“Yes, yes, go on. Don’t cause any trouble,” the guard said as he waved Rezkin through. The second guard was determinedly not looking at Rezkin as he studiously examined the old man in the cart, which was in turn making the old man nervous. Apparently, elderly farmers with noisy small-men required more scrutiny than a young warrior covered in weapons and riding a battle charger. Rezkin shook his head. What good was a guard who was too scared to confront a possible threat?

Rezkin guided his horse down the main boulevard, taking in all of the new sights, sounds, and smells, all the while developing plans for a quick escape and identifying the most defendable positions in case people decided to attack him. He had been expecting the foul smell. The masters had told him that cities, almost in their entirety, smell like a latrine, and they had been right.

The one thing Rezkin had not been prepared for in his studies was the noise. The masters had told him that cities were loud, but he never realized how loud people could be. Small-men were squealing or wailing, merchants were shouting out their wares, and men and women alike were hollering to each other or having boisterous conversations on outside patios. Carts groaned and clanked over the cobblestones, hooves clopped against the hard ground, dogs barked, and doors and windows creaked and slammed as people opened and closed them. Somewhere not far away, Rezkin could hear a blacksmith’s hammer slamming down on an anvil seemingly in concert with the clanging of pots and pans from a nearby inn overlaid by a woman’s voice, not quite in tune, singing a bawdy melody. Never had the young warrior thought to hear so many sounds all at once.

Rezkin had learned of all of the inns in the major cities and knew, which would be best to stay in depending on his need. Today, he decided to head to the Golden Cockerel. It was supposed to be a moderate establishment that was clean and well managed. Overall, it was simply average. It was located near the market and was one of the closest to the main guardhouse. Rezkin doubted that Farson would have given his real name upon entering the city, but he could check the records to be certain. If he constantly assumed that Farson would know better, then he would never be able to catch the striker’s mistakes.

After five crossroads, Rezkin turned to the right and continued halfway to the next street. There, on his right, was the Golden Cockerel. He examined it closely, taking in all of the small details and ensuring he completely understood the layout of the building and those surrounding it in order to plan his escape routes. A small-man of about fourteen years approached him with a cheeky smile and bowed with a flourish.