"So that's Mercosa, huh?" Wes asked.

  "Yes." Harken nodded. "It's where I do most of my business."

  The small city sprawled across the horizon like a scar on the landscape—high stone walls pockmarked with repairs, smoke from countless chimneys staining the sky. Even from this distance, from a slight rise, Wes could make out the clustered rooftops, the winding streets, and the imposing silhouette of what must have been a noble's keep or garrison tower. The Vane River curled around the eastern side of the city, its surface shimmering under the midday sun, dotted with barges and smaller boats.

  Wes was more than aware of the danger he was in, the grief and stress he was suppressing, and all the tension he was carrying, but his fascination was also undeniable. The road to Mercosa widened further as they approached, the dirt track giving way to rough cobbles worn smooth by generations of wagon wheels. Traffic thickened—farmers driving livestock, merchants with slow, heavy carts, and the occasional armored patrol on horseback. The city walls loomed higher with every step, their weathered stone bearing the scars of past conflicts.

  Harken guided the wagon toward the main gate where a line had formed before the raised iron portcullis.

  Wes wrinkled his nose at the smell, but most of it was from animal droppings of the livestock being herded about. He was pleasantly surprised that the city itself was not too stinky, and a smell of unwashed bodies, which he'd been expecting, did not seem to be present. He asked Harken, "Do people bathe a lot? Or do something to cut down on body odor?"

  Harken thought for a moment before answering. "Public baths near every market square. Most folk wash daily if they can—city ordinance fines stinking workers. Helps cut down on disease." He scratched his stubbled jaw. "Merchants don't like their wares smelling of pig farmer, either."

  Jorn adjusted his grip on the crossbow, eyeing the guards at the gate. "They burn incense in the noble districts too."

  Wes nodded absently, struck all over again by how alien this world was from earth. The line of travelers inched forward.

  Up close, Mercosa's walls definitely showed their age—crumbling mortar between the stones, patches of moss clinging to the shaded crevices. The iron portcullis bore deep gouges from some past assault, its teeth stained dark with rust. Guards in simple but effective gambesons moved along the battlements, their crossbows loosely cradled. One leaned over to spit onto the road below, narrowly missing a merchant's cart.

  Wes asked Harken, "What is the point of all the guards? Aren't we sort of out in the middle of nowhere? Who would launch an actual invasion or like...try to take Mercosa?"

  The older man shook his head. "You'd be surprised. And if there's a group with bad intentions, it's a lot easier to stop them at the walls than deal with them after they're already inside. About twenty years ago, a big bandit group made it inside, ran around burning things, throwing valuables and stolen goods over the walls while runners with horses collected it all. Half of them died, but the half that made it out...they were never seen again. Probably rich and moved to a different country to buy a farm."

  "Oh." Wes had just reminded that modern man from earth or not, he definitely had a lot to learn.

  Up ahead, a pair of guards in boiled leather armor stepped forward to inspect incoming travelers. One held a ledger, his ink-stained fingers flipping pages as he questioned each party. The other—a burly man with a broken nose—rested his hand on the pommel of a well-worn short sword.

  Harken guided the wagon forward when their turn came. The ledger-keeper squinted up at them. "Purpose in Mercosa?" His voice was bored, practiced.

  Harken answered carefully, suppressing his accent and speaking slowly. "Barley and wool for the granary guild. Got a buyer at the Spotted Dog." He jerked a thumb toward Wes. "Picked up a traveler on the road."

  The guard's eyes lingered on Wes's strange clothing and backpack. "And him?"

  "Mage," Harken said flatly. "Claims his magic makes him forget things."

  Wes frowned, but held his tongue. The truth was, he actually was lying, but it still annoyed him hearing himself discussed this way right in front of him.

  Oblivious to Wes’ irritation, the guard with the ledger sniffed, running a critical eye over Wes's foreign garb again. "Mages don't usually dress like vagrants." His ink-stained fingers tapped the parchment. "What's his name?"

  "Wesley," Harken said without hesitation. "From some far-off land nobody's heard of."

  The burly guard grunted, stepping closer to inspect Wes's backpack and strange clothing. His nose wrinkled at the unfamiliar fabrics. "How is everything so bright? Never seen stitching like that," he muttered, then shrugged. "Two copper for the wagon. Another two if your mage wants a mage bracelet. Some shops won't do business unless he has one. Some shops can't."

  "What do you mean?" asked Wes. The ledger-keeper sighed, rubbing ink-stained fingers against his temple. "City law. It's the best and really only way to encourage mages to report themselves when entering the city. Most cities do it, actually. If someone is wearing a mage band, even if they aren't armed, it helps others know what they are. Probably says something that without it, more idiots wind up dead from magic self defense. Anyway, the bracelet only fastens once, most mages take it off after they leave a city but keep it on while inside, and it cuts down on how much the city needs to spend for dealing with dead bodies of idiots. It also helps us guards know when to pay close attention."

  Wes nodded slowly, reflecting that it was a really clever way to handle identification of mages in a world with magic. The ledger-keeper handed him a simple iron bracelet, its surface etched with angular runes. "Put it on before you pass the gate. It'll seal itself." His ink-stained fingers tapped the parchment again. "Two coppers for the wagon. Two for the bracelet."

  Harken dug into his belt pouch, producing the coins with a practiced flick of his wrist. The guard snatched them up, looking carefully before nodding and waving them through.

  Wes examined his bracelet curiously after putting it on, wondering what would happen when he entered the walls. The iron bracelet clicked shut around Wes's wrist as they passed beneath the portcullis, its runes flaring briefly with a dull orange glow before fading to inert metal. The sensation was like a static shock—brief and painless, but unmistakable.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "Marked now," Harken muttered. "City knows you're here."

  "Can they track it?"

  "Probably. But it's not really worth their while most of the time. Mages with more fame or power get different bracelets, and the quill-pushers usually want to keep them under a thumb and have them seen for the status."

  Wes shook his head in fascination, then glanced down at the bracelet again. It felt like every five minutes, he was struck all over again by the alien nature of this world. He wondered if he'd ever stop feeling that way.

  Some of the smell from the livestock outside the walls began to fade.

  He looked around at the inside of mercosa, curious. The wagon wheels clattered over uneven cobblestones as they passed through a second set of gates. Then the city unfolded before Wes in a labyrinth of rammed earth buildings, their concrete-like walls painted in fading earth tones—ochres, umbers, and the occasional splash of blue near wealthier districts. Slate roofs overlapped like fish scales, their dark surfaces even darker with morning condensation.

  Harken guided the wagon down a narrow thoroughfare where merchants shouted prices from stalls crammed against building walls. The air buzzed with commerce—spice merchants shaking woven baskets of dried peppers, tanners hawking leather goods, and butchers chopping meat on worn wooden blocks. The scent of seared fat and other cooking mingled with the ever-present tang of animal dung from passing ox carts.

  "Spotted Dog's near the granary district," Harken said, steering around a puddle of something foul. "We'll offload first, then see about your situation."

  "What do you mean by that?" asked Wes. "I was sort of planning on separating soon, unless you have a reason why I shouldn't."

  Harken guided the wagon around a corner where the street widened slightly. The buildings here were sturdier, their rammed-earth walls reinforced with timber beams. A faded sign depicting a spotted dog hung over a heavy oak door ahead.

  "Spotted Dog's where I usually go to meet a buyer," Harken said, nodding toward the establishment. "But if you're thinking of striking out on your own in Mercosa, you'll want to know three things."

  Wes nodded, listening carefully.

  Harken spat over the wagon's side before continuing. "First—never show your…artifacts to anyone in the street. Not even guards." He slowed the wagon. "Second—the Night Market's where you'll find buyers for strange magic, but think about going with someone who knows the ropes."

  Jorn shifted his crossbow, adding, "And third—if a man named Dravos approaches you, walk away. Fast."

  "Uh..." Wes started. That was a lot. "What is the night market? And who is Dravos?"

  Harken guided the wagon into the Spotted Dog's loading yard, the wheels crunching over scattered straw. He set the brake with a practiced motion before turning to Wes. "Night Market's where you'll find buyers for strange artifacts—or sellers of them. Runs after the old curfew, always after nightfall, in the old granary district. It's sort of a black market everyone knows about and also nobody cares about. Most can't afford anything and go once, feel poor, and never come back. Like me." His calloused fingers drummed against the cudgel at his belt. "Dravos..." He growled softly.

  "Dravos is a collector," Jorn cut in, glancing around like he was afraid the man might materialize. "Buys rare artifacts—especially from outsiders. Pays well at first." His eyes flicked to Wes's backpack meaningfully.

  Harken grunted. "Then you wake up in an alley with your throat slit and your pockets empty."

  “How do you wake up from having your throat slit?” asked Wes.

  The old farmer stopped speaking and just looked at Wes for a few seconds. “I’d never properly thought of before.”

  Jorn laughed. “That really doesn’t make any sense, Pa.”

  Harken swung down from the wagon bench, his boots kicking up dust. "You want to sell that pen of yours?"

  "Not particularly," Wes said. "Honestly, I'm most interested in finding some sort of...magic book, or magic instruction. I don't know exactly what I'm looking for. Maybe a sword, too." Wes thought about how in this world, close quarters fighting was a lot more liking than back on earth. And a pistol was a great weapon, but he only had two magazines. On top of that, the pistol was loud, and overpenetration was a consideration, too. Shooting a bad guy just to hit a kid, or an ally behind them, would not be not ideal.

  Harken scratched his stubbled neck, considering. "Magic tomes ain't cheap. But if you're looking for something open during the day, there's a shop near the Night Market—Old Tamlin's. Half the books books in the shop are cheap, or maybe fakes, but he knows his trade. He has a reputation for dealing with serious buyers fairly, too." He spat into the dust. "As for swords..." His eyes flicked to Wes's belt. "You'll want good steel, not pig iron."

  Wes shook his head. "I wasn’t actually thinking about mundane weapons. If your family is right, I'm rich. So if there are better swords, maybe enchanted ones, that would be better."

  "Must be nice," muttered Lissa. She was barely paying attention, playing with her fidget spinner. Harken gave his daughter a sharp look before turning back to Wes. "Enchanted blades don't sit on market stalls waiting for buyers. You'll need connections—or enough coin to make connections. Tamlin might know someone. Or try the Weaponmaster's Guild near the garrison."

  Jorn shifted uncomfortably, glancing at the Spotted Dog's heavy oak door.

  Wes nodded at the younger man, and after a bit of thought, he gave Jorn the Crostlik daggers, and Harken one of the crostlik crossbows. He also gave Jorn his own fidget spinner. He awkwardly scratched the back of his head and said, "You all were a big help, and you're decent folks. Thank you."

  Harken held the crossbow as he gave a slow nod, his calloused fingers testing the drawstring. "Decent folk don't usually last long on those roads. But I won't say no to another weapon...to keep or to sell."

  Jorn turned the fidget spinner over in his hands, his surliness replaced by curiosity. "This is really mine now?"

  Wes simply nodded.

  Lissa pouted, crossing her arms. Wes grinned at her, knowing she was feeling pissy, but not willing to actually say anything. At least she had the good sense to keep her mouth shut. She had a fidget spinner of her own, and acting discontent now, out loud, would be ridiculous. However, Wes opened her hand and put a little plastic ball in it, the kind of vending machine orbs with little plastic figurines inside from grocery store vending machines. This one had a little figurine of a puppy rattling around inside. Lissa gasped, her fingers closing around the plastic sphere. She shook it gently, watching the tiny dog figurine tumble inside. "It's...it's trapped!" Her blue eyes widened in alarm.

  Harken snorted. "It's not alive, girl." He rapped the sphere with a knuckle. "Some kind of clever glasswork."

  Jorn leaned over his sister's shoulder, squinting at the trinket.

  Then Wes chuckled and showed Lissar how to take the two halves of the dispensing ball apart to get the toy.

  The girl’s fingers trembled as she twisted the plastic sphere open, her breath catching when the tiny puppy figurine tumbled into her palm. She squealed, "It's so small!" Then she held it up to the sunlight shining through the Spotted Dog's courtyard, marveling at the intricate details—the molded collar, the tiny tongue lolling from its mouth. "Cute!"

  Harken watched his daughter's wonder with some fondness and wariness. His calloused fingers tightened on the cudgel at his belt. "Best keep that hidden, girl. Things like that would fetch a high price in Mercosa." He turned to Wes, his weathered face unreadable. "You're too generous for your own good, stranger. This city eats kindness. In fact, the world does."

  Jorn pocketed his own trinket with a quick, guarded motion, his eyes flicking to the alley mouth where shadows pooled between buildings. "We should get inside."

  Wes took that as his cue to leave. He nodded at the family, finding it interesting and weird how commoners didn't really have last names in this world, other than their professions. He knew intellectually that earth used to be the same way in some places at one point, but it was still an adjustment for him.