed it. Sharp as ever, Miriam."
He gave her a thumbs-up for her quick wits.
Of course, fully grasping it, she froze again and clutched her forehead... but hey, good was good.
Build the factory with the malik's legit funds and land, then secretly divert risky arbalests via a front man. Easy.
But to Miriam, the voice of reason, his plan screamed "reason men die young."
She steadied her breath, then unleashed a torrent of scolding without pause.
"Are you insane? Supplying weapons to an enemy delegation wasn't enough—you're arming the malik's aerial cavalry too... from the same factory? That's straight-up crazy!"
Her rare barrage of "you're crazy" made sense—objectively, it was nuts. If caught, it'd be more than a light prison stint.
But since 999 dumped him in this era, to play the game as intended and scale up, this was barely scratching the surface.
How else to clear quests and get home? He couldn't end up a hunched geezer in a nursing home bed.
To get his desired outcome, half-measures wouldn't cut it. He needed god-tier tightrope walking—straddling both sides with bilateral arms deals—to glimpse the path home.
"Devil? Harsh. I just offered the best solu... er, solutions for both sides."
Grumbling, he flashed a grin.
"Anyway, spit it out now if you've got stuff to say. Later, I'll be too swamped. Officials come tomorrow with formal land transfer docs—we need that front man we talked about, pronto."
"Ugh..."
Ignoring Miriam's lingering glare, he grabbed his outer robe and hurried out.
Duqaq's glaive assembly line was rushing day by day; the arbalest line for Guillaume needed clear, total separation. Even surprise audits required a patsy (total sucker) to mask his face now.
A few hours later, as the sun climbed midday high.
Baraka, Hamza, and Miriam hustled through the souks despite the heat.
Still searching meant hours scouring major markets yielded zilch.
They'd combed the central silk-and-spice zone, south, north, east—no sign of Radhanites.
Were they really that rare?
Finally, gulping cool drinks from a street vendor, they hit the last bastion: the west side.
"Forge master, even you can't think talent hides in this slum? Just day-laborer trash scraping by—no real merchants."
Hamza's grumble drew a sigh from Baraka too. He hadn't expected such a drought!
And Hamza, running a solid east-side shop, had zero reason to slum it in these dingy, stinking alleys—except Baraka's guide request, dragging him and Miriam along since dawn.
They'd banked on the old merchant's local network, but it underdelivered.
If useful, they'd have nabbed someone ages ago—not wasted hours.
"Still, check every corner. No decent proxy today, and things get messy."
Hamza, clueless on details, tsked but led into the narrow alleys cluttered with stalls and carts.
Away from desert sun, mold and cheap olive oil assaulted the nose under sagging awnings.
Then—
"Are you blind idiots?! Merchants botching math and taking losses?! Get outta here!"
A bellow erupted from a shabby tent corner. Even this dead-end slum had one spirited soul.
Approaching, they saw a ragged, balding man—patchy hair regrettably thin—yelling at older folks, flipping an empty stall. Impressive scene.
Initially cowed by his bitter tirade (their math error), they stiffened as it dragged on.
"My great-great-grandpa hauled with trash like you across Mediterranean and East! Rather shovel camel dung than work with math-dumbasses!"
Enraged, two burly ones grabbed his collar, yanking him up.
Hamza tsked at the sight.
"Tch, Yakob's at it again—that lunatic. Brag about legendary great-great-grandpa, Silk Road Radhanite boss... ages after Radhanites faded? Timelines don't match, yet daily BS. Doesn't even look Jewish..."
Found my patsy. The sucker I've been hunting.
With rhythmic glee, Baraka charged in.
"Hey, you...!"
"Baraka... again!"
Hamza and Miriam called from behind, but he didn't stop.
The furious duo gripped the dangling man's collar, fists raised.
"You rat—big mouth! I'll tenderize that tongue today!"
"Hit me, morons! Soften my tongue, will your thick skulls un-dumb? That botched cash? No matter what... it'll never come back. Never!"
Hanging mid-air, he defied to the end—that spirit screamed natural-born money grubber.
No time for him to get beat into recovery; Baraka snatched the punch arm.
"Hey, big bros. Cool it there."
"Wh-who're you?!"
The man shook free, but daily hammer-swings and heavy Sirion hauls built blacksmith grip no alley punk could break.
Squeezing gently, Baraka smiled sweetly.
"Hot day—don't rage, or you'll bald like that guy."
"Eek...!"
He'd shooed Yakob verbally, but the veiled threat landed; before lids blew, they cautiously dropped him.
Hmm, merchants—quick on the uptake, huh?
Miriam dashed up, smacking his back.
"You're crazy? Pulling a mace like that makes you look insane!"
Her natural nagging. Glancing down, he realized his hand gripped the flanged mace unconsciously.
"Oh, crap. That's why they listened?"
Turning, the others eyed him warily. Mood soured—decent instincts? Nah, just cowards. Disappointing.
His artisans would've stubbornly defended truth, lips curled or not. So spineless?
Hamza approached, cold-eyed.
"Even so, waving an iron club? Normal folks duck first, argue later..."
"Ah..."
A short groan—he lamented his barbarization in this savage medieval world!
Unseen mental corrosion nearly sparked a freakout, but reason clamped it down. Look too crazy otherwise. Thanks, sanity...!
Fleeting fugitives' backs vanished—fine. But bigger issue: bald Yakob fleeing too?
Where you going!
Talent escaping! No mace holster, Baraka bolted. Can't let talent slip.
How to put this?
Dawn heroics—tightrope genius snagging land and contracts from the malik—had her worried yet impressed.
Midday sun, heatstroke? Watching her love chase merchants mace-in-hand: worry for him or their lives? Unclear.
"W-wait! Baraka! Stop!"
Chasing her dad's pace, she ran hard—but Baraka was freakishly fast.
Why's he sprinting like that?!
Prey flees faster under threat, sure—but him too? Forge-bound hammer-swinger, no?
Odd arm-pumping form, yet no slowdown. Baldie's nape closed on by mace; she prayed no local casualties today.
"M-mercy! Their math screw-up—not mine!"
"Won't kill! Promise! So stop, baldy bro!"
Cornered at dead-end wall, Yakob ass-planted to halt.
Baraka, panting, holstered the mace; Yakob squeezed eyes shut, quaking like slaughter-bound livestock.
"Eek! Hit anywhere but head! Barely any left!"
"Ugh... do you ignore words?"
Squatting before the sprawled, heaving man, ignoring Miriam and Hamza's glares—business first.
Gut screamed "jackpot"—couldn't lose this regretfully bald gem.
Peeking cautiously, realizing no wild swings, Yakob mustered merchant brass, straightening rags.
"Whew... thanks for help, but no payoff cash. Flat broke, see."
Dry, scammy thanks—perfect.
Adjusting pince-nez, he scanned Baraka's fine linen, leather boots, calluses.
"Quality flax, boots. But calluses scream smith, not scribe. You're that famous forge complex master from central, right?"
Oho, sharp eyes—even now scanning. Sensitive to news; trainable.
Regrettable bald genes aside.
Whatever—Baraka chuckled, tossing a heavy dirham pouch into his lap.
"No fleecing baldies. I pay for work."
Offended, he barked:
"Few hairs—not bald!"
Merchant rejecting cash over hair jabs? Unusual.
"That crucial?"
Hamza and Miriam shook heads. Anyway, he gauged coins by jingle and heft sans opening—like pro.
"Lemme see... light for dinars... jingle says thirty dirhams. What for thirty? Shady job?"
Baraka gazed skyward, shameless:
Thinking "Shady? Nah, loophole."
"Shady? With that caution and eyes—why'd your hair flee East?"
Tease drew vein on shiny forehead.
Stress-filter bypassed killer lines—unstoppable.
Hamza's eyes soured (two birds, one stone), but forgive sweat-drenched hunts.
Stroking dome proudly:
"Rude! Hair's luxury for traders! Nutrition to brain for math! Great-great-grandpa said: merchant wealth inverse to locks! This shine? Radhanite wisdom badge of honor!"
"Yeah, yeah. Overpolished badge? Blinded me—dazzling gold."
Baraka snickered; Yakob fumed, proffering pouch.
"Fine! I scrape by, but no charity from rude unknown or dirty money! Looks like shady gig needing my type—you think me sucker? Honest trader, not patsy!"
Music to ears—no loose-end risks.
Baraka prepped another pouch toss.
"Hey, merchants rush? Sensitive to chances, not hair gripes."
Another scratch flipped him 360°.
"Quit hair-poking! You add any?!"
Financial therapy time.
"So, shovel dung forever? Be real. Ditch great-grandpa honor BS—hear the pitch. 200,000 dirhams opportunity—pass?"
Yakob choked. Sixty-dirham pouch peanuts by comparison.
Complex master dangling such sums? Eyebrow-raise.
No ignoramus ignores that.
"200,000...?"
Skeptical, sure—not naive.
Next words hooked:
"Plus Mediterranean expansion shot. Damascus gold flows my way—doubt the figure?"
"Ahem... Mediterranean..."
Suspicious cough confirmed scam vibes.
Sharp eyes earlier? Anyway, progressing.
"Yeah, Med. East too far, but Med ripe—really pass?"
Believing complex rep and goldflow, he folded.
"Ahem... fine, pitch me."
"Strict secrecy—hear it, commit?"
"Eh...?"
Grabbed fleeing attempt; eye-lock, heavy sighs, flop to ground.
"Sigh... do your worst. Duqaq-backed master unlikely fool... hope opportunity legit."
Merchant timber—quick pivot.
Pre-pitch, his gripe:
"Partner pick? Ditch that brute first! Freaked me—more hair loss!"
Fingering side-locks—amusing trait.
Baraka laughed, holstering mace securely.
"Haha! I'll try. Slipped out unconsciously."
"Unconscious draw? No..."
Doubtful eyes; Baraka clapped shoulders.
"Don't sweat it—balding risk?"
Face scrunched, but pats soothed. Committed to listen—no escape.
Explain convincingly, sign contract—same boat.
Shocking, but he'd love it. Radhanite revival over sewer life? Real shot to honor great-grandpa.
Hmm, solid opportunity.
Nodding satisfied, arm 'round shoulders.
Competent, greedy, cranky, bald—perfect patsy boss.
Damascus outskirts' abandoned lumberyard? Prepped as Middle East's top arms forge.
With bald prez aboard.