Artorian's Archives Omnibus

by Dennis Vanderkerken

  “You’re welcome, Elder,” muttered a big man—built from nothing but muscle—who nodded, blushed just a little, and silently had a better day. Then he returned to his table near the cooking pit, where he was teased and prodded by the others who worked in the Mill. That shining pink blush was just so precious on him.

  Chapter Eight

  Elder Switch was seething. Her vision snapped to various members of the village, each of whom felt their laughter die when their chortling was noticed by her strained, twitching eyes. Thankfully, Boro could still be seen fiddling about in the back, providing a necessary distraction. Forced to change topics, the room hastily returned to exchanging gentle pleasantries.

  Using Boro’s chatter as cover, people averted their eyes from the dissent-seeking pair of ancient, judgmental orbs, conveniently finding something else to quibble about. The merchant verbally danced his way through deals like a sommelier at the wine market. The trader occasionally sipped from a very costly looking, dwarven-made tankard as business once again slid his way. Ah, the volatile ups and downs of a local market.

  Switch wasn’t keeping her temper as easily as her academic opposition. Her fingers were clenched on her switch, knuckles tensing white from sheer grip. She was not losing hold of this village! She was not. The Elder felt horrendously displeased that she wasn’t the main focus of the evening, and her words impatiently stabbed to the heart of the matter, “Since you’re so jovial, Elder, we can get right into the discussion on the new trading agreement.”

  Boro perked up and excused himself from his current barter with the finesse of a practiced wedding crasher; his moment to shine had arrived. The ink-stained Elder drank some much-needed water after being halfway through inhaling his second bowl. He gently set the cup down with a relieved *aaahh*.

  He nodded his agreement, using his already stained robe to wipe his mouth clean. The robe needed a solid wash as it was, so what was a little more paint to the canvas?

  “Concerning altering the currency of the Salt village from its namesake of, well, salt to Gold. Is that correct?” he queried rhetorically, continuing to speak before Switch could intervene with a well-practiced speech announcing the virtues of the metallic currency. No doubt she would refrain from mentioning the myriad of personal benefits she would accrue. The unyielding words the Elder spoke were uttered with absolute finality. “I am completely opposed and have no intention of changing my mind.”

  A gagged sputter erupted from the back of the room as Boro promptly choked on his drink. So surprised to hear this unexpected non-starter to a negotiation that the potent alcohol had climbed back up and evacuated through his nose. So rattling was the burning sensation that he wiped his face with a luxury handkerchief. He otherwise never dirtied such a valuable showpiece.

  Elder Switch was mortified, furious beyond her ability to convey. A scowl of disdain formed on her face, and she managed to voice a cracking whisper, “What did you just say?”

  The people of the village for whom this somewhat mattered—and attended because they’d lost some sleep over the topic—exposed a strong sense of relief via deep sigh. The evening was now clearly going to wrap up, no immediate, sweeping changes were going to assail them overnight, and they didn’t have to worry about learning some arbitrary new way to count and measure their hard work.

  Boro embodied horror. His expression mimicked a living painting of panic as he shot the patient Elder a scathing look that could only be insultingly translated as ‘the audacity of this dog’.

  Luckily for the trader, he caught himself. Smoothing away his unsightly expression before anyone spun to see it… anyone save Switch, who had a full and unobstructed direct line of sight to him and whose raging, demanding eyes mandated immediate action. The action in question was demanded from him in particular, as he could quickly feel the blaming weight of ‘the scapegoat’ land upon his shoulders.

  Boro swallowed and thanked the people nearby for their assistance during his accidental moment of inhaling when he should have swallowed. Presenting a firm and considerably less graceful step, he soldiered his way behind the merchandise table and threw delicate covers off a finely carved box. Since this ornate item had been purposefully covered the whole time, the murmuring of the curious crowd quickly picked up as the nosiest among them pushed to the front, eager to see this hidden-away treasure.

  Many already guessed there had been some sort of container tucked away, and their curiosity demanded sating. With a quick appraiser’s glance, Boro accounted that the inked Elder was preening his long, thin beard with the help of the youth next to him. They were having a great time swatting at the dangling hair to beat the crumbs out.

  Picking up the box, the trader perched upon his table of wares, becoming prominently visible as he cleared his throat. He said nothing while awaiting permission to continue. Speaking to the village as a whole was a… delicate prospect. If one was not allowed by an Elder to proceed, it very much meant you were talking over them. That tended to make a lot of good customers incredibly angry. Elder Switch, hopeful that the trader had some sort of plan prepared, chimed her usual shrill tone, “Speak, trader.”

  Boro performed a flourished bow and paced right into a practiced recital, “Blessed thanks for your permission, honored Elder. As you know, I was meant to be here after another moon had passed and so did not expect to be present for this eve’s discussions. I humbly express my appreciation for being gifted your grace to attend such a lavish meal.”

  He held the box up and conspiratorially winked at the crowd—like he was about to let them in on a secret. “When I was last allowed to attend your banquet, I was provided payment in secret by several members of the community to acquire a suitable gift for their beloved Elder.”

  Boro paused to let the crowd simmer with gossip. Who had chipped in? Who hadn’t? Why had the most knowledgeable gossipers of the town not whispered about this? This should have been top seamstress material! A few women leaned over tables to grab hapless men by the front of the robes, finding a probable answer to where some valuable salt had gone missing or other equivalent reasons that suddenly had an outlet to sate questionable home finances.

  Switch settled and felt her heart rate dampen as she sunk back into her chair. Both hands sought comfort, tweezing the instrument of pain in her gnarled grip. Yes. Good.

  The trader had something prepared after all, and from the sound of it, she was going to be bestowed the first of many promised gifts. She would delight in making a scene of it in front of the entire village, lording it over the inferior, ink-blotch Elder as the well-deserved prize it was. Her incomplete toothy smile dreamily spread. Her satisfaction was aimed at some of the previous Elders who had stepped down and might be on to her ploy.

  A minority regarded her with respect, but most met her expression with revulsion.

  Yes, my people, my conquests. Soon, I’ll show you what you can all do for me, what I will expect from now on, Elder Switch’s prideful thoughts swelled with anticipation. She was no royal, but right now, she felt like a spring princess preparing to be coronated. Ah, the joys of being the true leader of a village.

  She was still lost in her dreams while Boro carried the eye-catching case past the side of the long table in her direction. Her eyes confidently closed with a self-assured smile as she leaned her head back, resting it upon the top of her chair.

  *Click*.

  The audible snap of several latches being undone was music to her ears as the people in the longhouse went silent. Dazzled children were among the first voices of drawn-out, breathless wonder to be heard. “Wo~oaa~aaa…”

  The anticipatory ‘oo~oo~oh’ cascaded with rough unity as the soft sounds of clothing being presented filled the longhouse. Boro’s voice rang with a salesman’s pitch, “After well over six seasons of steady work, the Fringe would like to extend this rich gift to its grand Elder, made in conjoined effort with nearby villages and the proud funding of generous souls. I present to you all, a product to be sold in the fu
ture by yours truly. A genuine Lazuli robe!”

  Clapping hands rang out, and Elder Switch finally opened her eyes with the full expectation that her first act as Grand Matron was to accept this praise. Instead, her heart turned solid, an ice-block of hateful frost. Her blood chilled, lips stiffened, and jaw froze. She found no words could escape her mouth as she saw a calf-length, luxurious, heavy robe of mixed dark blues contrasted with gently reflecting shiny white trim.

  Rope patterns twisted in a helix along the circumference of the sleeves, matching the pattern that passed down the front hem and followed the bottom contour all the way around. Near the neck, a white gold brooch was ready to pin the collar designs of the helix together and finish an otherwise broken pattern. The luster of the cloth was rich and resilient, not a single blemish, loose strand, or miss-knit to be found. This was obvious, as even the seamstress gossip train held their tongues as their eyes wandered over genuine art.

  Switch’s unaccepting eyes wordlessly denied reality. All watched as the Elder known for remaining collected rose from his seat. He was looking around at everyone in touched confusion, failing at finding appropriate words. Switch could see his face melting, overcome with emotion and disbelief. He covered his fallen jaw and parted mouth with a trembling hand, eyes watering at this gesture.

  He could scarcely contain the tears as they streamed down his cheeks. The old man was moved; he could find patterns where others saw nothing, yet hadn’t seen this coming in the least. Mill-workers helped the Elder get his current, filthy robe off his inner gray gi as he remained speechless, unable to properly cope with this gesture. His weak sniffling forced back attempts at a smile, expression trembling to a frown and back again.

  Keeping face as an Elder for the village was required, yet he could barely control himself due to the surprise that had been sprung on him. The robe was striking, and it slid over his other clothing without resistance. Boro assisted in fitting the robe and synching it up with the finely woven helix pattern belt, explaining how to use the brooch to hold everything in place. The merchant announced the details over the supportive murmurs as they got the cloth fitted, bottom hem brushing the Elder’s ankles.

  “The majority is made from wind-attributed Beast-alpaca, that mountain animal afflicted with a coat of clouds. The lining, pattern, and hem are something a little sturdier. You’ll notice the thread appears extra thick and a little shiny.” When the Elder inspected the exotic threads, he found they were dense and thin. A seamstress hounding the cloth for details explained that the thickened appearance was an indication of the amount woven rather than innate finery.

  Boro filled the Elder in before his questions could be voiced, “These come from a Beast-spider.”

  There were a few glances between people as the merchant kept on lauding to bolster future sales. They didn’t know that last word, but the mention of ‘Beast’ had unsettled them. The Elder used his gi beneath the Lapis-blue robe to dab his face clean of tears and hurriedly filled the villagers in as damage control.

  “Fear not. It is a harmless creature.” While the Elder’s mention set the crowd at ease, his admonishing gaze pierced straight into Boro. Wordlessly conveying ‘Spiders? Really?’ The trader felt reprimanded—as intended—from that intense, parental leer.

  The Elder’s true reaction did not go unnoticed by the more perceptive adults. A normal spider wasn’t a creature one wished to encounter in the wild, and he was lucky that there were almost none in the Fringe. The region crawled with their natural predators. Even the fish and bird they had for stew tonight would happily snack on any spider it found. Suffering a cold shiver, the Elder recalled some of the massive desert variants that would lurk in your shadow and follow along with you during travel. It had resulted in the development of some sinister rumors, and he welcomed none of those recollections.

  Boro, being an intelligent man, caught the intended message and mimicked the Elder’s response immediately, “Oh, yes. Harmless. Try touching the hem of the robe! You can feel the quality directly, and as I only sell the final product, you needn’t worry about the details.”

  He waved the last part off with a playful, dismissive gesture. Like it wasn’t a big deal. In truth, he was twisting away from the worst cringe of his life. The worth of that robe exceeded the net value of a full third of his inventory, and here he was just… giving it away for the sake of ‘the plan’.

  It wasn’t the first time this robe had been used for this exact purpose, but each time it physically pained him to settle it on the shoulders of another. He was doing his utmost to save face, but every time he had to part with this prized object, he could feel the devouring greed within him utterly take control and shout envy with acid fervor. Did nobody know just how valuable color was outside of the Fringe?

  This Elder clearly seemed to. Salt and Lapis were head-to-head in competition over regional exports, and the prices were low until the inner-realms market adapted. As of last season, Salt was no longer the victor in that contest. Being a skilled merchant, he would soon cut his losses and have this prized robe back. A dark, small voice in the back of his head piped up, ‘Abyss to the rules!’

  His contained fury built, and just then he had the misfortune to lock eyes with a still dumbstruck Elder at the head of the long table. Switch reclaimed her senses upon recognizing the alteration—snapping from the subtle shift in the trader’s happy business smile to predatory sneer. Boro was elated when an exact match of his expression was returned to him. Aaaah, there we go. There the truth is.

  The tiny voice deep inside him relished the dreadful demeanor of a person pushed over the brink, freshly broken, someone ready to pursue value and personal gain at the cost of anything else, whatever the sacrificial cost might be. The trader watched as his fabled prized possession danced around the room with a living bag of meat inside of it. Using its fleshy arms to shake hands and say kind words to other meat in even cheaper packaging.

  Boro shook his head and held it on the side as the headache struck. His forehead was on fire. While there was no deep pain, he had to get this under control before that aggressive raider perspective did more than just sit at the forefront of green-colored thoughts. These were customers. He was a merchant. There would be smiles, business, and sales. He got himself out of his mindset by clasping his hands together with a *pap*.

  “Who is ready for some discounts?” His thoughts wandered over to a few items in his inventory which could be left behind. He knew he’d get everything back later. Even with the distraction, his merchant gaze locked to the only colored robe other than his own in the longhouse. Boro flinched at the sight that awaited him.

  The Elder was teasing a strong-looking lad, a little smile on his face as he whispered… When suddenly, the strongman took the Elder firmly by the front of that lustrous robe. In an instant, the strongman had pinned the Elder to the wall with a foundation-shaking *thud*. To Boro’s surprise, the Elder did not retaliate. Rather, he just looked to the side and chanted in a sing-song fashion, “Oh, Hib~iiis~cus.”

  The muscled man went red in the face. Swiftly releasing the Elder, he embarrassingly brushed freshly fallen dust from the front and shoulders of the rich robe. A rather tall and thin blonde bounced over. Flowers decorated her hair, and a well-fitted, if simple, robe stretched around her inviting features as she flounced into close proximity.

  She was a sight, and it didn’t surprise Boro in the least that someone who looked like they worked a forge felt infatuation for a girl exemplifying the smoothness of a finished ingot. To the trader’s relief, the ‘Elder’s robe’ was unscathed. Praise to its quality, no doubt.

  The Elder tapped the forge handler on the shoulder and held his bulging arm firm as the big man was tugged down to whisper-level. Boro couldn’t make out the first few words that they exchanged but could roughly make out ‘Being honest… feelings… the path to accepting yourself’. Apparently, that was the last word that was going to be said on the topic. The grinning Elder waddled off to leave the
two to their budding romance.

  As the trader returned to his wares, the Elder clapped his hands together and announced a celebration dance. They would have an impromptu bonfire! This got a healthy cheer, and the parade of villagers who had all eaten plenty left the building with the subtle stride of falling boulders.

  The day of rest was tomorrow, so there was no reason to not indulge. While festivities began outside, Elder Switch rolled up to the merchant table as the personification of a pissy thundercloud. The merchant remained seated with his hands steepled in a finger-pyramid. Given that his customers fled like swine to be slaughtered at the approach of Switch, he could speak freely, utterly ignoring the conventions and rules of the Fringe in doing so, of course. He spoke without being invited to do so, was curt, and entirely lost the suave, appealing tone his words normally contained.

  “The vellum is ready to be signed, and the conversion to gold can be finalized. I have brought the requested currency in my hooded cart. She is filled with any… needs your village may have from this point forward.” Lifting the document from his hanging satchel, he unfurled the vellum over the table. Switch took the nearby quill and began signing it without a word. The depths of her hatred were present in her every stroke. The offered quills even snapped twice before she was halfway finished. Her brisk lines were sharp and hard-edged.

  Boro was a step ahead and provided replacement quills without a word. In a moment of coy bitterness, he decided to enjoy poking the hornet's nest. “This document must be signed by all the Elders of the village in order to be valid.”

  Her retort was salty, “The document is signed by all… surviving Elders of the village.”

  Switch didn’t raise her head to meet his provocation, and her words chilled even him. She finished and rolled the vellum back up to bind it. “Seeing as it takes a few moons for this document to reach its intended destination, I am as certain as gold this will be true by the time that happens.”