On a merchant's well-worn road, near the border between the Land of Hot Water and the Land of Fire, on a lazy, warm afternoon in late summer, a man in bright clothing sat at a ramshackle way-station, patiently measuring and weighing cut flowers.

The stop had seen better days. Little more than a wood hut with a roof and one wall cut out, it had space enough for three benches, a box for donations meant for its upkeep (currently filled with spiderwebs rather than coins), an empty niche were a good-luck idol for travelers had once sat, and bucket next to the entrance meant to catch rainwater in the interest of slating the thirst of dusty travelers. It was the only object that showed signs of use; someone had very recently scraped it clear of moss and refuse and refilled it from the not-too-distant-stream. The probable someone was looking fairly fresh-faced, though his colorful garb - belonging to a juggler, or a fortune-teller, or some such nonsense, surely - was still a little dusty from the road.

He sat at the foremost bench, a large, ornate box, nearly as tall as he, set on the ground next to him. It was from this that he pulled the flowers, opening and closing rows of drawers as he needed them.

At first glance, it would be next to impossible to tell that he was waiting for someone. But there would be, before long, a merchant on this merchant's road; a wealthy man, thickset, shrewd, who had a slightly wealthier rival.