“Chill out,” Squill admonished him. “We’ll turn off before we reach the city wall and slip in somewhere upstream. No one’ll see us.”
“They may not mind. The community looks quite prosperous,” Gragelouth had to admit.
As Squill surmised, their brief swim passed unnoticed. All were in high good spirits as they dried themselves in the sun while the merchant drove the wagon back toward the city. There were numerous tracks to follow now. Farmers’ wagons, Buncan thought.
As they approached a city gate other vehicles could be seen entering and leaving: wagons piled high with produce or supplies, two-wheeled carts, riders on individual mounts, preoccupied pedestrians. As was typical, Buncan was taller than any of them. His unusual height, he knew, was a gift of his father’s otherworldly origins.
It was Squill who first noticed the anomaly.
“Crikey,” he exclaimed in surprise as they drew near enough to distinguish individuals. “They’re all bloody rodents!”
It was true. The city was populated entirely by rats, mice, squirrels, and their relations. There were no canines, felines, primates, or ungulates; no representatives of any of the other great tribes of the warm-blooded. Such species isolation was unprecedented in their experience. It was almost as if the inhabitants had chosen to segregate themselves. Despite the city’s evident prosperity, Buncan knew that such a sequestered population would inevitably make for cultural famine.
Back in the civilized world the representatives of the rodentia had often been looked down upon, until they had helped to turn the tide against the Plated Folk at the battle of the Jo-Troom Pass. So it was most unexpected to find so many of them living like this, isolated from the great and wondrous diversity of the wider world.
Neena was standing on the cushions back of the bench. “Look at them. No expressions o’ individuality at all.”
Indeed, regardless of tribe everyone mey saw was clad entirely in white sheets or robes. These extended in unbroken fashion from head to foot save for slits for ears and tail, and an oval opening for the face. White sandals shod feet regardless of size or shape. Within this all-pervasive whiteness there was room for some variation, with buttons, belts, lace, and other trim of exquisite detail and design providing the only distincti veness in the absence of color. In addition to then: voluminous robes, some additionally wore masks or scarves of embroidered white, perhaps to keep out the dust while working in the fields, Buncan surmised.
More notable even than the unvarying whiteness was the immaculate condition of the city and its citizens. Buncan could not find a spot of mud, a chunk of decaying plaster, or a blighted structure anywhere as they passed through the unbarred gate into the city proper. A pan- of squat capybara guards followed the wagon with their eyes but made no move to confront it. Then- ceremonial pikes were fashioned of bircli wood tipped with blades of sharpened milk quartz.
A warren of structures began immediately inside the gate. Modest or excessive, all were plastered or painted white. Awnings of white cloth shaded small street-side stalls or upper-story windows framed with intricately carved white shutters. The street down which they plodded was cleaner than the tables of most taverns in Lynchbany.
“This whiteness must have religious or social significance,” Gragelouth was commenting. “Such uniformity could not persist in the absence of some pressure to conform.”
“Poking dull, I calls it,” said Squill.
“White reflects the sun and keeps everything cooler,” Oragelouth pointed out, unintentionally defending the city’s inhabitants.
“Wonder what they must be making of us,” Duncan mused aloud. “Judging from the stares we’ve been drawing since we arrived, they don’t see many outsiders here.”
“Who’d come “ere,” Neena pointed out, “if you ‘ad to punch through the Moors first?”
“All this uniformity makes me uncomfortable,” said Gragelouth. “It implies a rigidity of thinking inimical to trade. We will linger only long enough to replenish our supplies.”
“Be good to sleep in a real bed,” Squill commented, “not to mention ‘avin’ sometbin’ decent to eat for a change.”
Gragelouth brought the wagon to a halt before a two-story structure with no windows in the upper floor. Several other vehicles and then- reptiles were tethered nearby. A large, powerful monitor lizard hissed but made room for the newcomers.
“I am a merchant by trade,” he responded with some dignity. “Not a cook.” He climbed down from the bench seat.
Locals hurrying up and down the street on business stared unabashedly, their snouts and whiskers protruding from their hooded attire. Duncan dismounted to stand next to Gragelouth. He could overhear but not decipher the whispered comments of the passersby.
“Crikey, maybe they’re afraid of us.” Squill rested one paw on the hilt of his short sword.
“No, I do not get that feeling. It is something else.” Gragelouth spoke as he considered the building before them. “I wonder if we are welcome here, or if it might not be better to move on.”
“Should be able to find out quickly enough.” Duncan placed himself directly in the path of a three-foot-tall mouse with a peculiar bushy tail. It halted uncertainly, gazing up at the towering human.
“What place is this? We’re strangers to mis city,” Duncan hoped he sounded firm but friendly.
The mouse gestured with a tiny hand on which reposed half a dozen exquisitely fashioned rings of white gold.
“Why, this is Hygria of the Plains, primate. Now please, let me pass.” He looked anxiously, not at Duncan, but at those of his fellow citizens who had gathered in front of the windowless building to watch.
Duncan didn’t move. “A moment of your time, sir. We need to avail ourselves of your city’s hospitality. Can you tell us where we might find suitable food and lodging?”
The mouse swallowed, turned. “From this point inward the streets grow narrow. You will have to leave your animals and vehicle here. As to your personal needs, you might try the Inn of the All-Scouring Deatitudes. It sometimes will accommodate travelers. Second avenue on your left.” The rodent hesitated. “Though were I you I would not linger here, but would take your wagon and depart soonest.”
“Why? We just got here.” Duncan’s gaze narrowed.
The mouse seemed more anxious than ever to be on his way. “You have broken the law.”
Duncan looked to Gragelouth, who shook his head uncomprehendingly. “What law? We haven’t been here long enough to break any laws.” Those citizens assembled in front of the building were suddenly acting furtive, as if simply hovering in the vicinity of the outlandish visitors constituted in itself a kind of daring complicity in outrages anonymous.
“I have done my courtesy.” The mouse abruptly folded both hands beneath its white robe, bowed, and scurried off to his left, dodging before Duncan could again block bis path.
“Cor, come ‘ave a look!” Turning, Duncan saw the otters standing beneath a canopy across the street. Sauntering over, he saw that they were inspecting the wares of a very nervous jerboa vegetable seller. There were white onions, and white grapes, and a kind of oblong white melon, but there were also peppers and tomatoes and other more familiar produce.
“At least everythin’ ‘ere ain’t white,” Squill commented.
Neena held up something like a pale-white peppermint-striped cucumber. “ ‘Ow much for this, madame?”
The jerboa fluttered her paws at them, the tall turban atop her head threatening to collapse at any moment. “Go ‘way, go ‘way!” She was peering fretfully down the street.
“ ‘Ere now, don’t be like that,” said Neena. “I’m just ‘ungry, is all.” She presented a fistful of coins. “Ain’t none o’ this good ‘ere?”