Jara!
Jewel of Syracia! Port of the Bay of Khemal! Capital of the Empire!
See the grand palace of the Emperor! (From the outside, beyond the perimeter wall, trespassers will be beheaded)
Touch the relics of Tsaya! (Gloves will be provided, one touch per person per relic, thieves will be beheaded)
Behold the ...
Lekar flattened himself hastily against a wall as a pushcart rumbled past downslope. The bustle and shouting of the dockyards lay heavy on the air along with the stench of fish and the other varied and interesting smells harbours tend to collect.
Listen to the damn criers you'd think the whole city was made of whitestone and gold, he groused to himself. Hah, I say. Hah!
With no further danger of being crushed, at least for the moment, the wiry little man pushed back out into the street and merged with the foot traffic, heading uphill. Who'd build a city of whitestone anyway? Cost a fortune just to keep scrubbing it clean. Such deep thoughts continued to occupy his mind as he fought his way across the lane to a seedy-looking tavern on the far side.
The interior was disappointingly well-lit and clean. Well, a tavern is a tavern. They have food, they have ale. Same the Empire over. Quite comfortably he settled into a stool along the bar. "Ale here! And the biggest portion you've got of whatever's hot ... or at least still warm."
The comely barmaid earned an appreciative once-over from Lekar as she brought his tankard, smiling as servers do. "Clothes of the countryside. Your first time in the Jewel of Syracia, meneer*?"
He snickered into his ale. "Don't give me that 'Jewel of Syracia' hogwash, girl, the place is a dump."
This drew a startled and indignant gasp from a bit further down the bar. Lekar's eyes idled over to look for whomever it was that gave such a reaction, and settled on an elderly-looking man nursing a goblet of Samhradhian wine. His eyes were met with a challenging stare, and the wiry little man got a sinking feeling that he was in for a lecture.
Indeed, the old geezer was getting up now, stalking closer. This is going to be fun ... "A dump? A dump, young man?! Do you have any idea of the history within these walls?" Lekar opened to his mouth to reply, but the elderly man kept right on talking; a fortunate thing, as he hadn't thought of a suitable response.
"This city was the first founded after the great Uniter Jara, may he have a long a prosperous life, finally secured these lands for us, and our children, and our children's children!" His voice rang with patriotic fervor. Lekar was more interested in the platter of cold pork ribs that had been set before him. "Why, my own father marched with his armies as a standard-bearer! Came within a mile of the emperor once, too! Ah, and this city ...
"This land was where the Uniter stood against the last of the filth that wanted to claim Syracia's land as their own! With the Tsayans gone, they were all that stood between us and unity. The Emperor's man camped right here, on this very ground, dug in behind wooden walls and last-minute fortifications. His generals all said the men shouldn't be put to the work after marching for days, but it turned out they needed them! The foe swarmed out before dawn, throwing themselves at the barricades!
"Ah, but the Emperor was a canny sort. His Sparakae were in hiding, and the barbarians were trapped now between them and the walls ...
"When the slaughter was over, the Emperor declared he would march no more. He planted his sword in the bloody ground and said that here, here, would be his palace. Here would be his capital! Here would be the center of his nation, and so it was! So it is! And so shall it ever be!
"So before you slandering this city, young pup, just you remember this is the closest you're going to get to holy ground without picking up some hokey religion ..."
The old man trailed off. His audience had disappeared, along with the platter of food and tankard of ale.
And his wine.
The elderly gent was just getting a good rage worked up when the innkeep thumped the bartop with the flat of his hand. "Payment's due, meneer.* One goblet of wine, and your friend's ale and ribs."
"He is not my friend-"
The proprietor growled. "He said you're payin', so you're payin'.Twenty dacha** for the lot."
Sighing, the old man reached for his coinpurse. It wasn't too terribly hefty a price ...
His coinpurse was gone too.
Lekar, a good half-mile away, belly full and coinpurse newly filled, didn't hear the shout of impotent rage coming from the seedy-looking inn; and if he did, he wouldn't have cared.
Maybe this isn't such a bad place after all.
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*Meneer: Analogous to "Sir", a respectful form of address. Also Menaar; "Ma'am."
**Dacha: A common unit of currency.
However, I always write as scholars from Southport who live among the Southrens and therefore naturally sympathize with them. Can't say I believe they'd think otherwise anyway 
