The Witch swept toward the coast on a soldiers wind. It was a stroke of good fortune, for the winds off the desert coasts were notoriously fickle. Many a ship had been pinned up against the arid rocky coast to fight the wind for hours to keep off the rocks, or trust the dubious sandy bottom to hold a storm anchor until the winds shifted again. The great harbor of Dalib Sahara yawned before them, the natural points of stone had been expanded with vast moles of of roughly cut sandstone. Here and there the thirty foot wide arms bulged with platforms like jewels on a string. Each bulge housed a weapons platform manned by two or three bored looking guards in turbans and archaic looking chain mail lounged. Most of the weapons looked old and in poor repair, though if even a fraction of them were functional then attacking the port was a chancy proposition. Whether time, lack of interest or graft had weakened the defences didn’t really matter, the fickle winds were a better defence than man could devise.

Inside the harbor dozens of ships were anchored. Tall square rigged ships from Vrettonia, massive teak built galleons with huge lateen rigs from Punt, and the distant semi mythical trading kingdoms in Sylon’ika and Kushapti. There were a pack of corsair galleys with their banked oars and large forward mounted bombards, trader or raider depending only on how the captain calculated the odds, and how far from port they got. Smaller craft of all description moved between them, loading and unloading cargo, and peddling local goods. If the arrival of the Witch was even noticed it wasn’t visible as they swept towards the break waters. A disreputable looking galley began to pull out towards the witch. A man in ornate but dirty robes stood on the prow yelling in Arad through a bras speaking trumpet that made the words attenuated and basso.

Before Markus could speak Achmed cupped his hands and began to yell in Arad back. The conversation went back and forth for several minutes and it grew increasingly irrate as it went on. Calliope, who spoke Arad well enough to get by snickered.

“What is he saying?” Jim who was on his knees scrubbing the deck asked, looking around in eager excitement. Calliope cleared her throat.

“The price says that if this camel turd does not turn around and inform his lord and father that he has returned, that the vultures will feast on his genitals while he lives, that he will be strung up with his own guts, that his asshole will be seared with  red hot…” 
 
“I think we get the gist,” Markus said with an amused grin at Jim’s widening eyes. The steersman in the approaching galley was apparently also getting the gist and began yelling and gesticulating back over his shoulder. The disreputable little vessel turned a slow circle and shot of back towards the harbor. Achmed folded his arms in satisfaction.

“How is it that the land support so many people?” Jim asked as they swept past the breakwater. Achmed had directed them to a long wooden pier near the center of the harbor. Already men in gold chased armor with veils of chainmail and rich silk sashes had gathered. As Calliope had suspected Achmed must have been the real deal, otherwise the men gathered on the pier would function as executioners as easily as an honor guard. Jim’s question was a fair one, the hills behind the city were of sear rock and scarcely a thing grew upon them. Heat shimmered up in waves, that danced like witch fire on the air.

“There is a great spring that rises at the base of the hills, it feeds a short river that doesn't quite reach the sea, it's all diverted to canals,” Calliope explained, pointing to the green fringes where palm and date trees grew along the boulevards and greenery dotted the room.

“All of the cities of the coast have a spring like it,” Calliope went on, the attention of the crew and even Achmed focused on her as she spoke.

“Legend has it that each spring erupts from a spot where Hayashim conceived a son,” Calliope went on, oblivious to her audience.

“Do you think it’s true?” Jim asked in breathless wonder. Calliope snickered.

“I doubt it, if Hayashim was like any other priest i’ve met there would be rivers spurting out of every brothel and knocking shop from her to Poitan.” The remark bought a gale of laughter from the crew and bought a flush to Achmed’s sun burned face.

“Best keep such thoughts to yourself once we reach the shore lad,” Markus declared in a voice that was loud enough to carry to the whole crew.

“They take such things seriously in Arad Lind.”