Gerrard could think of a thousand possible consequences of that statement, none of them very heartening.
The mountain shielded them from the wind now. Suddenly Gerrard wished the breeze would return. A gagging stench rose from the shadow of the mountain.
"What's that smell?" Gerrard wondered, gagging.
"It seems to come from beyond that wall."
A high, thick wall circled the base of Mercadia. It was an amazing earthwork, thirty feet high, thirty feet wide, and five miles in diameter. Here and there, tall, conic towers stood. Roads converged on it, and there were numerous gates through the wall. It must have taken decades, if not centuries, to build, but whatever lay beyond smelled too rotten to deserve guarding.
The soldier escort led the prisoners up onto one of the main roads, crowded with travelers. Carts, barrows, pedestrians, and riders all converged on the city. Many were Mercadians, with their sloping foreheads and small, high ears. Others wore turbans and desert garb and had swarthy skin. Still more were not human at all-giant rat creatures, men with the heads of boars, women with the heads of eagles, grimy giants carrying crates, shambling slaves whipped by their masters. All of them walked toward a vast gate in the wall. Gerrard could make out no more, his eyes watering. "This is worse than the dust," he said, wiping away tears and gagging slightly. "What could possibly lie beyond that wall?"
"I'm beginning to think the stench doesn't lie beyond," Takara said into his ear. "It's the wall, itself." She pointed toward the cliff-edge of the inverted mountain. Gerrard looked up.
Something dribbled from the edge of the city. Globs of dark material plummeted. A few items flashed in the cascade. There was foul liquid and tumbling bits of paper-?
"Garbage?" Gerrard asked, his throat clenching. "That's a wall of garbage?" Even as he spoke, he saw more filth tumbling down in brief showers all along the perimeter of the city.
"The captain said they knew how to throw away their refuse. Perhaps this is what he meant," Takara said. Some runnels were clearly sewer mains.
There was no more talking as they approached the mound of garbage. In waves, the stench grew worse. Someone had thoughtfully inserted long black pipes that vented gases from below and burned them away in constant blue flames.
Miserable, Gerrard and his crew rode on toward the archway. That stonework gate was meant not to keep enemies out but to prevent filth from landing on those who walked the road. It piled atop the arch instead. A few of Gerrard's crew members leaned over the sides of their mounts to retch. Similar spots on the ground told that this was a common reaction from visitors. The prisoner caravan marched along beside merchants and slaves and slavers, all passing beneath the putrid gate.
Within the wall, the stench was somehow more diffuse- either that, or the crew's sense of smell was well nigh dead. The caravan continued onward, and after about a mile along the crowded main road, the stink had become only a pervasive sourness.
Gerrard looked at Takara and the others. All the crew were attempting to brush and clean themselves of the dust, which had swept into their every cranny and pore. Tahngarth was quietly cursing to himself in Talruum-quietly for a minotaur. As they drew nearer to the mountain, the crew saw that the base was the site of complex activity. They passed through a low brick wall with mounted guards stationed along it at regular intervals.
Ahead stood the base of Mount Mercadia. It was hewn with doors, evidently leading to storerooms. Folk constantly passed in and out, some carrying boxes and bundles. From this mass of people rose a constant hubbub. Clusters of small booths dotted the area, taking up all available space, and the competing cries of merchants rose into the air.
"Best pressed tralana!"
"Morkrain! Ground morkrain! Get it before it's gone!"
"Come now! Who wants some nice, fresh kava berries?"
Gerrard listened to the cries for a moment before something struck him. He turned to Takara. "I can understand them!" Though the barkers had a strange predominant accent, their words were perfectly recognizable.
She nodded. "Yes. The language the guard speaks must be unique to the ruling class of the city. To them, it is evidently a mark of distinction."
Gerrard looked around in some awe. In Benalia and Jamuraa he had often passed through city marketplaces. Among the Benalish infantry, with whom he'd trained, such places were extremely popular. Soldiers on leave could purchase food, drink, or more exotic diversions. The great market town of Triven Fralli in Benalia had always seemed to Gerrard a circuslike experience. Yet, had that fabled market been dropped into the middle of this scene, it would have been immediately swallowed up. This market extended in all directions around the mountain as far as the eye could see.
"Tell him-" Gerrard jerked his head toward the captain of the guard- "we're impressed with the size and wealth of the city."
Takara spoke a few halting sentences to the guard, who looked at Gerrard in some surprise and burst out laughing. He dispatched a long reply. Takara questioned him further before turning back to Gerrard.
"He says this isn't the city at all," she reported. "It's merely the outskirts. A camp." "Then where is the city?" The red-haired woman pointed silently upward. "Up where? You mean on top of the mountain?" Takara nodded yes.
"But how are we going to get up there?" Gerrard asked, craning his neck.
Before Takara could reply, a bellow came from Tahngarth. "They have strivas." He pointed emphatically toward a booth that contained a variety of steel-edged weapons. Short, intricately carved swords spread in a fan against the dark cloth that formed the backdrop to the booth. "Strivas!"
Gerrard gave the minotaur a blank look. He shouted back, "What are they?"
"It is the chosen weapon of the minotaurs of Talruum. Why would they be for sale here?"
That question was ringing in Gerrard's ears even as another question formed. He was watching a group of five goblins strutting between the stalls of the market. They wore long, flowing robes and carried slender golden rods in their hands. Their stance was proud and upright, and they glared menacingly at those foolish enough to cross their path, yet there was no mistaking their essential kinship with Squee. The goblins spotted Weatherlight's cabin boy, sitting before Tahngarth. Clearly they were equally amazed. They exchanged glances. Then the largest one, fully as tall as Gerrard, bowed low to Squee and passed on. The others followed suit, leaving the crew to gape after them.
Gerrard felt his own jaw dropping and collected himself. He, along with the other members of Weatherlight's crew, stared at Squee, who smiled uneasily and ducked his head.
Between the booths was a path that wound its way along the mountain base. Here and there, vast columns of stone extended down from the cliffs above. Some were smooth, as if the mountain had turned liquid and dripped onto the ground, while others were pitted and twisted like old tree trunks. Gerrard even saw a few pillars that supported stairways winding upward, vanishing into doorways high above the ground.
The Jhovalls shouldered through the thick crowd. The Mercadian guards herded them along successfully, and the thronging buyers and sellers parted easily before them.
At last, the beasts drew up next to an area where there were no booths. Long lines of people waited, chattering among themselves. The soldiers made their captives dismount, tied the beasts to nearby posts, and led the prisoners through the throng.