CHAPTER 20
To Valder’s surprise, he found the situation to be exactly as the proprietor of the Overflowing Chalice had described it. In fact, each door closer to the Westgate Market brought another jump in prices. The inns and taverns that actually faced on the market were indeed accepting nothing smaller than a gold bit, even for water, let alone bread, cheese, or ale. Valder estimated that his entire accumulated pay, which he had thought ample to live on for two years or more, would scarcely buy a good dinner and a night’s lodging at the Gatehouse Inn — which was, oddly, not in the actual gatehouse or even adjoining it. The gatehouse itself was in the base of one of the two towers and was still manned by the army, as were the rest of both towers and the wall. Taverns and inns faced the gate from across the broad market square, and the Gatehouse Inn was at their center.
Strangely, the north and south sides of the market were completely open, marked only by a drop in the level of the ground, and Valder could see the city wall stretching off into the distance. Paralleling it, but a hundred feet or so in, was a broad, smooth street, also stretching off out of sight. In the rough depression between the wall and the street were no buildings, no structure of any sort, but more blankets like those in the Overflowing Chalice — hundreds upon hundreds of them, each with its occupant. These, Valder realized, were the veterans too poor — or too frugal — to pay for space in an inn or tavern. Several, he noticed, were crippled or wounded, and most were ragged and dirty.
After he had inquired at a dozen or so inns without finding food, drink, or lodging at a price he was willing to pay, Valder found himself standing in the middle of the market square, surrounded by the milling crowds. To the north and south were the homeless veterans on their pitiful blankets; to the east were the incredibly priced inns; to the west was the gate itself, fifty feet wide and at least as tall, but dwarfed by its two huge towers. He suddenly felt the need to talk to someone — not a greedy innkeeper nor a wandering, aimless veteran, but somebody secure and sensible. Without knowing exactly why, he headed for the gatehouse.
The towers, of course, were manned by proper soldiers, still in full uniform, and Valder found himself irrationally comforted by the sight of their polished breastplates and erect carriage. Three men were busily directing the flood of traffic in and out of the gate, answering shouted questions and turning back everything but people on foot, but a fourth was obviously off duty for the moment. He was seated comfortably on a folding canvas chair, leaning up against the stone wall of the gatehouse.
Valder made his way over and leaned up against the wall beside the soldier. The man glanced up at him but said nothing, and Valder inferred from this that his presence was not unwelcome.
“Has it been like this for very long?” Valder asked, after the silence stretched from sociable to the verge of strain.
“You mean the crowds? It’s been going on for two or three sixnights, since they announced the war was over. Nobody knows what to do without orders, so they all come here, hoping somebody will tell them.”
“It can’t keep up like this, can it?”
“Oh, I don’t think so — sooner or later everyone will have come here, seen what a mess it is, and given up and left again.”
“I expect a good many will stay; I’d say this is going to be a very large city from now on, even more than before.”
“Oh, no doubt of that; they’re already laying out new streets wherever they can find room inside the walls.”
“Is anybody doing anything about all these people?”
“Not really — what can they do? We have orders to keep out horses and oxen, to reduce the crowding in the streets, and Azrad did have free blankets issued, so that nobody would have to sleep in the mud, but that’s about it. There just isn’t anything to do with them. There’s plenty of land outside the walls if they want to go farm it, and I suppose there will be work for builders and the like, but beyond that, I don’t know what’s going to happen to them all. I stayed in uniform for a reason, you know; the army may be rough at times, but it’s secure, even in peacetime. Someone’s got to watch the gates and patrol the borders and keep order.”
“You said the overlord gave out those blankets?”
“That’s right; that was intended to be the entire supply for the whole Ethsharitic army for the next three years, and they’ve been given away to whoever asked for them. Need one? We’ve got about twenty left, I think.”
“I might, at that, unless you can tell me where I can find lodging at a reasonable price.”
“Friend, there isn’t a place in this whole city where you can find cheap lodging except the Hundred-Foot Field and the barracks, and the word is that the penalty for civilians sleeping in the barracks is a hundred lashes — and you re-enlist. And not as an officer, either, regardless of what you were in wartime.” “Seems severe, but I know better than to argue. What’s the Hundred-Foot Field?”
“You walked right past it.” He gestured vaguely toward the market. “That’s the space between Wall Street and the wall. The law says you can’t build there, ever, in case the army needs the space to maneuver or move siege machines — but the law doesn’t say anything about sleeping there on a blanket or two in warm weather. Even during the war, we usually had a few beggars and cripples who slept there, and now it’s jammed full of these damned veterans, all the way around the city — or so I’m told, I haven’t checked. I never go south of Westwark, nor more than a few blocks into Shiphaven.”
“I don’t know my way around the city, but I take it those are neighborhoods?”
“That’s right; even without these veterans, the city was already too big, and it’s more like a dozen little cities put together — Shiphaven and Westgate and Westwark and Spicetown and Fishertown and the Old City and the Merchants’ Quarter and so forth.”
“I hadn’t realized it was so big.” Valder glanced back at the mobbed marketplace. The crowd seemed to be thinning somewhat — or perhaps the fading light just made it appear to be. He realized with some surprise that the sun was below the western horizon, and the shadow of the city wall covered everything in sight. He still had not eaten, and had nowhere to stay the night.
“Ah — how many gates are there?”
“Three, though they’re planning to put in a fourth one to the southwest.”
“Are there inns at all of them?”
“I suppose so, but Westgate gets the most traffic. This is the main highway here, going through this gate, the road to Ethshar and Anaran and Gor and the northern lands, while the other gates just go to the local farms on the peninsula. I think most of the inns must be here.”
“How far is it to the next gate?”
The soldier leaned back in his chair and considered that for a moment. “I’d guess two miles or more,” he said. “It’s a big city.”
Valder glanced at the thinning crowds, then at the dimming sky. Torches were being lighted in front of some of the taverns and shops, but the streets would still be dark.
Walking two miles through an unfamiliar city at night on the slim chance that the other gates would be preferable when he was already tired was not an attractive prospect. “Let me have one of those blankets,” he said. “It looks as if I’ll be spending the night in the Hundred-Foot Field.”
The soldier grinned. “Right. Got to make that back pay last, don’t you?” He sat up and let the chair’s front legs down, then got to his feet. With a nod, he vanished through the gatehouse door, to emerge a moment later with a brown bundle. “It’s all yours,” he said, tossing the blanket to Valder.
Valder decided against replying; he nodded politely and slipped away into the crowd.
As he made his way southward on Wall Street looking for a blanket-sized opening in the Hundred-Foot Field, he kept a steady eye on the field’s inhabitants. The further from the market square he went, the less savory his view became; by the time he had gone six blocks, he had the blanket tucked securely under one arm in order to keep his hands free, his right resting on his sword hilt and his left clutching his purse.
The wall, and Wall Street with it, jogged three times before he found himself a spot. He judged the distance from Westgate Market at roughly a mile and briefly considered continuing on toward the second gate.
He quickly dismissed the notion, however. Night had fallen, and the light from the scattered torches and lanterns did not amount to much. He did not care to travel further by such uncertain illumination, particularly with a
