It stretches thousands of miles, moving westward from the great coastal Sho tradehouses, like that of Yoshioka. It crosses the sharp peaks of the Yamaki Spine. Early Sho traders guarded that pass vigilantly, until the pressures of international commerce would no longer allow it to remain closed. From there it turns slightly to the south, into the al-Aksa desert. It winds through several sheikdoms, loosely gathered into a great marketplace since the first Alluvian travelers wended their way across the sands. The goods of all of Ispar, even the fine Sho ceramics that give the traderoute its name, sit for a time in these Gharun market stalls. From the Gharun dunes, trodden by the heavy fists of the giant docile pack shreth, the Porcelain Road bends widely and lazily to the northwest, into the rugged hills and mystical forests of western Alluvia.

Goods have always passed through three hands, then. A fine dish is cut and fired by a Sho, carried and sold by a Gharun, and set upon a great Alluvian Lord's feasting table. But how much wealth and power might one possess if one were to bring the entire route under his control? And how far would one people go to defend their claim to but a portion of the route?

Pew the Mottled, old for a soldier of his rank but valued by his commanders -- what stake did he have in this war?

"None," he thinks. The smoke has not yet cleared. The Sho outpost was defeated quickly, and the Alluvians could claim yet another hundred yards of the Porcelain Road. It has struck Pew all along that the route is not a road, not marked in anyway way but by landmarks and directions. Turn south here, west there. Destroy all Sho outposts along the way. Drive them back across the Spine. Win the road for Alluvia.

A common soldier, no doubt a peasant in Alluvia, brushes sand from a Sho banner that has only fallen minutes before. The wind has picked up tremendously since the morning. He pulls a leather cowl from his head. Pew laughs, for the grime and smoke are a round shadow upon the young warrior's face.

"Sir, these are not desert people," the warrior says, poking at the yoroi breastplate of a fallen Sho officer with the tip of his boot.

"Neither are we."

"You are right, sir. The Gharun will rise up when we have killed off one another. When all of the Sho are gone and the Alluvians weakened, the Gharun will sweep us all away."

"Perhaps. Perhaps."

"It's their desert. It's theirs. Who knows? They watch us now. They watch me, right now, kicking this banner."

The Gharun sheiks are most wise, Pew thinks. Playing one side, or the other. Using fear of the unknown, mythology, to affect such thoughts in the Sho and Alluvian soldiers. Spinning tales of deadly cults, dervish in the desert who can raise demons or send zombies forth against invaders. It is all quite fanciful, but if it be true ... if it be at all true, then the Gharun are just waiting, as this young soldier says.

"How far from Alluvia, sir?" The young soldier faces northwest.

Yes, how far? How far from his wife and teenaged son? How far from his farm, his father's pipe?

"Farther than I have ever been, Dragma. Farther than certainly I ever shall be."

But something tells him that he is wrong. Farther than he has been? Indeed, if not in distance then in peace of mind. Why fight this war? Why pull men such as him and young boys from their homes, from their fields, to kill over such a waste of sand and wind?

A familiar sound, from long ago -- a cry. It comes from a half-crumpled tent and is quickly muffled. Dragma rushes to the spot and draws his sword, lifting the cloth of the tent with the tip of his blade. Pew is startled to see, there, a Sho woman in simple, torn robes. Smoke and dirt has marked her face. A thin cut beads blood on her neck. Wrapped in cloth, in her lap, is a baby.

Then, the scene moves more quickly than Pew is able to comprehend. Dragma raises his sword, yelling the battle cry of the northern Alluvia, home to raiders and corsairs of legendary repute. The woman shouts a string of eastern syllables. Pew begins to move, his hand outstretched to stop the young warrior. The woman rises, the baby now set upon a mat. The mother pulls open her robe, baring her chest. She is shouting, grabbing at Dragma's sword and placing its tip against her breastbone. Dragma is confused. Pew is now upon him.

"She wishes me to run her through?"

"Fool! Of course not! She challenges you to!"

Dragma misunderstands. Pew does not expect his reaction. A swift push and a grunt sends his wide Alluvian blade into her chest. She slides to the ground, the last look in her eyes one of confusion.

Pew wastes little time. His sword is out of its scabbard and in a flash has sent the younger warrior's blade tumbling through the air.

"Sir -"

"You will leave. Now."

"Sir -"

"Before my anger gets the best of me."

Dragma backs away, stumbles over his own feet as he spins and runs.

The baby begins to cry.

* * *

A patrol of seven Sho scouts follows the pillar of smoke on the horizon. They arrive at the outpost by nightfall. Pew sits amidst the embers and smoldering fires, the baby resting in his arms. The Sho captain approaches cautiously, beckons his men to stay close behind. Pew looks up, exhaustion clear in his eyes.

Two soldiers, then, converse without speaking a word.

The Sho captain relaxes. His entire body loosens. He beckons Pew to the west with two quick motions of his wrist. Pew places the baby upon the ground, stands, and turns. The Sho reclaim these yards of the Porcelain Road.

* * *

The baby, within years the child, finds passage back across the Spine with a Sho trading caravan. He is left just beyond the gate of a monastery on the edge of lands belonging to Lord Yoshioka. He grows, showing great penchant and understanding. The monks seek his lineage. They train him in the Way of Jojii. He comes to be named Shinjin Myoken.

He is but five when Murasaki Tanka arrives with his student, Basho Genji. He is but five when, days later, the agents of Lord Yoshioka burn the monastery to the ground.

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