The Man at the North Gate

He had been walking since before dawn, and the walls of Tollman were exactly as unimpressive as he remembered. Grey stone, patched in places with newer grey stone, the harbour cranes rising behind them like the bones of something half-built. The northern gate stood open. That was good. Open gates meant trade was flowing, which meant people were moving, which meant four guards standing at attention instead of twelve.

Four sorcerers. He could see them from a distance — two flanking the archway, one leaning against the wall with his replica at his hip, and a younger one standing slightly behind the others as if he hadn’t quite decided where he belonged. They watched him approach. He let them.

The staff in his hand caught the late afternoon light. The root’s glow was faint but steady, the kind of thing you could mistake for a trick of the sun if you weren’t paying attention. The guards were paying attention. He’d considered dimming it before reaching the gate, but that would have meant altering something he’d spent three days coaxing into balance, and the swamp-rot in his left knee wasn’t getting any better without it.

So he walked, and the light walked with him, and the four young sorcerers had time to notice that the light didn’t come from anything they’d been trained on.

The one who carried himself as the senior of the group — though that wasn’t saying much — raised a hand as the man reached speaking distance. Cautious, not aggressive.

“That’s far enough.”

His eyes went to the staff. Then back up.

“State your business in Tollman.”

The youngest guard had shifted his weight back half a step without seeming to notice he’d done it.

“I’m looking for a book,” the man said. His voice was unhurried, the vowels shaped by somewhere east of here. “Information. Something old, about the location the eastern blue wizard tower is built on top of.”

The word wizard landed heavier than the rest of the sentence. The senior guard’s expression didn’t change much, but there was a flicker — not recognition, more like a small adjustment behind the eyes. He glanced sideways at the guard to his left. A small look. You hearing this?

The one on the left spoke up, tone neutral but probing. “A book. So you’re headed to the archives, or the library quarter?” Trying to make it mundane. Trying to find a category that fit.

The senior cut back in. “What’s your trade, friend? Where are you coming from?”

He hadn’t asked the man to put the staff down. He’d noticed it the whole time, clearly, but he wasn’t going to be the one to bring it up directly — not yet. None of them were senior enough to know what the protocol was for something like this, so they were defaulting to what they knew: ask questions, slow things down, don’t start anything.

“I tend to the swamps out in the east,” the man said. Then, because there was no point in waiting for them to ask: “I do not have what you call the coin, however.”

The “tend to the swamps” landed exactly where you’d expect. The senior’s jaw tightened — not anger, more the discomfort of having his worst guess confirmed. The one on the left exhaled quietly through his nose.

“The swamps,” the senior repeated. Not a question. Just letting it sit.

A beat of silence. The four of them doing that thing people do when nobody wants to be the first to make a decision.

Then the senior crossed his arms. “Tollman’s got a toll. You know that, coming to a harbour city. No coin, no entry. That’s not us being difficult, that’s just the gate.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie. There was a toll. But the way he said it — a little too quickly, a little too ready — suggested the toll was doing double work. It was a reason that didn’t require them to say we don’t want someone like you inside the walls. Cleaner. Less confrontational.

The man with the root staff didn’t argue. He didn’t push back on the toll or make a point of how little it actually cost. He just asked a question.

“I’m looking for a book. Scrolls, perhaps. Who may I talk to?”

The senior guard shifted his weight. A man who didn’t argue about the toll was harder to deal with in some ways.

“There’s a library quarter,” he said, slower now. “Archivists. If old records exist in this city, that’s where they’d be.”

The one on the left added, a little grudgingly, “The temple keeps records too. Older ones sometimes.”

Then the senior remembered himself. “But that’s inside the city.” He let that hang. The toll problem hadn’t gone away. They’d just accidentally been helpful to someone they were trying to turn away, and now the conversation had moved in a direction they hadn’t intended.

The youngest guard spoke for the first time. His voice came out slightly higher than he’d have liked. “Could — someone could send a message in. On your behalf.”

He glanced at the senior immediately after, not sure if he’d overstepped.

The senior looked at him for a moment. Then back at the man. The offer was not a bad one — it kept the stranger outside, gave him a path, and got them out of the awkward position of simply refusing a man who hadn’t done anything threatening.

“That’s possible,” the senior said, taking ownership of the idea. “You tell us what you need. We send word in. Someone comes out to speak with you, or they don’t.”

He said the last part deliberately. Managing expectations.

“I do not know what you have,” the man said, “so I cannot be specific. I’d like to talk to someone who does know, if that can be arranged.”

The senior looked at him. Annoyingly reasonable.

“Alright.”

He turned to the youngest. The decision made itself — nobody wanted to send one of the more experienced guards away from the gate right now.

“Pell. Library quarter. Ask for one of the senior archivists. Tell them there’s a traveller at the north gate. Looking for old records. Historical. Location information.” He glanced at the man briefly. “Eastern territories.”

Pell nodded, visibly relieved to have something to do that involved walking away from the gate. He disappeared under the archway at a pace just short of hurrying.

The senior turned back. The remaining three guards and the man with the root staff settled into the particular awkward stillness of people who had nothing to do but wait and didn’t especially want to make conversation.

After a moment, the one who’d been leaning on the wall gestured vaguely to the side of the gate. There was a low stone barrier there, more of a boundary marker than anything else.

“You can wait there if you like.”