“Don’t gawk about,” muttered Bosk. “It’s just a dwarf.”
She had not realized that dwarves were real. She tried to keep her eyes ahead, but it was impossible. They passed a man in red and blue motley carrying a strange skinny black animal with a long tail that wrapped his arm. Two children dashed by, balancing loaves of bread an armspan long. She heard a confused roar from the right, and Stammel yelled a halt. From a side street rode six figures in gleaming armor on chargers bigger than the Duke’s; the street shook to the pounding hooves. Paks felt breathless. She watched Stammel peer down the side street before leading them on. She had never seen horses so big. Were there more?
After another few minutes of marching, the street made a sharp turn left and then right. Here were fewer sidewalk stalls, but a fascinating blend of smells: roast meats, fresh bread, ale, wine, spices. Paks heard her belly rumble in response. The buildings had benches in front of them, and a row of watching eyes followed them down the street. She saw another dwarf, and then two more, on one of the benches.
At a crossing, Stammel turned right into a narrower street the column almost filled. Ahead loomed a high stone wall, and beyond it the turret of some building. When they reached the foot of the wall, Paks saw that a wide paved area lay before it; Stammel turned left again, and they marched beside the wall for a space. Paks saw no gate, and no guards on the wall. At last it swung away to the right, and they went on, again on a wide street between buildings. Here were fewer stalls, and no peddlers. Paks saw a string of mules being led through a gate; she glanced sideways as they passed it. Inside, stables surrounded a courtyard; she saw another of the great horses, this one led by a boy.
They entered a square with a fountain in the center and trees around the fountain. Here once more the canvas awnings of shops and sidewalk stalls edged the street. A barefooted woman in a short dress struggled with a large jar of water from the fountain. A plump child in a fur-lined hood trotted behind a large fluffy white dog. Two cloaked men in tall boots strolled near the fountain, hands near the hilts of their weapons. A tall slender figure in gray trotted briskly past the column on a horse bridled in green and gold. It was past before Paks realized that its face was not human.
Past that square they marched down a quiet street with trees planted in the center. Ahead was another gate. The captains, who had ridden ahead, sat chatting with the guards as they marched up. “Everyone still with us?” asked Pont.
“Certainly, sir.”
“Very good. I’ve arranged for a meal outside the gates—you remember The Golden Goose? They call it The Winking Tomcat now; old Penston’s nephew inherited it this winter. We’re called to meet with the vice-regent; wait for us there.”
“Yes, sir. Do you think you’ll be long enough to unload the mules?”
“No. Give ’em a feed though. We’ll march through to Littlebridge today.”
“Yes, sir.” Stammel led them through the gates, this time onto a wide stone bridge with a waist-high stone parapet. They were far above the water. Paks looked upstream and saw a dark still surface; she could not tell how fast the water was moving. Another bridge spanned the river upstream; a wall rose from the far bank. Ahead of them, their own bridge pierced the wall at a tower, and again they passed through gates.
Here the buildings were lower, many of them wood and not stone. Paks could see over them to yet another wall. These streets were crowded, but they saw few velvets and furs, and more bare feet. Some people wore wooden clogs that clattered loudly on the cobbles. A pack of lean dogs worried something in a gutter. They passed a row of taverns, reeking of stale beer; only one man huddled on the benches outside. A fat woman in gaudy clothes danced sideways beside the column, showing a trayful of glittering jewelry. Paks heard one of the corporals swear at her; she flung back an oath in return.
At the last wall, the guards waved them through the tall gates, and they came out to see loosely spaced buildings and fallow fields beyond. They passed a tanner’s stinking yard, a pen of cattle on one side of the road and a pen of hogs on the other, a field fenced with split rails (which Paks had never seen) holding a dozen horses and a few mules, another field with wagons parked in rows. Ahead on the left was a large stone enclosure with a two-story building in front. On the sign hanging before it was a yellow cat with a ferocious leer. Stammel halted them, and entered the inn. Paks looked around. Across from the inn an open slope of bare ground eased up to a stand of trees. Ahead, down the road, was another building that might be an inn, then a row of cottages.
Stammel came out. “The court’s too full,” he said to Bosk. “We’ll eat over here—” he nodded at the open space. “I’ll take the file leaders in for food.”
Paks followed Stammel into the inn, excited and curious. It was much larger than the inn at Rocky Ford, larger than any she’d seen. They entered a long low room filled with tables and benches and noise. The landlord, a tall heavy young man with a pale mustache, led them to the kitchen behind, where the cook’s helpers were heaping platters with roast meat, bread, cheese, and dried fruit. Paks took a platter and carried it back through the dining room and across the road. The food was good, spiced with strange flavors, and Paks devoured her share. The second rank took the platters back, and they settled down to wait until the captains returned.
“How do you like cities?” Saben asked Paks.
“I don’t know—it’s not what I thought it would be.”
“Did you see that dwarf?”
Paks nodded. “I didn’t know they were real, any more. Do you know what was on that horse with the fancy bridle?”
“No. I missed that. We can ask Stammel or Bosk.”
Bosk chuckled at their question. “You mean you don’t know? It’s a good thing you didn’t point. That was an elf, from Lyonya or the Ladysforest, a messenger to the Council.”
“Elf—” Paks and Saben looked at each other. “Will we see more of elves and dwarves and things like that?” asked Paks.
Bosk spat. “I hope not. Uncanny, they are, and unfriendly, too. We don’t have much to do with them, and the less the better, I say.”
“Now Bosk,” said Devlin, who had walked up on the conversation. “Elves are good fighters, you have to say that.”
“If it’s fighting alone, give me dwarves—not that I want them, but they’re hard as stone, and tireless. Elves—they’ll sing as soon as fight, or go off after some fool idea. And they think they know everything, and have to tell you about it—without answering any question you want answered, either.”
“I don’t know—” Devlin looked thoughtful. “I’ve met a few elves—five years ago, that year you stayed north, Bosk, I talked to one. She was uncanny, but beautiful. Sometimes she’d sing in Common, about the Beginnings, and where the elves came from, and battles long ago. It was strange, but very powerful. I liked it.”
“Your choice,” said Bosk shortly. “And you can’t say some elves haven’t gone bad—”
“The kuaknom? That maybe, but they’re all dead.”
Bosk snorted. Another recruit broke in. “But won’t we go past dwarf lands in a few days?”
“South of here, yes. But we go around the mountains rather than through them. We’ll see dwarves on the road between here and Valdaire, but we won’t see their caves.”
“Are gnomes just another name for dwarves?” asked Saben.
“Gird’s arm, no! And remember that, if we see any. The Aldonfulk princedom comes near the road for a day’s travel. They’re not like dwarves at all, save their love of stone and living underground. You saw that dwarf—wide as he was tall, and so they all are. Gnomes are slenderer, but still short. Good fighters; they’re lawful folk, knowing the value of discipline and training. They don’t say much, but what they do say you can trust with your life.”