Day 32, 4:30 PM

“Of mankind we may say in general they are fickle, hypocritical, and greedy of gain.”

— Niccolo Machiavelli

Holgord wasn’t quite as close as we expected, but it wasn’t all that far away either, considering we navigated a forest relying on sun and a ten-year-old memory. Yesterday, we ran into a homestead. Talked with some decent folks, bought some rations, and got directions, yet we still took more than a day to reach the large town.

Manuella spent several hours educating me on various villages, towns, their population sizes, and the hypothetical number of troops they could field. She warned me to take her words with a grain of salt, since nobody tutored her regarding the matter, she only caught her father talking about them.

A decade ago, the entire kingdom of Garacia had roughly two million people, eighty to ninety percent of whom lived in small villages and isolated homesteads. Those people held the lowest status and kept no slaves. They had trouble feeding themselves and paying taxes, slaves would just be rebellious extra mouths to feed, a threat they did not need in their already poor lives.

As for the people living in cities and towns, about half of them were slaves nobody would dare arm, because they feared rebellion. The capital, called Garagord, had over twenty thousand residents, and Manuella estimated eight to eleven thousand of them were slaves.

Eaglegord was once the second largest city with seventeen thousand residents, but Manuella did not know its current state. Only two other cities had over ten thousand citizens, Nollangord and Blessedgord. There are six more cities with populations of over five thousand beside those four.

The rest of the urban population lives in towns like Amplegord and Holgord, each ranging between two and three thousand residents. Holgord, like most towns, has a massive wall surrounding it, with a wide expanse of fields just outside its walls.

The massive black gates gape open as we approach, and a pair of bored guards stand idly by the side. I notice a pair of lighter rectangular patches from thirty yards away and take embarrassingly long before realizing they are wanted posters.

On one is a squiggle of a woman with long hair, on the other an orc, or a swine-man wearing a triangular hat.

“Dangerous fugitives,” the scroll says, “wanted for treason.”

I read on, and while my poster lacks a name, the description is fairly accurate, and has nothing to do with the drawing. Fortunately for us, the vast majority of the population is illiterate, and accurate descriptions mean little when paired with horrible portraits.

Manuella’s also has a proper description, and they both end with, “royal reward for capture.”

I’m tempted to ask, “Who’s the pig,” but I decide to pretend I saw nothing.

“Who’s the pig?” I hear myself say.

Not this shit again.

“A wanted man,” the younger guard says, turning to look at me. The youth can’t be more than twenty years old. “There’s a reward if you catch him.”

I feel Manuella’s glare burn holes in the back of my skull again. I can almost hear her chanting, ‘Inconspicuous, inconspicuous, inconspicuous,’ under her breath.

I nod, intending to walk towards the town.

“What did he do?” My mouth moves again, faster than my feet.

“Pissed off the king he did,” the older guard says, eyeing me. He looks like a veteran, three fingers and a part of his right hand missing.

“That must have hurt like hell,” I say, and pause. Apparently, I have to chat with random guards looking for me.

“It did. I got it ten years ago.”

“You are a brave man,” Manuella suddenly says, and the old man doesn’t smile like I expected. His expression turns stiff as he nods.

With nothing more to say, we walk in.

“Are you insane?” she hisses at me, and she has every right to be pissed.

I half expected Blunt to answer, but it stays quiet, so I have to speak up. “They drew you so atrociously, I just had to say something.”

“So you asked why you were a wanted man?”

“Drawing attention to you seemed like a stupid thing to do.”

She snorts. “The drawings are horrible because royal messengers ride carrying the fugitive’s written description. While they rest and change horses, the local lord’s scribes copy the text, and then make a drawing based on the description.”

I nod. “That’s interesting. Still doesn’t explain why they drew me like a swine.”

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She shoots me that look, and I stop talking.

“We should find some supporters,” she whispers, “or at least people disgruntled with the king’s rule. The first step is the most dangerous, and we need to tread carefully. The older guard most likely served in my father’s army ten years ago. We have to find out who rules the city, if my father’s supporter is in charge, we should easily draft loyal men.”

That’s wishful thinking. I glance at her, and almost stay silent, but I remember what I promised her about speaking my mind.

“The sly king you described would never spare the loyalists,” I say, my voice low. “He probably executed them all and brought his own men in charge. The old man at the gate could have fought against your father when he lost his hand.”

Manuella bites her lip. “You are right and wrong. You are right about the king, but that man is a local. You could hear it in his accent when he spoke, and if he were from the attacking force, he would have retired back home, he would not have stayed here.”

“You might be right,” I finally say after hesitating for several moments, “but we can’t take a chance. Our best bet is searching for maimed beggars, feeding them in exchange for stories. We can say we are here to search for our father, who fought in the war and never came back. Do you know some company names, or some unimportant officers? Someone recognizable, yet irrelevant.”

She frowns. “Why?”

“So we can slowly figure out who’s loyal to whom. It would be easiest if Holgord’s king-appointed lord is corrupt and despised. Then, we can just start a revolt and make it appear natural. We can capture the city, then find the loyalists you’re looking for.”

She shakes her head slowly, her eyes blank. No wonder she’s confused. She had her brain wrapped around a singular approach for years, and she’s lost the flexibility.

“Listen. You said the king would need a month to send an army of several hundred, and three months to gather ten thousand. The summer solstice just passed, and the winter will start in four months. Even if we start an uprising now, he can’t prepare a major campaign until late spring next year. Or we could force his hand, and he loses several hundred trained supporters if he sends them at us impatiently.”

She shakes her head, but her face is not as obstinate as it was a moment ago. “Trained soldiers will destroy militia. Even in a siege. One month is not enough to consolidate your rule. Traitors will open the gates, and the enemy will slaughter us.”

We keep whispering while walking the streets. The paved road is dirty, and the sloppiness irks me to no end. Keeping the town clean would take a minor effort from everyone, an hour a week to keep it clean.

The thatched wooden houses have glass windows, but the broken ones are boarded shut or sealed with thick fabric. While not dilapidated, they give me a poor and neglected feel, and the street hawkers, while still shouting, seem less energetic than merchants in Amplegord and Namir. I connect all the pieces, and understand some things.

This town was once wealthy, but no longer. The people are afraid, yet remember the good times from a mere decade ago. These men were rich, but someone robbed them. In my mind, that makes them and this town the perfect seed for rebellion.

“Let’s go here,” I point at a tavern, interrupting Manuella.

She pauses. “Why?”

“Because I had a flash of brilliance, and because I don’t like stumbling around blindly. I have a feeling I do it way too often.” My voice is jolly as I lead the way, even though I’m fantasizing about how grand life would be if someone just wrote a tutorial and handed it to new players. It would save everyone a bunch of embarrassment.

I push the door open and enter a mostly empty establishment full of empty tables and benches. The few patrons sit in the corners, minding their own business, and the place is even glummer than the streets. Perfect material for uprising, I tell myself again.

“Good day, master,” I greet the bartender after the man nods, acknowledging me. “We’ll have two ales. And do you have any food?”

“A mug of ale’s a plow, a pitcher’s four plows. I’ve got bread and cheese, a plow a serving.” The man’s voice is gruff, his frown angry, his mustaches thick, and he has the bearing of a seasoned actor, cast for a passive-aggressive side character in a sitcom.

“Bring us a pitcher, two mugs, and two servings of food.” I sit at the table closest to him, and Manuella follows.

She sits across from me, a nervous tangle of stress.

“Relax,” I mouth. “Lounge. Make yourself at home.”

I’ve learned during my Chillago vigilante days that the best way to be inconspicuous wasn’t to be unnoticeable. Rather you should be very noticeable and the opposite of what people expect from criminals. Who in their right mind would approach us here and say ‘You’re that princess and swine wanted by the king?’ Nobody, that’s who.

Manuella eases up, and after a while, the proprietor bangs the food and drinks onto our table. The wooden plates house a modest amount of food. The pitcher, however, is full.

“Two more servings of food, this wouldn’t feed my five-year-old,” I say, and the grumpy mustachio snorts, but brings more food shortly.

“Are you related to the grumpy old man at the gate?” I say, dropping the eight copper coins into his hand.

The man snorts again. “Stranger, don’t compare me to Najel. I’m running a respectable establishment, while that dog would sell his own mother for a handful of shields.”

Yeah. The veteran is definitely not someone we should take a chance with. How about you, old man?

“Means he’s cheap. Seeing his hand and all,” I mutter, and the old man struggles not to laugh.

“Sorry about that,” I say, looking down and grinning. “His scoff was more or less the same.”

I pause for a moment, then look at the proprietor’s once again frowning face. “Have I offended you? How about I apologize to you with a pint? I don’t want grumpy old men spitting in my mug behind my back.”

Manuella’s pupils are wide with shock, but that’s the only tell. Meanwhile, the mustachio laughs.

“You got some tongue on you, boy.” Then he turns serious. “I already told you I’m running a respectable establishment here. I wouldn’t spit in anyone’s mug, if they pay.”

“Not even the taxmen?” I ask, and he swallows a guffaw.

“Now that’s an evil thing to say,” he says, lowering his voice. “Boy, don’t say things like that aloud, you might earn yourself a whipping.”

“Sorry,” I whisper back. “Thank you.”

I knew people with angry faces are kind jokers deep down. In at least thirty percent of the cases. The rest of the time, they are just plain angry, but you don’t run a bar if you’re really perpetually grumpy. People would steer away from their place.

“Are you new to town?” the man asks, despite knowing the answer.

I nod. “My brother and I are trying to find out what happened to our father. He went to war ten years ago, but never returned.”

Several complicated emotions flash across the old man’s face and he sighs.

“You really shouldn’t have come…”