Stranger In A Strange Land

The markets of Port Nyanzaru thrummed with life; dinosaurs lumbered past spice stalls, their harnesses jingling with brass charms, while the air shimmered with heat, humidity, and the scent of crushed citrus, wet earth, and sweat. Bright awnings in sun-faded reds and yellows sagged under the weight of the damp air, and somewhere nearby, a handler shouted in rapid Chultan as a hadrosaur snapped at a basket of fruit.

Arabess drifted through it all like a shadow, her silken robes untouched by the press of bodies, deep azure eyes scanning the crowd with quiet disinterest.

It wasn’t until she felt the tug on her belt pouch that her gaze snapped downward.

A boy, no older than ten, barefoot and quick-eyed froze in place, fingers hooked in the strings of her coin purse.

Arabess raised one hand lazily, frost already gathering along her fingertips and another hand caught the boy’s wrist.

“Little brother,” said the stranger, his voice like velvet, “if you want to keep both hands, don’t steal from women whose eyes promise a slow death.”

Arabess turned.

The man beside her was tall, dark-skinned, dressed in a deep crimson vest that shimmered like beetle shell in the sun. Gold traced the edges of the fabric in fine, foreign patterns. His smile was slow, self-assured. His eyes were ageless.

Jataya released the boy with a wink, and the child vanished into the crowd like a darting lizard.

“My apologies,” he said with a flourish. “Port Nyanzaru is beautiful; but even paradise has its rats.”

Arabess studied him, curiosity stirring despite herself. His presence suggested danger; not immediate, but inevitable.

“I am Kavunjataya,” he said, offering his hand. “I know my name can be difficult to pronounce. You may call me Jataya.”

She regarded it for a moment before placing her fingers lightly in his.

“Arabess,” she said. “And I don’t struggle with names.”

His smile deepened, amused rather than challenged.

“Then I’m honored.”

He held her hand just long enough for her to notice the unnatural coolness of his touch, then released it with effortless grace.

“What brings a woman like you to Port Nyanzaru?” he asked lightly, though his gaze searched her as if for something hidden beneath the surface.

Arabess tilted her head, expression unreadable.

“The dinosaur races.”

Jataya’s brows rose. “You’re here for the spectacle?”

“I’m here to wager,” she replied. “I’m looking for the betting cages. I don’t know the way. Can you help me?”

A low chuckle slipped from him, rich as aged palm wine. “I could point you there, but that would be dreadfully impersonal. Let me take you.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. “I didn’t ask for a guide.”

“No,” he said with a grin, “but I’m offering one.”

Arabess paused, then gave the faintest nod. “Very well, Jataya. Lead the way.”

The roar hit her before the gates even opened.

As they passed through the arched entrance to the racing pits, the sound of thousands, cheering, shouting, arguing, crashed over her like a wave. The air was thick with red dust turned tacky by humidity, laced with excitement and the guttural bellows of dinosaurs being led into their pens. Bright banners snapped overhead, painted with bold symbols and names like Banana Candy, Bone Crusher, and Queen’s Talon, each drawing a fervent crowd.

Arabess slowed at the edge of the chaos, eyes narrowing as she took it in. She had read of the races, heard the stories but none captured this living storm of sound and color.

Jataya leaned close, voice low beneath the din. “Impressive, isn’t it? Port Nyanzaru wears its heart openly during the races, passion, danger, greed.”

Arabess didn’t answer immediately. Her attention fixed on a sleek allosaurus with golden-painted claws, handlers circling it while murmuring rhythmic chants to keep it steady.

“Where are the betting cages?” she asked at last.

Jataya nodded toward a shaded alcove of carved stone and heavy iron bars, crowded with shouting gamblers. “There. But without knowing the odds or the stables you’ll be at their mercy.”

She looked up at him, lips curving faintly. “You assume I need your help.”

He smiled, flashing teeth just a shade too white. “Only offering. I’d hate to see a blue-eyed stranger wager on a dud.”

Arabess hummed softly, half amusement, half warning, and stepped past him into the press of bodies.

He followed a step behind, watching with quiet curiosity as she moved with the confidence of someone reading more than odds.

At the bars, the bookkeeper, a wiry man with a gold-ringed eye and a voice like gravel, barely glanced at her.

“Who and how much?”

“Zongo,” Arabess said.

The man blinked. “Trike? Thirty-to-one. Long shot. Most are backing Banana Candy or Bone Crusher.”

She lifted a pouch of gold, the drawstring looped around one elegant finger. “I’ll take the odds.”

A spectator barked a laugh. “Zongo? That beast hasn’t placed in months! Slow, stubborn and mean enough to gore his own handler.”

Arabess didn’t flinch. “I like his style.”

The bookkeeper shrugged, marked the bet, and handed her a slip stamped with obsidian. Jataya stood just behind her, hands clasped behind his back, smiling like a man watching a storm from shelter.

“You surprise me,” he said. “I expected caution.”

Arabess tucked the slip into her sash. “Only with people. Never with fate.”

The trumpets sounded, sharp and bright, cut from bone and brass.

The crowd surged forward, pressing against the rails, shouting names and curses. Zongo lumbered into view, a massive triceratops streaked with crude blue paint, his frill scarred from past defeats. At the starting line, he paused, lifted his head and released a bellow that was more gassy trumpet than roar. 

Some recoiled. Others burst into laughter. Arabess’s expression didn’t change. 

Jataya leaned closer, one brow arched. “It seems Zongo suffers from flatulence.”

“Apparently, so do my instincts,” she said coolly.

“Arabess!”

She turned.

Evalise pushed through the crowd in layered, lightweight silks suited to Chult’s oppressive heat, goggles perched on her brow; Tavril followed, Helm’s eye emblazoned on his tabard; and An’ric moved beside them in quiet discipline, his red gi stark against the riot of color.

Arabess lifted a hand in greeting.

Evalise’s gaze snapped immediately to Jataya. “And who’s this?”

Arabess gestured faintly. “Jataya. He helped me find the betting cages.”

“A pleasure,” Jataya said, bowing.

Evalise narrowed her eyes and adjusted the dials on her brass-rimmed goggles. Arcane lenses shimmered faintly as she focused on him.

Jataya raised a brow. “Is your friend measuring me for a hat?”

Arabess glanced over. “I’m not entirely sure.”

Evalise hesitated, then pushed the goggles back up. “Just checking for curses or glamour. Reflex.”

Jataya chuckled softly. “I assure you, I’m quite solid. Only slightly cursed, depending on who you ask.”

Tavril nodded politely, though his gaze lingered with quiet judgment. An’ric said nothing, but his stillness carried its own alertness.

Arabess ignored the tension.

Jataya gave a graceful half-step back, a gentleman’s retreat. 

“Then I’ll leave you to your companions. But perhaps you’d do me the honor of dinner this evening. I owe you a better welcome.”

Arabess arched a brow. “I don’t dine with strangers.”

His grin came easily. “Then allow me to become less strange.”

She considered him, head tilted. “Tell me where you live. If I have time… I may visit.”

Jataya’s smile deepened. “Lantern District. Top of the hill, copper roof, green glass windows. Just follow the music.”

Arabess gave a small nod. Nothing more.

Jataya lingered a heartbeat longer, eyes resting on her with quiet interest, then disappeared into the crowd, swallowed by color and motion.

Arabess turned back to her companions.

Evalise was already studying the racing form. “Zongo, huh? Strange pick. You must know something.”

Arabess smiled faintly. “Just a feeling.”

Tavril glanced after Jataya. “And him? Should we be concerned?”

Arabess followed his gaze briefly. “Concerned? No. But I wouldn’t trust him to hold my drink.”

Evalise snorted. “Good. If he smiled any harder, he’d split in two.”

An’ric spoke softly. “He moves like someone used to not being seen, even in plain sight.”

Arabess’s voice was dry. “Yes. That’s what I like about him.”

Tavril didn’t react. “Then I’ll trust your judgment… and keep mine.”