The residential district opened past the last warehouse row. Cook smoke hung between the buildings, thick enough to taste. Three and four stories rose on either side, the spacing tighter than the original design had intended.
More people, less thought given to where to put them.
The streets were dirty but functional. Commerce operated at a small scale. A woman sold bread from a board laid across two barrels. Beorn stepped around a stalled hand-cart while its owner argued with a buyer over secondhand tools.
Children slipped through side passages with ease, their paths precise and unhesitating. Laundry hung between upper windows in lines across the narrow gaps.
The people registered Beorn in the same way. A brief look, a quick judgment, then dismissal. A man carrying Badlands travel marks and an unfamiliar companion.
Not relevant.
No one moved out of his way. No one changed course.
Ahead, a woman leaned from a third-floor window and called down to her neighbor. She spoke about weather moving in from the eastern section, wondering whether the old break would bring rain. She mentioned the Scar as part of the pattern.
She never looked at it while speaking. Neither did the neighbor answering below.
Beorn caught the exchange, dropped his eyes to the dirty ground, and kept walking.
The slums ran along the south side, buried in shadow for most of the day. The buildings had originally been storage structures. That still showed in the high ceilings and open interiors.
They had been turned into housing without ever being rebuilt for it.
The first problem was density. More people packed into each building and stretch of ground than in the residential district, despite having less space.
The smell changed immediately. Too many people in too little space. Cooking was done on open braziers outside because indoor fires carried too much risk.
A child stood in a doorway and watched him pass. The expression was cautious.
Learned early.
Strangers here were not worth the risk.
Two men sat against a doorframe nearby, speaking in low voices as Beorn walked past. They never stopped talking. In the upper districts, that kind of conversation would have died the moment someone unfamiliar appeared.
Here, it continued.
Aestrith said nothing.
This was the city's lowest functional layer. Below it there was only the Badlands. People arrived here after failing elsewhere. They were still alive, but they had nowhere else to go.
So they stayed.
The district absorbed them and did nothing more. Pressure had been building here for a long time. No authority had touched this section in years.
Beorn walked through it.
The high quarter occupied Ashmark's center, raised slightly on a built-up foundation. The elevation formed a clear boundary.
Everything was old but maintained. Painted surfaces. Ironwork that still functioned properly.
The street beneath his boots smoothed out.
Sentries stood at major doorways. Their equipment matched. Better quality than the garrison's, and consistently maintained. The air carried linseed oil and freshly worked metal.
Someone had tended the fittings recently.
A man stood on the steps of the largest house. He tracked them as they entered the quarter, his gaze staying on them until they drew level. It slowed when it reached Beorn's face.
Then the man looked away and returned to what he had been doing.
"Salt merchant?" Beorn asked.
Aestrith glanced toward the house. "How did you know that?"
"In a city with constrained food supply, the leverage point is essential goods. Salt is one of them." He looked toward the guards at the entrance. "The building with the strongest private security usually controls that flow."
She gave no answer. He took that as confirmation.
The garrison quarter occupied the northwest section of the city, pressed against the wall. The space had been built for a full military presence.
What remained inside it was far smaller.
The barracks still stood intact. Between the main structure and the wall, grass had pushed through what had once been packed earth. It smelled of cut grass and dried mud, like ground worked hard and then abandoned.
Maintenance had lapsed badly.
The gate stood open. The guard at the post leaned against it with the posture of a man long unused to interruption.
He straightened a little as Beorn approached, then relaxed again.
Three soldiers occupied the training ground. One sat eating from a cloth bundle. He looked up briefly before returning to his food.
An equipment rack beside the barracks door held crossbows with functional mechanisms, though the wooden stocks had not been oiled in months. Spears leaned beside them. Two shafts had warped from exposure.
The open yard smelled of rust and old leather.
"Excuse me," Beorn said. "When was the last time there was a commander here?"
The guard studied him more carefully, suspicion entering his expression. Then he reassessed.
"Before my posting."
"How long have you been posted here?"
The man paused to think. "Four years."
Beorn nodded once. "Thank you."
He stepped back and turned toward the administrative seat.
The administrative seat stood at the highest point within the walls. A citadel built to project authority. It still managed that, partially, though neglect showed through in places.
The stonework remained sound. Rust stained the hinge pins of the main gate.
Inside the courtyard, just visible above the wall, a small garden had been planted. Neat. Carefully trimmed.
The smell carried over the stone. Cut herbs and something green against the dry afternoon air. It was the only visible sign of active upkeep on that side of the building.
They stopped before the gate. No guard waited there.
Aestrith looked at it, then at him. "Are you planning to stand here much longer?"
"Almost done."
"You've been at this for half an hour."
"I enjoy my daily walks."
She gave no response.
Beorn studied the crack above the gate lintel. It ran diagonally from the upper right corner. Old damage. No recent spread.
Then the garden again beyond the wall.
Recently tended.
Then the rusted hinges.
"My answer is yes," Aestrith said.
Beorn looked at her.
"The hire," she clarified, meeting his gaze. "Yes."
He considered that for a moment, then turned back to the gate one last time.
Then he reached forward and pushed it open.
The hinges gave a low grinding cry as the gate swung wide. Beorn stepped inside.
Aestrith followed behind him.