It was four more days by foot before they reached Baronston. By then, Parry had shaved his oddly gold "copper coin" by half to pay turnpike tolls and for a night at a way station, breakfast included. They were luxuries, but few roads in this world were patrolled, might as well enjoy what they could. Several wagons had passed them along the way and a few cartloads of timber.
I wonder if Sean is on one of them? A bumpy ride, but at least she was safe and would get into the city without problems.
Up ahead the last of the rolling farmlands gave way to open plains, then to that area that always seems to surround far-flung urban outposts: siege land. In defense, these would be scoured, trapped, laid level for defenders to use as a killing field, hell for any would-be invading forces or rambunctious monsters. It would stay this way right up to arrow-range, when there'd be no-man's-land. Dedicated besiegers would dig in just outside that invisible line, pile up earthworks, construct siege engines, the usual. And the fight would drag on.
It was a time of peace, so the area bristled with tents, quick seasonal gardens, edge-city storage and industry (hides had to be tanned, no one wanted to live next to a tannery), beggars and whores and anyone with business that might run afoul of the law inside the city walls. And of course, here was anyone who couldn't pay their way in. Interestingly, the guards discouraged impromptu markets--they wanted legitimate business inside the city, where it was safe, where those with money lived or stayed and where everything could be taxed. So while there was plenty to buy and trade for outside the walls in these tent towns, it was all low-stakes, unsavory, illegal and small scale at best.
"Find anything on this area yet?" Parry asked mentally of his demon familiar, who'd spent a while mining through his vast mountain of memories.
"You've not had a lifetime in this part of the world in the last two hundred, maybe more, as far as I can tell. All you remember is Baronston is under the flag of one Baron Hundhardt, who answers to the Duke or Duchess of Little Tyryn, a top court noble of Prince Guntav XII, if he's still alive."
Styak held remnants of exhaustion, frustration and anger, still smoldering over being wrung out of mana from casting the [Word of Consecration]. Then there was a lingering tinge of fear and uncertainty from confronting the Lord of Wings in person. But now all its magic had returned and with it a nasty, but at least lighter-hearted mood.
"Figures the Creator would set me down in a place I've never been. Little chance of finding any clues I might have left myself from a previous incarnation, almost no landmarks or people to recognize."
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He'd lived hundreds, thousands of lives, but the world was a big place. And many of those lives had been on other planes, from Styak's many hells to the celestial spheres to the elemental realms and even a few times the astral. It's not like Parry had been everywhere. Eventually I suppose I will, he thought sourly, making his way through the edge-city. If I don't get out of this recurring nightmare.
Parry made his way through the staging grounds, past the tents, the little gathering spots, encountering a few propositions from women, men, probably more thieves and grifters. This was a small outpost, it wasn't peak trading season, the society beyond the walls would be sparse until harvest time. The road had left its mark, he was dusty, but being a lone traveller with gleaming white hair, clothes and belongings made him stand out. He moved fast and kept his head down, and soon was in the queue at one of the gates in the wall.
"I could jump that even in this form," the cat mocked from the depths of Parry's mind.
"Tyryn isn't a rich principality, and we're not exactly near its capital." But the demon had a point: this town was a fortified outpost mostly in name only. The wall was maybe twelve feet, except at the wooden guard towers. Its crenelations were wood, what stone it had proved rustic (to put it kindly). The guard were few and had that lazy disorganization of a frontier outpost, with fitness and dress codes loosely enforced. Each probably had their own little bit of graft going--typical.
Parry figured it must have been relatively peaceful for years. He had no recollection of ever seeing troops with these colors, not in any of the wars or actions he remembered from his many lives on this continent. Either this little baron didn't have many troops to send or there was no call for fighters that undisciplined. At least they'd managed to clear the turnpike and area around Baronston of monsters, they can't be totally inept.
"Business here, milk boy?" the guard joshed when Parry stepped up.
He grit his teeth. I have got to get other clothes first thing.
"Passing through, sir, on my way to the capital." He tried for an innocent smile laced with excitement to be 'in a big city.'
"Alone?" The guard held a pole-arm in one hand lightly, not leaning on it, but comfortable in a way that suggested he understood how to use it. There was no sense of threat.
Parry nodded. "I'll just stick to the roads and pay all the tolls," which was a calculated way of mentioning he had money, exactly what a guard wanted to hear.
That guard showed curiosity, but there were also several wagons lining up behind the boy, and those would have to be searched.
"Alright. Five coppers gate toll. Curfew at nine bells." He almost continued with a practiced warning against drunkenness, but it wasn't really appropriate to this young lad, so he skipped it. An eyebrow did arch when they boy paid in gold dust, but it was a frontier outpost, it wasn't unheard of.
"You'll want proper coins. There's two moneychangers in the market square, look for Hyrald. Green sign."
"Thank you," Parry said, smiling, and he made his way through the wall and into town.