Free Farmers & Mercenaries by Maxwell Alexander Drake Page B

of the Merchantillian, he found the crowd thinning. With a grin, he noticed that not only did the dress of the people around him improve, so did their smell. Reaching the small gates, he stepped around two people the city watch had stopped. The guards questioned the dingy clad men as to what possible business they had with any merchant of the caliber housed within this particular section of the city. A few of the guards glanced Clytus’ way, though none made any motion to hinder his progress. Passing under the main portcullis, which protected the Merchantillian and separated it from the rest of Mocley, the captain of the merchant guard, Faztilmin, nodded at Clytus from his perch on a tall stool sitting next to a gatehouse door. It still astonished Clytus that the merchants in this section had their own guard separate from the city watch.
    The merchant’s guard—or merkswords, as the locals refer to them—are better trained, that is for sure.
    Inclining his head toward the man, Clytus continued on his path. Since many of the men who employed him owned shops in the Merchantillian, his was a face the merkswords had seen many a time.
    In this section of the city, one could find the more expensive items that might be on one’s shopping list. As he walked its broad, tree-lined and flower edged cobblestone streets, he was greeted here and there by passers-by and shopkeeps he had come to know over the past decade. He waved or nodded to each politely, not pausing in his stride. It pleased him that his reputation was of someone who got the job done, and one that could be trusted as well.
    Passing through the southron gates of the Merchantillian, nodding to the merkswords stationed there, Clytus entered the Sept district. At the next intersection, again with a large ornate fountain—this one depicting the Twelve Gods of Man in various poses atop a mountain, the water cascading down between them like miniature streams to form a lake in the basin—he picked up the tail end of the Boulevard of the Gods. Glancing down the road toward the Palintium, he shook his head at the mass of people who milled about the street. With midday prayers in full swing, he knew he had made the correct decision. That area of the street moved like chilled molasses. Making his way down this road and away from the Palintium, he found himself at the main gates to the Academy.
    The front gates, always closed and locked, sat at the very end of the Boulevard of the Gods. He had never seen its portcullis raised on any occasion. He was not even sure if they could open. Turning southwards, through the small alleys that wound between the homes of workers and servants who made their living off the Academy, he skirted the school’s outer wall. Halting outside the small postern gate used by those who wished to enter the grounds, Clytus reached over and pulled a cord dangling from the right of the gate. Patiently, he stood waiting the arrival of an Academy Guard.
    Unlike the merkswords, these hobbswords who work for the Shapers are merely errand boys and doormen, all prim and proper. The children of wealth found to have no ability with the Essence, yet whose parents wish them to be close to it anyway. Although, the elite guard here is a cut above.
    After a fashion—a suitable enough time to show whoever waited they were not as important as those within—a hobbsword walked out from the gatehouse and strode up to Clytus. This one was a young man, no older than twenty winters. Like all hobbswords, he was smartly dressed. His red and gold stripped tabard with a large yellow starburst on the breast—the symbol of the Shaper’s Order—was spotless, pressed, and fit smooth and snug over his chainmail shirt. Matching breeches, tucked neatly into polished black calf-boots, completed his ensemble. Tall and fair of hair, the hobbswords showed good muscle for his age.
    With long sword worn on the right hip, makes this one a lefty.
    Without thinking, Clytus adjusted his stance