Entering the city of Ratibor at night, Arista thought it the most filthy, wretched place she could ever imagine. Streets lay in random, confusing lines, crisscrossing at intersections as they ran off at various odd angles. Refuse was piled next to every building, and narrow dirt thoroughfares were appalling mires of mud and manure. Wooden planks created a network of haphazard paths and bridges over the muck, forcing people to parade in lines like tightrope walkers. The houses and shops were as miserable as the roads. Constructed to fit in the spaces left by the street’s odd, acute corners, buildings were shaped like wedges of cheese, giving the city a strange, splintered appearance. The windows, shut tight against the city’s stench, were opaque with thick grime repeatedly splashed by passing wagons.
Ratibor reveled in its filth like a poor man who is proud of the calluses on his hands. Arista had heard of its reputation, but until experiencing it firsthand, she had not truly understood. This was a workingman’s town, a struggling city where no quarter was expected or given. Here men bore poverty and misfortune as badges of honor, deriving dubious prestige from contests of woe over tankards of ale.
Idlers and vagabonds, hawkers and thieves moved along the plank ways, appearing and disappearing again into the shadows. There were children on the street—orphans, by the look—ragged and pitiful waifs covered in filth, crouching under porches. Small families also moved among the crowds. Tradesmen with their wives and children carried bundles or wheeled overfilled carts loaded with all their worldly possessions. All looked exhausted and destitute as they trudged through the city’s maze.
The rain had started not long after they had left Amberton Lee, and poured the entire trip. She was soaked through. Her hair lay matted to her face, her fingers were pruned, and her hood collapsed about her head. Arista followed Royce as he led them through the labyrinth of muddy streets. The cool night wind blew the downpour in sheets, making her shiver. During the trip, she had looked forward to reaching the city. Although it was not what she had expected, anything indoors would be welcomed.
“Care for a raincoat, mum?” a hawker asked, holding up a garment for Arista to see. “Only five silver!” he continued as she showed no sign of slowing her horse. “How about a new hat?”
“Either of you gentlemen looking for companionship for the night?” called a destitute woman standing on a plank beneath the awning of a closed dry-goods shop. She flipped back her hair and smiled alluringly, revealing missing teeth.
“How about a nice bit of poultry for an evening meal?” another man asked, holding up a dead bird so thin and scraggly it was hardly recognizable as a chicken.
Arista shook her head, saying nothing except words to urge her horse forward.
Signs were everywhere—nailed to porch beams or attached to tall stakes driven into the mud. They advertised things like ALE, CIDER, MEAD, WINE, NO CREDIT! and THREE-DAY-OLD PORK—CHEAP! But some were more ominous, such as BEGGARS WILL BE JAILED! and ALL ELVES ENTERING THE CITY MUST REGISTER AT THE SHERIFF’S OFFICE. This last poster’s paint was still bright.
Royce stopped at a public house with a signboard of a grotesque cackling face and a scripted epitaph that read THE LAUGHING GNOME. The tavern stood three stories, a good size even by Colnora’s standards, yet people still struggled to squeeze in the front door. Inside, the place smelled of damp clothes and wood smoke. A large crowd filled the common room such that Hadrian had to push his way through.
“We’re looking for the proprietor,” Royce told a young man carrying a tray.
“That would be Ayers. He’s the gray-haired gent behind the bar.”
“It’s true, I tell you!” a young man with fiery red hair was saying loudly as he stood in the center of the common room. To whom he was speaking, Arista was not certain. It appeared to be everyone. “My father was a Praleon Guard. He served on His Majesty’s personal retinue for twenty years.”
“What does that prove? Urith and the rest of them died in the fire. No one knows how it started.”
“The fire was set by Androus!” shouted the red-haired youth with great conviction. Abruptly, the room quieted. The young man was not content with this, however, and he took the stunned pause to press his point. “He betrayed the king, killed the royal family, and took the crown so he could hand the kingdom over to the empress. Good King Urith would never have accepted annexation into the New Empire, and those loyal to his name shouldn’t either.”
The crowd burst into an uproar of angry shouts.
In the midst of this outburst, the three of them reached the bar, where a handful of men stood watching the excitement with empty mugs in hand.
“Mr. Ayers?” Royce asked of a man and a boy as they struggled to hoist a fresh keg onto the rear dock.
“Who wants to know?” asked the man in a stained apron. A drop of sweat dangled from the tip of his red nose, his face flushed from exertion.
“We’re looking to rent a pair of rooms.”
“Not much luck of that. We’re full up,” Ayers replied, not pausing from his work. “Jimmy, jump up and shim it.” The young lad, filthy with sweat and dirt, leapt up on the dock and pushed a wooden wedge under the keg, tilting it forward slightly.
“Do you know of availability elsewhere in the city?” Hadrian asked.
“Gonna be the same all over, friend. Every boardinghouse is full—refugees been coming in from the countryside for weeks.”
“Refugees?”