Chapter 110 - 110 Foreigner

110 Foreigner

For you are dust, and to dust you shall return—From the Bible, Genesis 3:

The imposing grayish-white city wall, rising to a height of three meters, loomed before Lumian, stretching as far as the eye could see.

A multitude of private carriages, four-seaters, open tops, tandems, and cargo carriers queued, awaiting entry through the city gate.

Blue-uniformed tax collectors and white-shirted, black-vested police officers inspected each carriage methodically. Occasionally, they would demand identification or order pedestrians to open their suitcases.

!!

Lumian, clutching his brown suitcase, scanned the scene, casting furtive glances as he sought a way to bypass the checkpoint.

Before long, a man who had observed his behavior approached.

“What’s the matter, friend? You look a bit uneasy.” The man was somewhat shorter than Lumian but twice as broad. His cheeks were plump, causing his blue eyes to appear minuscule.

As he neared, Lumian caught a whiff of sweat mingled with cheap cologne, prompting him to wrinkle his nose in distaste.

Lumian gestured toward the gates, puzzled, and inquired, “What’s all this for? Are they searching for criminals? Why screen those entering Trier and not the ones leaving?”

The disheveled, blond-haired man in a billowy blue shirt appraised Lumian.

“My friend, are you from some small city or village?”

Upon seeing Lumian nod, the man sighed and explained, “They’re collecting taxes! Tariffs!”

“Tariffs for entering Trier?” Lumian asked.

The man nodded.

“Exactly. This city wall encircles Trier. There are 54 gates, each manned by tax collectors and police. They also apprehend wanted criminals.”

“Are all goods taxed?” Lumian inquired, curiosity piqued.

The man touched his blue canvas shirt and replied, “Almost everything; only grains and flour are exempt.

“Once upon a time they were, but after the war a few years back, the price of bread in Trier skyrocketed, inciting riots and protests. Eventually, the government abolished tariffs on all food.

“Ah, if only drinkers were as bold! Liquor, wine, and champagne are taxed the most. Many people venture to the suburbs on weekends to drink tax-free alcohol at small taverns. They call it ‘town-hopping.’”

“Interesting…” Lumian nodded thoughtfully.

The man glanced around and lowered his voice.

“If you want to avoid the tariffs, I can help you into the city. All you have to do is pay me a small fee.”

“You mean bribe them?” Lumian gestured with his chin at the tax collector and police near the city gate.

The man snorted.

“Their greed is greater than an elephant’s appetite. I’ll show you a path into the city without checkpoints.”

“But isn’t Trier completely surrounded by walls?” Lumian didn’t conceal his bafflement.

The man grinned.

“You’ll see soon enough.” Then he teased, “Noble sir, do you require my assistance?”

Lumian considered for a moment before asking, “How much will it cost?”

“Three verl d’or,” the man replied with a congenial smile. “If you agree, we can depart immediately. You can pay once we’re inside the city.”

“Deal.” Lumian adjusted his dark wide-brimmed hat, picked up his brown suitcase, and followed the rotund man away from the city gate.

Fifteen minutes later, they arrived at a hill blanketed in vegetation and soil, with grayish-white stones peeking through.

Scaffolding, decaying pillowwood, and numerous pits were scattered about. It appeared to be an abandoned mine.

The rotund man guided Lumian through heaps of jumbled rocks to the entrance of a mine.

“Is this the shortcut?” Lumian asked cautiously.

The portly man in the blue shirt chuckled.

“You really don’t know much about Trier.

“Ever heard the saying that Underground Trier is even larger than the Trier above ground?!”

“No.” Lumian shook his head.

The man elucidated, “Trier used to be much smaller. It was surrounded by quarries that supplied stone for building the city. As the population swelled, the city had to expand outward, enveloping these quarries. As a result, the ground became riddled with holes and mine tunnels.

“Add to that the portion of Trier that sank underground in the Fourth Epoch, plus the sewers, subways, and gas pipes installed by the government—aren’t these more extensive than what’s on the surface?”

Lumian’s eyes widened in understanding.

“Are you taking me into the city through Underground Trier?”

“Yes.” The man turned, stooped, and entered the mine. He casually inquired, “What should I call you?”

“Ciel.” Lumian brushed back the golden hair at his temples. “And you?”

“Just call me Ramayes.” The burly man rummaged through a pile of stones in the mine’s corner and unearthed an iron-black lantern.

Clearly made of metal, the rusted lantern was cylindrical, with the upper section slightly narrower than the lower. A black rubber lining encircled its base.

At the junction of the narrow and wide cylinders, a polished trumpet-shaped metal piece was embedded, though a few rust spots remained.

Ramayes produced a matchbox, fiddled with it briefly, and an orange flame tinged with blue erupted from the metal trumpet, illuminating the mine’s depths.

“What’s this?” Lumian asked, puzzled.

Holding the iron-black lamp, Ramayes ventured underground, chattering.

“Carbide lamp.

“Invented by the Cave Association. Many miners use it. I don’t know why it glows, but I just need to put some rocks and water in, attach them top and bottom, and when needed, press here and ignite the mouth with flames.”

Carbide and water react to form acetylene, which burns and emits light? Lumian recalled the chemistry he’d studied a few months prior.

...

He remained silent for a time as he followed Ramayes underground along a disused mine tunnel. Then he inquired, “The Cave Association?”

“Trier Cave Association. Formed by a group of spelunking enthusiasts. Nowadays, they seem to be involved with the mines.” Ramayes turned to Lumian, walking beside him, and asked with a grin, “Why didn’t you just take the steam locomotive into Trier? The train station checkpoints aren’t that strict. They just do spot checks.”

Lumian reminisced and replied, “I wanted to experience the last vestiges of romance from the classical era.”

“A courier carriage?” Ramayes chortled. “That’s far pricier than a steam locomotive. Your accent gives you away as from the Reem or Riston region. The journey from the south to Trier runs about 120 verl d’or, doesn’t it? And it takes four and a half days! On a steam locomotive, you’d pay less than 50 verl d’or for a third-class seat and arrive in under 20 hours. So, the last bit of romance from the classical era, you say? Sounds more like a con job for folks like you. You must’ve shelled out a pretty penny, huh?”

Lumian responded candidly, “A fair amount. I’ve only got 267 verl d’or left.”

Ramayes glanced at him once more and averted his eyes.

What a waste…

Clutching the carbide lamp, he traversed an archway and veered into another passage bathed in the orange-yellow glow cast by the lamp’s flame.

Lumian glanced up and noticed rocks nestled in the darkness overhead, adorned with moss that wept droplets of water.

The path underfoot was pockmarked with holes, and stone pillars flanked both sides, supporting the cave’s ceiling.

Stones and various objects were heaped between the pillars, creating a “street” wide enough for six or seven people to walk abreast.

...

Under the carbide lamp’s illumination, a steel nameplate affixed to a stone pillar came into view. Inscribed on it in Intis: “Rue à Droite.”

“There’s a street name down here?” Lumian queried, puzzled.

Gripping the carbide lamp, Ramayes chuckled and replied, “Didn’t I tell you? This is Underground Trier.

“In fact, it was constructed decades ago during city renovations. The brass deemed the underground too chaotic, a veritable labyrinth. Rioters, murderers, smugglers, and cultists all found refuge here, and something had to be done. Additionally, numerous houses had crumbled and sunk due to the underground quarries. Reinforcement was necessary. So, City Hall spent nearly a decade repairing pillars, constructing foundations, and connecting the previously isolated quarries, subterranean ruins, catacombs, and sewers.

“To prevent workers from getting lost, the underground streets were named to correspond with those above during the renovations. Roads, squares, and alleys were recreated down here, and nameplates were hung, marking the streets. If future repairs were needed, the names could just be referenced.”

“In other words,” Lumian gestured overhead with his free hand. “The real Rue à Droite is just above us?”

“Yes.” Ramayes pressed on. “This is Underground Trier. There’s an anti-smuggling wall up ahead. Quarry police often patrol the area, but don’t fret. I’ll guide you through a small tunnel. Heh, the brass, with their phony collars and lies, believe they can manage Underground Trier like they do above ground, but they’re only aware of half the entrances and modified routes…”

As he spoke, he led Lumian to a dead end and located a narrow crevice to crawl through. Lumian trailed closely.

Two or three minutes later, they emerged from the small tunnel. Before them stood a “wall” composed of stone pillars and a “street” wedged between.

Just then, a burly figure appeared beside the stone pillar, holding a carbide lamp, and addressed Ramayes, “Is this our customer?”

Ramayes spun around and grinned at Lumian.

“Foreigner, I’ve changed my mind. The price is 265 verl d’or. Wasn’t I generous to leave you enough for bread and a hotel tonight?”

“What if I refuse?” Lumian’s face displayed a mix of fear and defiance.

Ramayes’s chubby face quivered with laughter.

“What do you think will happen? Didn’t your mother warn you not to trust strangers too easily when you’re away from home?”

He and the burly man closed in on Lumian from opposite directions.

Lumian smiled, set down the suitcase, and advanced towards Ramayes and his accomplice.

In the flickering firelight, over ten seconds swiftly ticked by, and the carbide lamp ended up in Lumian’s possession.

Lumian crouched beside the trembling Ramayes, his face battered and swollen, and pulled all the banknotes from his wallet. In the dim orange and blue light, he counted them with grave intent.

Gently patting Ramayes’s right cheek with the wad of cash, Lumian grinned.

“Now there’s only 319 verl d’or left.”

With that, he pocketed the banknotes and strolled toward a path that appeared to lead up to the surface.

A nameplate dangled from a stone pillar, inscribed with two lines of Intisian script: “Rue du Pot de Chambre, Le Marché du Quartier du Gentleman.”

Someone had scratched out ‘Rue du Pot de Chambre’ with a stone and scrawled a new name beside it: “Rue Anarchie.”