So apparently there was a lot of smuggling going on.

It wasn't much of a shocker, but it seemed to bother the Trade Minister enough to request an actual investigation. The old man wanted it taken care off. There were far too many dangerous things coming in from the mainland. Weapons for 'the rebellious refugee element' were the big concern, but also narcotics, dangerous animals and slaves. In short it was a big deal.

So a team was assembled. A small one for the time being; nothing fancy. The job, as Zaman understood it, was to infiltrate the smuggling ring and gather information. Nothing more. Killing people was off the table. He wasn't even allowed to think about it.

At least for the time being.

He'd resolved himself to doing this thing—this infiltrating and not killing—when he realized he hadn't actually met his team. He wasn't given a list of names, and he wasn't given any hints. He was simply told to wait. To go to the promenade where the taverns met the whorehouses and wait.

And so Zaman waited.

He was in his street clothes, much as he expected the others to be. He was supposed to look inconspicuous, just another nobody sitting on the low wooden palisade that ringed the promenade. He wasn't unarmed though. Zaman had a knife tucked into his boot, and another stashed neatly into a hidden pocket under his heavy linen shirt. His trousers were also of inferior quality, the fabric ripped and faded. Apparently he was supposed to look poor as well. It didn't bother him much but the shirt was itchy.

He lifted a hand to scratch under his shirt. The wind was strong that day, blowing in sharp gusts of cold air from the sea. Around him, the throng of midday has turned into more of a trickle. As the sun set, people began to head into the taverns and whorehouses, relishing the moments of fun and pleasure they would have therein.

But not Zaman; he had to wait.

Scratching his nose with his freshly cut nails, he did just that.

Drez wasn't sure about this assignment.

First off, he was only allowed one concealed weapon. And he was supposed to dress as a civilian. Two things he didn't like already. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't told who this team he'd be working with was. He just hoped it wasn't Jaraei. With his luck, though, it would be.

So there he was, in his civilian clothing -- his raggedy clothing -- heading to the meeting point. And then he saw Zaman Jaraei.

Drez was about ready for a promotion, with all the crap he'd been dealing with.

He walked over to the palisade, looking around a little, certain that someone would see him and recognize him. "Jaraei," he greeted, flatly. Jaraei was probably in charge of this little mission. Drez hated when Jaraei was in charge. Of anything.

Welkin wasn't sure why he was assigned to this project, and he didn't want to dwell on it either. Perhaps they knew about his pirate past and thought he might have insight into the operations they were going to infiltrate and try to stop. Maybe they thought having someone who could speak Parasi was an asset. More likely they wanted to send him on a super dangerous mission with the hope he would die.

He didn't care so much, because he could see the ocean again.

Walking along the promenade was a welcome change from walking along crowded city streets. The air smelled cleaner, tangy with salt and alive with the promise of adventure. The sight of ships along the docks made Welkin a little homesick. He wondered how hard it would be to approach a captain and beg a position. It was so much simpler than whatever he was off to do that night.

He wasn't even sure who he was doing it with. He'd arrived in Kyha with Galia and a handful of other young scouts, but had been pulled out early on and given this assignment. He was also told to try not to kill anyone, which really made Welkin wonder why he was supposed to go along. He was also given different clothes that weren't so military. Now he looked almost like the pirate he'd been for six years, complete with a hidden dagger under his shirt and a few smaller knives tucked into his boots.

A couple of whores called to him with tantalizing promises. One of them called "Does the carpet match the drapes?" but he wasn't sure what that meant and didn't want to figure it out. He sauntered his way along the docks to the meeting place, wondering who he was supposed to meet. Part of him wondered if this all wasn't some colossal prank and he'd just be waiting there all night for no one.

When he found the meeting place, he wondered if it wasn't still some prank anyway. Zaman was there, as well as someone else Welkin recognized but couldn't quite name. He didn't hate Zaman anymore, but the guy still wasn't what Welkin would call a "friend."

He lifted a hand at the two men. "Uh...hi."

There were many things that Galia Baryk was willing to do for King and Queen and country. No one could ever question her loyalty to her career.

But this assignment was pushing the limit.

For men, different clothes meant ragged breeches and rough spun shirts, in place of a pressed uniform and light armor. For the sergeant, blending in meant the most uncomfortable disguise: a dress. The borrowed frock was nothing fancy, made from plain dyed blue and white linen, a little worn with fraying hems, something any lower class woman could afford.

Nevertheless, it had a skirt, a tightly fitted bodice, and a revealing bust line that highlighted certain aspects of her figure. Where this became problematic was in her inability to quickly access the only weapons she could conceal: a dagger strapped to her thigh, and a few throwing knives tucked inside of her boot. While the goal was not to engage in combat, being potentially defenseless in an emergency set her on extra edge. She didn't even know who else was on this mission, and couldn't be sure that she could rely on them to watch her back.

Her stride was as brisk as the sea air around her. While she wasn't as done up as some of the hookers that laid claim to these streets, with only a touch of rouge and color on her lips and her hair pulled back, she knew what she looked like. It had taken all of her willpower not to turn and curse at the group of sailors who whistled and cat called at her as she made her way down the docks. The actual ladies of the night shot her territorial glares, though they didn't interfere with her travel plans.

Galia found herself the last one to arrive, only a moment later than the designated meeting time. The shock of red hair caught her eye first, filling her with a vague sense of dread and humiliation. No one had told her that Njordson would be on her team. She didn't want to be seen like this, not by him. Two other men stood nearby, both faces she was acquainted with, one even moreso than the other. Her stomach churned. She smiled demurely and tipped her head, "Gentlemen."

Okay, so they were all here.

"Glad to see you could make it," he said, springing off the palisade and forming the fourth point in the somewhat awkward compass they'd made.

Zaman had no problems with either Drez or Welkin. They were cool. They were his friends—even if neither would agree. Between them, Zaman wasn't sure they could share a smile...much less a real and honest friendship.

The Problem, as Zaman had come to realize it, was that he was not allowed to notice Galia. He'd promised all those months ago that he wouldn't talk about it. And now with her standing there, swathed in a dress, Zaman wasn't allowed to make a comment. He wasn't allowed to make fun of her. He wasn't even allowed to say something crude and sailor-like. She would take it wrong—or she would take it right. Zaman wasn't sure which one would cause her to break his face.

That also went double for looking at her. He glanced at her casually, his green-brown eyes not failing to recognize her as a soldier in a dress, but not lingering longer than was absolutely necessary. He was being a professional. For now.

And that was worse than the no-killing rule.

He wondered how long he could keep it up.

With a small breath, followed by a small smile, He clapped his hands in front of him. He rubbed his palms and spoke. "So! Who doesn't know why we're here? Show of hands..."

Drez was good with names. So, he knew both Njordson and Baryk by name, but that was more or less the extent of his knowledge of them. But they seemed to know each other.

He looked at the three of them. This would be an interesting assignment. He was willing to bet that Baryk could take the three of them, with the dress on. She seemed like that type. Njordson was probably most useful as a lookout or something (he never thought much of people until they at least looked like an adult). And then there was Jaraei.

There were no words to properly describe Zaman.

At Jaraei's question, Drez raised his hand. He had no idea why they were there. Other than the rules he was told -- streetclothes, concealed weapons only, no killing -- he knew nothing.

So he waited for an explanation.

Welkin choked on a gasp when he recognized Galia. At first he'd thought she was another whore looking to solicit from a group of men, but as her face came into the light he realized how awfully wrong he was. He stared at her a few moments longer than was proper before remembering where he was and who he was with. Immediately he looked at the ground, blushing, and crossed his arms over his chest.

He focused very intently on Zaman's speech.

"Isn't it something to do with smuggling?" he mumbled, looking at Zaman and no where else.

Two out of three could barely even look at her. That was not the sign of a promising mission. The spirits (because surely, her superiors were still clueless, it had to just be fate) were punishing her, weren't they?

She pulled her thin scrap of a shawl closer to her body; it didn't do much to hide anything, but it was the best armor she had in this situation. Galia tried to seem nonchalant, expression as neutral as ever as she nodded at Welkin's question. "Smuggling ring reconnaissance. Strictly information gathering only," she emphasized the point, making sure everyone was clear on using violent force as the absolute last resort.

Of their small party, it seemed she was the most experienced in this type of assignment. It was the first time she'd had to wear a disguise like this, but not the first time she'd ever gone undercover. Laying out some of the ground rules would have to rest on her shoulders. "Obviously, we can't go in as ourselves. We'll need to create new identities and align our cover stories. Then we find our marks and proceed to integrate into their circle."

Her gaze turned back to Zaman, assuming that he had more ideas than the other two, who had readily volunteered their lack of knowledge about the task at hand. She waited for him to elaborate.

He was smiling.

With Zaman, that could mean good or bad things.

He nodded towards Galia—was she noticing him too? Was this a thing now?—and began to form the rough outline for what they were doing. He wasn't good at leading, but he could do it if he really had to. "She's right," he said, still thumbing the inside of his palm. "So we do that now. Here."

He licked his bottom lip as he tried to organize his thoughts. For someone like Zaman, it didn't come easy. Welkin had to be judging him, and Drez would probably just look at him the same way he always looked at him.

And then there was Galia.

“You see that tavern across the street?” Zaman nodded towards a rather dour looking building. It seemed to be collapsing in on itself, as if the weight of its roof were too much for its stumpy, awkward-looking shape. A sign hung limply over the door: The Steel Remains. “The word is that our 'friends' go there to play cards and settle business deals. They set the trades there and make the swaps later. Our job is to, one—” he poked a thumb out of a closed fist. "—figure out the deals, and two—" his forefinger joined his thumb. "See if we can win them over somehow. The easiest way is pass ourselves off a group looking to get into their line of work."

Then came the hard part. Galia had the gist of it—they had to create new identities. Zaman felt his lips pull in over his teeth. This wasn't going to go well.

"As for our 'changing identities' idea, I have four roles. Smuggler, Bait, Muscle, and..." He had to do it. He had to look at her with a meaningful look that was part apology, part appraisal. "...Distraction."

So that was it then.

Smuggling. Info. Recon. No killing. If Drez could ever get bored, this would probably do the trick. Sitting around, listening. For all his stoicism and calm, Drez didn't like to sit around waiting. Of course, he would if he had to, but he didn't like to.

Though he found that he did it quite often. Too often, in fact. He much preferred action. Something told him he was alone in that, among the four of them. When Zaman gave the rundown, Drez's eyebrows went up slightly. He gathered that he would be the Muscle, if only because Jaraei probably didn't think he would be a very convincing criminal, especially a talkative one.

He supposed that that was fair.

He looked at Baryk when Jaraei clearly acknowledged her.

Some people thought that Drez was some sort of eunuch. They were not inside his head at that particular moment. His gaze didn't linger -- that would be unprofessional -- and he looked back to Zaman, whom Drez assumed would further detail what they were to be doing.

Welkin listened carefully, glancing at the ramshackle hovel when Zaman gestured toward it. He still wasn't sure why he was there, at least until Zaman went and listed the jobs they had to perform. For whatever reason, Zaman hesitated a moment before giving a look to Galia. Welkin wasn't surprised by her job, or particularly worried. She could handle herself; it was why he liked her so much. There was something about a woman that could kill him he found immensely attractive.

No, Galia was fine. He was worried more about himself.

"Bait?" he repeated, pointing at himself. "What does that mean?"

Distraction. Of course. That's what all the décolletage was for, wasn't it? She hadn't shown up in this get up just to give the boys a good show, after all. (And, even if she wasn't going to say a damn word about it, she could tell they were looking.)

The pause, accompanied by Zaman's look, seemed incredibly overdramatic, as if she would have either been surprised by her role or even offended. Granted, the notion of having to play eye candy as opposed to, say, the Smuggler or even the Muscle was degrading at best, but it wasn't as if she held any illusions about her most valuable assets in this particular situation. Galia knew she wasn't unattractive, and usually that fact was to her chagrin. This time, it was an advantage for them. Yet some people were still skeptical about having women in Escova's military forces...

She could handle being examined like a piece of meat for a few hours. It was something else that bothered her, instead. However, Welkin managed to voice her concerns before she could. She cast a glance over to the youngest of their crew, wondering, with a strange sense of protectiveness, if he was really ready for this kind of mission. But every bird had to fly the nest at some point. Some even needed a little bit of a shove.

Reluctantly, she nodded, "Makes sense. You're our token Refugee. None of us can even speak another language well enough to pass. It lends the rest of us some credential." The sergeant gave him a small smile, "You'll be fine. We've got your back." At least, she knew she did, and the sharp stares she sent to the other two men meant they ought to do the same.

Well then. That was that.

Everyone seemed to be okay with their roles—with the noticeable exception of Welkin. But Galia stepped in before Zaman could say something, explaining in that sharp, no-nonsense way of hers exactly why Welkin was chosen to be the bait. “She's right. Just stay close and nod your head. We'll take care of you.” Zaman tapped his nose and pointed to Welkin. “I promise.”

Then, rubbing the stubble of his jaw, Zaman found himself looking at the others. They were almost done hammering out the details. This wouldn't be the prettiest mission, but they would be okay.

Hopefully.

“Now; we need names. New ones.”

After that, they could go be bad guys.

He hadn't expected either of the other two to like their assignments, but Baryk didn't seem as upset as he would have thought. But Njordson's reaction was pretty much what Drez had been expecting. He had no intention of saying anything to make the kid feel better, and he didn't have to; Baryk was on that.

He nodded when she said that they had his back, as if the statement were obvious.

At Jaraei's assertion that they needed new names, Drez's eyebrows went up slightly. "Why?" he asked, seeing no reason that the smugglers would recognize their names. Then again, he hadn't really been on missions like this before. Maybe it was just a precaution.

Or maybe it was just Zaman.

Zaman looked at Drez, his brow furrowed with lines.

“Um, because when we double cross them, I don't want them to know it was Zaman Jaraei.”

That was a thing, right? He wasn't concerned with them knowing about him now as much as he was concerned with them knowing about him afterwards. If things went south—which Zaman had a feeling they would—then at least he had the benefit of a head start. They wouldn't know his name.

Just his face.