It was entirely possible that there were more people in the square than Zolzaya had seen in her entire life. Her mind rebelled against the notion that even this green soft land could possibly support so many. How could straw hatted peasants grubbing in muddy fields feed this multitude? Where were their herds? So many beasts would surely blacken the sun with the dust of their passage. She sniffed at the air, tasting the bite of blackpowder, the sweet smell of frying rice, and the overwhelming sour stink of unwashed bodies and sweat. Zaya hated it. She wanted to smell the clean crisp of the coming winter on the steppe, wanted to feel the bite of the winds and the pound of hooves on the tundra. A trio of soldiers shoved their way through the crowd, weapons sheathed and faces bright with drunken merriment. They looked soft. One day, when the tribes were united, they would sweep down from the north and crush these weaklings beneath their hooves. Then her people would get fat on rice and drunk on cheap wine, their children would live to grow into pump merchants and their noses grow sharp for want of the steppe wind.
 


Zaya’s hand snapped down and caught the wrist of a child of perhaps ten years old in a grip like a wire snare. He let out a gasp of pain, his fingers a few inches from the leather purse that held her few coins. She stared down at him for a moment and saw tears start in his eyes. She shoved him back into the crowd and continued on, gripping the bridle of her mare in her free hand. The warhorse snuffled at the unfamiliar scents, flaring its nostrils as its hooves clattered across the flagstone. This place was as alien to Khiimori as it was to her, though admittedly the horse seemed to be handling it somewhat better than she was. The bulk of the horse made passage for her through the crowd, the clatter of hooves effective where hard looks from a small tough looking woman was not. She pressed her hand against the breast of her leather armor, feeling the wax sealed parchment concealed beneath it. She had assumed that she would simply march in and hand the summons, addressed to the ‘Chief of Chiefs’ to someone and they would take her to their Emperor. ‘Chief of Chiefs’ wasn’t the proper word, but these southerners did so love the formulas they dreamed up. Zaya supposed they were lucky that the wisewoman had the magic of reading. There was no way she was going to get near the palace tonight. 
 


More fire blossomed in the sky above her and Khiimori flicked her ears in irritation. They pushed through the crowd and onto a long street lined on both sides with stalls covered with awnings of colorfully painted canvas. Smoke and the smell of hot oil and frying noodles filled the air as the cooks cried their wares, handing out food in little bowls of woven green leaves that did something to arrest the dripping grease. Meat seemed scarce save for a few vendors who were grilling what might or might not have been beef on long skewers, pausing occasionally to baste it in a thick sauce that smelled like peanuts and burnt sugar. Her stomach rumbled and she paused to exchange a few coppers for a bowl of rice and fried vegetables. Zaya ate with her fingers, disdaining the bamboo sticks that the southerns seemed to favor as useless frippery. Maybe she should find a…. What was the word? An inn? And wait till morning. Perhaps that would be best.