"Get a move on, then," the head wagoner shouts, mercifully, and you leave the scene behind. You wonder if King Saul's detractors will increase or decrease in number, the closer you come to his palace.
Onward
You're trying to eat an apple in peace, despite the ape's envious hoots, when it dawns on you that the cart beneath you is scarcely jostling.
As you've noted, Brenton's country roads are often scarcely more than ribbons of dirt dotted with holes and defiant plugs of grass. You experienced cobblestone streets in Port Covens—at least, the wealthier areas. But here, in the approach to Hondelet, the roads are laid with genuine flagstones: wide, with tight seams between them, and even as you've ever felt beneath a cart's wheel. After days of river rapids, it's like rowing through a glass-calm lake.
You sigh with pleasure, stretching out your arms, and Brute steals your apple. "I don't even mind," you murmur to the thief, focusing on your surroundings.
Onward