Veylin arrived in the old district of the Royal Capital and booked a private room on the second floor of a place called the Silver Spoon Teahouse.
Below lay a street paved with flagstones. The lettering on most signs had faded beyond recognition, replaced by pictorial symbols representing the various trades.
Veylin pushed open the private room's window, and a jumble of smells wafted in.
The wheaty aroma of freshly baked bread, the rotten stench of silt in the canals, and the rank odor of horses hauling goods mingled into the distinctive smell of the Royal Capital's old district.
He leaned against the window and looked down.
A group of ragged people crouched outside the side entrance of a grand residence, as still and silent as stone statues.
What were they doing? Veylin watched them curiously.
Just then, the residence's side door opened, and two servants emerged carrying a large wooden barrel.
Together, they tipped its contents into the drain outside the door.
Leftovers mixed with chunks of meat, vegetable leaves, and broth poured into the filthy channel.
The huddled figures sprang to life.
They lunged at the drain like madmen, using cracked bowls and pottery shards hidden in their clothes-or even their bare hands-to fight over the food floating on the dirty water.
Those who snatched large pieces of meat lit up with wild delight. They guarded their bowls fiercely and retreated into corners to wolf down their spoils.
The slower ones could only scoop up broth mixed with mud and grit, their faces full of frustration and dismay.
The two servants who had dumped the leftovers looked down on the scene with undisguised contempt curling their lips.
One even spat beside the feet of the slowest starving beggar.
Just then, a harsh rebuke rang out from inside, seemingly