be near the city gates. That left the question of where the nearest gate might be.
He reached the narrow end of the market and found himself with a choice of two streets, one heading east across the head of the canal and the other angling off to the southwest. He chose southwest and struggled onward. The crowds were somewhat thinner here, but seemed to move faster, though still exclusively pedestrians.
Roughly five hundred feet from the intersection, the street he had chosen ended in a T, offering him northwest or southeast. He stood for a moment at the corner, puzzled, then stopped a passerby in a pale yellow tunic and asked, “Which way to the city gate?”
The man glanced at him. “Westgate?”
“If that’s nearest.”
The man pointed southeast and said, “You follow this to Bridge Street, turn right, follow that until it merges into West Street, follow that to Shipwright Street, and that goes to Westgate Market.” Before Valder could thank him or ask for more detail, the man had pulled away and vanished in the crowd, leaving Valder wondering if he might have asked the wrong question. There might well be inns closer at hand.
Still, he had directions and he followed them as best he could. The street leading southeast ended at a broad avenue after a single block; although Valder saw no sign of a bridge nor any indication of the avenue’s name, he assumed he had the correct street and turned right.
Bridge Street, if that was what it was, seemed interminable and was as crowded as the other streets. After he had gone roughly half a mile, elbowing his way along, he reached an intersection where the avenue did not continue directly across but turned at an oblique angle. He hesitated, but guessed that this must be the junction with West Street and turned right. A glance at the sun convinced him that he was now heading due west.
As he progressed, the nature of his surroundings altered somewhat. The shipfitters and ropemakers had vanished when he left the canal behind, replaced by wheelwrights and metalworkers, and to some extent the brothels and warehouses had given way to residences. This new street was lined with weavers and cloth merchants, tinkers and blacksmiths, carters and tanners. Valder had never seen so many businesses gathered together before; any street in this city put to shame the traveling markets that had serviced military camps.
The buildings in this area also appeared to be newer than those right on the canal, favoring the modern half-timbered style for upper floors rather than the older custom of solid stone from foundation to ridgepole. That made sense, of course; naturally the city would have started out clustered around the port and only gradually grown inland.
West Street, if that was in fact the street he was on, ended eventually at a diagonal cross-street; Valder chose the left turn, to the southwest, without hesitation. Quite aside from any more abstract considerations, he could hear and smell a market and, from the corner of West Street, he glimpsed the top of a stone tower that he took to be a gate tower.
Sure enough, as he rounded the next curve he found himself looking down a straight street at a market square, a very crowded market square, in the shadow of two immense towers.
He wanted to hurry forward, as the long walk had made him impatient, but was unable to do so. The street was too populous, and it seemed that a significant part of the crowd was not moving. A good many people were just standing, not walking in any particular direction.
He managed to force his way into a stream of people that was moving steadily toward the market, marveling at the endless throngs as he did so. He had not realized there were so many people in all the world as he had seen in Azrad’s Ethshar.
A hand thrust itself in front of him and a voice demanded, “Alms for a crippled veteran!”
Valder thrust the hand aside with a shudder and marched on. Beggars! He had somehow not expected beggars in this vast, overwhelming city. Of course, it made sense that they would be here. They would naturally want to go where there was money to be had, and Azrad’s Ethshar certainly had money.
A signboard caught his attention. It depicted a huge, golden goblet with purple wine slopping over the rim, and a line of runes across the bottom read, “Food & Lodging.” Valder turned his steps in that direction, back out of the flow of traffic.
A good many people, mostly scowling, stood around the door of the inn, but they did not interfere as Valder shoved his way through. He stepped over the threshold into the dim interior and stopped dead.
The inside of the inn was almost as crowded as the street. The main public room, just inside the front door, was more than twenty feet on a side, but, except for a narrow path that led from the door to one end, across the hearth, down along the row of barrels, and then to the back corner where a stair and two doors led to other rooms, the floor was completely covered with blankets, displacing all the expected tavern furnishings. These blankets were neatly laid out in rectangles about two feet wide and six feet long, and on each one a man or woman sat or stood or lay, each with his or her personal possessions stacked at one end. Some had nothing but a spare tunic, while others had large, unwieldy bundles. Virtually all wore the green and brown of the Ethsharitic armies.
Startled and confused, Valder followed the path across the hearth and paused at the first barrel. The innkeeper emerged from one of the doors.
“What can I do for you?” he asked.
“Ah... a pint of ale, for now.”
“That’ll be four bits in silver,” the innkeeper warned.
Valder stared at him in astonishment, forgetting the crowded floor for the moment in the face of this greater shock. “What?”
“Four silver bits, I said. We’ve only got half a keg left, and no more due for a sixnight.”
“Forget it, then. What about water?”
“A copper a pint — no change for silver, either.”
“That’s mad! You’re selling ale for the price of a fine southern vintage and water for the price of the best ale!”
“True enough, sir, I am indeed. That’s what the market will bear, and I’d be a fool not to get what I can while these poor souls still have their pay to spend.”
“It’s theft!”
“No, sir, it’s honest trade. The gate and the market are so jammed, and the roads so full, and the ships so busy with passengers, that I can’t get supplies in. We have a good well out back, but it’s not bottomless and yields only so much in a day. I understand that the taverns nearest the gate are only accepting gold now.”
“And your rooms?”
“All taken, sir, and the floor here as well. I’m an honest man and I won’t lie about it; there is nowhere left to put you that won’t block my path. They’re sleeping four to a bed upstairs, with six on each floor, and a blanket and a space down here would cost you a full silver piece, if I had any left.”
“It’s all mad. Where are all these people coming from?”
“It is mad, sir, I won’t argue that. It seems as if the entire army of Ethshar is jammed into Westgate. I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s the end of the war that’s done it, of course, and I’m sure we’ll never see anything like it again. If prices come back down, I’ll retire a wealthy man at the end of the year — but who’s to say what prices will do when once they’ve started changing? The army doesn’t set them any more, so I need to charge what I can get.”
“I have money, innkeeper, but I’ll be damned to a northerner’s hell before I’ll pay a silver bit just for water.”
“A copper piece will do.”
“I don’t intend to pay that, either.”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Please yourself. I have, all the trade I need without you.”
“Isn’t there anywhere in the city that still charges honest prices?”
“I have no idea, really. There might be some poor fool somewhere. If so, he’s surely drained his every barrel dry by now.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Valder said, knowing even as the words left his lips that they sounded foolish. He turned and, in a petty display of temper, marched directly across the array of blankets and back out into the street, ignoring the angry protests from those he stepped over.
