One spring morning, a donkey cart comes down the road from one of those towns. Its load is an irregular lumpy mass that shifts with the jolting motions of the cart, hidden under a large canvas that's tied down at all four corners.

The driver, an elderly and rather stout fourthling man, pulls the donkey to a halt in the town square and calls out a cheerful Good day! to those nearby. 

Several people respond in kind. The people of Vallinas are a friendly sort, in general, and it is a nice morning. 

A handful of curious children gather around the cart and bombard the driver with questions. Where is he from? Where is he going? What's in the cart? Can they pet the donkey? Does it like apples? Can they feed it an apple?

He's from Salaya, the nearest big city! City life didn't suit him so he's looking for someplace new to start over. Yes, they can pet the donkey if they're gentle and don't rub its fur the wrong way, and yes, it likes apples. They can feed it chunks of apple as long as they're careful to keep their fingers out of the way, it bites. 

Up close, a distinct odour of rotten eggs hangs around the cart and driver. 

Ewww, rotten eggs. Some of the children screw up their noses and hang back, put off by the smell. Most of the others crowd around the donkey, which only stinks the usual amount for a donkey and is remarkably tolerant of the fuss being made of it.

One little boy tries to peek under the canvas to see where the smell is coming from, while a little girl repeats her demand to know what's in the cart. 

"Oh, nothing interesting, really—it's all grown-up things, very boring."

Peeking under the canvas reveals the side of a sack of turnips, corroborating this story.

"But what's in there?" the girl insists. 

"Just turnips," the boy announces to his fellows in a disappointed tone. 

"But if it's just turnips, why didn't he say it's just turnips?" another child asks. 

"Well, if you really want to know, the truth is it's not just turnips," the driver says, tone growing faintly conspiratorial. 

"I've got olives, apples, onions, rice, barley, cabbages..." 

The children, briefly excited by the hint of conspiracy, quickly lose interest in the face of this entirely mundane and unexciting inventory. Curiosity satisfied, they begin to drift away.

The sun is getting higher in the sky, and it's getting close to the hottest part of the day, when everyone with any sense has a few hours' rest in the shade, before going back to work in the late afternoon and evening. One of the women minding the children approaches the cart, nose wrinkling briefly at the rotten egg smell. 

Would the traveller like to take his midday rest in Vallinas? They can find somewhere nice and shady for the cart, and show him where to get water for the donkey. 

That's so kind of her, and he'd be very grateful. He doesn't want to go too far from his cart, seeing as it contains all his worldly possessions, but somewhere he and his donkey can rest in the shade, and cool water to drink, would be much appreciated. 

He's welcome to join the dozen or so villagers gathering under the awning in front of the tavern, and there's a feeding trough nearby, under a nice shady tree, where he can tie up his donkey. The cart won't be in anyone's way if he leaves it by the donkey, and it'll be right where he can see it. 

He'd actually rather be a little closer to the cart than that, if it's not too inconvenient—can he park it right next to the awning? Or maybe he'll just join his donkey under the tree. 

Yes, perhaps that would be best, if he doesn't want to leave his cart.

(At least then the rotten-egg smell, whether it's coming from the cart, the driver, or both, won't put everyone off their lunch, she thinks guiltily. It's not overpowering, even up close, but it is unpleasantly noticeable.) 

And so the traveller, with his donkey and cart, settles down to rest under the pear tree in the town square. The donkey drinks greedily from the trough, and the traveller sips at a waterskin.

His movements are slow and sometimes uneven, but then, he's an older man who's been sat in one position for hours, so naturally he'd be a little stiff. 

A few people will come over and chat with him, offering refreshments and small talk. 

"What's your name, friend?" says one. 

"Rainerio," is his ready answer. It's the name that goes with this face, anyway, and it's not as though he has another one to give. "And yours?" 

The villagers have little reason to doubt this response and even less reason to care if 'Rainerio' has given them a false name, as he's a stranger either way. They cheerfully introduce themselves, pointing out other people they know around the square while inviting Rainerio to tell them more about himself. Where is he from, what does he do for a living, does he have any family? 

"Rainerio" has answers to these questions as well. The real Rainerio had a job and a family, and he can talk about them between turning the questions back on the villagers and subtly probing for more information about Vallinas. Who's in charge around here, who are the people who aren't in charge but whom everyone listens to anyway, who are the troublemakers...