Dago was more than a little irritated by the time he reached the city gate of Ith. It was after he had passed through the Highway checkpoint, and spent the night sleeping on the ground next to people who had spat on him and picked a fight with him. They stunk of the road, sweat and blood, and of illnesses their poor immune systems had failed to stop after spending their lives in brass bathing tubs and warm, feathered mattresses.
By the time that Dago reached the gate, it was the wee hours of the morning. The rising hills of central Radregar blocked the rising sun, so only a distant glow began to form on the cloudy sky. He was sore, from the restless night and his fight the previous day. He had bound the gash in his side with a torn strip of his shirt, but it still stung. He needed to wash it, but he didn’t want to lose his place in line.
At last he reached the gateway, which was basically just a group of guards, merchants, and a look out on the roof of a nearby building. A wooden fence on hinges was the only gate here.
The front of the line disintegrated when it got close, each guard taking on one new arrival to speak with. Dago had visited Ith many times, and many cities that seemed to rival is unparalleled size, and he had never seen a post that stopped every entrant for questioning in such a way.
The exodus of Elpan was overwhelming.
“You there,” a guard said, stepping toward him and lifting a finger to call over another sentry as well. “You’re the fighting from yesterday, yes? Took on a bunch of refugees and beat them senseless?”
Dago blinked, and put on an innocent face. “I’m not sure what you—”
“Tell it to the dirt, ruffian. We’ve enough problems with bandits and smugglers. The lookout saw the brawl and a dozen refugees have pointed you out. Turn around,” the guard ordered. He had rough black scruff across his chin, concealing a small scar on one of his cheeks. He shoved his finger toward Dago and said, “Turn around. And walk away.”
The jobless mercenary sighed and stared at him. He had walked all this way on the Crimson Highway after that Axar fellow had freed him from work duty for the Highwaymen. He needed to get into Ith. For a moment, he sized up the guards. They were all armed simply, but they were plentiful and he’d reckon at least one knew how to handle a sword. Not to mention those with dangling slingshots on their belts or the archer with a full quiver.
“Fine,” he said, raising his hands. He wasn’t getting into the city this way. He dragged his feet and shuffled away.
Perhaps at one of the other gates. Only castles and fortresses kept records about visitors, and if he kept his head down, they’d let him pass. He ran a hand over his hair, short dark hair that was starting to itch his ears and wave in the front of his widow’s peak. He needed a haircut, some fresh food, a soft bed. He needed a job.