They reached the plains the next day, and the afternoon after that the outpost came into view.

The wooden walls shimmered in the distance, veiled partly by dust. Rial marvelled at their length. Even from this distance it was clear that they enclosed a greater area than the entire village up in the mountains, including the pagoda and outlying timbre houses.

The air was dry and dusty, both suns high in the sky. It reached such a point that Brin wet two handkerchiefs and bid Rial hold one to his mouth as he did the same. The sun beat high overhead, and seemed somehow larger than in the mountains.

The earth was covered with patchy grasses, the dirt in between cracked and crumbling. Rial was surprised; he had always envisioned the plains as areas of lush green grass.

"And so they were," said Brin when Rial spoke his thoughts to him, "Well, not all grass, but far more and far greener than these spindly stems."

Brin kicked at the dirt in front of him, sending dried clumps curling up into the air and rolling along the ground, getting smaller with each instant as pieces flaked off.

"This year had been a dry one even in the mountains," continued Brin. "Down here it is far worse. It may be this drought that has brought the bandits to the town."

Brin's word put Rial on edge for a time as they walked the well-trodden and dusty trail. He found himself constantly searching the horizon, dreading the sight of some heavily-beweaponed men appearing to take them as well.

They made it to the walls without incident, however, and after a few calls up to the guards who manned the gates were allowed to enter.

Behind the gates there were indeed stone houses of many floors, and crowds of people who moved past with serious expressions and no acknowledgement of those around them. They kicked up dust with every step, and the majority of people they saw wore neckerchiefs tied around their heads to cover their mouths and noses.

Brin led them down a maze of cart-laden roads, giving Rial little time to take in the many new sights and sounds that surrounded them. They passed shops and tradesmen offering services that Rial could identify only in part, buildings he longed to investigate.

After a few minutes’ walk they came to a squat, stone building of three or four floors with a long wooden sign hanging along its side, a sign which read “Travellers Rest.” Brin turned to make sure Rial was following, then ducked inside.

The common area was the same smoky, dark room of Gryrne’s account. At this time of the early evening there was a substantial crowd, seated around small wooden tables or standing at the bar, and a constant layer of noise, fragments of conversations coming to Rial’s ears, dialects and accents he found hard to decipher, words and references alien to his experiences. Some stood out as they made their way across the floor.

“…say it was wiped off the map. Had to get away before…”

“…lost his entire caravan to the grakar. Someone’ll have to do something…”

“…found the knife in his hands. Stringing ‘im up in the morn…”

The last comment especially grabbed Rial’s attention. He’d heard that punishment on the plains was carried out differently, and as a child he and his friends had spent countless hours repeating and embellishing gruesome tales of strung up corpses and bodies torn apart by blood-thirsty beasts. Was such an execution happening here?

He was distracted from his thoughts by Brin, who was booking their lodgings with the man behind the bar. He paid for their stay of one night, a handful of copper changing hands.

Only one night? Rial had felt sure they would be here longer than that. A knot twisted in his gut at the thought that he would not get a chance to see the town and the famous markets.

He kept quiet as Brin led them up the stairs and into a long, disorganised dormitory of two rows of bedrolls with the belongings of their occupants strewn across the floor besides and between.

Their bedrolls were close to the back of the room, and Rial found himself stepping carefully over the scattered belongings of others as well as the feet of the few already resting there. He felt a shiver of fear run down his spine at the looks some of these gave him; looks of irritation and hostility. He felt suddenly exposed, and thanked the stars above that Brin was with him.

“Right, I’m going out for a while,” said Brin, slinging his pack onto the ground and the cloth-wrapped treasure beside it.

Rial physically jumped.

“What? But…”

Brin pre-empted Rial’s words.

“You will be fine here, boy. The tavern owners take it very personally when something happens to one of their guests. So long as you stay in the confines of these walls you will be safe. Here…”

Brin slung a couple of coins towards him, followed by the greedy eyes of some of those in the room.

“…this will get you a good dinner downstairs. Just don’t speak to anyone about why we’re here and…”

Brin leaned in and lowered his voice.

“…don’t draw attention to the thing,” he hissed. “No one will be interested in it unless you are. Keep your eye on it, but don’t make it look as if you are keeping an eye on it. Ok?”

Rial’s mouth opened and shut without sound. Brin was already turning.

“I’ll be back very soon. Wait for me.”

With that, Brin left.