In the Alanusian Plains there are two ways to go. Without money you walk, with money you ride. I’d had luck at faro last night. Today I would ride.

The Maltura settlement was sparse, dotted with tents and few wooden structures: a saloon, a stable, a tobacconist. The stable was small and empty but still reeked of manure. The saloon hardly smelled better but for the magic of the tobacconist with his scented tobaccos and alchemy snake oils.

Fortunately, the caravan had arrived four days prior, and was due to depart with the sunset. I made my way with sandaled feet the two dunes distance to their camp.

Camp consisted of several lean-tos bunched together, with jagged-toothed middle-age and older men, leathered and brown, smoking cigarettes and aromatic pipes in the shade.

In the distance, beneath the blistering afternoon sun, the younger men tended to the elephants and asses.

I approached three men huffing apple tobacco through a hookah, playing mah jong.

“A weary traveller seeks passage,” I announce.