Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street—orphans, by the look—ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved among the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled overfilled carts loaded with all their worldly possessions. All looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city’s maze.

The rain had started not long after they had left Amberton Lee, and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers were pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip, she had looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she had expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.

“Care for a raincoat, mum?” a hawker asked, holding up a garment for Arista to see. “Only five silver!” he continued as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. “How about a new hat?”

“Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?” called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awning of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.

“How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?” another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.

Arista shook her head, saying nothing except words to urge her horse forward.

Signs were everywhere—nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud. They advertised things like ALE, CIDER, MEAD, WINE, NO CREDIT! and THREE-DAY-OLD PORK—CHEAP! But some were more ominous, such as BEGGARS WILL BE JAILED! and ALL ELVES ENTERING THE CITY MUST REGISTER AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE. This last poster’s paint was still bright.

Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and a scripted epitaph that read THE LAUGHING GNOME. The tavern stood three stories, a good size even by Colnora’s standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside, the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.

“We’re looking for the proprietor,” Royce told a young man carrying a tray.

“That would be Ayers. He’s the gray-haired gent behind the bar.”

“It’s true, I tell you!” a young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. “My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty’s personal retinue for twenty years.”