He noticed all this while fighting his way through crowds. The streets were jammed with people, going in both directions at varying speeds, clad in a fantastic variety of dress. The tangle at one intersection was such that he had to fight his way into the thick of the crowd simply to avoid being forced over the ankle-high parapet and into the canal. He was grateful that all the traffic was on foot, as horses or oxen would have made the tangle impassable.
A few hundred feet from the dock where he had disembarked, the canalside street was joined diagonally by another, and where they met was a good-sized triangular marketplace, where farmers and fishermen were hawking their wares. At the near end three men stood on a raised platform, one of them shouting numbers to a small crowd, another wearing chains. Valder realized with a start that this was a slave auction in progress.
He had known that such things existed; the few northern prisoners who survived had presumably wound up as slaves somewhere, and certain crimes were punishable by enslavement, but this was the first time he personally had come into direct contact with the institution of slavery.
He wondered where the man being auctioned off had come from and how he had arrived in his present state — and just what a healthy slave was worth. He had no intention of buying one — he had no use for a slave and did not want the added responsibility — but he was intensely curious all the same to learn what a man’s life was worth in silver. He pressed forward to listen.
He was too late; the auctioneer called out, “Sold!” just as Valder came close enough to make out what was said. He waited for a moment to see if any more slaves were to be sold, but this one had apparently been the last in the lot. The auctioneer stepped down from the platform, and the other free man led the slave away.
Mildly disappointed, but also thrilled with the exoticism of this strange city, Valder shrugged and turned away — and nearly stepped on the tail of a tiny golden dragon, scarcely three feet long, that was being led past him on a chain held by a plump woman in red velvet. Valder stared after it; he had not realized that even newborn dragons could be so small.
When the little monster had vanished in the throng, Valder resumed his former route, pushing his way southward through the crowd toward the inland end of the market. He had reached the midpoint of the plaza when he suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was going. He was in Azrad’s Ethshar, and that was as far as he had planned. His hope of setting himself up as a wine merchant was best abandoned, as the competition was too fierce and too well established. He was alone in a strange city, with a few clothes and personal items, a full money-pouch, a magic sword, and nothing else.
Obviously, the first order of business was to find food and shelter. A city would have inns, certainly; he need only find them. Once he had a room and a meal he could take his time in deciding what to do. He had his whole life before him — and a very long life it might be, at that — to do with as he would and as he could. He was free, unfettered, and uncertain, with no obligations and no plans.
He had rather expected to find inns near the docks, but none were evident. The next logical place would be near the city gates. That left the question of where the nearest gate might be.
He reached the narrow end of the market and found himself with a choice of two streets, one heading east across the head of the canal and the other angling off to the southwest. He chose southwest and struggled onward. The crowds were somewhat thinner here, but seemed to move faster, though still exclusively pedestrians.
Roughly five hundred feet from the intersection, the street he had chosen ended in a T, offering him northwest or southeast. He stood for a moment at the corner, puzzled, then stopped a passerby in a pale yellow tunic and asked, “Which way to the city gate?”
The man glanced at him. “Westgate?”
“If that’s nearest.”
The man pointed southeast and said, “You follow this to Bridge Street, turn right, follow that until it merges into West Street, follow that to Shipwright Street, and that goes to Westgate Market.” Before Valder could thank him or ask for more detail, the man had pulled away and vanished in the crowd, leaving Valder wondering if he might have asked the wrong question. There might well be inns closer at hand.
Still, he had directions and he followed them as best he could. The street leading southeast ended at a broad avenue after a single block; although Valder saw no sign of a bridge nor any indication of the avenue’s name, he assumed he had the correct street and turned right.
Bridge Street, if that was what it was, seemed interminable and was as crowded as the other streets. After he had gone roughly half a mile, elbowing his way along, he reached an intersection where the avenue did not continue directly across but turned at an oblique angle. He hesitated, but guessed that this must be the junction with West Street and turned right. A glance at the sun convinced him that he was now heading due west.
As he progressed, the nature of his surroundings altered somewhat. The shipfitters and ropemakers had vanished when he left the canal behind, replaced by wheelwrights and metalworkers, and to some extent the brothels and warehouses had given way to residences. This new street was lined with weavers and cloth merchants, tinkers and blacksmiths, carters and tanners. Valder had never seen so many businesses gathered together before; any street in this city put to shame the traveling markets that had serviced military camps.
The buildings in this area also appeared to be newer than those right on the canal, favoring the modern half-timbered style for upper floors rather than the older custom of solid stone from foundation to ridgepole. That made sense, of course; naturally the city would have started out clustered around the port and only gradually grown inland.
West Street, if that was in fact the street he was on, ended eventually at a diagonal cross-street; Valder chose the left turn, to the southwest, without hesitation. Quite aside from any more abstract considerations, he could hear and smell a market and, from the corner of West Street, he glimpsed the top of a stone tower that he took to be a gate tower.
Sure enough, as he rounded the next curve he found himself looking down a straight street at a market square, a very crowded market square, in the shadow of two immense towers.
He wanted to hurry forward, as the long walk had made him impatient, but was unable to do so. The street was too populous, and it seemed that a significant part of the crowd was not moving. A good many people were just standing, not walking in any particular direction.
He managed to force his way into a stream of people that was moving steadily toward the market, marveling at the endless throngs as he did so. He had not realized there were so many people in all the world as he had seen in Azrad’s Ethshar.
A hand thrust itself in front of him and a voice demanded, “Alms for a crippled veteran!”
Valder thrust the hand aside with a shudder and marched on. Beggars! He had somehow not expected beggars in this vast, overwhelming city. Of course, it made sense that they would be here. They would naturally want to go where there was money to be had, and Azrad’s Ethshar certainly had money.
A signboard caught his attention. It depicted a huge, golden goblet with purple wine slopping over the rim, and a line of runes across the bottom read, “Food & Lodging.” Valder turned his steps in that direction, back out of the flow of traffic.
A good many people, mostly scowling, stood around the door of the inn, but they did not interfere as Valder shoved his way through. He stepped over the threshold into the dim interior and stopped dead.