One moment Ziri was listening to Lark serenade Isgaden with admittedly decent ballads. Then there was a flash of orange and she slammed into the ground, her ibex bleating weakly in the distance. A man screamed. Hints of saffron and nutmeg snuck into the smokey air as flames licked at the scattered cargo.
Coughing, Ziri staggered to her feet, nearly tumbling over bolts of precious fabric that were scattered across the cobblestones. She pushed aside cargo, taking inventory as she went: thirty bolts of silk from Bati, five gallons of whale oil, silverware made by Lady Lacramioara herself, but no black box to be found.
She surveyed the organized chaos around her. Caravan members were carrying the wounded out of blaze, helped by several shrewd townspeople that were pocketing some of the merchandise as they went. To the gods with it all, there was no way she was going to find the box in this mess. Unless...
"To the Gods with it all indeed," she muttered. Her frown morphed into a wry grin. Reaching beneath her cloak, she pulled out a whalebone whistle that hung from a leather cord around her neck. There was no sound from the series of long blasts that were followed by a succession of short puffs, but her fellow cloaked travellers quickly assembled away from the raging flames.
Armed with a piece of burnt cart, she pressed the blackened tip to the cobblestone as she shuffled around the fiery wreckage, enclosing the caravan and its fallen cargo in a smudged outline. She reached into a pouch and pulled out a small, seemingly empty vial. An elegant H was etched into the crystal. Ziri sighed. She was loathe to use these products, but, on the other hand, they did do good work. So good, in fact, that they had a stranglehold on the luxury cleaning market. She tossed the vial into the flames.
There was a beautiful chime as crystal met cobblestone. Ziri looked around in confusion. Did the high priestess give her a faulty product? Before she could even look at Isgaden, the sound of prepubescent children singing the intro to a popular opera filled the streets and the black ring was engulfed in a brilliant white inferno.
"Tired of all the horse droppings in your home?" A soothing female voice rang out over the sopranos. "Used a slime potion instead of a shine potion on your floors? Caught your deadbeat husband in an affair? Here at Hera we have the finest cleaning products to satisfy even the most evil stepmother. Just draw a shape around the afflicted area, toss in the vial, and watch as everything is cleansed in a lovely, purifying blaze."
The disembodied choir rose in a crescendo. The white flames leapt into the air, a trail of white lazily looping and twirling across the sky to form a familiar tagline: Hera, helping housewives since the end of time. Beneath the elegant scrawl, Ziri could make out a faint notice: Warning, use on living beings may result in death. Ask your alchemist before using it on unknown substances. Always read the label. The voices and white flame vanished, revealing a sparkling cobblestone walk. All that remained of the cargo train was a single, black wooden box. Ziri smiled. Looks like she would make a profit after all. Striding forward, she scooped the box into the safety of her cloak, before turning to face a grumpy Isgaden attempting to evade an overbearing rogue.
"I'm sure you can grope on the go?"
Lark tossed his golden locks out of his eyes and glared.
"I saw his ibex become a charred roast," he shrieked, wrapping Isgaden in an even tighter embrace, "and now he insists that he's fine! Not to mention the thousands of gold lost, minimum!"
Ziri shrugged.
"Your boyfriend's got a hellishly expensive cloak spelled against all matter of inconveniences, and I got insurance. Now, if you can close that beak of yours and get moving, we might make it before midday. It's damn hot out here."