Day 52, 10:15 AM

“I find it that the harder I work, the more luck I seem to have.”

― Thomas Jefferson

The walls of Eaglegord are made of white stone. It reflects sunlight straight into my eyes as I approach it, and I want to curse the idiot architect, until I realize the feature is no accident. Anyone besieging the city would have the sun’s glare in their eyes the whole morning, all the way until afternoon, either reducing the effective fighting time, or forcing soldiers to fight blindly most of the day.

I’m guessing the western and northern walls are pretty much identical, while the architect placed the city’s southern edge against a thousand feet wide river.

Manny described the cliff and the small, easily defensible flight of stairs through which emergency trade is done. The merchants and travelers use a large harbor outside the city walls, and then simply walk around the moat and enter the city through the gate.

They really thought a lot about random things to make normal life difficult for everyone. It’s like everything they do revolves around war.

I marvel at the sight and try to think of anything I could improve once we take over. I’m full of daydreams most of the time, but there’s little I can contribute, save for making a crane to hoist merchandise to reduce the traffic jams at the city gates.

And from what I see, the gate is crowded, and the line is several hundred feet long.

I join the line. To my relief, the atmosphere is relaxed. Civilians chatter, and nobody seems to be aware of a moderately sized army heading this way.

Makes sense. I ran ahead, and I should be two days ahead of our troops. I left Manny in their competent hands, and Redo is online, so I’m not really that scared for her safety even though I have left her behind right after killing baron Jaggel in his sleep.

The public disturbances we started in Krimagord and Coremir did not trigger Anarchist’s level up screen. I’m hoping the scale was too small, but without additional information, it’s difficult to tell.

I take a step forward and wait patiently. This kind of reminds me of hell.

Well, not really, but this is the first line I have entered since leaving hell, and I can’t help thinking about it. My original death was less painful than the rest. It was instantaneous, probably as quick as a truck outside a highway can be. Compared to that, multiple impalements cause trauma.

How many times will I die before I reach my happily ever after? What will happen if I die while Redo is red?

I wonder, yet I don’t want to find out. Fortunately, step by step, the line moves quickly enough. The guards are just asking for the reason for coming to town, and whether the person entering is carrying anything they intend to sell.

Soon enough, it’s my turn.

“Why are you here? Got anything to sell?” the guard asks, and I shake my head.

“I’m here to buy a strong hunting bow, and I need a good blacksmith to make me a new spearhead.” I glance at Batsy, all grimy from mud.

The guard nods and motions me to move along. I pass the raised portcullis and the open gate. The tunnel leading into the city is five meters long and ends in another portcullis and an open gate. I see no signs of damage, and I’m starting to agree with Manny’s conclusion that the king had either bought Ser Gohen, or he planted him into the Eagleeye household from the start.

The city beyond the gate seems to be in good shape. It’s bustling, I hear the hawkers before I see them, which I guess means they are enthusiastic and run good businesses. There’s no stench of human refuse, to which I have grown numb in the smaller towns we visited. What I smell instead are grilled meats and collak roots, baked much better than my amateurish attempts at burying it in embers and then peeling off all the charred layers.

My mouth waters at the promise of regular food.

Following the delightful aroma, my nose brings me before a man selling something that looks a lot like kebabs.

“What’s that?” I ask. “How much for a stick?”

“These are chewups, seasoned ground beef, pure meat,” the food stall owner says, his voice louder than necessary. “Two for a plow, five for two. If you buy ten, I’ll throw in a fresh bun for free!”

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The wrinkly buns don’t look fresh, but they don’t look like rock edition travel ration either.

God, I can make burgers and fries and live like a king! I gulp the lake flooding my mouth, and I’m about to rummage for the four coppers when I speak.

“Three for ten. You can keep the bun, I’ve seen day-old corpses fresher than that.”

The short fatty looks like he just suffered a stroke, his lips and smile going slack. I’m just as confused. I wanted to give him the loose change before Bargaining took over.

Day-old corpses? Really?

“Eight,” he hisses after recovering. “Three for eight.”

I’m about to accept.

“Nine,” Bargaining says, and the street vendor looks at me like I’ve killed his father. He checks me out from head to toe and grits his teeth.

“Nine. And that’s cutting my own throat,” he hisses. “You don’t look like a merchant. Who taught you to haggle like that?”

“Hard won experience and some mistakes,” I say with a smile.

He doesn’t get the joke, but nods. Money and chewups exchange hands, but the vendor still looks angry.

“Do you know a place where I can buy fresh buns and some beer?” I ask.

He looks like he’s about to curse me, then smiles.

“Old Miller’s bakery is just down the street. He sells two buns for a plow. I can buy three. You should go for four, you might make it. Make him piss blood. As for beer…”

Twenty minutes later, I’m sitting by the roadside with a half-empty wooden mug in one hand and the last chewup stick in the other after having raided the chewup salesman’s enemies.

How does bartering work? Can I learn to do it myself? I try to find the logic behind it. The hawker was selling two for one, five for two, and ten for four, plus a stale bun.

The line of minimum profit seems to be around three for one. Is that what bartering is? Deducing the other party’s bottom line, then pressing them with a lower price so they settle for the slim profit, since they can’t fleece you? The baker sold me three buns for a plow, and he looked like he would choke when I tried for an extra bun.

I eat the last chewup and drown it with lukewarm ale still focused on bargaining.

“Ahh,” I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and settle for the few conclusions I have drawn out of this experience.

I look up at the sky and smile. I know the food is trash, but for some reason, at this exact moment, it feels so good, and it really hits the spot. If I were a dumb local kid, I would say something like, ‘I will eat like this every day,’ but, since I know what happens if you eat almost two pounds of meat and drink a pint of beer every morning, I make a different resolution.

“This time next year, I’ll be eating like a king,” I say the words aloud, and nobody says anything. I expected someone would mock or trash me, but nobody gives a damn. They are all busy with their own worries, with their own little plans, which probably don’t involve overthrowing the government and assassinating the viscount in the next thirty-odd hours.

Sated and with my thirst for third-rate beer quenched, I return the mug and head deeper into the city. The fanciest, most expensive inns are close to the city center, where coincidentally the city lord lives. That’s what most cities are like, but Eaglegord’s viscount lives in a keep, overlooking the small private harbor.

Manuella told me about a secret tunnel, the one her brother used for escape. We agreed Gohen almost certainly knows about that one. Fortunately, she also told me about three other tunnels, which probably remained secret.

The one her brother supposedly used ends in the forest, half a mile away from the city walls. I checked it, and someone, probably Gohen, filled it with earth and stones years ago. The second connects a ground floor hallway to a hollow at the base of the southern cliff, below the waterline. The third one is the shortest, and it’s a path leading from the master bedchamber to the gardens, while the final one connects the keep’s basement with another basement in the town.

My simplest solution would be to scale the wall and enter the master bedroom’s walk-in closet through the gardens. The least attractive one is the basement to basement connection. Manny said the basement in question belonged to a small clothing store once owned by her family, but even if nobody moved anything to block either end, it’s a very long walk, and if Gohen has any surveillance, I’m toast.

I stroll through the city and find the tailor’s shop right where Manny said it would be. Well, that’s positive.

Next I head to the city square, where some poor sod hangs from the gallows. The citadel is off limits. To enter, I must either pass a pair of guards standing before a closed gate, or scale a twenty-five-foot-tall wall.

I can also swim and enter from the cliff-side.

I stare at the wall. The climb is tough, the wall is well maintained and free of convenient cracks and vines. No houses encroach it, and the street separating the citadel from the nearest houses is fifteen feet wide, while the rest is an open square.

There’s no jumping across. So far, my safest bet seems to be diving by the pier. The problem is I can’t carry Batsy if I have to swim and find a hidden cavern, and I dislike the prospect of going unarmed and bare-assed into the enemy stronghold.

For Manny’s sake, it would be best to do this in one attempt. I go buy another mug of beer and sit with my back against the citadel wall. I drink and gaze around, wanting to see what happens.

The easiest climb is right there. I gaze at the point where city walls meet the keep at an acute angle, about forty-five degrees. I have two walls for support, and it’s probably the darkest there.

“Oi,” the gate guard shouts, heading towards me. “Get up! You can’t loiter around here.”

“Sorry.” I get up and leave, but I think I have a plan brewing for the evening.

A few more kinks to work out, and I think I’m ready.