The clamor of "The Burly Boar" faded as Evan stepped into the bustling streets of Polis. Compared to Roll City's provincial feel, Polis pulsed with metropolitan energy. Taller buildings of stone and timber lined wider avenues. Merchants hawked exotic wares from distant lands: shimmering silks, pungent spices, intricately tooled leather, and gleaming weapons. The air buzzed with a dozen different languages and dialects. Guards clad in the deep blue and silver livery of Poland patrolled with vigilant eyes. For Evan, raised in the serene isolation of the Emerald Canopy, it was overwhelming.
Martino's pouch held ten silver pieces and five coppers – modest by Polis standards, but vital. His immediate needs were clear: information and direction. He recalled Martino's words: The main road continues northwest... Passage on a merchant caravan... costs coin. He needed to find this road, these caravans.
He approached a street vendor selling roasted nuts. "Excuse me," he asked politely, his Arcadian accent marking him as an outsider. "Where might I find merchant caravans heading towards Milan?"
The vendor, a grizzled man with shrewd eyes, sized Evan up. "North Road Gate, young master," he rasped, pointing vaguely west. "Biggest gate. Caravans assemble there before dawn. But passage ain't cheap. Costs more than those rags are worth." He gestured dismissively at Evan's simple, travel-stained robe.
Evan thanked him, ignoring the slight. He navigated the winding streets, following the flow of heavier traffic towards the city's western edge. The North Road Gate was impossible to miss – a massive stone archway flanked by imposing towers, bustling with activity even in the late afternoon sun. Wagon trains were assembling, merchants barking orders, drivers tending to teams of sturdy draft horses or larger, scaled Draught Lizards. Guards in various liveries – some private, some city watch – stood watch. The air smelled of dust, animal sweat, and anticipation.
He scanned the gathering caravans. Their banners displayed merchant house sigils unfamiliar to him. Approaching a group of drivers resting near a large wagon bearing a stylized mountain peak symbol, he repeated his question. "Is this caravan bound for Milan?"
One driver, a burly man wiping sweat from his brow, snorted. "Milan? Aye, eventually. After stops in Verdis, Tuscana, and Genoa first. We leave at dawn. Got coin for passage?"
Evan hesitated. "How much?"
The driver eyed him again. "For a berth sharing space with the cargo? Five silvers to Verdis. Another five to Tuscana. Milan's another fifteen beyond that. Food extra." He named a price that would consume nearly Evan's entire purse just to reach the first major stop, weeks away.
Discouraged, Evan moved on. The pattern repeated. Caravans heading directly north towards Milan were scarce and commanded premium prices. Others took circuitous routes, adding weeks or months to the journey. The cost was prohibitive. Martino's coin wouldn't get him halfway.
Find work, Martino had advised. Guard work pays better. Evan wandered towards a section of the plaza where mercenary bands gathered, their banners displayed prominently. He saw seasoned warriors – men and women with hard eyes and visible scars – negotiating contracts with caravan masters. Their equipment spoke of experience. Evan, despite his encounter in Redfang Pass, looked like what he was: a youth, unarmored, bearing no visible weapons. He received dismissive shakes of the head or outright laughter when he tentatively inquired about guard positions.
The sun dipped lower, casting long shadows across the plaza. A sense of helplessness began to creep in. His resources were dwindling, his options narrowing. He needed shelter for the night. A cheap inn near the gate offered a cramped, shared room for two coppers. Evan paid, securing a narrow cot in a room reeking of stale ale and unwashed bodies. He ate sparingly from his remaining trail rations.
Lying in the gloom, the sounds of the city a discordant symphony outside, Evan focused inward. He needed a plan. Guard work seemed closed to him without credentials or gear. Scribe work? He could write, thanks to Quentin's meticulous tutoring, but had no proof of skill. His Zither magic... The five Sovereigns were lost. Could he acquire another instrument? Even a basic one? But coin was the barrier.
A fragment of conversation overheard at the mercenary corner floated back to him: "...always recruiting at the Mage Guild. Testing fee, though..." The Polis Mage Guild. Perhaps they offered work for traveling mages? Or perhaps... Quentin's letter was gone, but his Guild Master status in Arcadia... could it hold any weight here? It was a slender thread of hope, but the only one he had.
Dawn found Evan washed and as presentable as possible outside the imposing edifice of the Polis Mage Guild. It dwarfed Lunaria's modest building. Constructed of pale granite, adorned with glowing magical sigils etched into its surface, it radiated power and wealth. Guards in enchanted armor flanked the grand entrance. Evan took a deep breath, smoothing his robe, and approached.
The interior was cavernous and cool. Light streamed through stained-glass windows depicting legendary mages and epic battles. The air hummed with palpable magical energy. Desks staffed by robed attendants lined the walls. Mages of various ranks, identifiable by colored trim on their robes, moved purposefully. Evan felt acutely out of place.
He approached a reception desk manned by a young woman in apprentice gray robes. "Excuse me," he began. "I seek information. Regarding work opportunities... or perhaps... verification?"
The apprentice looked up, her expression polite but bored. "Verification? For magical aptitude? Testing chamber is down the west corridor. Fee is five silvers. Work opportunities..." She glanced at Evan's lack of insignia. "...generally require demonstration of capability or established credentials."
Evan's heart sank. Five silvers – half his remaining coin – just to be tested? He hesitated. Quentin's name... would it mean anything here? "I... I am Evan Young. My teacher is Quentin Shaw, Guild Master of the Arcadia Mage Guild." He spoke the name with quiet pride.
The apprentice blinked. "Arcadia?" A flicker of something – recognition? Amusement? – crossed her face. "I'm sorry, I have no record of that name. Guild Master of Arcadia... we receive little news from the southern kingdoms. Verification would be required for any official recognition." Her tone was final. The five-silver fee hung unspoken between them.