The rabbit officer looked at Xavier’s massive frame, then looked down at me, his eyes lingering on my dark merchant coat. He looked back at his father with a flat expression.
"Close friends?" the officer asked dryly. "Dad you don’t have friends for the last two decades and, twenty minutes ago you were sitting on a crate begging for coppers."
"That was research!" Tibbar insisted proudly. "I was inspecting the local economic mood! Now stop questioning your old father and stamp their papers. They have very important business in the city."
The officer sighed again, shaking his head. He stepped over to Xavier’s wagon, glanced at our official capital documents, and pulled out a heavy brass stamp from his belt.
STAMP.
He pressed the red ink seal onto our travel parchment and handed it back to Xavier.
"Pass through," the officer muttered, waving his hand at the heavy crocodile guards. "And take my dad with you before he tries to sell fake holy water to the foreign traders again."
The massive crocodile guards stepped aside, turning the giant iron wheels that pulled open the massive inner city gates with a loud, grinding metallic roar.
"See?" Tibbar boasted, walking beside our wagon as we rolled through the dark stone archway. "Master Tibbar always delivers!"
"I have to admit," Xavier said, driving the horses forward. "That was the fastest gate check I have ever seen."
As our wagon cleared the shadow of the massive stone archway, the true scale of the Vhaltrar Empire finally opened up before my eyes.
My jaw dropped slightly.
This was nothing like the quiet stone streets or wooden houses of Novaria. Over the huge metal walls of the empire sat a vast, sprawling city that looked like a giant, roaring machine.
It was an industrial revolution brought to life by ancient magic.
Massive iron towers reached high into the sky, connected by thick copper pipes and heavy suspension cables.
Giant brass gears, some as big as two-story houses, were turning continuously along the sides of dark granite buildings, powered by glowing blue magic crystals and heavy steam boilers.
The air was thick, warm, and filled with a constant cloud of dark gray smoke that drifted from hundreds of tall foundry chimneys.
The heavy sound of metal pounding against metal echoed from every direction.
"Look up, kid," Xavier murmured, pointing a thick finger toward the dark sky.
I looked up. Floating high above the smoking rooftops were giant, dark green balloon planes.
They were massive military airships shaped like metal whales, held aloft by glowing gas bags and propelled by spinning wooden propellers.
Standing along the open metal decks of the floating balloons were military crocodile guards, holding long brass spyglasses to scan the streets and alleys below for any trouble.
On the ground, patrols of heavily armored crocodile guards marched through the crowded cobblestone avenues, their iron halberds clanking against their armor with every step.
"This is Phoya City," Tibbar explained, standing on the edge of our wagon seat to point at the sprawling districts. "The heart of the Vhaltrar Empire. This is where all the normal beastmen and human residents live."
"It is so much bigger than Primgard," I noted, watching a steam powered carriage roll past us on four thick iron wheels, shooting puffs of white steam into the air. "And way more advanced."
"Advanced, yes," Tibbar said, his voice losing its playful tone for a second. "But do not let the shiny brass machines fool you, little master. Look beneath the grand metal towers."
I followed his gaze. Right under the shadow of the giant iron factories were sprawling, cramped alleys filled with tiny, broken wooden huts.
Thousands of poor beastmen, ratfolk, dogfolk, and tired human laborers were huddled together in dirty muddy streets, wearing ragged clothes and cooking thin soup over small rusty oil drums.
The contrast was brutal. High glowing magic towers stood right next to dark, filthy slums.
"Why is everyone so poor if the city has so much technology?" I asked, looking at a small cat child sitting in the mud with empty eyes.
"Because of the Emperor’s law," Tibbar spat, shaking his head bitterly. "The government requires every single citizen in Phoya to pay a daily living tax. Ten copper coins per head, every single day, just for the right to stay inside the city walls."
"A daily tax?" Xavier frowned. "That is insane. Most kingdoms only tax citizens once a year during harvest."
"Not here," Tibbar sighed. "If a family misses their daily tax for three days in a row, the crocodile guards drag them out of their homes and throw them into the underground mana mines. That is why half the city lives in poverty. People work sixteen hours a day in the foundries, and almost all their wages go straight back to the tax collectors."
"Is that why you beg?" I asked, looking at the old rabbit man.
"Aye," Tibbar admitted quietly, rubbing his long gray ears. "I do not beg for bread or shelter. I have a small house near the market. I sit on that crate every morning just to gather enough copper coins to pay the daily tax for myself and my old neighbors who cannot work anymore."
I looked at the old rabbit man with a new sense of respect. He was greedy and sneaky, but he was using his tricks to keep his poor neighbors from being dragged into the mines.
We drove our wagon down the main industrial road for another twenty minutes until we reached a large four way junction near the central commercial district.
Xavier pulled the horses to a stop near a stone fountain that was spitting warm, sulfur smelling water into a iron basin. He turned his heavy body around, looking down at me with a soft, quiet expression.
"Well, Silvester," Xavier said, his deep gravelly voice sounding unusually gentle. "This is where our roads split."
I looked up at the scarred face of the exiled king. "You are leaving now?"
"Aye," Xavier nodded, patting the heavy wooden broadsword crates in the back of his wagon. "I have to take these weapons further inland to the trade territories to meet my buyers. A giant city like Phoya has too many military guards for a man with a price on his head."
He reached down, grabbing a heavy leather pouch from his belt and tossing it into my lap. It clinked with a heavy, satisfying metallic weight.
"What is this?" I asked.
"Your share of the journey," Xavier grinned, his long cheek scar wrinkling. "Fifty gold coins. You saved my wagon wheel in the forest, you talked us past the Novarian border guards, and you got us through the empire’s gate. You earned every single piece."
I looked at the heavy gold pouch, then looked back up at him with a small smile. "Thanks, old guy."
Xavier reached out his large, calloused hand, ruffing up my dark hair with a loud laugh. "Take care of yourself, kid. Do not let these greedy empire merchants chew you up. And if I ever manage to take back my throne in Novaria, I will make sure your locksmith guild gets the official royal contract for every vault in the kingdom."
"Hold you to that," I said, shaking his massive hand. "Stay safe, Xavier. Keep that scar covered."
"Always," Xavier nodded.
He slapped the leather reins, and the heavy horse wagon began to roll slowly down the crowded eastern road, disappearing into the thick grey smoke and bustling crowds of Phoya City.
I watched him leave until the wagon was completely gone from sight.
"Well now," Tibbar said, jumping down off the wagon frame and stretching his furry legs. "The big guy is gone. What about you, little master? What is a ten year old human locksmith planning to do in the middle of Phoya?"
I turned around, looking at the bustling market square filled with grand brick buildings, magic shops, and wealthy beastmen nobles wearing fine silk robes.
"I need to file official papers," I said, pulling out my dark spatial key from my inner pocket. "I am going to open a shop."
The Imperial Trade Administration building was a massive square block of dark black stone that looked more like an underground dungeon than a government office.
Thick copper steam pipes ran up and down the walls, hissing hot white vapor every few minutes and making the whole hallway smell like wet iron and burnt oil.
Hundreds of people were standing in messy rows inside the big waiting hall. There were tall wolfmen holding wooden scrolls, human traders fanning themselves in the humid heat, and small ratfolk merchants clutching greasy pouches of coins.
"This place is louder than the central market," I said, covering my left ear as a steam pipe nearby let out a sharp, ear-piercing pop.
"That is because everybody wants to sell things in Phoya," Tibbar said, pushing his way through the crowd without asking for permission. "If you do not have an official imperial merchant badge, the crocodile guards will seize all your goods and lock you in a damp cell."
He grabbed my coat sleeve and dragged me straight toward the front desk, bypassing a line of at least thirty angry traders.
Standing behind a high wooden counter was a huge boar beastman clerk.
He wore a grey uniform that was way too tight for his broad shoulders, and his flat snout twitched with annoyance as he stamped endless stacks of brown paper.