Wayhold was not what Arien had expected.
In his imagination, the capital had been surrounded by a tall white wall, beyond which stretched golden fields crisscrossed by roads and irrigation ditches. Within those walls would stand rows of multi-story stone buildings, forming a maze of streets and districts. Some better, some worse. At the city’s heart, a palace or castle would rise above everything else, protected by yet another wall and surrounded by green parks where courtiers strolled at their leisure.
Reality was considerably messier. Wayhold did have a wall; the city had simply grown far beyond it.
Arien first noticed the towers rising between hundreds of rooftops. Following their line with his eyes, he finally made out the fortifications themselves: a long line of pale stone almost buried beneath the city that had grown around them.
Buildings crowded both sides of the wall, with houses and workshops built almost against the old stone in places, while roads passed through enormous gates only to continue between densely packed buildings for streets beyond them.
One gate stood wide open over a road filled with carts, riders, and pedestrians. Had Arien not known better, he might have mistaken it for some oversized monument in the middle of the city.
The old fortifications no longer looked like Wayhold’s boundary. They looked like the remains of a smaller city the capital had swallowed whole.
Arien couldn’t tell where the villages along the Wyn ended and Wayhold began.
There had been no gate marking the beginning of the capital. No sudden change from fields to streets. The villages along the Wyn had simply grown larger and closer together. The empty spaces between them had shrunk. Farmhouses became clustered homes, then rows of buildings, until at some point there was no countryside left between them at all.
The city was enormous, sprawling for miles along the western bank of the river, far too vast to take in at a glance. Most of the lower buildings were brick, packed together in uneven rows, though older timber houses and larger wooden manors occasionally appeared among them.
Narrow alleys vanished between buildings. Balconies hung over crowded streets. Laundry stretched from upper windows, and signs of every shape and size competed for space above shops and taverns. Smoke from hundreds of chimneys formed a faint haze over the rooftops.
The closer their barge drew to the denser districts, the harder it became to separate one sound from another. Crowds filled every visible road. Merchants argued beside their stalls. Children darted between carts. Washerwomen shouted to one another across baskets of clothing. Dogs, chickens, goats, and more than a few animals Arien couldn’t identify wandered through spaces that somehow remained functional despite appearing completely chaotic. None of the locals seemed bothered by it.
People slipped around wagons without looking. Porters crossed packed streets carrying loads that should have made movement impossible. Riders somehow found paths through crowds Arien would have struggled to cross on foot.
They continued upriver for nearly an hour before the shape of Wayhold began to change. The chaotic sprawl along the Wyn gradually gave way to larger and more imposing buildings, while farther inland the city began climbing a broad hill. The hill itself wasn’t particularly high, but upon the otherwise flat plain it dominated the landscape. Patches of old woodland still covered parts of its slopes, breaking the seemingly endless sea of rooftops with streaks of green.
The buildings seemed to change with the elevation. Brick and timber slowly gave way to grey stone. Houses became taller and farther apart, and many had been painted in surprisingly bright colors. Small gardens appeared between them. Fountains sprayed into the air. Tree-lined squares broke up the dense streets.
These had to be the wealthier districts. People were better dressed, livestock had almost disappeared, and guards were considerably more common. Even the streets seemed calmer, with everything moving at a slower pace.
The port was another matter. Though smaller than the ports of Torben or Uthal, Wayhold’s river port surpassed both in the sheer number of barges and smaller vessels packed along its piers. Boats arrived from upriver and downriver almost without pause.
Porters streamed constantly between ships and warehouses, carrying crates, barrels, sacks of grain, bundles of timber, and goods Arien couldn’t identify. Some disappeared into the city almost as quickly as they were unloaded, while others were stacked beneath enormous wooden shelters waiting for another vessel.
“So,” Malbek said beside him, “what do you think of our capital?”
Arien remained silent for another moment.
“It’s… I suppose I expected something different.”
Malbek laughed. “So did I. Wayhold looks as though someone stitched together a dozen different cities and only afterward realized they needed ten times more room.” He gestured toward the sprawling districts they had passed. “Most of that used to be separate villages. Wayhold kept growing, the villages grew with it, and eventually the spaces between them disappeared. The old wall you saw once marked something close to the edge of the capital.”
Arien glanced back toward the pale fortifications, now barely visible between rooftops. “Now it’s almost in the middle of it.”
“More or less.” Malbek pointed toward the lower districts along the river. “Most timber, grain, livestock, and ordinary goods pass through that part of the city. It’s also where a large portion of the people who work in the High Districts actually live.”
“High Districts,” Arien repeated.
“Their name, not mine.”
“I wonder who came up with it.”
“Probably someone who lived there.”
Arien snorted. Malbek’s faint smile returned. “They’re where most of the people involved in the Faction Struggle gather. Though I prefer System Game.”
“Why?”
“Because struggle makes it sound far more dignified than it is.”
“How many districts are there?”
“Depends who you ask and how precisely you want to divide them. The important ones are easier.” Malbek began counting on his fingers. “Royal. High Houses. Knowledge and Development. Merchants. Craftsmen. Temples. Sword.”
Arien frowned. “Those are the easy ones?”
“Relatively.”
“Wonderful.”
“Don’t worry. The District of Knowledge and Development should restore some of your faith in city planning.”
“Some?”
“I make no promises.” Malbek pointed farther inland. “We won’t be going there today anyway. Gilfra lives in the Summer District.”
Arien followed his gesture, though from the river he couldn’t tell which part of the endless city Malbek meant.
“Another High District?”
“Not quite. More of a neutral one. Gardens, estates, theaters, taverns. The sort of places people from every important district visit when they want to pretend they aren’t working.”
“Or attend another reception,” Will muttered.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“And it’s far?” Arien asked.
“Far enough that we’re taking a carriage. We won’t be going anywhere near the center today.”
Arien was surprisingly relieved. The day was already drawing to a close, and after nearly two months on the road, the thought of spending several more hours sightseeing had lost most of its appeal. Wayhold would still be here tomorrow.
Before turning away, Arien looked once more toward the hill. Several structures rose above the surrounding rooftops, but one stood apart: an enormous red-brick complex surrounded by patches of green, its long wings and slender towers glittering with hundreds, perhaps thousands, of windows. Long wings stretched outward from a massive central structure, while slender towers climbed high above the surrounding city.
Arien stared at it.
The Academy.
Malbek reached Gilfra’s estate with the boys shortly after dusk. Their aunt was already waiting in the entrance hall.
Of course she was.
“There you are!” she exclaimed, pressing one hand dramatically against her chest. “Do either of you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”
Malbek watched her sweep Will into an embrace before immediately turning her attention to Arien. He had seen the performance before: concern carefully mixed with enough reproach to make her nephews feel guilty, followed by enough warmth that objecting would seem cruel.
Malbek had seen the role before. He had seen most of Gilfra’s roles before. Sometimes he wondered whether even she remembered which one had come first.
“And you must be Arien.” Her entire face brightened. “Come in, come in. You poor thing, after such a journey you must be exhausted.”
Within half a minute, she had welcomed him into her home, assured him he could stay for as long as necessary, asked about his journey, and somehow maneuvered the conversation toward the Academy.
Malbek disliked how effective she was at it.
He remained near the entrance while Gilfra shepherded both boys deeper into the estate. Malbek almost felt sorry for Arien.
Almost.
The boy was a problem, though Malbek had not yet decided what kind. He had spent the entire day trying to fit him into some familiar category and had failed every time.
A talented provincial child was the obvious explanation, but it fit poorly. Arien showed none of the desperation Malbek usually saw in ambitious commoners, and the possibility of some hidden noble parentage explained little beyond his confidence.
Out of habit, Malbek ran through the books and histories he had read, searching for some useful comparison. He found none. Jakol might have had an idea, but asking him would mean admitting there was something worth investigating, and Malbek still knew too little to involve anyone else.
He had always preferred to observe until he understood enough to make a plan, and seven years at the Academy had given him little reason to change that.
Malbek the Book Mage.
His rivals had meant the name as an insult. He had never understood why. Books contained answers, and when they didn’t, they usually gave him enough pieces to work one out.
Arien would be no different. He mentally reviewed what he actually knew.
Boy was eight, claimed to be level ten, had awakened the System early, possessed two Aspects and one Skill Specialization, and apparently had enough qualifying Skills that Mage might already be within reach.
He was also clearly withholding something, yet appeared to have no connection to any Faction unless he was an exceptionally talented liar.
The facts alone were difficult enough to explain. Arien’s behavior made even less sense.
Nothing unusual about his accent, clothes, or vocabulary accounted for it. What stood out was how little hesitation he showed around people above his station. He had looked Malbek directly in the eyes that morning and spoken to him without the deference Malbek expected from a provincial commoner.
He wasn’t rude; he simply seemed unaware that he was supposed to feel inferior. Malbek suspected that noble brats at the Academy would try very hard to beat it out of him.
A Life Aspect at eight would have been noteworthy by itself. A Specialization already achieved made it considerably harder to dismiss as luck.
Malbek needed more information. Captain Fenrey seemed like the obvious place to start. He had personally escorted Arien through Uthal before refusing the remainder of his payment, and the name of his ship came back to Malbek after a moment: The Golden Mussel.
A few discreet inquiries there should tell him something.
“Will the young master be staying the night?” The porter’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.
Malbek turned. The man was watching him with the carefully neutral expression servants tended to adopt around people they found unsettling.
“No. Inform Lady Gilfra that I’m returning to the Academy.”
“Of course, young master.”
“I need to prepare for the Expedition,” Malbek said, mostly to himself.
He grimaced at the thought. Nine months wandering through forests, ruins, villages, and whatever other miserable places the Masters considered educational.
Adventure. A ridiculous word. The eighth year was shaping up to be thoroughly inconvenient.
He stepped outside. The carriage remained exactly where he had ordered it to wait. At least something today had behaved predictably.
Malbek paused before climbing into the carriage. If Arien proved useful, helping him could pay dividends later. If he proved dangerous, Malbek would rather learn that early.
Either way, the boy had just become part of his summer plans.
There was probably little point in sleeping tonight. At least he still had coffee in his room.
That thought improved his mood considerably.