Kingdom's Fall

Chapter 6

The walk from the Ruins into the centre of the city was a long one. Gray led and Cuan followed in silence. The blade he’d been given hung uncomfortably on his hip. The weight of it pulled the belt down on one side, making it slip and twist, and every few steps it would turn behind his leg and trip him up. He tried cinching the belt tighter, but when he did it sat too high above his waist and the hilt caught on his elbow. Sense warred with pride at the thought of taking the whole thing off and slinging it over his shoulder, but pride won out. He let it ride low and made a mental note to either punch a new hole in the leather or find a belt that fit.

Towards the palace district, the condition of the buildings and the streets improved markedly. Paving appeared, in haphazard and mis-matched patches at first, quickly becoming uniform and even the closer they got to the royal court. The buildings were pale blocks in the darkness, white-washed and increasingly well-maintained. As they entered onto one of the larger squares, the city lit up. White-wash gave way to bright-coloured facades - turquoise, yellow, and pink - that were lit by burning torches, and a host of tiny lamps dangled in the air, strung between tall poles to fill the space with a soft, warm glow. The square was made for market, and even though it was late stalls were set up selling food and drink.

“Is this some kind of festival?” Cuan had seen the harvest celebrations down in Heath’s Cross, but the best efforts of the border town were nothing compared to this. While the Ruins had been quiet to the point of desertion, the square was bustling. Inns were open on all sides, with people pushing to get inside as quickly as patrons - too drunk or no longer flush with coin - were leaving. The noise of conversation was a constant, droning buzz of overlapping voices, and through it every now and again Cuan could hear the fierce skirl of a piper somewhere, his music sounding sweet-clear over the din. A chanter wandered aimlessly, his robe trailing in the dirt, apparently unaware of how wide a berth people gave him. He would be mumbling the names of the Gods, each one a curse on the lips of any other man.

Gray laughed at Cuan’s amazement, slowing his pace and ducking his head to speak and be heard clearly. “No, lad. There’s no festival. This is just what it’s like here.”

“And no-one complains?” Gray frowned at him, and Cuan continued. “It’s just, if everyone’s doing this all the time, how does anything get done?”

The older man grinned. “Appearances can be deceiving.” He gestured at the inns and their constant flow of custom. “There’ll be more business done at those tables than there is during the day. Every merchant and agent in the city will be in there somewhere, looking to squeeze an advantage over his competitors.”

“I thought the king was in charge.”

“He is.” Gray narrowed his eyes, suspicious of mockery. At Cuan’s silence, he went on. “The king sets the terms that trade runs by, but there’s a lot of space for argument over the details. Merchants can appeal to the royal court for a ruling, but that can take so long they’d lose the advantage anyway. Better to just sort it out amongst themselves.”

“That sounds difficult.”

“It is,” Gray said. “Better to be a soldier.” He shifted his cloak and looked away for a moment. “Are you hungry?”

Cuan thought about it and his stomach answered accordingly. “Yes, I am.”

Gray held out some coins. “Grab yourself something from one of the stalls. If there’s anything with good meat in it, I’ll take some as well.”

“Still fetching and carrying,” Cuan said.

“Rank has privileges,” Gray said. “Good meat, mind.”

Cuan looked around at the stalls, instantly discounting those that didn’t have smoke or steam rising from them. He struck off the ones that people were crowding around, and those that sat forlorn and unnoticed. He didn’t want to wait but if no-one was eating there already it was a sure sign the food was bad. He made his choice, and made a bee-line for it. Lined along the table were thick wedges of pastry, shiny and hot from the push-along oven that the stall owner was busy paddling fresh pasties out of. He was a big, round-bellied man, with a brown-red apron stretched tight across his body and a cap of the same material pushed down tight on his head. Below it, his face was shiny from the heat of the oven. He looked Cuan up and down, his expression dubious.