The Southern Market was always teeming with people. Hastily fashioned wooden hovels crowded the little square; booths leaned against each other in a drunken fashion, with artisans and merchants declaiming out their wares to the passerby. Meanwhile, caravans rumbled past, horse drawn carts loaded with the northern goods of musty pelts, golden ambers, and stacked timber, and the southern of pungent spices, smooth silks, and softly clinking china. The throng of men and beasts jammed against each other made it hard to see, harder to hear, and hardest of all to think, all the while filling the air with a sour stink that filled Laitus nose.
Then there were the refugees. Wearing naught but rags, and carrying only moldy and rotten provisions, they were a sorry lot. They came out of Ikki, they came out of Gorin, out of Croyodon, out of everywhere. Everyone who fled both the persecution of the nations to the southand who feared to go further south for the wars that happened thereall those people came north, and most of them ended up in Kaliai. This stream attested to that.
Laitu worked quietly in his own booth. He did not advertise his wares vocally to the world, nor did he actively throw things at passerby, trying to take their coin. He simply hung his crafts on the booth, and trusted in his skill to draw the passerby while he worked on.
Cobbling was not simple work. He had learned his craft above in the peaks of Ikki with his family, where the feet needed to be shieldedsomething sturdy enough to climb mountain after mountain. He had also learned the shoes of the flatlanders: simpler in design, if not in construction.
These Merhai moccasins, however, had overturned his worldview when he had first beheld themthey were so simple as to be alien. Yet they were both durable and comfortable. He had even taken to donning them himself after he had made himself a respectable pair. They were near silent even on the noisiest ground, and his feet had never gotten blistered in them. Though a pair came down to little more than a piece of deerskin sewn together at the top, he had learned from experience that it took quite a bit more work than it initially seemed. His first works had been wretched when he had foolishly worn his own. Now he was better.
He sewed quietly, the needle hewing back and forth through the supple leather, threading a thick gut strand. A shadow fell over his hands and did not move. He looked up.
One of the refugees stood there, less tattered than most. She must not have traveled so far.
I greet you. Laitu inclined his head politely.
And I you. Her accent was unidentifiable, and her voice hoarse. Her shadowed eyes were haunted by insomnia and something darker still, and her hair was tangled. She smelled faintly of haymost likely that was where she had slept last.
Did you want me to do some work for you? he asked, setting aside his work and regarding her over folded hands.
Ah... Yes. I would like a shoe. A pair, I mean. A pair of shoes. Her blush was a fleeting shadow upon her face. Moccasins, if you will. Southern shoes... they are torturous.
That I know well. Come around the counter.
What?
He smiled gently. If I am to get shoes for you, I need to see your feet.
Of course. She blinked, and moved around the booth slowly, with the awkward, halting strides of someone with painfully tight shoes.
Ill need your shoe off, too.
Of course, she repeated, though she hesitated even more this time before slowly taking off one of her shoes.
That should be good. Her feet were small and calloused, smelling strongly of some fungus. He straightened by the shelf, and took down a moccasin at a time, squatting and then holding it to her feet before dismissing it as too small or large, before repeating the task. It took a long time for him to decide upon one, for he was more fastidious even than his customers were. Laitu lifted her foot gingerly to slip on the leather, and heard a sharp intake of breath. He glanced up, but her face was a stone mask. The shoe fit, and when he had her step around, her walk was noticeably smoother.
I can do that, she said when he moved to take it off. He shrugged.
Those will cost you three bronzes.
She nodded absentmindedly while she bared her foot. He blinked as his eyes traveled over long, faint scars all across the soles. She covered them quickly and said nothing of an explanation. The woman stood, digging in her pack for the coins, and produced two before he gently interrupted her fumblings.
Take these, he indicated the shoes, and your money back as well. He pushed the little coins back across the counter.
What? Her eyes flicked upward and met his, narrowed with suspicion.
I am well off for a cobbler, he said. Take these as a gift and a welcome to Kaliai. It was not entirely untrue. He was well off for a cobblermostly because cobblers were, as a rule, not well off as a class.
She was still looking at him sourly, as if expecting him to make her the butt of some savage joke.
Take them. I truly do not need the money. He touched her hand lightly and she recoiled. Something was in her eyes, a dark fury that surprised him, before she quieted, a calm receding that petrified her features.
She stood over him for another moment, saying nothing. There was an agonizing silence as she stood, still as stone. Then she nodded. I am in your debt. Tell me your name.
Laitu Deinai.
She blinked at his name. And I am Ameri Nuru. Farewell.
Ameri slipped on the moccasins and walked off, still awkward and bent, or even more so than before. Behind her trailed the soft scent of fresh fodder, wafting quickly away as the stench of sweat filled his nose again. Nuru. An Ikkian name, Laitu thought. Another one from the old lands. Perhaps I will hear from her again.
He sighed, and began to sew again.
An excellent change in history, shall the Lengels be reborn anew or shall she be swept away...? For the record, my character even predicted this 
