Who

Iaela, Ramita

What

Iaela has a message from the bazaarmaster. Ramita fails to be solicited for a bribe. Somehow, it still all works out.

When

It is the fifty-second day of Summer and 108 degrees. Mercilessly bright, Rukbat's light heats the desert as a small dark cloud appears on the horizon.

Where

The Tea Room, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 31 Mar 2019 05:00

 

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Aren't you supposed to drink tea when you're in a place that serves tea?


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The Tea Room, Igen Weyr

This shop is easy to miss from the street. It bears the same striped awning that most shops have, this one in shades of lilac and sand, but it has no sign save for a plaque of sandstone hung beside the door, on which a teacup has been carved. When open, the heavy curtain that covers the doorway is pulled aside to allow entry. After stepping through, one will find themselves in a tiny space decorated with classic desert touches.


The brutal summer sun seems to be keeping business in the bazaar rather subdued this afternoon. Sure, there are a few native Igenites braving the weather either because they're accustomed to it or because certain business won't wait. The Tea room at least has a few tables filled with couples having quiet conversation and then there is the table in the back which surprisingly doesn't have a single cup of tea on it, although it does have Ramita and a very large stack of hides that she's currently perusing.

"I've been looking for you," declares a voice, and that voice predates - barely - the seating of a younger woman across from Ramita. Iaela brings the concept of tea to a table in the tea room, settling down her saucer first with the gentleness of a woman perhaps unused to dealing with things quite so… fragile. Her eyes are warm hazel, keen, and focused entirely upon the Vintner.

Ice blue eyes dart up to take in the newcomer and Ramita raises an eyebrow ever so slightly as the saucer is settled down on her table. "Ohhh? And why might that be?" And there's another glance down at Iaela's teacup. "If you spill that, you'll be the one fetching spare forms from the harpers. I don't have time for that today."

Iaela pulls a face at Ramita's fussiness about the forms. "If you think that's any different than the rest of my job," she deadpans, and then settles her cup down atop her saucer, the better to knit her hands together atop the tablecloth. "Ceapan has concerns about your proposed location." Speaking of forms.

The fussiness continues as Ramita bristles up just a little straighter and consolidates one of those stacks into another so they're at least in less danger from possible accidental liquid attack. "Yes, but I'd wager you also have a full list of other little meetings to get too as well." The mention of Ceapan's concerns has her hands freeze on the paper and stare right back at Iaela. "Surprising that he didn't mention additional concerns the last three times we spoke. And just what might be weighing on our dear bazaarmaster about my little enterprise?" She tilts her head and waits.

"Something about right-of-way and easements," Iaela replies with the artless disregard of a truly disaffected administrator. "Or maybe it was alley access? He's afraid of your vomiting patrons, I think. You're close to his office, you know," and here's that smile, brilliant and impish. Oh, the joy of the concept of having Iaela (and Ceapan) as neighbors! Don't ask for any sugar.

Ramita steeples her fingers together under her chin as probably the idea of where Ceapan can shove his easements, but she doesn't voice that particular message, instead putting on her best practiced smile. "Ohhh, I wasn't aware that he didn't know the difference between a distillery and a bar. I can assure you, I want to avoid vomiting patrons just as much as he." That part is definitely true.

Truthfully, Iaela doesn't care if Ramita shoves those easements exactly where she wants, but there's some sort of visible allegiance that must be outwardly displayed, lest her employer cadge to her antics. "Oh, maybe it was the truck of reagents, or something like that. I'm just a silly girl, after all." Her smile is sunny and deliberately vapid.

Hiding true feelings is definitely an art the bazaar has perfected since you never know who might be spying in the crowd. Ramita is as skilled as any and the edges of her mouth turn up slightly into what is still not quite a smile. "Time will tell if that is true. And we'll abide by the same delivery restrictions as cooper three buildings down does. Or the perfumist next door."

"Ah, yes. I suppose he didn't think of those. But it will be a salve to him to know that you voluntarily will restrict yourself to the same behaviors." Iaela leans back, then, crossing her arms over her chest. "Aren't you supposed to drink tea when you're in a place that serves tea?" she asks, because she feels the pressing need for explanation.

"Of course. The bazaar doesn't run if we all don't abide by the rules," Ramita settles her hands back down on her own hidework now that hopefully the worst of Ceapan's possible news is brought and dispelled. And with the bazaar, a good half of the rules at least are those unwritten ones. As for the tea question, an actual smile does appear on her face. "My aunt doesn't complain much as long as I also see to her accounts as well as mine." Although there are probably other ways that Ramita has to pay for the table aside from accounting.

Iaela taps her upper lip thoughtfully. The knotty trees of Steen lineage still serves as a conundrum to the young woman, most of the time. "Daria," she pronounces. "I feel as though every time I turn around there's another Steen at the head of some merchantile adventure." Her voice is free of a judgment call.

Ramita will hide just how long the smile lasts by facing down towards the hides, filling in a few numbers here and scratching out something there. "Steen or Tlatoani or Akzhan…" They may be just as numerous as the grains of sand in Igen. "At least the more merchantile adventures, the more marks lining Ceapan's pockets." And technically being funneled on to the Weyr in form of tithes but if anybody can take advantage of creative accounting to his own benefit, it's that slippery old man.

"Tlatoani is just a difficult word to pronounce," Iaela complains. "What's the obsession with vowels about, anyway?" says the woman with a 4:1 ratio in her own name. Well. She didn't pick it. "Ceapan's pockets aren't lined at all, miss," she feels obligated to return, with that patented fake-vapid smile making comeback: "He passes on the lion's share of the administrative fees to the weyr, after all." Funniest joke said in the bazaar all day!

Ramita lets out a soft exhale of air that could possibly be a laugh. "You'll get used to that. At least it's better than some of the names some dragons give themselves." Here's looking at you, Niatskivhiath. As for Ceapan's pockets, another head tilt. "Sounds like maybe he needs to find a better weaver. I could suggest one or two if he's really in need?" As for where he passes on the money, she nods. "Of course. And anything else is just to cover his costs. The man might as well be a saint."

"I'm happy to leave the dragons to the old weyr," Iaela comments with the shrewd pragmatism of a riverbound trader now trapped in the desert. She laughs, a throaty noise, at Ramita's suggestion of a weaver referral. "I'll be sure to pass on your concerns. From what I understand, things haven't been the same after the Night Flight burned down." She chooses to not continue discourse of her boss, the patron saint of sinners.

And the dragons will stay to their Weyr except when they don't as even some Steens have found their way onto the Sands. Ramita just smiles and nods. As for the ruins of the Night Flight, she does give an appropriately solemn nod as well as the topic moves on. "Indeed, but business will always find away. Gritta may have taken the opportunity to retire, but someone else will fill the void eventually." Of that she's sure, even if she isn't too sure about the older clothier's current state of employment. For all she knows she could have opened up a swim suit stand down on Ista after the fire.

The injection of Steen blood into the old weyr leadership is just a strategic takeover, isn't it? So Iaela would consider it to be, if someone were to ask her. The mysteries of dragons are lost to the trader woman. "Business will always find a way," she echoes, lifting her tea in a prim salute. Iaela's hazel eyes drop to consider Ramita's pile of hides. "Easements aside, how far are you from completing your project?"

It's reasonable for one to assume that takeover theory if they weren't around to witness the wrath of the Steen patriarch at his son's Impression, but Ramita definitely won't be dragging out that family laundry or any laundry. As for the hides she straightens them just a hair more as Iaela eyes them. "If all things go according to plan, about a month before the deal is done. Then probably three to have things up and beginning to run. But the first turn is always the hardest so they say."

Maybe rumours of that returned to Iacous, but such political tidbits aren't necessary to be shared with an eldest daughter, especially one with Iaela's historic… inconsistencies. But she's here, doing the job she's told to do, so that must count for something. "Hmmm," she says. "Well, if you find yourself in need of any river contracts, I'm sure I can negotiate an excellent rate for you." As old friends like they are, obviously. Ahem.

"Oh, I'm sure," Ramita drawls in the voice of one not entirely convinced. "Although I have my own contacts. Business finds a way, after all." There's a bit of a twinkle in her eyes at that. "And you can assure the bazaar master that I won't forget the Duties owed just because I'm opening my own business." She's been seeing to the books for the Pit and the Tea Shop for the past few turns now and every eighth mark has been accounted for. At least all the provable ones. "I hope you fare well, Iaela." Or else, the bazaar might eat 'just a silly girl' alive.

"Of course." Iaela doesn't immediately bother herself to leave, glancing around the area about her as if to find hidden marks behind draperies, or other such inanity. But then, abruptly, her eyes return to Ramita and she smiles, once, and not even the faux one she's typically throwing about. "Good luck with your first year, Ramita." The young woman manuevers her leggy way to standing, and gingerly goes about the business of returning her mug before disappearing back out into the bazaar, no doubt to terrorize other perfectly respectable vendors about easements and alley-access.

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