The city of Yarzat lived up to every expectation Vilon had carried of it. That, and considerably beyond it besides.
Only in battle had Vilon ever felt so thoroughly squashed, hemmed, and pressed by other bodies pressing back against his own. He had meant, at first, to ride in on horseback, proud as any knight ought to feel entering a capital city. But before he'd gotten more than a few strides past the gate, a guard had pulled him aside and advised, not unkindly, that the city had grown so thick with folk that unless he had someone he trusted to mind the horse, he was better off going by foot.
Vilon had thanked the man and dismounted then and there, leading Chestnut back toward a paddock the guard pointed him to, feeling faintly foolish the whole while, as though he'd shown up to a feast already done with his supper.
