The ship's horn blares twice, signaling our arrival. I'm out of my bunk before I'm fully awake, my feet hitting the cold wooden floor as my brain catches up. We've arrived.
I scramble up the ladder to the deck and freeze.
Dalton is massive. Not just big. Massive. The kind of massive that makes you feel like an ant staring at a mountain. The city stretches along the coastline like a sprawled-out giant, a chaotic jumble of architecture that shouldn't work together but somehow does. Human spires of white stone. Elven arches so graceful they look like they're defying gravity. Dwarven smokestacks contrasting their grace. And threading through it all, canals — actual canals — glinting like silver ribbons under the early sun.
The harbor alone is a spectacle. Ships from a dozen nations bob at anchor, their flags snapping in the sea breeze. Fat merchant galleons, sleek elven schooners with sails like butterfly wings, sturdy dwarven ironclads that look more like fortresses than ships. I count at least three different types of warships before I give up and just let my eyes wander.
The air smells of salt, fish, spices, wood smoke, and something else I can't identify. Freedom, maybe. Or just really good street food. Hard to tell.
Al appears beside me, equally awestruck. His disguise — the plain-faced servant look — fits him well, but right now his jaw is hanging open like a teenager seeing the ocean for the first time.
"Sir," he says slowly, "I've seen a fair bit in service to the family, but I've never... this is..."
"Yeah."
We stand there like idiots, drinking it in, until a crewman yells at us to clear the gangplank. Right. Moving. Time to be functional adults.
Disembarkation takes forever. The port authority is efficient but thorough — they check our papers three times, ask a dozen questions about our business in Dalton, and study our faces long enough to memorize features that aren't real. I stick to the cover story: minor merchants looking to establish trade routes. It's vague enough to be plausible and boring enough to discourage follow-up questions.
We're through without incident. The face-changing masks are worth every copper I paid for them. I look like a nondescript human merchant in his thirties with a receding hairline, forgettable features, and the kind of face you'd struggle to describe five minutes after looking away. Al's disguise makes him look like a plain-faced servant — forgettable, deferential, the kind of man who could stand in a corner for hours without anyone noticing. He'd fit right in at any merchant's household in the world.
The moment my boots hit the cobblestone of Dalton's wharf, a wave of sound hits me. Merchants haggling in at least four different languages. Children running between carts, laughing. A dwarf cursing at a cart that's lost a wheel, his vocabulary creative enough to make a sailor blush. And the people...
I see a five feet bullman carrying crates on his shoulders like they're nothing. A gnome arguing with a human over fish prices, both of them gesturing wildly. A half-orc sweeping the street with methodical precision. Nobody bats an eye at any of it. This is just... normal here.
"Al," I say slowly, watching a lizardfolk merchant haggle with a human baker, "I think we're gonna like it here."
We find an inn near the Artisan's Quarter called The Copper Kettle. Clean, reasonable rates — three silver a night for a room with a bed that doesn't sag in the middle. The innkeeper is a stout woman with one eye and a no-nonsense attitude named Marta. She takes our coin, hands us keys, and tells us breakfast is served at dawn and anyone who's late goes hungry. No questions about where we're from or why we're here. Perfect.
I collapse onto the bed and stare at the ceiling. The plaster is cracked. There's a water stain in the corner that looks vaguely like a map of a continent I don't recognize. The pillow smells faintly of lavender.
We made it. Actually made it. No assassins, no Edwin, no Timothy, no poisoned food. Just a room, a city, and a future stretching out in front of me like an unwritten recipe.
Now I just need to figure out how to cook it.
My stomach growls, loud enough to echo off the walls. Right. First priority: find dinner. I've been on ships for weeks and I never want to see hardtack again. The ship's cook was a well-meaning man who could do exactly three things — boil, salt, and burn — and he did all three with equal enthusiasm. If Dalton is as cosmopolitan as it looks, there has to be SOMETHING edible out there. If not... well, that's why I'm here, isn't it?
I drag Al out of his room before he can unpack. "Come on. Reconnaissance mission."
"What are we reconnoitering, sir?"
"Food. And real estate. But mostly food."
He sighs the sigh of a man who knows his master is about to drag him into something ridiculous. I'm getting used to that sigh. I think I've heard it at least fifty times since I woke up in this body.
We step out into the evening air. The city is transitioning from day to night — merchants closing their stalls, lantern-lighters making their rounds, the smell of cooking fires filling the streets. Somewhere a tavern is playing music that sounds suspiciously like a sea shanty being mangled by a drunk dwarf. It's off-key, enthusiastic, and somehow perfect.
I smile. This might actually work.