The cart trundles along noisily, drawn on now worn and uneven wheels by two mules. One man walks before the mules, leading them. Another walks behind the cart. Caravaners, tall, skinny, sunburnt, dressed in the clothes of the desert. The man in front has a sword; his long scabbard, hung from his waist, is not conspicuous, but is perfectly visible. The man behind has several large bundles on his back. One is narrow and long, bound in cloth
Perhaps a weapon. Their meager wares sit in the bed of the cart inside large jars. All merchants store their goods humbly to make them appear of little value to potential thieves and brigands. These merchants really do have nothing of any significant value. This fact will not help them any if they are attacked and slain by ignorant raiders.
The men do not speak to each other, nor make any action that indicates they even care about the others presence. In fact, they have barely interacted at all during the entire journey. They have little in common beyond sharing a slight distaste for each other. But they are professionals, and feel no compulsion to waste time on expressing their disdain. Indeed, it was very clear from the beginning where they stood, and the mens mutual scorn has made it very easy for them to get their job done. Even the mules seem to be tranquilly distant from each other and their handlers.
The cart trundles on.
The men travel through sparsely populated lands. Villagers stare at them uneasily; few traders have passed through the region in years, as the war has wiped out most possible trade. But they are able to get through without major incident. One of the men gets sick near the end of their trek across the high passes, but soon recovers. A bit of coin and some discrete words gets them safely past the border forts. The silver is an unexpected boon to the guards: this front has seen very little fighting, and any supplement to their meager and infrequent salaries helps them to pursue their small-scale revelries in the local village.
The first man hands over the message to the court official. To him, this part is anticlimactic. The written message, of course, is not an original. He had copied it out, from memory, and sealed it only this morning. The contents of the message were far too important to entrust to an interceptable document. The man is composed now, expressing perfect diplomatic etiquette and saying just the right words at just the right times, making the uncouth syllables of the land of his hosts sound melodious and measured upon issue from his mouth. They could have no cause to complain at his perfect pronunciation.
He still holds some of the joy he had felt only hours before, far out of proportion to its real significance. He had carried that perfectly remembered message, a burden of increasing degree, over leagues of forest and desert and mountains and farmland. It was his silent mantra. He had even begun to fancy that the villagers, with their steady eyes, knew his secret. They knew he carried a message of betrayal.
But that was over now. He had come into the land of his destination, and his sense of guilt had lifted. His job was done.
The other man stood by silently. His knew that his job was just beginning. He would have to carry back the reply.
Media to China (SECRET) :
If you continue your war against Ghand, we will join you against them and we can defeat them.
