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Martin stepped forward and offered his hand to the confused magnate. “Mr. Al-Kutami? Martin Halsted. This is my, uh, friend Namo.” The man grasped Martin’s in return and shook it, followed by Namo’s. As he shook the faun’s hand, his brow furrowed, if only for an instant, in a subtle, fleeting sign of his perplexity, as if he were unsure why he was shaking her hand in the first place. “We’re grateful for your influence in releasing us from jail.”

Al-Kutami released the faun’s hand and stated: “well, I only really called for your release, but I suppose as long as you keep an eye on her, she is welcome to accompany you in my manor. But anyway, allow me to introduce myself: As I presume you have been made well aware by this point, I am Ibrahim Al-Kutami, son of the famed knight Rashid Al-Kutami and President of the Trans-Echo Railroad Company.” He offered a slight bow of his head as a respectful gesture that nevertheless conveyed his sense of superior station over the two guests in his study. “Charmed.” The magnate gestured to a pair of lounge chairs upholstered in red velvet facing the fireplace. “Please, take a seat. It has been a long day for you both, I imagine.”

“Thanks, Mister,” Namo said, grateful for the gesture, if a bit guarded in her tone. As they sat, Al-Kutami remained standing. “May I tempt either of you with a glass of wine? I sponsor a lovely winery on the banks of the Metis Sea. Their 284 Cabernet is my current preferred vintage. A lovely body with notes of cedar.” He gestured toward a carafe present on his table.

In a Pavlovian response, Martin salivated at the thought of enjoying a glass of wine, something he had only been able to do a handful of times in his life. His tremors, minor for the past several days, threatened to resurge at the mention of alcohol. He warred with his own mind, until Namo spoke up. “No thanks. That sounds yummy, but I’m kinda tired and I think wine would put me to sleep.”

Shit. If Namo wasn’t going to drink, Martin could hold off, too. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m also fine.” The words pierced his willpower like thousands of needles, but he would manage. He could be strong.

“Suit yourselves. There’s plenty to share, welcome guests.” He took a couple steps closer to the fire, as Ulysses placed a pair of glasses of ice water on the tables on either side of the pair. “So, tell me about your travels? It looks and sounds as though you’ve come from afar.”

Namo interjected. “We shore have, Mister Al-Kutami, sir! Maa’ko and I met all the way back in Fordham, and traveled all the way here from there. It’s been, what, about a month since we started travelin’ together, eh Maa’ko? And maybe a few weeks before since I set out from Jeju?” She abruptly scratched an itch on her head, one that had become persistent lately.

Martin continued where she left off. “Yeah, sounds about right. Passed a few towns along the way. There’s a lot of wilderness in between. Made friends with some fauns, some enemies too.” He sipped from his glass of water gratefully - he couldn’t remember having a more cool, crisp tasting glass of water in his life.

Al-Kutami nodded, sagely. “Turbulent times, indeed. I’ve heard that there have been entire villages that have been wiped off the map. Seems nobody knows how, or why.” His remark was met with bemused silence. Martin was unsure if the tycoon had simply fabricated that remark out of thin air to sound knowledgeable and worldly. Martin stole a glance at Namo, who was stone-faced and silent. The rogue raised an eyebrow as Al-Kutami changed the subject. “And what do you think of my estate?”

“Oh, um, it’s quite lovely, sir,” Namo chimed in, a bit nervously. “I’ve never seen a place like this. On the way in I saw such a lovely display of plants; some looked familiar but a bunch I know for shore I never seen before! I’d love ta take a closer look at the plants in your garden!”

“Ah, you have great taste, Miss—Namo, was it? Perhaps tomorrow morning I’ll have Ulysses give you the botanical garden tour. I know you fauns have a thing for the natural world and all.” Martin tried not to read into the dismissive tone of the comment too closely. After another pause, Al-Kutami turned to him. “So, did Frank clue you in as to why I have summoned you to my estate, Mister Halsted?”

Al-Kutami asked the question as if he knew the answer already, but Martin figured he ought to play along. “No sir, he did not. We’ve been in the dark about it.”

The wealthy man curled his lips into a sharp momentary frown before relaxing to neutral and smoothing his mustache. “It seems as though you are also unaware that the punishment for trafficking a non-human sapient species is hanging. Is that correct?” The fire crackled behind him as the question was suspended in the air like an iron rod.

Martin swallowed, hard. “Frank, uh, Frank told me that much at least.”

“Good. So you can likely infer, then, the feat that it is to simply have your record erased—As if you had never even crossed that barrier illegally.” Another pause. The log in the fire popped behind them. “Do you believe in miracles, Martin?” He turned to regard the tramp pointedly.

Martin averted his eyes from the man’s face, but otherwise stood his ground. “No sir, I can’t say I do. I think pretty much everything that happens to us can be explained by our actions and their consequences.”

Al-Kutami laughed, a jolly, candid chuckle that dissolved the tension in the room like a strong acid. “Hah! My good sir! For a bumpkin from the wilds of Sinoe, you are a gentleman of uncommon perspicacity.” He took a step closer to Martin, the fire behind him casting a strong silhouette in the otherwise dimly lit room. “It seems we are alike in that regard: stalwart believers in the agency of the human spirit. And so I exercised that agency to spare you, both of you“—he cast a brief glance at Namo—“from the serious crime you had committed.”

Martin wasn’t sure whether the gentleman was just gloating or if he had a point. Politely, he prodded: “Why do such a thing, especially for a couple of credless travelers?”

Al-Kutami smirked, as if Martin had fallen into his trap. “An excellent question, Mister Halsted! An excellent question, indeed. And this, my good sir, is case in point as to the undeniable agency of the human condition. For it was your remark to the constable that clued me into, appearances being what they are, your true value.” He paused. Martin tried his best to avoid rolling his eyes amidst this man’s flair for the dramatic. After a moment, he continued. “I believe it was when your head was pressed against the cobblestone, as you were being slapped in irons, you shouted something along the lines of ‘apprentice under the employ of the famed Madame Helene Arbour”. Jog your memory?”

With the simple question, Al-Kutami had commanded the tension of the air, wielding it as a fencer might wield an épée. “A-a lot was happening at the time, it was kind of a blur—“

Apparently the question was rhetorical, as the railroad tycoon continued: “Madame Arbour! What an illustrious name. Almost as illustrious as Al-Kutami.” The man gave a knowing wink, as if he were in on some joke that went well over Martin’s head. “And a good friend, too. Did she, by chance, ever mention me? My father, perhaps?”

Martin could confidently say that she had not. “She, uh, didn’t disclose much of her life to us outside of work.”

Al-Kutami gave a disappointed shake of his head, as if he had expected that answer. “Ah, a pity. Always business with that one, even when the shared history runs deep.” The man turned away from the pair and walked toward the fireplace mantle. With Al-Kutami’s back turned, Martin looked at his companion, who had sunk comfortably into the chair to his left. She mouthed a word to herself on repeat, whispering it as if to memorize it. After a couple repetitions, Martin gathered she was going for “perspicacity”.

With a slight flourish, Al-Kutami turned around and paced over to Martin, handing him a framed photograph. “I’m sure you’d recognize a familiar face.” And sure enough, the man did. Martin had only seen a few photographs in his life, but he had seen enough to know that this was no illustration. Though in monochrome sepia tone, the image depicted a familiar looking child, squinting in the sun and standing next to a tall, stately man—presumably Sir Rashid Al-Kutami, the knight the younger Al-Kutami had mentioned was his father. Sir Al-Kutami had an arm placed around a tall, lithe young woman, whom Martin immediately recognized as his master, Helene Arbour, perhaps in her early to mid teens. The sun blazed, judging by how they were all squinting at the camera, and behind them stood a megalith of soil. In the corner of the photo, in sloppy but nevertheless legible calligraphy: “Pitys, near Terranova Ruins, Site 4C: Spring 278 Excavation”. Nearly fifteen years ago. I was an infant.

“That’s her,” came Martin’s simple reply.

“Indeed it is! She’s my godmother, you know. Thankfully, by the time my father died, I was well capable of caring for myself, and as such her agreement to my family never needed realization. But yes, you could say we have been well acquainted.”

“So sure, you’ve got a photo of Madame Arbour. It’s nice to meet another person familiar with her and her work. But, I’m still not sure what this has to do with me,” Martin said, hoping the foppish man would get to the point already. However, the man ignored him.

“Tell me, Mister Halsted: why do you find yourself here, in Fort Sarmiento? Seems like a long way from home for a surveyor’s apprentice. Isn’t Helene counting on your top-notch surveying work back east?” Al-Kutami raised a telling eyebrow. A test. Martin knew that Al-Kutami was aware of more than he let on, and so the vagabond felt no need to conceal his intentions.

“Three years ago, my master departed for a field expedition. My colleague Davin and I—my friend Davin and I—were placed under the instruction of a woman by the name Fadina Afzal. Then, a little less than a year later, Afzal killed Davin and pinned the crime on me. I’m trying to find Madame Arbour and warn her of the danger—especially since I think Afzal might be looking for her. I’d like to find Afzal, too, and bring her to justice.” The man had divulged the truth; he had nothing to lose, he figured.

It was only now that Al-Kutami took a seat in his chaise, still sitting upright as he smoothed his mustache in contemplation. The silence dragged on for several uncomfortable moments. “So then we may be able to help each other,” was the man’s eventual reply.

“I beg your pardon?” Martin’s interest was piqued. He glanced at Namo, who seemed nonplussed by the interaction.

“Would you like to find Madame Arbour, Mister Halsted?” Al-Kutami asked.

“Obviously, yeah, I would,” Martin replied, not too keen on repeating himself.

“What if I told you that I was aware of her last known whereabouts, and could guide you right to her?”

With this, Martin raised an eyebrow. Something wasn’t right. “I’d, uh, ask why you’d do that for a stranger you just met a few minutes ago?”

“Worry not, dear Martin. I will not ask you to become indebted to me for an undisclosed sum. You see, I have a vested interest in finding her, myself, but I have been having difficulty making contact—and you’re the key to reestablishing it.”

The fishy smell in the air grew ten times more pungent. Martin unconsciously sat a little straighter: whereas Martin had been completely forthright, Al-Kutami was clearly hiding something, though he supposed his profession had engendered an impressive skill in the sort of negotiating they were currently undertaking. “I’m sorry, sir, but how can I trust you? Especially since you’re not the only person who’s looking for her. For all I know, you could be working with Afzal.”

The magnate gestured to the photo Martin held in his hands. “You think I would plot against my own godmother? I could scarcely think of something more disrespectful to my family lineage!” He exclaimed, more surprised than anything else. “Besides, my father is the reason she was sent to New Kenai in the first place. If Fadina and the Society find a way to get to her first, it’s not going to end well for her. I would very, very much like to avoid such an outcome.”

Martin’s head swirled with questions. He didn’t mention anything about New Kenai, so how did Al-Kutami know that’s where he was headed? And what was this about “the Society”? Was it sheer concern for a close friend that drove Al-Kutami’s desire to find her, or did he have an ulterior motive?

The former apprentice to Arbour supposed the questions may as well have been painted across his face, for Al-Kutami stood up again. “My offer to you is this: safe—and quite comfortable, I may add—passage to New Kenai with the express purpose of finding your mentor. In exchange, all I ask is to accompany you and to provide you assistance so that we may meet her together. If this offer sounds too good to be true, let me assure you that it is not; it is simply one where we both stand to benefit immensely. Frankly, Helene stands to benefit too.” He gave a loud double-clap of his hands and Ulysses entered the study. Martin supposed he had been standing just outside during the conversation. “It would be rude of me to require a decision after you have had such an exhausting day. I can see—and smell, quite frankly—that you must be road weary. Ulysses will show you to the guest suites. Please, rest well and enjoy my hospitality. We can resume our discussion tomorrow. Ulysses, my good man, if you will.”

“Yes, sir,” the faun stated, and approached the chairs where Namo and Martin stood and stretched. “I will show you to your rooms, sir and madam. Please, follow me.”

As the pair exited the room, Al-Kutami called out: “A pleasure to meet you both! Kindly enjoy your evening.”