Come, come, sit by the hearth here with me. This fine traveler’s compound doesn’t get much traffic this time of the year. The snows are threatening to close the passes to the west of us. You *are* going  home to the West, of course.  How did I know? No, no I am no sorcerer or magic user. I don’t need such things. The color of your skin, similar to mine. The cut of your clothes. The manner of your speech, when you bargained with the innkeeper for food, drink and a room. The load of porcelain and jade you are carrying, as evidenced by the small white jade ring you have kept for yourself and are wearing on your left hand. The manner of your shoes. I notice these things, I’m a storyteller. I notice details. And, as you see, the common room here is relatively empty. I find that my skills are best honed when I practice them, and I’ve not been able to ply my trade. I’d like to tell you a story.  No, I wouldn’t say no to you buying me another cup of wine, you are very kind. Now, I heard this story from a storyteller named Chris, of the family of Willrich. A fine man, Chris. He tells tales of a poet and a deathless thief, Persimmon Gaunt and Imago Bone, a married couple, who adventure across the world. You’ve heard of them already, perhaps? Their adventure against the sorcerer Spawnsworth, maybe? The story I want to tell you on this cold night, though, is about their adventure on a Silk Road very much like this one. It begins in the western part of Qiangguo…