Finding an inn turned out to be more complicated than Simon had imagined. The first three they walked into, simply asking directions from passersby who seemed patient enough, turned out to already be full — rooms booked, beds taken, an innkeeper who shook his head with an almost amused expression at their naivety in showing up without a reservation.
The first inn, a two-story building with a sign depicting a galloping horse, turned them away with a curt wave of the hand before they could even finish forming the question — "Full for three days, come back next week" — spoken with the mechanical speed of someone who repeats it to every single customer crossing the threshold. The second, more modest, actually had a room free, but the price asked made even Corin's eyes widen, and she hurried to thank the innkeeper and leave before Simon could even open his mouth to comment. The third was simply closed, a handwritten sign hung on the door announcing renovation work, complete with apologies for the inconvenience addressed to whoever had the misfortune of reading it during this particular time of year.
"Off to a great start," Simon muttered, following Corin down yet another crowded street, the sun now low on the horizon, a reminder that soon they'd have to settle for whatever they could find, regardless of price.
"Still better than sleeping in the street," Corin said, in a tone that tried to stay optimistic despite everything. "And technically, you've already got a guild to lean on, now. Things could improve faster than you think."
"I hope so," Simon said, looking around as they walked, his eyes continuing to jump from one detail to another of this city he still hadn't fully managed to get a handle on — vendors packing up their stalls for the night, children playing tag between adults' legs, a group of Dwarves hauling heavy crates toward a warehouse with rhythmic chants marking the shared effort.
The fourth, a low building wedged between two shops closed for the night, finally seemed to have room. The innkeeper — a woman with brusque manners and calloused hands, busy scrubbing an already-gleaming counter — barely looked up when they walked in.
"A room," Corin said. "With two beds, if possible."
"Two Shields a night," the woman said, not pausing in her scrubbing.
Simon stood frozen for an instant, then turned to Corin with an incredulous expression. "Two Shields? Has everyone lost their minds? In Tidecrest Haven we paid half a Shield, five Pennies, and the room was even bigger than whatever you're probably offering us."
The innkeeper finally looked up, with the patient air of someone who's already heard that same complaint dozens of times in the same week. "High season," she said, as if those two words explained everything there was to explain. "You want the room or not? I've got five other groups waiting outside ready to pay without any fuss."
Simon opened his mouth to protest further — evidently ready to attempt a negotiation that would in all likelihood go nowhere — but instead turned to Corin, lowering his voice.
"Is this like some kind of summer holiday period here? Or a long weekend, something like that?" he asked. "Because if every city doubles its prices every time a holiday comes around, we should start planning our travels more carefully, or we'll end up sleeping in the street a lot more often than I'd like."
Corin looked at him, visibly confused by the terms he'd used. "Holiday? Long weekend? I have no idea what you're talking about, again," she said, shaking her head. She turned instead to the innkeeper. "What day is it, exactly?"
"Sixth of Caravans," the woman said, returning to her counter with the air of someone who considers the question slightly stupid for anyone living on this continent.
Corin nodded, as if that single piece of information had already answered all her questions, and pulled out the coin pouch without further discussion. "Fine," she said, counting out the requested Shields on the counter. "Two Shields a night. How many nights do you think we'll need, at least to start?"
"Three," the innkeeper said, sliding a heavy iron key toward them. "First room at the top of the stairs."
The room was small but clean, two separate beds divided by a small table holding a water pitcher and a dented copper basin, the walls bare except for a small window overlooking a side alley, through which the indistinct voices of the street below still filtered. Simon dropped his bag at the foot of the bed nearest the window, rubbing his neck, stiff from the journey, while Corin sat on the other bed to take off her boots with a sigh of relief that betrayed the exhaustion built up over the entire day's walk.
"Two beds, no rug this time," Simon said, letting himself fall onto his own mattress with a satisfied bounce. "Progress."
"Don't get too used to it," Corin said, with a half smile. "At these prices, we could be back on the rug as soon as next week, if we don't find a way to make those guild documents pay off."
They didn't linger long — hunger, and Simon's curiosity about this enormous city he still hadn't really had a chance to explore, pushed them back out onto the street within a few minutes, leaving their bags behind and taking with them only the bare essentials.
"So," Simon said, as soon as they were back on the street, headed no one quite knew where yet, "you want to explain why we're in 'high season'? What calendar do you people use, exactly? Because every now and then I realize I've never really understood how time works here."
Corin sighed, the kind of sigh of someone bracing for a longer explanation than she'd like to give right now, her stomach visibly growling from accumulated hunger. "Every race has its own calendar," she said. "Dwarves count in forge-cycles, Elves in seasons of light, Fish-Men in tides. Even the Desert Hermits watch the stars instead of the sun. It's a complicated system, and honestly I don't fully know it all myself either — I've never had reason to study it in depth, and I don't intend to improvise a full lesson right now, on an empty stomach with my feet still hurting."
"Okay, but then how do you agree on something like a date for a contract, or a meeting between different races?" Simon asked, genuinely curious, blithely ignoring her hint at wanting to close the subject.
"The Cajin Calendar," Corin said, with a resigned shrug, evidently realizing she wouldn't get rid of his curiosity that easily. "It's the standard everyone uses for trade and diplomacy, precisely because it's neutral — born here, out of practical necessity, not tied to any particular race's religious or magical tradition. Twelve months, six days a week. Today is the sixth day of Caravans, like the innkeeper said — the month when caravan traffic along the overland routes is at its peak for the year. That's why everything costs double right now: the city fills up with merchants, travelers, people looking for deals before the season winds back down toward winter."
Simon nodded, absorbing the information with the attention of someone trying to build, piece by piece, a mental map of a world that still eluded him from too many different angles. "So how long until this high season ends?"
"Not too soon," Corin said, a half smile lighting up on her face, her tone suddenly livelier. "But there's one thing you should know, since we're right up against it. In four days is the Festival of the Guilds."
"And what exactly are we celebrating?"
"During the Siege of Cajin, a century ago," Corin said, her tone turning slightly more serious, as always happens when telling something tied to the real history of one's world rather than simple street gossip, "the city wasn't ready for war. It was built on commerce, not defense, and when demonic forces arrived to threaten it, the regular army wasn't enough to plug every breach in the walls. That's when the first organized adventurer guilds were born — mercenaries, explorers, improvised fighters, gathered under hastily made banners to defend what was left of the city. Those guilds, once the war ended, never disbanded. They're the same ones that still exist today, and every year, around this time, Cajin holds a public tournament between the four of them to commemorate that defense — Ironblade, Explorers, Arcanists, Bounty Hunters. Shows, challenges, people betting more coin than they should in a single day."
Simon thought for a moment, a small smile lighting up on his face. "And I just signed up for one of these guilds," he said. "What a lucky coincidence."
"Not exactly a coincidence," Corin said, with a shrug. "It's partly why I thought of that solution. You needed a provisional document anyway, but arriving in Cajin right now, with the Festival coming up, also means seeing the city at its liveliest. It's not the cheapest time to visit, that's true, but it's probably the most interesting."
They found a small street food stall along the road — a stocky man selling spiced meat skewers on a small improvised grill, the smoke rising thick and fragrant into the evening air. They bought two skewers each, paying with the last loose coins Simon still had on him, and ate them while walking, the spicy flavor burning his tongue slightly in a way he'd almost learned to enjoy rather than fear by now.
They walked on for a while, the street traffic growing thicker as they moved deeper toward the heart of the city, stalls starting to be set up along the sidewalks in anticipation of the upcoming festival, decorations still rolled up waiting to be hung, workers hoisting wooden scaffolding in what looked like a square designed specifically to hold the tournament crowds. Simon noticed folded banners in the colors of the four guilds — a bright red, a deep green, a dark purple, a dusty blue — stacked near a cart waiting to be hoisted onto the facades of the main buildings around the square.
"Are those the guild colors?" he asked, pointing at the banners with a nod.
"Red for the Ironblades," Corin said, following his gaze. "Pure combat, military discipline. Purple for the Arcanists — magic, research, a pinch of not-too-scrupulous ambition if you listen to the rumor mill. Blue for the Bounty Hunters, pragmatic to the bone. And green for the Explorers, your guild — the one with the best reputation, if I may offer a biased opinion, though I'm probably biased precisely because it's the one I got you signed up for."
"Excellent personal marketing choice," Simon said, with a smile.
They passed a square where some workers were already assembling rough wooden bleachers, hammering nails at a steady rhythm that blended into the rest of the city noise, and Simon paused for a moment to watch, trying to imagine that same space filled with a shouting crowd in four days.
"Who usually wins?" he asked, resuming his walk, curiosity now nagging at him more than hunger itself.
"Depends on the year, depends on the discipline," Corin said. "The Ironblades almost always dominate direct combat — it's their specialty, and Bram Ironcastle accepts nothing less from his members. But the Explorers often win the more creative skill trials, the ones that require wit more than brute force. I've never seen one guild score a clean, definitive victory over all the others, in all the years I've followed the Festival. It keeps everyone on edge, I think that's the whole point — if one guild always dominated, no one would bet on anything anymore, and the festival would lose half its charm."
It was after about twenty minutes of walking, passing through one district after another, each slightly different from the last in architecture and in the kind of merchandise displayed in the still-open shop windows, that they finally found themselves in front of a building more imposing than Simon had expected — gray stone, a large compass carved above the main entrance, much more like a real headquarters than the small recruiting office they'd seen in Tidecrest Haven.
"Here we are," Corin said, stopping in front of the door with an expression that mixed anticipation and a hint of anticipated amusement. "The Explorers' Guild headquarters. This is where we'll really find out what your provisional document is worth."
Simon looked at the building, then looked at her, feeling something like a small jolt of adrenaline run through his stomach — not fear, this time, but the genuine curiosity of someone about to discover something important about himself. He thought, for a fleeting instant, how strange it was to have come this far — from a hospital door on an ordinary evening of his old life, to this carved stone door in a world that, at times, he still struggled to believe was real.
"Ready?" Corin asked, her hand already resting on the handle.
"Never been more ready," Simon said, even though he wasn't entirely sure it was true.
"Let's go," he said, pushing the door open before she could add anything else.