Cauldron Town was Sweynside and if the river in front of Pocket was indeed the Poddle, then at least he was on the right side of town…unless it was the Hot Foot, in which case he could be in Hogulent and therefore very off course. He shambled over to the water’s edge and considered plopping down on the wet cobblestones in defeat, but he was wearing his livery and did not want to return from his errand both unsuccessful and with the colors of the Order soiled. Before his first errand, Sir Corc had told him that if he found himself to be lost, the best course of action was to ask a passerby for directions, but unless Moragh was somehow miraculously living in Black Pool, Pocket did not know who to trust. Any aid, asked or unasked, was not something he was used to receiving and eleven days was not enough to kill those instincts.

In truth, no one had cast so much as a sidelong glance at him since the day he got off the boat. Gurgs, it seemed, were not so queer a sight in Black Pool. Old Lochlann said there was an entire orphanage dedicated to them somewhere in Hogulent. The city stewed with all manner of folk, each more unique than the last. Within minutes of the boat reaching port, Pocket encountered stern faced dwarf merchants offloading steel from massive barges, and, just beyond, a large cage next to a slaver’s vessel housed a pair of trolls. The male raged against the bars, his long arms corded with muscle, his sloping forehead twisted in fury as he bellowed wordlessly against his captivity, heedless of the soothing sounds made by the diminutive female, who was as fair as her mate was brutish. Insular and elusive creatures, they were a rare sight even in the hoary wastes of Middangeard that was their home. Fascinating as they were, Pocket’s attention was again diverted mere steps from the cage.

Tall, sinewy beings with pale blue skin and flowing hair the color of seaweed, moved gracefully through the crowds and Pocket had gawked when he saw them. They could be only undine, elementals trusted with the guardianship of Water as the gnomes were with Earth and the sylphs with Air. Before Pocket could marvel further, the bustling traffic of the harbor yielded more wondrous sights. Husk servants bore heavy loads upon straw-stuffed bodies, following closely behind their richly dressed masters who shuffled hurriedly past a rag-tag group of coburn leaning against the wall of a dockside tavern, their weapons near as filthy as their feathers.

“Sell-swords,” Bantam Flyn said with distaste. Pocket pictured the Dread Cockerel feeling right at home amongst such a rabble.