Braylar said, “The single or lower bar designates districts. As to the other, you’ll quickly notice that some wild drunkard designed the layout of Alespell, which might account for the name. Streets run in every direction, crisscrossing at strange angles at every pass. The purple bar, if you happen to luck into finding it, tells you that you’re headed towards either the castle or a gate.”
Hewspear and Mulldoos had fallen back alongside us and Hewspear said, “And if you look up, you’ll note another clue that you’re on your way to meet the good baron.”
I glanced up and saw that on this street, in addition to the parallel enamel bars, there were also chains strung between the buildings on either side, and hanging from these, large copper pots filled with broad-petaled purple flowers.
Mulldoos said, “Got a real stiffprick for the purples, don’t he?”
“Bet it comes in handy though,” Vendurro added, “when you’re stumbling around drunk-blind, trying to find something to guide you.”
“That’s what we got you for.”
The western suburb seemed to be mostly residential buildings, with the occasional small temple breaking them up. Like any city, some of the construction was more in need of repair, but I noticed a walled section off another street heading south that seemed particularly blighted and crumbling. It hadn’t been whitewashed in ages, maybe ever; the snowstone had turned an ugly yellow.
I asked Braylar, “Who lives in that quarter?”
“Grass Dogs who have been… domesticated. Those are the kennels. You’ll find them in some cities on the shore of the Green Sea, but especially the larger ones like Alespell. Home to a mixture, really. Refugees from clan warfare. Families of the Dogs who smelled a finer life outside of the Sea, and entered the kingdom’s service as auxiliary soldiers.”
“It doesn’t look like the Grass Dogs are very welcome in Alespell.”
“You’re correct,” he said. “They aren’t entirely trusted. Or wanted. Which is why they’re housed in these walled alienages even lepers would find insulting. The baronies might make use of Dogs on occasion, or tolerate their presence, but they don’t encourage it.”
Hewspear, riding alongside, added, “And those that leave the Sea can never return. They’re equally reviled by their former clans and the baronial folk they live amongst. So whether here by choice or cruel necessity, it’s a most unpleasant place to be. If Lloi were among us now, you’d hear a long, clumsy diatribe about the kennels.”
We came to another gate flanked by two massive machiolated drum towers. There was another lengthy delay and it took me a moment to understand why. A pair of guards collected a fair tax from everyone approaching the gate.
Braylar handed his coins to a sweat-stained guard and then we were finally through. Passing underneath the gate, we found ourselves on another wide bridge, this time crossing the slow-moving River Debt. There were huge statues of armored men on either side of the bridge, rising high above us and looking decidedly stern, each holding a tall staff with a standard fixed on top, snapping in the breeze. Every major fiefdom in the kingdom seemed to be represented.
I overheard Hewspear and Mulldoos arguing and leaned forward to make out the conversation. “No place is impregnable,” Mulldoos said, “that’s all I’m saying. It could be done.”
“Very little is impossible, it’s true. But I’ve yet to hear how you would accomplish this impressive feat of siegecraft. Please, do explain.”
“Like I said, no direct assault. Too costly.”
“Agreed. And you would have no luck mining, the river is too deep.”
“True enough. Maybe not the canal, though, round the other side.”
“Perhaps not-I haven’t measured it,” Hewspear said. “But I suspect the architect took that into account. Let’s assume it’s sufficiently deep to prohibit tunneling. What does that leave you? Certainly not starvation. No besieging force could hope to outlast the stores here, or provisions brought up river, or-”
Mulldoos shook his head. “What dumb horsecunt of a besieger is going to let a flatboat of grain glide in unmolested? Not me.”
“Surely not. You’re as clever a horsecunt as they come. But you’ve also seen the silos and warehouses here-do you suspect they’re merely for show?”
“Listen, you wrinkled goat, I’m telling you…”
They rode ahead, and I noticed the numerous stalls on either side of the bridge, situated between the statues. Some were larger than others, but most were wooden-framed with canvas sides and tops. At every one, a merchants called out his wares… hairpins of ivory, brooches of brass, and badges of the finest pewter; plaque belts both simple and wildly adorned by precious stones and metals; pattens made from a variety of wood; aromatic fruit, both common and alien; charred meats, boiled eggs, and ruddy-looking cheeses; dice allegedly carved from the tusks of creatures so rare they haven’t even appeared in bestiaries yet; hoods of every color managed by dye; brass braziers and tooled chests; leather bottles, costrels, and tankards; weak ale and watery wine to fill them, despite the threat of wandering guildmasters and inspectors who would confiscate such swill.
Guards were stationed at several spots along the bridge to keep traffic moving and discourage theft. I suspected they were having trouble with both. When we finally left the Bridge of Heroes, it was a relief, though Alespell proper was no less crowded.
We approached an open plaza, and it was obvious people from every station and kingdom milled about, as the myriad of languages and dress was overwhelming. Peasants in undyed homespun walked next to Hornmen and fieflords with rich coats and long tunics trimmed with ermine, marten, fox, and squirrel, all mingling casually in the one place that it was natural for forty days a year. On foot, on horse, on donkey, here to sell a hen, buy a fabulous bolt of silk, cajole, bargain, gamble, accuse, drink, and gawk.
While there were a staggering number of stalls around the perimeter of the plaza, most larger than those on the bridge, there were also a few permanent structures. The moneychangers’ hall was on the opposite side, bustling as expected, and the spice halls were there as well, the merchants who occupied them guarded by their own private contingents of armed men. Everywhere you looked, smelled, or listened, there was a chaotic jumble of sensations. A man chasing a runaway goose nearly got run over by our wagon. A boy with a dead gull tied to a string ran between horses’ hooves, two scrawny cats hot on his heels. Men and women carried bawling children on their shoulders to keep them out of the press of humanity, and there was the pervasive stench of sweat and closeness, as many of the fairgoers had obviously not visited the renowned Alespell baths. Sheep bleated in apparent protest as they were driven around a gurgling fountain in the center of the plaza. Gulls wheeled overheard, looking to dive should any food hit the ground that wasn’t immediately swallowed up by the dogs skulking between stalls. Hot pie carts were ubiquitous, and the smells of meat and crumbly crust were nearly as powerful as the vendors’ cries.
Left to my own devices, I would have wandered the plazas and marketplaces for days on end, observing my fill, but we turned down a smaller street before I had a chance to even begin to take it all in. I was disappointed, but there were still a dozen days left of the fair, so I was sure I’d get my opportunity soon enough.
With three- and four-story buildings everywhere, crowded so close they practically blocked out the sky, and the streets turning every direction, it really was a warren. I doubted the enamel bars would do much good in guiding me if I was on my own and lost.
It was nearly dusk when we stopped in front of a three-story inn. A large hanging sign had been newly painted, no doubt for the Great Fair: a pair of legs, with a dog laying across the boots with its head down.
Braylar said, “The Grieving Dog. Granted, it doesn’t have the cantankerous innkeep, bashful wench, or horrible ale of the Three Casks, but it will have to do.”