Charlotte placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Don’t worry yourself. You have much to sort out in the next short while. It’s no easy thing settling into a new place. I don’t envy you.”
Caldan held out his hand. “I had better go. It was a pleasure meeting you, Captain.” She let his hand enfold hers in a warm grip.
“Likewise. And the name’s Charlotte. We’re in port here periodically, so if you have time to drop by for some Dominion practice, I won’t mind.”
“That would be good.”
With a final nod he walked down to the wharf and wound his way through piles of barrels, crates, and a few horse-drawn wagons until it ended and the streets of Dockside District began.
Red-brick buildings with large warehouse doors, narrow windows, and stained with salt residue lined the street. Weeds poked through on the roofs, which were old, tiles cracked and missing. A few buildings had tradesmen at work, scraping off years of dirt and salt and replacing broken tiles.
The street thronged with people — sailors, teamsters, brawny men used for loading and unloading — and no one looked happy. Well-dressed merchants passed by in a rush, heads down, on important business, no doubt. In the distance, on either side of the street’s arc, it was cut by rivers, and bridges enabled the street to continue on the other side.
The stench of the flotsam in the harbor rolled over him. The breeze off the water he had been thankful for now brought the full impact to his nostrils. Caldan held a hand up to his nose and coughed. A nearby sailor sneered at him.
The city itself extended as far as his eyes could see, roofs, terraces, domes, towers, stretched into the distance until they became lost in a haze. Green patches and trees dotted the rooftops, from open terrace gardens, he thought, though most looked to be weeds and moss. Four harbor watch guards stood at a corner, formidable in their worn functional leather armor and long wooden clubs as they scanned the crowd.
He set off across the cobbles, weaving through the crowd and up the closest main street as Charlotte had suggested. A faded, painted sign was attached to one building: Cuttlefish Street, it proclaimed in plain script. He strode past, keeping close to the left wall, avoiding the gutter of sludge running down the center of the street. He made slow progress, passing side streets and narrow alleys. Buildings were either rundown homes for Dockside residents, cheap inns and taverns, or shops and businesses.
A number of times he had to press against a wall when wagons passed, and once a group of men and women in chains shuffled by. Vacant eyes stared ahead and at the ground, dirt-covered prisoners reeking of stale sweat and urine. Guards prodded one when he stumbled to his knees and took too long to regain his feet. A woman in the crowd spat in their direction, disgust on her face. A young man sneered at her and looked about to say something when his companions dragged him away.
The emperor’s soldiers were also posted on many corners. Many carried bows with quivers full of arrows on their backs. Caldan heard a passerby call them ‘Quivers’ in a derisive tone.
Twice the Quivers stopped him to ask his name and business. When they were satisfied with his answers, he was allowed to continue without any fuss.
Soon, the street opened up into a large intersection. As predicted, there were two inns, with the other corner positions taken up by a blacksmith’s and a leatherworker. It was obvious from the sign for the Willing Mermaid the place catered to rougher types. It was dirty, rusty, and lewd. He grinned and headed into the Otter, pausing inside the door to allow his eyes to adjust to the gloom. All the tables were empty, as was the space behind the bar.
A wiry man emerged from behind a hanging, which concealed a doorway. Thin-lipped and greasy haired, he approached.
“Good day, sir, may I be of service?” He looked Caldan up and down, and his mouth twitched. “Perhaps the Willing Mermaid across the way might be more to your taste?”
“A friend of mine, Captain Charlotte, recommended this place. I’m inclined to trust her opinion.”
At the mention of the captain’s name, the innkeeper’s expression brightened. “Oh, of course. A lovely lady.” He rubbed his hands together. “Are you after lodging or merely some victuals?”
“Both, if they’re available. I don’t mind staying in your least expensive room as I don’t hold much store in luxuries.”
“Of course, sir. Let me check.” The innkeeper walked behind the bar and drew out a shallow wooden box containing a number of keys and handed one to Caldan. “This one should do you nicely. A bargain at four copper ducats a night.”
Caldan fingered his purse, the only coins he could count on for the foreseeable future. “Four? Captain Charlotte led me to believe two would be sufficient.”
“For a friend of hers, I can manage with two, though taxes are high these days. How long will you be staying?”
“I’m not sure. At least a week, possibly longer. Depends on how quickly I find work.”
“Ah! You’ll want to try the traders’ quarter, the guilds and the noticeboards there. You can read, can’t you?”
“Yes.”
After trading a few more pleasantries, the innkeeper led Caldan to his room, making small talk on the way. A clean space with a barred window overlooking a narrow alley. A cot with a straw mattress was the only furniture, and if he stretched his arms out, Caldan was sure he could touch both walls.
There was much to do. First things first. He needed to spend some coins on essentials if he was to have a good start in this new place. It would be best to buy what he needed as soon as possible.
He left the room, locking the door behind him. The lock was simple, and Caldan had no doubt that anyone who wanted to enter his room while he wasn’t there would be able to do so easily. Another problem to take care of, but he didn’t have anything worth stealing. Except his trinket, which he vowed to always keep hidden on his person.
Exiting the Otter, he asked directions and quickly found his way to an outside market set up in a spacious common square. The area was packed with stalls and wagons. Some appeared more permanent than others, while many of the wagons looked as if local farmers had come into the city for the day to sell produce. Meat, both raw and cooked, fruit and vegetables, cloth and clothes, pottery, hats and a hundred other essentials were all on display.
Unlike Eremite, here both men and women wore a mix of fashions, probably from other parts of the empire. Though the men still wore pants, many wore coats, both short or long, some with garishly colored shirts, and not a few sported hats. The women’s clothes were more diverse, from short skirts to dresses, pants and shirts, while some had a long ribbon wound around their torso and upper arms. It was all he could do not to stare.
He made his way to where a haze of smoke hung in the air and mouthwatering smells of cooking wafted into the crowd. Passing by a few stalls, including one that sold honeyed crickets and grubs on skewers, he decided on one that had a roast pig, which came sliced and wrapped in flatbread he had never seen before.
“One, please,” said Caldan, pointing to the bread and meat bundle a man leaving the stall carried. Handing over the asking price from his dwindling supply of coins wasn’t easy. Triple what he thought it would be, and enough to buy him a good meal in Eremite. So far the city wasn’t living up to everything he expected. The meat was fatty and chewy, but at least tasted as good as it smelled. He finished off his lunch and an hour later headed back to the Otter with a few packages, which he placed in a leather satchel to replace his sacks.
Back in his room he took stock of his purchases. A secondhand razor, soap, a dozen sheets of good quality parchment, ink and quill, a handful of metal tacks and a knife. The razor and soap he would use later when he found a public bathhouse. At the price the Otter charged for use of its only bath he wasn’t going to use it anytime soon. After what he’d spent today, his purse was depressingly depleted and hung half empty.
Taking great care, he cut two squares of parchment from a sheet, each half the size of his palm. Uncapping the ink, he
lay on the floor, the only flat surface to work on, and penned four glyphs on each square, all close to the corners. With two tacks dead center of the squares, he pinned them to the door, one on the edge near the lock and one opposite, on the frame. They would last a few days, which was enough for the time being. Whenever he left his room, he could activate them and they would create an attraction between the door and the frame, so even if the door wasn’t locked it wouldn’t open. A simple yet effective locking device, but one easily broken by another sorcerer, given time.
He yawned and rubbed his eyes. Although it was now only late afternoon, he was tired. Strange surroundings, the odd sights and stresses of a new city combined to wear away at him. He lay on his cot for a short nap, intending to rise later and work out where he should visit tomorrow to find employment, but was soon fast asleep.
Two days later, he was still at the Otter, purse even emptier. To say his first two days had been an unmitigated disaster would be close to the truth.
Sitting at a table, he sipped a mug of pear cider while waiting for the food he had ordered, sheep stew, the cheapest item on the menu. The eating room was busy tonight. If the shopkeepers and the patrons could be believed, all the inns would be busier from now on as people arrived for the Autumn Festival. Earlier that morning, the innkeeper of the Otter had tried to increase the rent for his tiny room, citing the huge upcoming demand. Caldan argued his tiny room would hardly be in demand due to its small size and lack of proper furnishings, and managed to persuade the innkeeper to keep to their current arrangement for a few more days.
He didn’t have any idea how much longer he would be staying, and so far his search for work of any kind had proven fruitless. The day after arriving, he had thrown off his trepidation and visited the traders’ quarter to ferret out any prospects that might be available. He approached a number of the guilds in the morning, which he thought could have a use for someone who could read and write, calculate numbers, and was well educated in history and crafting. The tradesman’s guilds, which included carpenters, stonemasons, leatherworkers and weavers, to name a few, were interested in his reading, writing and numbers aptitudes but wouldn’t hire him unless he was a member of the Scribes or Bookkeepers’ Guilds. Off he went to find the Scribes and Bookkeepers’ Guilds, who both said it was unlikely they would recognize someone trained outside of the city, but it did happen. After a short interview with a journeyman from each guild, they both decided his knowledge was not in-depth enough to warrant further testing and verification, so he would not be recognized. Additionally, the usual age to enter a guild was young, twelve or thirteen, and a long period of apprenticeship and testing was required before reaching journeyman status. Although Caldan was well versed in a number of subjects and disciplines, his knowledge was nowhere near the standard required of a journeyman, and due to his age none would take him as an apprentice.
Merchant guilds were his next option the day after, but to his chagrin he met with the same story as the day before. A polite, “Thank you for your interest, but your skills are not of the standard required.” All of them had directed him to a different location in the traders’ quarter, the unskilled laborers’ market.
By the time he arrived it was midday, and one look at the dispirited and disheveled men standing around hoping for the chance of a day’s work was enough to halt him in his tracks. They were dressed in ragged clothes that were more patches and holes than original material, and they had grubby, thin faces. He wasn’t desperate yet and hoped he never would be. He turned and quickly left the groups of men huddled against the walls out of the wind, wondering how he was going to survive after his meager store of coins ran out. The path those men were on, well, it looked like it wasn’t a path at all but a dead end street. Barely surviving hand to mouth every day, standing around hoping for enough work to buy enough food to stay alive. Caldan wondered where they slept at night, and what happened to them in winter when the cold wind off the ocean must chill to the bone.
For the remainder of the day until sunset he wandered around the city. He didn’t remember much of the afternoon as his thoughts were on survival and examining options to procure a few more coins to get him through a few more days. His situation wasn’t anywhere near as desperate as the unskilled laborers, but he feared his store of coins wouldn’t last long, especially with the Autumn Festival likely to push up the price of food along with accommodation.
Thoughts buzzing in circles and not getting anywhere, he wandered back to the Otter as night fell and took a chair at a table to wait for dinner. He vowed the pear cider he nursed would be his last luxury until he found a steady stream of income. It galled him to think, with all the years he had spent at the monastery, he hadn’t been able to find someone that could use his skills.
But when he thought of the students at the monastery, he realized that was exactly the objective of the monks. It made sense to him now. The monastery had built a reputation as a place of learning, where diverse skills and knowledge could be taught in once place, rather than noble families having to hire many different tutors. Their children could be sent there for a year or more to gain an understanding of a huge amount of different subjects and aspects of life. Further education in whatever business or subject their parents wanted could be done when their children returned home. Most of the unfortunates, like himself, taken in rarely left the island and stayed on at the monastery, so providing them with skills to survive in the outside world wasn’t a consideration.
Caldan snorted into his cup, which brought sweet cider fumes to his face. The inn’s only waitress — he didn’t know her name — plonked a bowl of sheep stew in front of him along with a wooden spoon and a loaf of bread. He nodded thanks, but she had already turned to deliver another meal to the table next to his. Despite looking unappealing, a bowl of brown gravy with chunks of meat in it, the stew was tasty. Spices disguised the strong mutton flavor and added a hotness he found pleasant, as long as a drink was nearby to wash it down. Caldan savored his stew, taking small bites of meat and gravy with bread, sipping his cider. A man and a woman were occupied in a game of Dominion in one corner, using the inn’s own board and pieces. Four silver coins glinted beside the board, so the stakes were high for this supposedly friendly game. He decided against going over to watch and instead listened to snatches of various conversations around the room.
Two merchants near him were leaning across their table, heads together, and despite the constant hum in the room, Caldan was able to clearly hear what they were saying.
“…thought I’d be able to fetch a higher price for the goods, a few ducats more per item, but they wouldn’t budge… Bloody head trader was made of stone.”
“Typical. They’ve got their fingers everywhere. I heard they bought a warehouse by the docks and a few more properties around it. Maybe you’ll need to pay them to store your goods soon as well.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. They’ve been growing strongly for years now. Hardly seem to put a step wrong in the market.”
With nothing of interest in that conversation, Caldan let his ears wander to pick out some other chatter.
“…hard road that one, coming down from the mountains. That’s why I always come to the Autumn Festival a bit early like. Too many carts and wagons on the narrow passes make it dangerous.”
“…so I says to the beggar, ‘If you want a copper you have to earn it, so do what I said and you’ll get your ducat!’ Ha ha ha! She ran off…”
“… The children are fine, thank you for asking. My littlest one is starting to walk…”
Caldan’s ears pricked up at one conversation. “…I heard the competition in the festival will be pretty fierce this year. A master bladesman from the Steppes has entered the lists, and the ambassador from the Sotharle Union of Cities has come for the Dominion contest. What I wouldn’t give to see him matched against the emperor’s chancellor!”
“Ha! Unlikely to happen. They’ll try to have him knocked out in the qualifying matches.”
“Still, wouldn’t it be a sight to see the old pompous ass getting beat by the upstart cities?”
“Isn’t going to happen. He’s won every contest the last few years. As much as I dislike the dried out old bird, he knows what he’s doing.”
Caldan had read about the lands surrounding the empire, but it was odd, and strangely exciting, to hear them spoken about in conversation, by people who might have even been there. The Sotharle Union of Cities was far to the northwest, and the Steppes to the southwest, populated by mostly nomadic tribes he’d only read of. Hundreds of years ago the empire tried to claim the lush grasslands of the Steppes for itself, succeeding only marginally before having its nose bloodied by the fierce tribes living there. He thought back to what Captain Charlotte had said about treasure hunters finding their fortune in the wilds. Not something he could see himself doing.
Caldan’s thoughts turned back to Dominion as the noise in the inn grew. Usually, any discussion involving the game would have him look to join in and while away a few hours with like-minded people. But not tonight. He was too tired from the last few days and disheartened at the start of his new life in Anasoma. Not skilled enough to qualify for any guild and too old to join one. Still, he did have an inkling as to what line of inquiry he could follow up next. He could always do as Charlotte had suggested and enter a few of the competitions in the Autumn Festival. But doing well enough to earn a purse of ducats was chancy indeed, and relying on luck to survive didn’t appeal to him. He could try his hand at winning some coins playing Dominion against people frequenting the inns around the area, but somehow it didn’t feel right. Taking ducats from people who hadn’t had his advantages of practicing against masters, tuition, and books to study from. No, it was unfair. He would take that path as a last resort.
He swallowed the rest of his pear cider in a few quick gulps then stood, intending to head back to his room and work on some patterns and exercises with crafting. That was his next idea, to approach the Sorcerers’ Guild and see if they could find a use for his talents in that area. From his lessons at the monastery he knew he had talent and was one of the few able to access his well, but as he was finding out, what he had been taught covered the bare bones of subjects, and he didn’t think this would be any different.
A Crucible of Souls (Book One of the Sorcery Ascendant Sequence) (Volume 1) Paperback Page 12