He pointed out orange containers, with tools racked beside them, which, he said, could be found everywhere.
A wagon piled with containers, empty, passed inbound. Then another appeared, bound outward, presumably to the farms.
"The cleaning crews are paid from fines levied on people who don't clean up after themselves," the soldier said. "Most of our block magistrates enjoy fining foreigners."
Rogala grumbled something uncomplimentary. After he and Gathrid asked a few questions, they moved on.
"There've been a lot of changes," the dwarf observed. "None of those fortresses were there before.
Guess they built them because the Hattori and Oldani managed to force the Causeway back when. In the high days Sartain didn't need defenses. All the fighting took place so far away it took half a year to reach it. The Causeway wasn't half this wide, either.''
"Looks like they're building another one." Several miles to their west a fleet of boats were busy around what looked like cofferdams. Huge dumps of stone and timber lay on either shore. On the mainland side workmen were laying the foundations of a second Maurath.
"They need it." The Causeway was crowded. Moreover, Sartain's expansion seemed to have been in the direction of the new construction. Reaching the mainland from those extremities would require a long journey through crowded streets. The straits were dotted with ferries providing shortcuts, especially for produce and goods.
Gathrid wished he could have come to Sartain as a tourist, not as Swordbearer. Already he had questions and curiosities enough to busy him for weeks, even without the worries and obligations of politics and war.
"Even the Immortal Twins would be impressed," Tureck Aarant observed. It was the first he had come forward since Gathrid and Theis had crossed the Ondr at Avenevoli. He had been locked away with his memories and his guilt.
"Blame Grellner, not yourself," Gathrid told him now.
Rogala looked at him queerly. "What did you say?"
"Uh? Oh. I was thinking about something." He had to be more careful. He had not told Theis about Aarant, and did not intend to. Aarant might provide a valuable edge later. "Doesn't seem to be much excitement about us," he said.
"I noticed. I guess we're early, what with us leaving Torun in such a rush. It isn't politeness that's kept us from being trampled by people from the Hills. And for sure Hildreth wouldn't let us wander around without keepers."
"Might be useful to stay anonymous while we can," Gathrid suggested.
"Absolutely. We both need a rest. But we tend to stand out.''
They stood out not only because Rogala was a shaggy dwarf who carried a talking head, and because Gathrid wore bits of foreign armor and had two huge black swords Xed across his back, but because they were going armed in a city where the only weapons to be seen were those carried by soldiers.
Unlike the Alliance peoples of ruder kingdoms farther east, among whom even peasants felt naked without their dirks, the citizens of Sartain shunned personal arms. It was a matter of civic pride. More than one pair of eyes turned away as if embarrassed for them. Rogala suggested the attitude reflected Sartain's historical invincibility.
"A city this old, that's only ever been invaded once, gets a little smug. It stops really believing in the possibility of violence."
Gathrid frowned. "There's always personal violence."
"There is. I suppose they handle that sort of informally. With butcher knives. Or, in an old, almost decadent society like this, poison. They probably figure it's gauche to actually go stab somebody.''
They found themselves a room in a quiet quarter where outlanders seemed to congregate and mellow one another's strangeness by their numbers. Rogala said, "Somebody's bound to realize who we are.
Maybe we ought to change our appearance a little. Any suggestions?"
"I'll settle for changing mine with a good hot bath."
"A complete toilet will be a good start. Go see if the landlord has a pair of scissors."
An hour later Rogala had trimmed his vast black beard to a ghost of its former glory. Gathrid grinned, said, "Your tenants are going to have to find new quarters."
"Eh?"
"Old fairy tale. King Thrushbeard. He had a beard so gross birds nested in it."
"Oh. I know the motif." The dwarf grinned back. "I didn't realize you had a sense of humor, son."
"Haven't had much chance to exercise it, have I?"
"Yeah, well. For a while now. We'll just take it easy till they find us. You want the bath first?
I warn you, when I get done with that water you'll be able to walk on it."
After their baths they exchanged haircuts and donned new clothing purchased for them by the landlord's son. They sized one another up. Gathrid said, "Whatever became of Theis Rogala? They might never find us."
"What happened to that skinny kid who woke me up? You've turned into a man, son. They won't recognize either one of us."
Their newfound anonymity lasted the day. During it Gathrid enjoyed a triumph over Daubendiek and Su-chara. He managed to leave their room without arms.
"I think you're tempting fate too much," Rogala growled. They were loafing at a sidewalk cafe, watching traffic pass, occasionally exchanging a few words with citizens and other outlanders.
Many of the latter were more bizarre than they.
Aarant had offered an argument similar to Rogala's when Gathrid had asked his help overcoming the Sword's control.
"If Mulenex's bullies stumble across us now, we're deader than a wedge, and not a damn thing we can do to stop it."
"You don't look all that terrified."
"Oh, I am. Petrified. I'm just a good actor." He signaled for a waiter.
"From what I've seen, I think I could be comfortable here," Gathrid observed. Dusk was closing in.
A quaintly attired lamplighter was at work across the street. The afternoon had stolen away on them. "Just laying around like this. It's been a hundred years since I've relaxed this way."
"Uhm. Or a few thousand." Something wistful touched the dwarf's voice.
Aarant claimed that Rogala was more open and emotional than he had been during the Brothers' War.
Even so, Gathrid knew next to nothing about the man's true age, his origins or his background. Or what had damned him to serve Suchara.
"It would never last, would it? Got to be rich to loaf here. We don't have the pocket money. Nor the temperament. Even Heaven would get dull for such as us."
"That might be true," Gathrid replied sourly. Much as he despised his fate, it was becoming part of him. He was becoming one with it. Being Swordbearer seemed less and less a cosmic imposition.
News from the east had not yet reached Sartain in reliable form. That there had been a big battle between Nieroda and the Mindak was common knowledge, but no two accounts agreed as to site, outcome, or the part the Great Sword had played. The battle at the Karato and that at Kacalief had become confused. And as to the disappearance of Kimach Faulstich, they had outdistanced that news entirely.
Sartain was little concerned with happenings in faraway places. It had excitement enough at home.
The contest for the Fray Magistery had the whole city on tenterhooks.
Balloting had begun. Each tally shifted more and more in favor of Gerdes Mulenex. Bookmakers were giving odds that he would receive the requisite majority in the next poll.
The citizenry were not pleased, but neither were they afraid. While occupied by Klutho Misplaer the Raftery had impinged on their lives not at all. They could foresee no potential danger from any successor. Elgar had far more effect on everyday life.
His were the laws that ruled their days. His were the dreams that shaped the Queen City. His was the voice to which people listened.
"Much as I hate the idea," Rogala said, "we'd better announce ourselves tomorrow. We can't let Mulenex's play for the Raftery go unchallenged."