Serialized Pulp Novel: The Rogue and the Merchants (Part 12)

Here is serial 12 of my pulp novel, The Rogue and the Merchants. As usual, here is a link to the full transcription, thus far, if you want to know more about the project, the source of the manuscript, or the story of the novel's genesis. Also, all of the illustrations I've been composing are there as well: Pulp Novel Project: The Rogue and the Merchants

***

In spite of it being in the middle of the night,
everything here was brightly lit.

The old man left, leaving the Rogue with his granddaughter. She took him by the wrist and led him silently into one of the largest huts. From the hut issued  a plume of black smoke. Obviously there was a fire inside.

The young girl held back the cloth that served as the portal door and nodded with no smile, "Go on," she said, "nothing is inside but fire to warm the water I need to clean your wounded arm."

The Rogue was surprised by her words. "You speak the language of Tabun Stoh!" he said. "Wonderful! I was afraid my conversation would be limited to your grandfather, young one!"

He entered, followed by her, into the hut.

"Oh, no," she said. "He taught me. He's a very wise man, educated in many languages. I understand your prejudices and expectations, considering how we live, which must seem a barbarous way to one from the city."

The Rogue said nothing. He was too distracted by the interior of the hut, which was clean and well organized. It was lit by a central fire that was ventilated by a smoke-stained hole in the roof. The floor was covered in many layers of furs; and there were what appeared to be cushions of woven cloth stuffed with wool. And the hut smelled wonderfully; some dried spices, hanging from supporting rafters, fragranted the place.

The young girl smiled and walked over to the fire-pit. Out of the various furs she pulled a bronze tea-urn, which she hung over the flames. Into it she poured a water out of a skin that had been hanging from a hook. In a few moments she had brewed a drink, a kind of root. She poured the rogue some, served it in a clay cup, and when he drank it it tasted bitter and vaguely sweet. It seemed to quicken his mind, which had been dulled from the cold night. In a few moments the colors in the room seemed more pronounced. The girl giggled when he held his hand before him and looked at it with great curiosity in his face.

"The drink you've brewed--it's powerful. What is it?"

The girl smiled.