The River was even wider here than at the point where the pirates had attacked him, the other shore obscured by distance and twilight. He saw several more canals—they all seemed to run toward the palace. He also made out, against the dim silver light of the water, a jumble of quays jutting out into the River like short, dark trails. They lay south of him, and so he continued on, sure that these were his destination, the false mountain still riddling at his brain.
He attempted to keep the location of the docks fixed in his senses as he descended the hill and lost sight of them. Despite his best efforts, he was soon confused again. He stopped several children to refine his course, and so at last, by the time night was truly pitch, he found himself near the water's edge and a strip of dirty, untidy buildings. There he sat down, his back to a wall, and gazed out at the dark River, freckled with the torchlight of a hundred boats. He sighed, his earlier elation gone with the sunlight. He felt very, very far from home.
"Well," he told the River. "Here I am. You killed my friends, bent my destiny, brought me across the whole world. Now what do you want? Where is this girl?"
His only answer was the sounds of the city, the faint lapping of waves on the quays.
Perkar realized that he had dozed off; someone was nudging him awake with a foot. He gasped and reached for Harka.
"Hey, no, watch that!" a young voice called down. He squinted up but couldn't make out the face. Whoever it was, though, was dressed much like the soldiers who had met him at the gate; he could see that much in the feeble light of a nearby torch.
"I'm sorry," Perkar muttered vaguely, still confused.
"Sleeping on the street is a bad idea, barbarian," the voice informed him.
"I don't know my way around here," he explained. "I don't know where I should stay."
"Oh. Didn't your captain tell you?"
"Captain?"
"You came on a boat, didn't you?"
"Uh, no," Perkar said, rising to his feet. Someone passed close with a lantern, and he caught a glimpse of the soldier's face; very young, it seemed, smooth, kind. "No," he repeated, "I came overland."
"Overland? Well. The guards at the gate should have told you where to go then."
"They told me to go to the docks, near Southtown."
"You're a bit from there," the man told him. "Come along, I'm patrolling that way, if you want a guide."
"Yes!" Perkar agreed, nodding vigorously.
"Come on, then, stay close," the guard counseled.
After they had gone a few steps, Perkar spoke up again. "My name is Perkar, of the Barku Clan," he offered.
"Eh? Oh," the man responded. "Hang, son of Chwen, is mine. Where are you from, barbarian?"
"From the Cattle-Lands, at the edge of Balat," Perkar answered.
"Is that far away?"
"It took well over a month to get here on the River."
"I thought you said you came overland," the man said, a trifle suspiciously.
"From Nyel," Perkar amended. "I lost my boat at Nyel."
"Funny," Hang replied.
"How so?"
"Something I just heard—ah, watch them!" Hang stepped over a couple of men lying facedown in the street. They looked like natives; Perkar wondered why Hang didn't warn them not to sleep in the street, too, and said so.
Hang snorted. "They should know better, that's why, but they're too drunk to have any sense, I imagine. I thought maybe you didn't know better."
"That was good of you," Perkar said.
The man shrugged, glanced slightly back at him as they walked along. "Most people don't like foreigners," he admitted. "I find them sort of interesting. My mother was a barbarian, you know."
"She was?"
"She was a Mang captive my father bought and eventually married."
"Bought?" Perkar asked incredulously, wondering if he had misunderstood.
"Paid a fair price, too, twelve Royals, he used to say. That's what he called her most of the time, 'Twelve Royals.' "
Perkar wasn't sure he was following, precisely, but he remembered his father's advice about keeping quiet rather than revealing his ignorance.
"I thought I might go trading up-River one day, so I don't mind meeting strangers, to learn a little about them."
"I see."
"What have you come to Nhol for?"
"To see it, I suppose," Perkar told him, not really knowing what else to say. Then he added, "I was hoping to get a little work for my sword."
The soldier nodded, and Perkar thought he caught a sidewise look of condescension from him. "You'll want to stay at the Crab Woman, then. That's not far, I'll show you to it and bid you good night."
They turned off of the street on the River and crossed several more streets inland. At last the soldier knocked on a heavy wooden door.
"This is the place, Perkar-from-faraway. Don't let them charge you more than a pair of soldiers a night. Remember that!"
"Thank you, I'll remember it," Perkar said. He was watching the fellow walk away when the door opened.
A large, rough man stood there, raking a practiced gaze over him.
"Barbarian sell-sword? Well, keep that thing leathered, you hear me? We get trouble from your kind all of the time, and we know how to deal with it. You've got no clan or brotherhood or tribe or whatever that'll find out what happened to you down here and avenge you, get that straight, right?"
Perkar frowned when he understood that he was being threatened, but let it pass. Piraku and its code of behavior were plainly not known to any of these people, though they insisted on calling him a barbarian. Best he should mostly watch and listen here, until he understood more about what codes of conduct did apply.
"I just want a bed to sleep in," he mumbled. "I've been walking all day."
"Four soldiers, here at the door," the man said gruffly.
At least he understood this. He had never dealt with metal coins before, but he had bargained for cattle often enough.
"A single soldier is all I can afford," he said.
"Well, then you can't afford to stay here," the man snapped. "Though we have a discount for albinos today. Three soldiers."
They settled on two, as the guardsman had indicated, and after paying he entered into the building's courtyard. Here, too, was a bit of familiarity. The courtyard was set up much like the hall of a damakuta, with heavy tables and benches. Men and some women sat at these, drinking from heavy clay bowls.
"You can have the room in the corner," the man indicated. "Beer and wine is a soldier a pint. Tell the serving boy if you want some."
"Where do I go to look for work?" Perkar asked, hesitantly.
"I knew it," the man grumbled. He sighed heavily. "Just stay around in here, keep your scabbard out where people can see it. If anyone is looking, they'll notice you."
"Thanks," Perkar said. Worn out and overloaded with sight, sound, and smell, he wound back through the mass of strangers to the door the man had indicated. It opened into a cell that was no larger than a storage shed, but held a pallet and a small lantern. He closed the door and, after a bit of fumbling about in the dark, found a bolt, slid it shut. He sank down to the mat, which stank of sweat and beer and possibly less appetizing things. He was musing on how a city could be so huge and rooms in it so small when, despite the smell and the constant noise of voices from outside, Perkar was soon deeply, mercifully asleep.