by RW Krpoun
“Very nice,” Shad examined the mug, which was nicer than any he had seen. “How much?”
“Since you have rescued me from idleness on the south bank, five pence. One pence for a belt hook.”
“We’ll take four mugs and four hooks. Devon, pay the man.”
“So,” Shad eyed the approaching walls. “Where might we find a decent inn at a reasonable price?”
“The Dancing Mermaid is reputable enough,” Rowland carefully examined the coins he had received. “In the gate, turn right, on your right about, oh, five towers down.”
“Any advice for some newcomers?”
“The City Watch keep the streets safe enough in daytime,” Rowland advised. “After dark, though, it’s a much different prospect.”
“How long has the Ultimate Master ruled here?”
Rowland’s expression went blank. “Seven years, more or less. Seven good years.”
“Any idea where we might find work?”
“Of your type? Not really,” Rowland visibly relaxed. “But from the number of bravos I see coming and going the demand must be high.”
The ferry grounded on the north bank; Shad thanked Rowland and they disembarked.
A guard stepped up as the four approached the open gate, the Eye glowing on his black surcoat. “New to the City-State of the Ultimate Master?”
“First visit, looking for work,” Shad nodded politely.
“Can you read?” the guard pointed his spear to a placard on the wall.
“ ‘Defecation in the streets, three lashes’,” Shad read the first line out loud.
“Right, read ‘em to yourself. Make sure you follow them. Bravos are welcome, but only if they obey the rules and mind their manners.”
“Yes, sir. Where might I collect the bounty on these?” Shad help up the ears.
The guard gestured towards a door in the gatehouse. “See the guard captain, two pence an ear.”
“Whoa,” Derek breathed, eyes agog. The four stood on a street corner as the city went about its business around them. The street was cobblestone and in good repair, if heavily used, and showed no signs of the traditional medieval secondary use as a sewer. An occasional wagon passed by but most vehicles were hand carts, with a few sedan chairs here and there.
The foot traffic was fairly heavy, with artisans and workers carrying raw materials and finished goods, women in twos and threes carrying wicker baskets and cloth sacks with handles that looked like the ‘green-friendly’ bags they sold at Wal Mart, only made of undyed linen, and a broad variety of individuals out about their business. Few spared the four men a glance, and those who did evidenced no great interest, as armed men swaggered past in twos and threes with some frequency.
The air was heavy with the smell of wood and coal smoke, countless acts of cooking, and a large number of people in an enclosed area which was cut off from any sort of breeze by the defensive walls. The air was warm from the many bodies and fires and the closeness of the buildings, but was not unbearably so.
The city streets were dim places as the buildings crowded cheek to jowl and their height blocked direct sunlight except during the noontime hours; candles and lamps could be seen burning inside homes and workshops even though sunset was some hours away.
“There’s a dwarf!” the Shadowmancer hissed to his comrades, who were only slightly less in awe.
The four watched as the dwarf stumped past. His beard and hair were jet black and curly, the beard plaited in a manner that resembled illustrations of Abyssinians, and his skin was brick red. Small tusks pushed out his lower lip, and his ears were large and sharply pointed. The dwarf was richly dressed, wore bejeweled gold jewelry, and was trailed by two tough-looking Human bodyguards.
“Norse dwarves,” Jeff murmured. “There were red Dwarves who worked leather, wood, that sort of thing, and black Dwarves who worked metal and stone. Neither were reputed to be trustworthy, although they were supposed to be the best craftsmen in the world.”
“Clothes seem to make the man,” Shad pointed out. “Farmers appear to wear smocks and leggings, fishermen and unskilled labor wear tunics and trousers, and artisans like Rowland wear shirts, pantaloons, and often aprons suited to their trade.”
“So?” Fred asked.
“So we should know that. It affects who you talk to. An artisan is a man of some stature-notice how Rowland wasn’t really in awe of our weapons and Derek’s robes? He knew that he had status. Apparently we are called bravos, which is good to know. Let’s get to the inn.”
Push-cart peddlers tried to sell them things, mostly food stuffs, and they passed several shops where artisans labored in plain view of the passer-by, the better to display their goods. It was hard to pass without examining, and Fred had to drag Derek along periodically, but eventually a sign up ahead proclaimed their destination.
The Dancing Mermaid was a two-story building, the ground level being field stone and the upper level timber. Inside the low-ceilinged common room was gloomy, lit only by the fire in the fireplace and the thin afternoon light leaking in through half-closed shutters, but it smelled pleasantly of baking bread and stew, and the limited clientele were intent upon their own business. The floor was dirt and the furnishing were simple tables and benches too clumsy to be used as weapons.
The four took a table in the corner, away from the handful of travelers slaking their thirst, and set out their mugs. Moments later a girl dressed in what ren faires billed as ‘serving wench’ style came by with a pitcher and filled their mugs for two pence.
“Not bad,” Fred admitted. “For room temperature ale.”
“Thick,” Jeff agreed. “Somewhere between Sam Adams and bread.”
“Man,” Derek scraped at the hard-packed dirt with the toe of his book. “Look at this place.”
“Yeah, pretty grim,” Shad eyed their surroundings. “Its probably good that the light’s so poor.”
“The rafters have so much soot on them from lamps they look like they’ve been charred,” Jeff jerked a thumb upwards. “All those years of books and games gave me a completely different view of the stock setting of a tavern.”
“All right, the Ultimate Master took power seven years ago,” Shad kept his voice low. “And people are careful not to speak ill of him, although that might just be normal for the state of personal rights. No one seems too interested in newcomers, other than their money, which is good for us. Things look pretty much like a late feudal society with much better hygiene and medical care.”
“Better sanitation, too,” Jeff observed. “No dumping chamber pots into the streets, and I saw a guy with a handcart scooping up after the horses.”
“Better law enforcement,” Derek observed. “The way they display goods suggests that thieves are not all that thick on the ground.”
“Good points. I figure we stay here tonight, let the shock of all this wear down some, get some sleep, and tomorrow we start looking for work, unless we get real lucky and hear something tonight. Way I see it, our two immediate goals are to learn how this world works and to make some money.”
“The thing over the left shoulders,” Jeff leaned in. “I’ve been watching, and everyone has it, all the adults, I mean. The guards at the gate were the clearest, there was some color to it. Most people there’s just a little shimmer like heat on a highway.”
“I think its class and level,” Derek said. “Most people we’ve seen are civilians, just ordinary people with day-to-day skills. But the Dwarf we saw and the guards at the gate, their ’sign’, to coin a phrase, was more distinct and colored.”
“So people can see your class and level?” Fred shook his head. “That’s weird.”
“I don’t think it’s exact,” Derek tugged at the neck of his robe. “I think maybe ordinary people might not even notice it, but the gate guard looked at us like he was checking out our sign.”
“If you’re right, you couldn’t pass yourself off as something else,” Shad observed.
“Not to someone who kno
ws how to read sign. You have to concentrate, though. And I bet there are guys who served in the military or stuff and then quit who still show their class and level.”
“Could be a survival thing,” Jeff slowly rotated his mug. “You could tell that somebody was too tough to mess with. Or that the mercs you were hiring were lying about their experience.”
“Interesting point,” Shad conceded. “So, what sort of work do we look for?”
“We’re first level,” Fred muttered. “Simple stuff.”
“Dude, we are in a tavern looking for adventure,” Derek grinned madly.
“Not me,” Shad shook his head. “I’m looking to make a fast…Mark, and to find a way out of this trap.”
Chapter Three
They all had a mess-kit in their gear, and a penny each filled it with a very good fish stew, and a fifth penny brought a loaf of fresh rye bread to the table.
“Not bad at all,” Jeff gathered everyone’s bowls after they had finished. “I’ll do KP today.”
“A shilling for a room with a good lock, until sun-down tomorrow,” Shad mused, examining the iron key. “We’re not in desperate straits, money-wise, but we’re far from flush. Everybody stay sober.”
The Mermaid’s clientele seemed to lean towards riverboat men and a couple travelers. Jeff circulated while the rest of the group nursed their ale and discussed the day’s events.
Shad examined a shilling. “This is a milled coin, and it is press-stamped, both features which should be a couple hundred years after of this time period.”
“Dwarves,” Fred shrugged. “That’s a skill base that would bring a lot of innovation with it. The Norse dwarves were supposed to have nearly magical craftsman skills.”
“OK, got some intel,” Jeff slid back into his seat and motioned for a passing girl to fill his tankard. “Bravos, as we guessed, are close to what we might call adventurers. Not exactly an socially esteemed profession, but a profitable one if you survive.”
“So where’s the work?” Shad asked.
“Well, there the usual business of recovering loot from abandoned holds. Apparently certain Orc and Goblin tribes can bore through stone like butter using shamanistic magic. There’s underground warrens all over. Places like this have to have wards in place to keep them from burrowing in.”
“We’re not up to a crawl,” Fred objected.
“No need. The regular paychecks come from mages. Guys like Derek are just slacker tactical guys, community college geeks who take the easy road. Mages are the serious stuff, Ivy League guys who spend years working on their arts.”
“If they’re so powerful, why do they need us?” Shad asked.
Derek, who was annoyed by Jeff’s reference, held up his hand. “Just got it. Class knowledge. The key to magic is power. You learn spells, but they’re just words unless you’ve got the juice to make ‘em come to life. The various ‘mancers all take the simpler route, drawing power in different methods. Mages are the purists, the pros.” Derek took a drink. “They do magic by way of items, material components. Very specific components.”
“And that’s where we come in,” Jeff nodded. “Plus, I bet they’re pack-rats. You depend on materials to do your job, you’re going to make damn sure you’ve got a full supply plus extras.”
“Actually, Shad’s closer to a mage than I am. Thing is, he uses junk and produces small-scale stuff,” Derek pointed out. “Mages build permanent stuff, or long-lasting things like the wards Jeff mentioned. I bet a full mage has job offers flowing in like an A-list actor in Hollywood.”
“So how do we find a mage who needs something?” Fred asked.
“We don’t,” Jeff grinned. “They’re VIPs. Alchemists are our ticket, an entire industry built up around obtaining quality materials for the discerning user. Mages deal with them. Because of various local issues, alchemists are restricted to a couple streets.”
“Good work. How the hell did you get that much information that fast?” Shad asked.
“It’s no secret,” Jeff shrugged. “One of the guys I was talking to is a buyer, goes around buying specific herbs from farmwives; it’s not all unicorn horn and dragon eyelashes. One of the riverboat men had a brother who was a bravo for a while before joining the City Guard. In a different city it would have been harder, but this place has quite a few mages and a lot of trade.”
“Any of them mention housing?” Shad spun a penny on the tabletop. “A shilling a night is going to kill us. We need to find better quarters for the long term.”
“No, I didn’t ask,” Jeff admitted.
“Just as well-you covered the most important part. We’ll troll other waters for housing questions. Tomorrow we’ll see who wants to hire us to find an eye of newt.” Shad passed out charms to each of the others, tapping each’s wrist and whispering a word as he did so. “Keep this on your person. Makes you immune to bugs for a week.”
“Bugs?” Fred examined the charm.
“Fleas, bedbugs, ticks, mosquitos…normal stuff. Shelob won’t be bothered by it.”
“You had to mention Shelob,” Derek shuddered.
The room rental included four quarts of hot water in the morning. “Man, it’s not often I’m thankful for Iraq, but days like today I am,” Jeff toweled off after shaving with the straight razor that came with his toilet gear. “Between that and Ranger School I’ve learned I can deal with anything. And no running water is definitely something that must be dealt with.”
“Too true,” Shad pulled his shirt over his head. “Derek, did you get up to strength last night?”
“Much as I’m capable of,” the Shadowmancer nodded. “Which isn’t much.”
“Ask those Goblins how much is much,” Shad grinned. “But stick to combat spells. We need light, we’ll use a torch.”
Breakfast was fried corn mush, bread, and ale.
“Will our packs be OK in the room?” Derek kept his voice low.
“Yeah,” Jeff nodded. “From what the guys said last night this place has a good reputation, and reputation is everything here. Well, that and not getting shanked by an irate customer.”
The four took their time as they crossed the city, doing a bit of window-shopping and taking in of the sights. And there was an amplitude of sights and sounds, for while vehicle traffic was not as heavy as the newcomers would have expected, the foot traffic was plentiful. Watching artisans ply their trade, examining hand-made goods that would have fetched staggering prices back in their own world, and drinking in the many sights and sounds around them was both intoxicating and overwhelming. Even Shad, who was both intolerant and dismissive to a high degree, enjoyed himself.
Derek was able to trade his robes and ten pence for a shirt and trousers similar to those Shad wore, and which seemed to be the style worn by bravos and fighting men when not in war gear. Jeff sold the Goblin knives for eight pence each and the money was used to buy Derek a canteen and flasks for all four with which to carry vinegar for water purification.
“We’re down to one Mark four shillings,” Derek said quietly after the last of the purchases. “And a piece of amber. Enough to live on for a couple weeks, but not enough to get us equipped.”
“OK, enough sightseeing, fun as it has been,” Shad decided. “Let’s go see how hard it is to get hired by an alchemist.”
As it turned out the hiring process was not difficult at all. Alchemists were restricted to three streets: Alchemists Way, Alchemists Lane, and Transmutation Street, the three meeting at a small square that was adjacent to the city wall. The square, called Chemist’s Meet, was cluttered with push-carts dealing in foodstuffs, while the three streets were lined with shops.
The alchemists came in two varieties: the more common place which looked like a flea market, and which were thronged by a wide variety of customers, and a minority of shops which were elegant storefronts where a servant in livery answered the door. Traffic into the latter was a tiny fraction of the former, but from the manner of dress of the customers the cash flow was
also disproportionate in favor of the shops.
What both had in common, besides the core nature of their business, was a need for a certain kind of work force. Bravos wandered the streets in small groups examining the chalk boards in front of the flea market establishments or the small slates hung discreetly at the side entrances of the high-end shops.
The four strolled casually and watched. “If you take a job, they take down the sign,” Jeff pointed out. “It’s not like a bounty.”
“Good to know,” Shad nodded. “Derek, go buy some paper and something to write with. We passed a pushcart with some stuff.”
“How do you want to do this?” Jeff asked when Derek returned with a blank journal, a pen, and a stone bottle of ink.
“Window shop,” Shad shrugged. “Read fifty signs and we’ll have a feel for what’s what. Then pick one.”
“We need a map of this area,” Fred observed.
“Good idea. That’s next on the list. Matter of fact, we can see if anyone we talk to for a job will recommend a map-seller. I bet they have heard that question before-we can’t be the first bunch of would-be heroes to come to the big city in search of fame and fortune.”
“OK, this looks like the best one,” Derek studied his notes. “Smale’s Emporium will pay one Mark per pound of white stone from the Silvermist Plains.”
“That bravo said the Plains were about thirty miles march from here,” Jeff reminded them.
“That’s a short trip for a good payoff,” Shad observed. “A Mark per pound?”
“The bravo mentioned Goblins,” Jeff grinned. “Wolf-riders.”
“Figures,” Shad shook his head. “Let’s go talk to the man.”
“The bigger the stone, the better,” Master Smale held up a brick-sized rock that was alabaster white with faint veins of bright silver. “The tracery is not silver, in case you did not know. And it goes without saying that we have ways to determine if it is the correct stone. Have you hunted Silvermist stone before?”