The trio watched a pair of traders undertake the laborious march up the pass where it shrank to a narrow defile, scarce wide enough for three men to ride abreast. Piety and Bleed were right behind them, though the traders did not seem to know of their proximity. When they were but a dozen paces away from the city walls, Storm straightened and discarded the maize stick she had been chewing. Her cloak flapped behind her as she raised her crossbow. ‘Close enough!’ she growled.

One of the men turned towards her. The other, a leather sack on his back, was so startled he slipped and fell in his hurry to run, crying out as he did so.

‘He don’t look very dangerous to me. Seems like some trader!’ Bleed snorted derisively.

‘Keep six bows trained on him!’ Rain shouted back. ‘Any unauthorized movement, cut the bastard down. Storm, go!’

Storm strode easily through the narrow rock formations down the hill and arrived beside the fallen man. ‘Rain! Get the Princess here. She should have some fun!’

‘Mm...eee?’ Draupadi stuttered, but regained her composure as she was escorted by Rain down the tricky slope. She took a while to descend, the thorny plants scratching her feet and clinging to her muslin skirt. She marvelled at how Storm had negotiated the slope like a fleet-footed ram. As they approached the soldiers, Draupadi saw the apprehended man on his knees. He had strange grey-black skin and slanting eyes. She could barely see his caste tattoo above his neck scarf.

‘Bleed is right, you don’t look dangerous,’ said Storm. ‘But why don’t you enlighten us about how you found out about this goat trail, and what are you doing sneaking into Mathura?’

‘The name is Olof, Madame,’ he said. His hair glistened with oil. He had a big mouth, sharp nose, and dense curling hair that swam in a wave over his forehead. His faded green attire meandered here and there and was mended with leather patches. ‘Bones of centaurs, bygone vanaras, makaras, name you the creature and I have the bones. They do wonders for your sacrifices. As for how we know this goat path, it is known to every true trader who considers the inexorable taxes Mathura imposes as a mark of tyranny.’

‘You’re a smuggler then?’ Bleed drawled. Unlike the other Silver Wolves, she wore no cloak. Instead, over her mail, she had on a soiled blue surcoat with the grey wolf embroidered in pale white threadwork.

‘Olof is an artist and a trader, who believes in free trade and enterprise, the vagaries of market movements, and the blessings of the God of Fate.’

‘Why do you talk so funny?’ Bleed asked, levelling her crossbow in front of his face.

‘Esteemed Ladies, being a man of modest means, Olof had to learn the ways of the thesaurus to appeal to the genteel and the distinguished. You see, it is not quality that impresses the rich, but vocabulary of the salesman.’