It was late morning when Rai arrived at the gates of Ingot. His body was several pounds lighter and his mood several shades darker than it had been when he started out the week before. He had no new scars to speak of, and he supposed that was a positive, but his feet ached like they hadn’t since he was very young, his ribs were covered in enough yellow and black bruises to put a bumble-bee to shame, and he’d had the misfortune of eating poisonous mushrooms several days before. Fortunately, it hadn’t been of the lethal variety, just bad enough to make him lose what little food he had managed to eat over the past week, and keep him from putting away any more until today. In short, Rai Half-head was at the end of his rope, and if getting assistance here in Ingot didn’t work out, he had decided to tie a noose in that rope, and hang whoever was being an obstacle.
He’d taken the time to shave the left side of his head, removing the week’s worth of growth from there, and giving himself a couple of nicks in the process. Just mother nature ensuring that he built some character, Rai was certain. Normally, Big-man would’ve helped him with that, but he wasn’t here at the moment. With some reluctance, Rai also finally caved to Big-man’s wishes, and shaved the rapidly multiplying peach fuzz from his cheeks, admitting to himself that he would probably be taken more seriously if he at least appeared mature enough to recognize the fact that his facial hair wasn’t anywhere near being the majestic beard he wanted.
Rai looked at his face in the mirrored sheen of the water, reflection wavering ever so slightly with the movement of the stream. Rai, understandably, wasn’t a fan of mirrors. Or polished plates. Or particularly shiny shields. Reflective surfaces in general weren’t among his favorite things.
Rai watched that waver, that ripple, and thought that it was oddly apt. That was how he felt right now. Deep down, he could feel his spirit wavering, his soul quaking. If he got through this step of his journey in a fast enough, he could save Big-man and Mute. He could be the one pulling their arses out of the fire for once. On the flip side… If his journey had taken too long to get here, or he spent to long examining himself in all his glorious splendor at on this riverside, they could be dead before he got to them. Well, that put him dawdling by the riverside in a completely different light, now didn’t it. Rai got up, ready to move.
***
Lord Fredrick Bagby had the misfortune of having a banner whose crest looked like a filled chamber pot. Rai knew of course, from his lessons with old One-eye that the brownish looking lumps in the center were supposed to be rustier in color, and represent unrefined iron ore. The circular field of yellow that surrounded said brown lumps on the banner was meant to be a pile of golden coins, representing the Lord’s prosperity. However, years, and the harsh winds of eastern Whoid Stria had long since stripped the banner of any former glory it possessed, turning it threadbare and tired.
The strip of cloth with the chamber pot on it should’ve been replaced long ago, but the banner had the misfortune of belonging to Lord Fredrick Bagby, also known as ‘Fredrick the Frugal’. Lord Bagby was well known for having had his purse strings tied so tight for so long that they fossilized in that position, choking off much of the flow of commerce from one of the single most wealthy Lords in the entire kingdom of Whoid Stria. Aye, the way Rai Half-head figured it, Fredrick the Frugal was the type of man to ride a wagon ‘til the wheels fell off, then drag the damn thing for another mile or three, just to make threshing well sure that he got his money’s worth from the infernal contraption.
If the banner was a misfortune, the city was an eyesore. The streets were cobbled in a mismatched pattern that seemed to have no rhyme or reason, brown cobblestones giving way to black Riverstone and gray slate at odd angles, marking where repairs had been made on the road with whatever stone was the cheapest or easiest to get ahold of. Places where potholes used to ply their doleful trade, were now their gravesite, with tombstones of Riverstone and slate memorializing the time they spent foiling the strides of unsuspecting townspeople, and breaking the wagon-wheels of unwary merchants.
The one square block that Rai could see through the gap in the citty gate was just as odd and mismatched as the streets that squared it off. Here there was a cottage, made of old stone, and looking like the home of an old witch ready to bake small children into a pie. Towering over it on one side was a relatively new-looking warehouse made of long, supple pine planks. Flanking the cottage on the other side, a log cabin that would not look out of place in the forest that Rai had just exited. Behind these three a large, sturdy-looking home made of red brick, and a two-story clap-board house that looked ready to fall over at any minute declared their solidarity for their unlikely siblings. If that first block was anything to judge by, then not getting turned around in the city must be a pain in the backside as Rai reckoned it. In Goldstern, one could always tell their general location in the city based off of architecture, but not so here.
The scent wafting of the city wasn’t any more pleasant than the banner or the buildings. Scents of unwashed bodies, burning wood and the soot it produced, and the mineral tang of iron plucked discordant notes in the olfactory symphony of any person not born and raised in Ingot. Smoke drifted through the air from many a smithy, and the ring of hammers, picks, and loud voices could be heard even from where Rai stood.
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Rai Half-head looked at the banner that looked like a full chamber pot, at the guards in ill-fitting uniform that stood at the city gate. He looked at the patchwork road and the mismatched family of buildings on the first block. He breathed in deep through his nose, smelling again the unpleasant scent of bodies, ash, and iron. He beheld the City of Ingot in all its glory, and grinned. Just then, it was the most beautiful place he had ever scene.
***
If there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years in the City Guard, it was that the most desirable post a man could have, was gate duty. That’s why, when he was promoted to Sergeant three years before, he made damn certain to get that duty 4 days out of every week. It was by and far the easiest work an experienced guardsman could ask for, practically no work at all. If there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years of service, it was that if you could find an excuse to do nothing, and call it work, you did just that, and did your best to keep out of an officer’s sightline while doing so. Gate duty for a Sergeant consisted of manning the booth at the gate, watching what few travelers there were come and go through it. Aye, occasionally he would have to go yell at one of the twenty wet-behind-the-ears recruits stationed at the gate, for forms sake if nothing else, but that was hardly any bother. Gate Duty also kept him well out of the way of any officers asking for volunteers. If there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years of service, it was this: never volunteer. And if there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his three years as a Sergeant, it was that officers asking for volunteers were best avoided, lest they start volun-telling you to do things.
So, Stuart Brown kept to himself and his business; guarding the gate of Ingot, in the name of his Lord Fredrick Bagby. Generally speaking, this noble duty consisted of a whole lot of nothing. Occasionally an officer would ride through the gates, and Stuart would quickly form the recruits up to salute as he rode past, but those times were few in far between. Oh aye, mayhap that a grifter might be passing through, and on those occasions Stuart would exit his little booth and give said grifter a hard sergeant’s glare. If there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his three years as a Sergeant, it was that a Sergeants glare could go a long towards preventing trouble with grifters. And if there was one thing that Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years as a guardsman, it was that trouble with grifters, was best avoided; it had a way of coming back around to bite a man in the arse. Typically in the form of a boatload of paperwork, and a dressing down from a boy officer half his age and a quarter his size.
On this day Stuart Brown watched a very interesting grifter indeed make his way towards the gates. The man looked ho have had half his face melted into an unrecognizable mask of shiny, pocked flesh. Stuart was initially quite concerned. In his experience, the more scars a grifter had, the more like they were to cause trouble. Trouble, as it were, was something that Stuart Brown wanted no part of. So, like an reasonable man would, he stepped his way to the middle of the road, ten paces in front of the gate. He adjusted his belt in an attempt to hide the growing paunch he had started to develop since his duties pulled him from marching on the parade grounds and running patrols in the city, to sitting in a shaded booth doing mostly nothing, and calling it work.
“That’s far enough.” He called out, his musically lilting accent clearly marking him as an Ingot man, born and raised. “State yer business, if ye please. We don’ take well ta beggars ‘round these parts, so if that’s what ye’ve gone an’ set yer hopes on, I’m ‘fraid ye’ll need ta be shovin’ off elsewhere to mine someone else’s belt pouch fer gold.”
The grifter stopped, and cocked his head curiously, eyes panning over the dilapidated, mismatched sight that was Ingot, a slight smirk on his lips.
“Tae be completely honest with ye, if I were tae be doin any beggin’, I think I’d be picking somewhere …” the drifter paused significantly, then made eye contact with Stuart, confident as a new Lieutenant on promotion day. “Well, somewhere sitting a wee bit more pretty an’ proper-like.” There was a significant moment of silence. “Nae offense meant tae ye and yers o’course.” The strange drifter boy added after a moment.
Stuart gave the boy a flat look. If there was one thing Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years of service, it was that a flat look could go a long way towards making a mouthy drifter shut their crumb-catcher and demonstrate themselves to be about as verbose as a bag of hammers. Sure enough, the drifter’s face fell, smirk fading slowly away in favor of a more wary and careful confidence. Satisfied that he had regained control of the situation, Stuart spoke again, this time stabbing the butt of his spear into the ground with a thump, to emphasize his words.
“What I said, lad, was… State. Yer. Business.”
The drifter held out his hand, and Stuart Brown saw it had a letter. He took it. Opened it. Read it. Stuart Brown’s face paled. He turned to the wall.
“Cadet Conklin!” he barked out. A gangly boy of 15 stepped out from the line, almost tripping over his own spear in his haste.
“Yes, Sergeant!” the lad squeaked out. Stuart met Conklin’s eye as he handed the letter back to the drifter.
“Ye listen close to me Conklin. Ye take this drifter here, and you run for the palace like the fires o’ hell itself are on your heels. Because Reaper so help me, if I here ye took more’n five minutes to get there, those fires will be.”
Conklin hardly needed encouragement, grabbing the larger drifter by the wrist and practically dragging him off in the direction of Lord Bagby’s manse. Stuart sighed relief when they were out of sight. If there was one think that Sergeant Stuart Brown had learned in his ten years as a guardsman, it was that when you saw a letter like that, you sent it right along to the highest authority you could find, then washed your hands of it, crossed your fingers, and hoped you didn’t have to do any damned paperwork.