Turn 72

    In the early morning--by their best guess, at least, as it's still quite dark--Nyala goes scouting while a light snow continues to fall. The _Distraction is sheltered behind a low, wooded hill that stands between it and the river.
    "Not much out and about," the elf reports upon her return. "There's a village about a mile up-river. No human tracks since the snow started."
    "Snow," ibn Fadil repeats morosely. On Nyala's advice, he has put on both sets of clothing he owns (the better one on the outside) and is busy wrapping his feet in strips of cloth he's scrounged from somewhere. Hopefully this will keep his worn shoes together long enough to reach the city, where he intends to buy a pair of boots at his first opportunity. "How far do we think it is to town again?"
    She's already loaned him her extra cloak, the fur somewhat worn but still serviceable. "Ten miles at most; there is a track that runs along the river."
    The members of the away team discuss possible destinations.
    "We are searching for trading partners, after all," Pham observes. "The docks will be where the trading houses will be represented. There will either be offices there, or people who know where they are."
    "If I may suggest, gentlemen (and lady)," Alais adds, "we appear to be floundering in our decision, without benefit of reason and wisdom. Lacking these, we must search for them. In my opinion, the best methodology for entrance in a new and unfamiliar place is that given by the sage Ebreus of Ze, to wit: 'Travel in the younger sort is part of education; in the elder, part of experience. He that travels into a planet without some knowledge of the language goes to school and not to travel. The things to be seen are: the courts of princes and similar potentates, the courts of justice, the religious establishments, the monuments, walls and fortifications, places of enchantment or dweomer, harbors, antiquities, ruins, and libraries, colleges, shipping and navies, houses and gardens, armories and arsenals, exchanges, warehouses, displays of magic, exercises of beastmanship, fencing and training of warriors, comedies of the better sort, treasuries of jewels, robes, rarities and magic items, as well as triumphs, masques, feasts, weddings and capital executions.' It behooves us then, to go into the city and, first ascertaining whether we know the tongue and therefore are there as school or as travel, present ourselves to the local potentate, governor or ruling body. I shall get my notebooks and we shall depart at once."*
    "Three days," Val tells the others with his familiar nervous gesture. "We should be able to get an idea of the place in that time."
    Nyala goes with them as far as the river, planning to conceal the tracks they make from the ship to what in warmer days might be a road. Right now it is a narrow beaten path through the snow, showing evidence of the passage of men and animals, although as she has noted none very recently. They turn right and follow the course of the river. It is not bitterly cold, but they are far from comfortable, and the snow keeps up with quiet persistence. The river is frozen over, the reeds on its banks and the trees of the wood bent and sad.
    They see and hear little moving other than birds during the long walk until after about four miles hard, tiring going there is smoke--the tame smoke of hearth fires--rising on the other side of the river, from behind the walls of a sturdy wooden stockade.
    Later that day, they are passed by a pair of men leading a heavily burdened mule. The men themselves are swathed in furs and stare openly at the four for a moment before averting their eyes and moving aside on the trail.
    It is midafternoon when the woods fall away and the land begins its run down toward the sea, and the walls and towers of the city rear up before the travelers. The wind is coming off the water, brisk and raw. It bears the smell of the ocean, the sound of birds, and the occasional desultory snowflake.
    That this place takes its walls seriously becomes evident as they grow nearer, passing by another small settlement and joining what is now a very thin but present trickle of traffic, all on foot and all of whom give the four strangers wide berth. The city walls are about twenty feet high, the many defensive emplacements dripping icicles; there is an occasional movement on the height. The still higher walls of the castle dominate the city.
    On this inclement day a half dozen guards are hanging about near the open gate. Like everyone else seen so far, they are wearing heavy cloaks and hats--one thing the Victor family might be trading for, they're known for exotic furs--and are clustered around a low brazier, occasionally stamping their feet and casually eyeing those who enter.
    There is an exchange of puzzled glances at the sight of the _Distraction_'s crew--who are very lightly and hence oddly dressed by what seem to be the local standards--before one of their number detaches himself from the warmth and approaches hesitantly, leaving his quarterstaff leaning on the wall.
    "Be welcome to the city, my lords. Is there anything I can do to be of service?"
    To their ears his speech is accented, but understandable. Travel rather than school, then. After a split-second hesitation in which he assesses the young man's cautiously respectful bearing, Val straightens his shoulders, smiles at him and says, "Not just at the moment, but perhaps later today. Your name?"
    "Tomek, milord," he replies with a very slight bow.
    They can feel the curious eyes of the guards as they pass through a brief tunnel of gate, observing the two heavy wooden portculli, and enter the city. After months of seeing no one but each other, it's almost dizzying. The streets are narrow and well-trodden, the weather appearing little deterrent to the dwellers, most of whom seem intent on their own business in the way of city folk everywhere.

* * *

    "What was that?" Brunon asks.
    "Dunno," Tomek admits, looking back at the strangers as they pass through the gate. "Bit of an odd way of speaking... from Ferran, could be. Maybe they got robbed on the road."
    "Robbed of all but steel?"
    "Maybe it was a washerwoman what did it," the young guard grins, to general chuckles.
    After a thoughtful moment, "Trot on up and tell the captain, eh?" He, too, looks through the gate. "Not as if they'll be hard to find."

* * *

    As they make their way toward where they estimate the docks must be, it is not very long before those who care to observe such things notice something that may explain the curiously deferential reception they have received from the natives: *no one* here is wearing a sword.
    In fact, having noticed that, they soon realize that there is very little metal of any kind in evidence, and most of what they do see is bronze. The buildings are wood and stone, usually one story surmounted by a steeply pitched roof, and ornamented by intricate carvings. Windows are narrow and boast heavy shutters. The conversations around them are those of ordinary people tending to their day to day concerns, complaining about minor ills, the price of goods, and the ingratitude of relatives, while looking forward to a bear-baiting and an upcoming festival, which from the sound of it will involve a great deal of drinking and a number of fights.
    They pass through a prosperous-looking area largely populated by tradesmen's workshops, and then another gate, this one unguarded and indeed barely existant. It looks to be part of the decaying remnant of a wall built in the city's younger days; to their right, a crumbling watchtower looms, gulls screeching about its higher reaches.
    Beyond this lie the docks. They mark the only break in the outer wall, and even here it is possible to see how the closely-set buildings and the ways between them provide for a defensive zone in case of attack from the water. At the moment there is very little activity, and the wind bites sharply. Small, sturdily built ships equipped with sails and oars ride among whitecaps and chunks of ice in the harbor. One such vessel is being unloaded, a stream of laboring men carrying sacks of something to waiting wagons, which when full go off toward what they assume to be a storage building. The horses are the first they have seen here, heavy, powerful beasts.
    There are also a few men hanging about a centrally placed building with a beautifully carved and painted miniature ship hanging near the door. It does not appear to be a tavern--those seem to be marked with a mug and some other symbol, a simple form of pictograph suggesting literacy may be rare here--so perhaps this is an office. Beyond the docks lies a long, narrow market stretching, as far as they can tell, from the city wall on the water to the inner castle. By this time of day there are few people about.
    Walking to the end of the market, the explorers come up against the castle wall. Following it around to the right they find the gate, a space before it marked off by tall torches in the fading light. There are guards there, too.
    They have seen no one who does not look human, although given all the muffling clothes it's a bit difficult to be entirely certain. Ibn Fadil hasn't felt this self-conscious in decades.
    Between oncoming darkness and their tired, cold, and footsore state it seems wise to leave further exploration for the morning, and to retrace their steps to the artisans' quarter. Shops here appear to be clustered by their trade; after some exploration, a side street reveals a row of places with shoes above their doors.
    They enter one where light still glows behind the narrow windows, and find themselves in a small room. To the left is a narrow table against the wall, on which are scattered shoes, boots, and samples of leather and fur. Before them a counter runs the length of the room; behind it is a curtained doorway. To the right are a couple of low-slung wooden chairs and a stone brazier; its coals don't do much to warm the room, but it's better than nothing.
    Their entrance triggers some device on the door; it announces their presence with a muted clapping sound. The curtain is brushed aside by a tall man in plain brown clothing, who looks Val, ibn Fadil, Alais, and Pham up and down. Then he looks puzzled.
    Mumble, mumble, mumble, "help you?" he says.
    

     *with much help from Roger Bacon by way of Jacques Barzun

| Top |