Chang'an, 742
A world by Ari Weaver
Chang'an, 742
It's autumn 742 and you've just walked into Chang'an behind a Sogdian caravan. The biggest city on earth is a grid of walled wards that lock every night when the drums stop. The merchant who brought you asked you to carry one bale as your own, a market officer at the gate is cutting its cords, and somewhere in the Western Market a very drunk poet is looking for someone to buy wine for.
Playing as Traveler·
The line at the Kaiyuan Gate has hardly moved since noon. Forty camels kneel in the dust outside the west wall of Chang'an, groaning whenever anyone touches their loads, and the gate guards are going through the caravan one bale at a time. Nanai-vandak stands near the front in his red felt cap, beaming at everyone and counting under his breath.
Then it's your turn. The man who comes to your bale is thin, in a faded green official's robe with ink on the cuff, and the guards, who clearly don't like him, call him Officer Wei. He's from the Western Market office, borrowed on caravan days because he can read the Sogdian lists. He checks your bale against the list, counts the cords, and cuts the first one.
“Twelve felts from Kashgar, it says here. Duty at one in thirty.” He lifts the top two felts and pushes his hand down between the layers, and it stops. You can see him feel around something flat and hard, wrapped in oiled cloth, about the size of a dinner plate, and something squarer beside it.
Behind you, Nanai-vandak has stopped counting.
Wei Zhan doesn't pull anything out. He leaves his hand where it is and looks at you, then at the guards, who are arguing with a camel. He keeps his voice low.
“Before I write anything on this list, and I do have to write something, I'd like to know whose bale this is. Yours or his?”
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