The journey with the dwarves turned out to be an unexpected odyssey through a world of regulations, forms, and endless disputes over the proper interpretation of paragraphs. The cart, though now functional, moved with a characteristically dwarven slowness, and every bridge, every crossroads, even a particularly large puddle, was a pretext to stop, consult the appropriate maps and documents, and, of course, fill out the requisite protocols.
Bofur was not idle. His pen scratched against the parchment almost without pause.
"Crossing the border of the Garagz forestry and entering trade route 7b requires notification within 24 hours," he mumbled, filling out a form in triplicate. – "And since the auxiliary draught force" – here he glanced at Grumgh – "is a non-human race, appendix delta is necessary, confirming its non-epidemiological threat status. Grumgh, have you, in the last 90 days, been in contact with persons exhibiting symptoms of the Bloody Cough Plague, Goblin Pox, or Marsh Fever?"
Grumgh, who was just studying a star chart, looked up from its wire frame.
"Statistically, considering my previous place of residence and subsequent wandering, the probability of contact with highly contagious pathogens is a mere 2.3%. However, the definition of 'contact' in a legal context is often imprecise. Does remaining at a distance greater than one hundred feet from a sneezing goblin qualify as…"
"Enough!" Tamira interrupted, plugging her ears. – "Say 'no'! Just say 'no'!"
"Protocoled: 'no'," muttered Bofur, scratching away. – "Although the lack of official test confirmation may subject us to a fine…"
For Tamira, the journey was simultaneously tedious and fascinating. The boredom came from the slow pace and bureaucratic babble. The fascination came from the sheer fact that she was going somewhere. That instead of her rotten shack in Stream, she saw a changing landscape: dense forests giving way to hilly pastures, and finally, the first vast cultivated fields surrounding larger settlements. The world was bigger than she had thought.
And Grumgh? Grumgh had found a new occupation. His mind, hungry for data, absorbed everything that came his way. He studied the dwarves' maps, analyzing their scale and accuracy with professional criticism. He perused the "Imperial Tax Code" that Bofur carried and recited an hour-long discourse to Tamira on the inefficiency of property tax within a feudal economy. The dwarves, initially astonished, quickly grew accustomed to his monologues
The road to Landon's Nook led through increasingly populated areas. Pastures were replaced by cultivated fields, solitary huts turned into tidy villages, and finally into towns with cobbled streets and stone houses. For Tamira, it was an almost exotic sight. Her world had so far been limited to the backwater creek and its immediate surroundings. Now she saw mills, forges, even a small temple with a stained-glass window. She gaped at every new sight, which did not escape the dwarves' notice.
"First time out of your hole, eh, girl?" Thomil asked her, spitting out a dried plum pit.
"Yes," Tamira replied, not taking her eyes off a group of children playing skittles by the roadside.
"The Nook will really be something. Dirt, stench, noise, and so many people you don't even want to breathe. A paradise for business," added Malki with a hint of longing in his voice. – "A shame we're just passing through."
Grumgh listened to these exchanges in silence, but his eyes, those deep-set, often hazy pupils, were also recording everything with the absorbency of a sponge. His mind, trained to memorize dry facts from books, was now bombarded with live data: the smells of baking bread and horse dung, the sound of blacksmiths and the calls of traders, the sight of different races living in relative, noisy harmony. It all defied any essay.
"Interesting," he murmured that evening as they made camp on the outskirts of a sizable settlement. – "Immolen's theory on the cultural conditioning of aggression... does not account for the economic factor. I observe a lack of open acts of violence despite high human density. Trade exchange dominates. Could the fear of legal sanctions and the desire for profit be stronger than instincts?"
"You're saying people are greedy and afraid of prison?" Tamira summarized, spreading her thin coat on the ground. – "That's not exactly groundbreaking, Grumgh."
"For me, it is," the orc replied with utter seriousness. – "At home, all interactions were theoretical. Here... they are practical. And far more complicated."
Bofur, hearing this, raised an eyebrow. His bureaucratic soul felt a kind of kinship with this analytical mind.
"Of course they're complicated!" he growled, not looking up from the report he was filling out by lamplight. – "The entire Empire stands on regulations. On paragraphs, sub-points, and appendices. They hold back the chaos. They let you know if killing a goblin gets you a reward or a fine for illegal hunting of a protected species. They define..."
"...that our cart is thirty kilos overweight for this stretch of road and we theoretically should pay a double toll," Thomil interrupted him, yawning. – "We know, Bofur. Go to sleep already."
The journey to Landon's Nook took one more day. With every kilometer, the landscape became less idyllic and more urban. The clean air of the farmlands soon mixed with the bitter smell of chimney smoke and the sharp odor of rotting waste. Cobbled highways replaced country roads, and simple huts gave way to tightly packed, soot-blackened, multi-story stone houses.
Finally, on the afternoon of the third day, Thomil pointed a finger at the palisades looming ahead.
"Landon's Nook," he said, as if introducing an unwanted guest. – "A paradise for thieves, officials, and those who like to breathe air mixed with coal dust and desperation."
The city did not resemble the magnificent cities from Tamira's stories. There were no gilded towers, only low, grim buildings. No songs were heard, only the constant din of hundreds of voices, the creaking of cart wheels, the curses of traders, and, somewhere in the background, the persistent, regular blows of a hammer, probably from nearby forges or workshops. For Tamira, however, it was the most beautiful sound she had ever heard. It was the sound of possibility. For Grumgh, it was primarily noise of a decibel level requiring analysis and classification.
The dwarven cart stopped in a market square that more closely resembled a henhouse. The smell was dizzying: rotting vegetables, roasting meat of dubious origin, perfumes trying in vain to cover the stench of sweat and filth.
"This is the end of our shared journey," Thomil announced, jumping off the cart. – "Thanks for the help, greenie. And you, girl. Without you, we'd probably still be stuck in that mud."
"It was mutually beneficial," stated Grumgh, nodding. – "Your transport and food rations compensated for the expenditure of our labor to within a single copper, considering the average cost of mule rental in this region."
The dwarves looked at him, once again unsure whether to laugh or nod in respect.
"Well then… good luck with that haunting," Malki muttered, nodding his head deeper into the city.
"The House of the Dead is at the end of this street, past the slaughterhouse. Can't miss it. Smells… well, you'll see."
"And remember!" Bofur added, pulling out one last scroll of parchment. – "Any legal exorcism activity requires the filing of form E-15 'Notification of Anti-Necrotic Actions' at the city hall! The penalty for failure to comply is…"
The rest of his words were drowned out by the yell of a fishmonger. Grumgh and Tamira were left alone, standing in the middle of a foreign, noisy city, with empty purses and a notice that suddenly seemed heavier than an anvil.
"Well then…" Tamira began, trying to inject a note of determination into her squeaky voice. – "I suppose we should go."
Grumgh nodded. His gaze analyzed the street, calculating the probability of being robbed, run over by a cart, and trampled by a horse. They set off in the direction Malki had indicated. The farther they went, the narrower and dirtier the alleys became, and the more neglected the buildings. And then, suddenly, they smelled it. A faint but unmistakable scent – a sweetish, sickly odor of decay that cut through all the other city smells. It was the smell of death, old and established.
They stood before a low, long building made of dark, rough-hewn stone. It had no windows, and its only door was made of thick, iron-bound planks. Above the entrance hung a faded wooden sign with a carved symbol of a skull and crossbones. This was the House of the Dead. And before the door, leaning on a broom as if it were a staff, stood a desiccated, wrinkled old man in a soiled apron. His small, sunken eyes looked at them with an expression of deep, chronic annoyance.
"Well?" he snarled before they could even open their mouths. – "What? Piss off. There's no market here."