The fat-bellied skyships swayed at their moorings, casting shadows over the city. Combined with the smoke from the massive ironworks and refineries, Grafton gave the impression of an eternal, depressing dusk. The industrial quarters of Verilia were larger, of course, but the sea breeze and the elevation meant the smoke only infected the worst of the slums. And that was before Laurel had anchored an air-aspected natural treasure to (mostly) negate the effect. Adam regaled the others with these comparisons and a hundred other gripes as they made their way through the city. It kept his mind off of the disturbing similarities.

  There were richer areas and slums, signs of industry and new technology like the skyships or a printing press, nestled between traditional artisans or old worn houses. Lively markets were interspersed with local government buildings or a trade depot. Most disturbing, however, were the people. They were just so irritatingly normal. Their clothes were unusual, with loose, unfitted garments in every color imaginable, the language complex, and they touched each other far too much, but take all that away, and he wouldn’t be able to distinguish between these people and a random Meristan walking by him on the street. They laughed and cried and went about their days the same as anyone else. Except they would hate Adam and his friends on principle if they knew who they were.

  Adam’s internal monologue was broken when they reached the city center only to find a massive crowd standing around and watching some sort of show on a crude stage in front of the mayor’s mansion. It was a recent construction, if the unstained raw lumber was anything to go by. A collared man was kneeling in some symbolic ritual, with another character standing above and performing an impassioned soliloquy.

  “Motherfuckers” Devon hissed.

  Martin grunted in agreement. Adam turned to look and almost took a step back at the naked rage on Martin’s face.

  “What? What are they saying?” He’d gotten better at whispering Alraisan as they made it farther into the imperial heartlands. The ancient tongue was close enough to modern Laskarian that no one noticed unless they were paying attention.

  By unspoken agreement they eased a bit further back from the crowd before offering any explanations.

  “The one kneeling is a cultivator. Maybe adept level, I’m not sure, it’s hard to tell with only passive senses,” Martin said. “And this travesty of a production is a collaring ceremony.”

  “Right. I know Laskarians are open but shouldn’t that kind of thing be kept in private?”

  “What? It’s a slave binding ceremony. Once, a long, long time ago it was common to take enemy cultivators as slaves. Obviously you can’t just keep someone like that in chains and expect nothing to happen, so some enterprising asshole developed collars that keep cultivation tied to obedience. It doesn’t work on anyone above an expert, the internal cultivation is just too complex to do anything meaningful to, but for anyone else, well…” Martin trailed off and gestured back towards the stage.

  Adam watched as what he had mistaken for a cheap theatrical played out in front of him. True to Martin’s explanation, the man standing produced an elaborate gold collar, and quickly clipped it into place around the kneeler’s neck.

  “That answers your question then,” Adam murmured. “How they’re keeping the cultivators in line while pushing all the anti-magic rhetoric, I mean.”

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Maybe,” Martin answered. “But the Core for the city is being worked on and no one’s doing that with a collar on.”

  “More importantly,” Devon interjected, “where are they getting the collars? Those aren’t easy to make, and the method is ancient. Stars above, it was considered a barbaric relic back when we learned about them as kids, and that one is brand new.”

  The trio watched the rest of the ceremony, any further conversation drowned out by cheering from the locals. His early observations combined with the spectacle to form a queasy not in Adam’s stomach. How many Meristans would cheer if they did the same thing to him.

  The crowd dispersed and they went along with it, making their way to the far side of the city where a transportation depot was set up. Adam had been excited to see the wonder of modern engineering when they first heard of it, but now he just wanted to get away.

  The building was as uninspired as the rest of the local architecture, but the scale was imposing enough on its own. Dozens of well-dressed locals were queueing at the far door, while a more varied group went in and out of the main entrance, the doors of which were propped open, in the doomed hope of a breeze. They went inside and stood in line for the less exclusive options. Adam stared longingly at the much shorter line on the opposite side of the building. The inside was sweltering, and when they eventually reached the front of the line, the woman behind the ticket desk had sweat beading across her brow and staining the cloth under her arms.

  “North or West?” she asked in a tired voice.

  “West. Three tickets if you would.” Devon took the lead, giving Adam more time to gawk. He watched one woman enter the boarding area with an entire retinue, including an actual, real-life fan attendant.

  “How far?”

  “Namrock.”

  “Fine, that’s one hundred and fifty silver, half due to the conductor when you board, and the rest when you disembark.” The woman brought out three pieces of thick, but low-quality cardstock and rapidly stamped them with plain black ink and handed them over. No artistry at all.

  “Departure in two days at noon, if you miss it and come back there’s an extra fee.”

  “I still say we should have kept the horses,” Martin said when they were outside again.

  “And take an extra month to get there and back? No this makes more sense, especially with that collaring. I want out of this country as soon as we can manage it.”

  They were back again, two days later, but this time they waited on the boarding platform. Along with hundreds of others. It was crowded, noisy, and the smell of stale sweat made Adam gag when they stepped out. The platform was behind the main building, and they looked east, down the ramrod-straight tracks in anticipation, or faint disgust on Martin’s part. Black smoke trailing into the air was the first sign. Soon after, the locomotive came into view. It was an ugly steel contraption. Like a snarling animal barreling through the countryside, smoking and whistling as it bore down on them. They watched as it ate up the distance in minutes, only slowing as it neared the city.

  Their tickets only purchased them seats in the last few cars, packed in with the masses. The expense of the one luxury car at the front, or even the slightly roomier middle of the train was deemed too attention grabbing by the master cultivators. Instead they were packed in, with just enough room to sit, shoved against each other, their packs on a shelf above their seats. A narrow aisle ran down the center of the car, kept clear of feet and belongings by the glares of those sitting opposite, and the employees running up and down without a care to who was stepped on. Only a line of vents near the ceiling provided any relief from the stifling air.

  When there was no more room to shove even a child, a new series of shouts started coming out from the runners. Another ten minutes after that, the whole contraption lurched and began to trundle west. In the first moments they were barely moving at all, but the train quickly picked up speed until they were moving faster than their horses would have been able to maintain.

  Hours passed as Adam realized a new horror of mass transit. His Laskarian was still not deemed by his companions to be safe for casual use. He was forced instead to sit in silence. The clanking of machinery, dozens of conversations, and unending thrum of the steam engine at the head of the train filled the gap. His bones rattled with the movement of the car, and the still too-hot air was combining with everything to give him a blistering headache. He looked to his left and saw Martin’s eyes in the half-closed state that meant he was eavesdropping, either magically or the normal way. On his right, Devon was reading a paper from Grafton, looking far too posh for the crowd they were in, and entirely unbothered. Adam found the most comfortable position and settled in to wait.

  So far adventuring was just a sequence of moving from place to place in the most uncomfortable ways they could find.