In the Great city of Veral Ski, Esmiralda and Seymuhr are looking for their companion, Broo Fang Tane, an Optimist Monk with a short temper and a talent for violence.
Those who have never been to one of Korin's large cities probably envision it as a grand place, filled with wondrous sights, gleaming with gold and riches. Before my modest childhood in the woods of Maltiboor, before the raiders came and killed my mother and father and drove me into a life of travel, I had always thought they were places of pomp and pageantry, where the hardships of scraping a life from the land were far away, where magic was possible and peace and safety chased away every shadow.
Now, I just noticed the smell. The stench of unwashed bodies was nearly a physical thing that we had to walk through. I couldn't tell if this crowd was particularly ripe or if it was just one really smelly bastard ruining it for the rest of us and, by Keska's Curls, I didn't want to find out. I merely pulled my shirt up over my nose, ducked my head and weaved my way through the throng, hoping Seymuhr was following.
The crowd was pressed together near the gate but as we worked our way further from it the number of people gradually decreased as groups went off in different directions, headed to the market, a tavern, a shop or on some other errand. I poked my nose out and let out a breath.
We were on a straight, stone thoroughfare crowded on either side with buildings of various sizes. Pennants hung from some of the upper windows: the bright blue that Queen Pheadra favored serving as a backdrop to either a merchant's symbol or the falling star of the queen's standard, itself. Women, their bosoms hanging out of their loose shirts, leaned out some windows, calling down to any man who looked prosperous enough to enjoy their company.
The company was plentiful, there were people of all ages, races and sizes moving to and fro, some concentrating on their tasks, others sauntering about, gaping openly and a few hurrying as if on some important errand. One man, with a gleaming bald spot and a ring of hair that hung down to his cheeks, blew a kiss up at a red-headed wench and, craning his head to see her response, stubbed his toe on the uneven roadway and started to hop, holding his foot and cursing loudly.
"Better luck next time!" A pointing man shouted and laughed.*
He half turned to confront the man, still hopping on one leg. Tears streamed down his cheeks. He could formulate no witty response, though, and so endured the laughter of the crowd and his would-be lover above.
A small group had gathered outside a tavern, too, with a sign above its entrance that merely read 'Randy's' in the common tongue. Two large men, chests heaving, swayed on unsteady legs near the door. Both men had bleeding knuckles and ruined faces. One of them, a brown-haired man wearing nothing more than a pair of short breeches, blew a ragged breath out of his shattered lips and sprayed the other with droplets of pink spittle. He took a great lungful of air, raised his fist and slammed it into the other man's chin. More blood flew and the crowd shouted and gasped. The man's eyes glazed over and he slowly toppled backward as his knees gave way.
"I won," the first man, clearly exhausted, could not summon more energy than that. He looked around through eyes nearly swollen shut. "Did you see, lads? Victory is mine! The soup was good. Lads?"
I shook my head. In many places, disagreements were settled with fists, no matter how trivial the matter was. Someone would voice one opinion or defend an argument, and another would support the opposing side. When the disagreements became heated (or sometimes even before then) they would take turns punching each other in the face until only one, the victor, stood. I never understood the practice, for it led to mass delusions. For example, the sky above the Cliffs of Azrok were as blue as any other, but the people there are convinced they are green, merely because the 'green' champion hit harder and struck first. It was idiocy.
"Let's eat here," Seymuhr said, chuckling. "I heard the soup was good."
"That's not funny," I snapped. "We've just watched someone beaten to the ground over the quality of a meal! We'll never become a truly civilized society if we can't learn to disagree without knocking the life fluid out of each other."
"Yes we will," he said.
"No, I can't see it. We..."
"Yes. We. Will," he lowered his voice and took on a menacing tone. His hands were curling into a fists.
"Perhaps you're right," I glanced about nervously.
He laughed and was suddenly cheerful once more. "See? We just did it."
You just proved my point, I didn't say. People would never win an argument as long as the powerful had fists. "Yes, yes. You're quite wise. Come along. We should find our friend before he gets into any trouble--and you know how likely that is."
"No. I don't," his voice took on the same menacing tone.
I walked into the crowd, in search of Broo Fang Tane.
*A phrase of Frizzian origin. The streets in the city of Frizza were so unevenly cobbled that it was virtually impossible to walk among them unscathed. Even a moderate gait required complete concentration. Those unfamiliar with the city--or even locals who weren't concentrating on the road in front of them--were likely to bust a toe or twist an ankle. Frizzians, seeing this happen, often poked fun at the stumbling tourists by calling out: 'Better luck next time' or 'Keep practicing.'
