Chapter 39: Entering the City

Chapter 39: Entering the City
The hooded man vanished too quickly. One second he was standing in the shadows by the side door, and the next, those shadows thinned, his silhouette dissolving along with them, melting into the dark patterns that flowed across the stone wall. By the time I rushed out, all I caught was a cold gust of wind and the faint scent of rust.

Who was he, really?

The alley forked where he had disappeared. The left path led to a slope paved with moss-covered cobblestones that would be slippery underfoot; the right was a narrow passage climbing upward. I didn't hesitate—I chose right. Instinct told me the man didn't want to be found, but he also didn't want me to get lost.

It seemed he understood me well.

After walking for about ten minutes, the narrow passage suddenly widened into an alley squeezed between two rows of wooden houses. All the windows were shut, their sills lined with plants I couldn't identify. I hadn't expected to find such a dilapidated street in such a sacred city. The only advantage was that it was nearly deserted and sufficiently hidden. After walking a bit further, I finally spotted a wooden sign carved with "The Hollow Reed," its lettering blurred by rainwater, like marks eroded by time itself.

The inn was even less conspicuous than I'd anticipated. Its door was assembled from old planks and let out a long, drawn-out creak when I pushed it open. The space inside was small, containing only a counter behind which stood an elderly woman wearing a monocle. Her hair was silver-white, wound into a tight bun, and she held a thick ledger whose yellowed pages looked like they hadn't been updated in years.

"One room," I said.

She looked up, her voice heavy and raspy. "Pay first."

I patted my pocket and realized I was out of silver coins. I had no choice but to pull out my last remaining gold nugget and hand it over. The old woman picked it up with gloved fingers, held it up to the light, then tapped it lightly with a small hammer. I'd never seen this method of testing gold's authenticity before.

The nugget produced a crisp sound with that characteristic metallic resonance. She pressed her lips together, seemingly satisfied with its quality. Just when I thought she would pocket the gold, she instead placed it back on the counter and retrieved a key from a drawer, engraved with the number "7."

"We don't accept this kind of thing here," she said. "I'll open the room for you first. You can exchange the gold for common currency at a pawnshop."

I took the key without asking which pawnshop was reliable. That was common sense.

The room was on the second floor. Room 7 was at the end of the hallway, its door made of the same old planks as the inn's entrance. Everything in the room was old, and dust still covered the table. I suspected no one had cleaned here—or stayed here—since I was born.

I had to do it myself, beating the sheets and barely finding a clean spot to sit down. When I opened my pack hoping to find a few remaining silver coins, my purse was empty except for that one gold nugget.

This was both embarrassing and dangerous. I needed to exchange this thing for local currency as soon as possible.

By the time I left the inn, it was nearly dark. Surprisingly, the streets had grown more crowded at this hour—some people wore long robes like wizards, others leather armor like hunters. Their only commonality was that they all kept low profiles, trying to stay inconspicuous. So did I.

I first inquired at several shops that bought herbs. I had too many herbs on me, and except for the healing ones, I didn't need the rest temporarily. Those I'd pressed to the bottom of my pack were already starting to wilt, so I planned to sell off the surplus before everything spoiled.

The first shop was on the edge of the main street, run by a man in his forties. He examined the small cloth bundles I handed over, opening each one to smell it, shaking his head in distaste at every single one.

"We don't buy herbs from outsiders here," he said. "Aethon's herb market has its own supply chain. We can't verify the source or efficacy of external goods."

The second shop gave me the same answer.

The third shop's response was more direct:

"You've come to the wrong place," the shopkeeper said. "Without clearance papers, you can't buy or sell anything here."

As I left the third shop, I realized something.

This city's operational system was built on a distinction between "inside" and "outside." "Inside" people had clearance papers, guarantors, traceable origins. "Outside" people had none of these. All the city's commerce served those on the "inside."

I was now on the "outside."

Just before darkness fell completely, I finally entered a pawnshop. The space inside was small, containing only a counter behind which stood a man wearing gold-rimmed glasses, his hair combed meticulously. He held an abacus that seemed to calculate rapidly on its own without being touched. From his appearance, he was preparing to close. I quickly stepped forward to get his attention.

"Exchange money," I said.

I placed the gold nugget directly on the counter. He picked it up, examined it, and named a figure.

He pulled open a drawer and took out several silver coins and some paper notes printed with the same breathing patterns as the city walls, rough to the touch.

"This is the local common currency," he said. "Can't be magically traced."

"That's too little." My expression was one of disbelief, and I didn't take the money. He probably hadn't even offered a fifth of the nugget's value.

The man looked at me sideways.

"You don't have clearance papers, miss. I'm taking a risk doing business with you."

I glared at him, feeling my anger rising. This place was far from as wonderful as it appeared, hiding such filthy corners.

But he was right. Without identity or money, I had no choice. I couldn't count on the people here to charitably take me in.

I snatched the money viciously, not forgetting to glare at him once more, then left without looking back.

I found a small tavern on the edge of the main street, the kind where you could tell the prices weren't expensive just by looking.

That tavern catered to "outside" people. From the clothing of those sitting inside, I could tell they weren't Aethon locals. There were a few merchants, a few travelers passing through, and one or two people whose identities I couldn't guess.

I found a table in the corner and sat down.

I ordered the cheapest dinner.

Before the food arrived, I let myself listen to the conversations at other tables for a while.

At the table behind me, two local merchants were chatting.

Their topic kept shifting. What I heard included the pricing strategy of a jeweler in Aethon's western district, the recent risk level of a trade route to the south, and the repair project for a building in Aethon's temple district.

I didn't pay particular attention to their conversation until their topic turned in another direction.

"Did you go see that statue today?"

"No. I'm pressed for time this trip. Haven't been home in a year—my kid doesn't even recognize his own father anymore."

"I suggest you take half a day to look at it while it's still responsive."

"I've seen it twice already. First time was ten years ago. Second time was last year. Both times, no reaction."

"That's because you weren't asking a real question."

My hand paused at that exchange, my entire attention focusing on their table's conversation.

"What do you mean?"

"That statue," the merchant said, "whether you tell it truth or lies, it won't react. It only responds to real questions."

"Real questions?"

"Questions that truly matter to the person asking," the merchant said. "If you casually ask 'how's the weather today,' it won't acknowledge you. If you ask 'will that deal I'm making next month fail,' it will respond."

"Then why do so many people say it's fake?"

"Because when many people go to ask, they don't actually know what they truly want to ask."