A much shorter story than usual.
===
The Characters:
- Ordan St. Catar – A boy of about eight years.
- The Old Man – The woman who oversees the safety of Kingsmount and the surrounding environs, and sees to the recruitment of both Heroes and Companions.
- Bluebell Darna – A wizard, and a recent recruit to the ranks of The Heroes Contingent.
The day was bright and cheery, the sun was shining, the birds, were singing, and The Old Man was tempted to hate every second of it. After all, she’d just spent the entire morning in meetings with the Trade Council. It was a near thing, but she’d managed not to feed each and every one of them to the city’s plentiful population of human-eating monsters.
Truth be told, the monsters were better company. They didn’t drone on about realigning the city’s sewer management paradigm while they plotted your downfall.
But that was done. The Old Man — her true name was long forgotten — could afford to relax, to breathe in the invariably meat-flavored scents of street food, and enjoy the bustling energy of the city she all but ruled. It was these very walks among the people that kept the Trade Council alive.
After finding, recruiting, and seeing to the training of Heroes and sidekicks alike; after dealing with administrative duties every day, it was essential to walk the streets. If she ever failed to take in the sights and sounds, if she lost touch with the people, it was far too easy to forget why she bothered with any of her usual daily responsibilities. It had happened before, and only in the last century had the last burned-out buildings been replaced.
The Old Man stopped, and pushed the smell of burnt brick, monsters, and people out of her mind. She couldn’t go back and change what had been, only keep a kind and gentle stranglehold on what would be. She strode on, stopping only to buy a few tacos from a local vendor.
[Author’s note: Tacos are universal.]
“What’ll it be, my good Lady?” said the taco seller.
He didn’t seem to recognize her, which was for the best. She didn’t like it when people tried to give her their product for free, and she didn’t want the attention.
“Two beef, one chicken, Young One.” she said.
“Coming right up! It’s nice to get some sun for a change, isn’t it?”
It wasn’t just polite conversation. In a city where a half hour of cloudy weather could drop temperatures low enough to make a long coat feel comfortable, and where it rained for at least five months out of the year, the weather was a genuine topic of interest. Especially when magic, monsters, or the mountain climate itself could make it far more interesting in a heartbeat.
“It is nice to not be getting rained on right this minute.” The Old Man said mildly.
The taco seller, a medium-height portly man in his fifties, swiftly fried up the requested meat in front of the old man.
As he did so, he wondered aloud (and probably for the thousandth time), “With all the mages and strange folk we have in this city, you’d think one of them could make it rain only at night.”
The Old Man smiled wanly, “Do you remember… no you wouldn’t. It was ninety-five years ago. They tried it once. The weather of this world does not like being altered.”
The taco seller scooped the meat on to the tortillas, and winked saying, “If you don’t mind me saying so, Ma’am, you don’t look a day over sixty-five.”
The Old Man smiled, “I know.”
The taco seller paused, unsure what to say next. He still didn’t recognize her, but she could practically see the small shiver that went down his spine.
He said, “Well, I remember my mother telling me a story like that. It was the first and only time a hurricane ever hit Kingsmount. Darned strange, that. You say they tried to control the weather?”
The Old Man nodded, “At the behest of the Trade Council. Some fool got it into his head that rejecting the laws of nature on a city-wide scale for profit was a good idea.”
The taco seller nodded, stroking his goatee, “Sounds like the Trade Council.”
Their small talk waned as The Old Man placed a healthy serving of grated cheese, salsa (also universal), cilantro, and onions on her tacos. He was busy greeting other customers, and she took advantage of the moment to savor every bite. All too quickly, the tacos were gone.
The Old Man quietly paid and slipped away, trudging down the cobblestone road. It wasn’t yet evening, and still every building, every stone had a slight golden tint to it. The Old Man smiled as she saw the people of Kingsmount engaged in their endless trade.
Kingsmount is wedged firmly into a valley between some of the tallest mountains around. It was built along the only travel route through the Northen Mountains, and had flourished for millennia, with only short breaks for the occasional city-ending disaster.
The city had been born from trade, it ran on trade, and when it died for good, it would likely be the result of some horrifically stupid act of trade. Truth be told, The Old Man was curious to see how that would happen. In the meantime, she endured, and she reveled in the life around her. It was invigorating, and she was almost ready to end her twice-weekly stroll in the city.
But then she saw it. The Old Man was not vain, she’d lived far too long for that. She was not overly concerned with fashion. However, even to one as long-lived as herself, the sun was a dubious ally at best. It gave life, even as it beat down on the skin and soul of every citizen, be they man or monster. And the shawl in the window was exquisite.
By the pattern of wingless dragons, she could tell that it had been made far, far away to the East. Or the West, if that matters to you. Whatever the direction, the shawl was gorgeous, finely-made, and of a material that was difficult to acquire in Kingsmount.
“Well,” she thought to herself, “I suppose I can make some small personal contribution to the city’s economy.”
With a small smile on her lips, she entered the store, which was appropriately named St. Catar’s Imported Stuff. And stuff it was. If the shawl in the window had given her the impression that this was a tailor’s shop, the inside quickly disabused her of that notion. The store sold… stuff.
In one corner, there were books in foreign languages on esoteric topics, and a section full of Orcish romance novels. In another, there were mechanical devices of unknown origin and purpose. Those she inspected with The Sight, but they seemed harmless.
There was an assortment of imported garments, a rack full of unfamiliar spices that permeated the air, and elsewhere there was what looked like a ceramic bowl you could sit on.
“Is that what I think it’s for?” she wondered.
But that was immaterial. The shawl had her attention. Speaking of attention, The Old Man looked around the shop, attempting to catch the eye of some clerk or proprietor. A man in his thirties was at the counter, dealing with a quietly irate customer. He was taking great pains to explain, that the device the customer had bought needed to be cleaned regularly, and he’d clearly explained that prior to the sale.
A woman about the same age as the man at the counter was stocking the shelves. The Old Man was about to head her way, when she heard a small but confident voice from below.
“Good afternoon, Ma’am!”
The Old Man looked down to see a small boy somewhere around the age of eight, smiling up at her with practiced ease.
“Welcome to St. Catar’s Imported Stuff“, he continued. “I am Ordan St. Catar, and my parents are busy at the moment. Is there anything with which you’d like help?”
The Old Man couldn’t help but smile. The boy was well-spoken, well-dressed for his age, and had unusually green eyes. His skin was the same medium-brown that was common to most people in Kingsmount, and he was clearly in the middle of some growth spurt. His hair was neatly combed, except for a few stray hairs that had clearly declared their independence during the course of the day.
She said, “Why yes, young man. I saw the shawl in the window, and I’d very much like to see it up close.”
“Absolutely!” said the boy brightly, his youthful excitement making him almost jump for a moment.
The Old Man could practically see the effort he put into stilling himself before saying, “Right this way, Ma’am.”
She followed him between piles of assorted curiosties to the window display. Ordan huffed a little as he pulled himself up, and turned the mannequin to face The Old Man.
“My, my,” she said, exaggerating her reaction only a little, “it’s rather nice… though quite as nice as it looked from outside.”
Ordan looked briefly affronted, before he gathered himself and said, “I have it on good authority that this shawl was made by finest craftsmen and women in the Middle Empire, with only the finest materials. Look closer!”
The Old Man did, hiding a grin. “Oh? And whose authority is that?”
“My father’s!” the boy said proudly, “He knows all about stuff from far away places.”
The Old Man nodded, schooling her own expression into something that wasn’t quite stern, but could pass for skeptical if you didn’t see the twinkle in her eye.
Ordan, it seemed, saw it well enough.
“We could ask my father,” he continued, “but you clearly have an eye for quality. You know as well as I do that it’s worth at least twenty gold coins!”
The Old Man reared back, a mostly fake expression of shock plastered across her face.
“Twenty silver, maybe! For twenty gold, I could buy the finest of dresses.”
Ordan frowned, “From a local tailor, with local materials, Ma’am, and it wouldn’t be a rush order. This is silk. It’s very soft, and Father says it’s rare. Mother says that’s because they boil worms to make it… I probably shouldn’t have said that.”
The boy looked embarrassed. The Old man, for her part, looked impressed.
“I hadn’t known that, Young One.” she said, “I feel bad for the worms I suppose, but that sort of thing never stopped me from wearing my wolver fur coat. May I try it on.”
Sensing opportunity, Ordan pressed his advantage, “I’m afraid that’s not possible, but just look at color. It would go great with your dress!”
The Old Man was wearing a serviceable dark grey dress, as so many tradeswomen did. To be fair, he was right. Grey works with anything.
But as was the custom, she pushed back, “But how will I know I’ll really like it if I don’t try it on?”
Ordan looked perplexed for a moment, confusion written all over his young face. Even so, he kept a perfectly polite tone as he said, “Ma’am, I believe that shawls are made to fit everyone, so that really shouldn’t be a problem. However, my Mother said no one is to touch it, ever, unless they have already paid.”
The latter sentence had the air of instructions carefully memorized, word for word. The Old Man paused, pretending to consider his words. Finally she asked, “But twenty gold? No. The highest I can go is fifteen, and that’s my final offer.”
Any self-respecting merchant in Kingsmount would take the words “final offer” as a challenge, and this child was no exception.
“But Ma’am, it’d be really hard to find a better shawl in the whole city at that price. And it will look beautiful on you! I can’t lower the price, I’m just a kid, but do you really think the satisfaction of owning such finery is worth only fifteen gold?”
The Old Man nearly laughed. He was parroting negotiation tactics he’d no doubt heard from his parents, but the earnest look on his face almost made her believe that he meant every word.
“Very well,” she said, adopting an air of defeat, “I say it’s highway robbery, but I really must have it.”
Ordan looked wounded, “Ma’am, it’d be highway robbery for me to sell this shawl any cheaper… even if I could.”
That last part was added hastily.
The Old Man sighed, but she retrieved her money pouch happily enough. When the twenty gold coins were safely deposited into the slot of the safe box, Ordan practically skipped his way back to the mannequin to retrieve the shawl. He returned shortly, bearing with obvious care.
The Old Man took it from him, and casually tossed it over her shoulders.
“What do you know? It fits!” she winked.
Ordan beamed, and practically bowed as he asked, “Would you like me to wrap it up? It would be a shame if it got damaged on the way home.”
“No need,” said The Old Man, “I’ll be just fine.”
As she left the shop, she looked back to see Ordan practically jumping for joy as he told his mother about the sale. His father looked on proudly from the counter. He’d been there for the actual purchase, but he’d let his son handle everything.
The Old Man approved. While children were expressly forbidden from working in factories and other dangerous professions at her own insistence, she thought everyone should have to deal with customers at least once in their lifetime. And what a little salesman Ordan had turned out to be! Why he could almost…
“No. No, he didn’t… did he?”
She looked back once more through the window, and saw Ordan again. This time, she used The Sight to look at him. She was relieved. He had the potential to wield low level magic, as most people did, but she could see no trace of magic use. His salesmanship was, well, all him.
He’d make a perfect candidate for… she stopped.
“He would be perfect. But can I do that to him?”, she asked herself. “He’s so very young.”
She needed to think about this.
And think about it she did. Almost against her better judgment, she strode down that same street the next day in the afternoon. Ordan would be helping his parents only after his studies, she surmised, and that would be the best time to meet with him.
The Old Man looked over at the woman on her right. Bluebell Darna was a complication. The woman hailed from the Northen lands, though she spoke the local language with a fluidity that seemed almost natural.
Unfortunately, everything she did was only almost natural. The Old Man knew what she was, knew what she’d clearly done. While Heroes tend to live longer than average, discounting their habit of dying in rather violent ways, no one could live to be nearly three hundred years old. Not unless they did some very specific things.
The Old Man shuddered, but said nothing. Bluebell had harmed no one in Kingsmount. She preferred to avoid people altogether. But rules were rules. No one of her power could simple be allowed to roam unsupervised forever. She needed a Companion.
The trouble was that Bluebell was the prototypical loner wizard, taken to an ungodly extreme. Whatever manners had been taught her by her noble family clearly hadn’t taken root. She wasn’t intentionally rude, as such, but she could not be allowed anywhere near a social function until she had a buffer.
It was the best way to prevent nobles and Trade Council members being turned into either adorable animals, or disgusting puddles of fluid. However much they might deserve it.
Bluebell walked, head down, probably full of spells she was designing, and she seemed almost oblivious except that she was easily keeping pace with The Old Man, and reacted to obstacles well before they became a problem.
They’d almost gotten to the shop, when Bluebell did look up, and asked, “Are you going to kill me?”
Bluebell had spent the entire stroll thus far wondering what she’d done wrong this time. All she knew was that The Old Man didn’t like her, and that she had been “cordially invited” to take a stroll with her.
They hadn’t gone down any dark alleys alone together, yet, but she was almost sure that this was a punishment of some sort. After all, she didn’t like randomly walking the streets with no goal, she didn’t like being surrounded by so many people, and The Old Man had failed to specify any other purpose for this excursion.
The Old Man, however, looked shocked. Well, Bluebell was almost sure that was shock. She couldn’t be sure. She was only a few weeks away from a unified theory of all reality, she was sure of it, but people’s faces were harder to decifer.
The Old Man carefully said, “No… are you making plans to kill me?”
Bluebell looked The Old Man in the eye just long enough to shake her head (people did insist on having Bluebell look them in the eye for some reason).
The Old Man asked, “Why would you think that?”
Bluebell shrugged, “Your intense dislike of my own self is no secret. Even I can tell.”
The Old Man smiled wanly, “Let’s be clear. If I ever decide to kill you, I’ll tell you right after I’ve suppressed all of your magic.”
Bluebell took that at face value, and truth be told, she felt relieved. She said as much.
The Old Man just shook her head and said, “If I killed everyone I didn’t like, we wouldn’t have a Trade Council. We’re here.”
In St. Catar’s Imported Stuff, young Ordan was excited about a new day. Yesterday’s sale of the shawl hadn’t been his first sale ever. His parents insisted that he’d accomplished that at the age of two, and he had no reason to doubt them. That sale, however, has been the largest he’d ever “closed”, and his family had celebrated with a small cake after dinner.
It’d been the most satisfying cake of his young life, as he felt like he’d earned it.
His parents had warned him that it could be a while before he made another sale like that, simply because the sales business, as his father had called it, could be a fickle thing. He did his best to control his growing excitement, but only being eight years old, this was difficult.
It seemed, however, that he might not have to contain anything. The chimes over the door rang as the same lady from yesterday entered the shop once more. Even better, she’d brought a friend!
His parents were in the back, so Ordan very carefully didn’t run over to them. His dignity, eight whole years in the making, wouldn’t allow him to look overly excited at the prospect of a returning customer, but he didn’t dally either.
He greeted the old lady from yesterday, “Welcome back Ma’am! Is there anything else I can help you with?”
He hesitated.
“I’m afraid we don’t have any more silk shawls, you bought the only one I know of in the city.”
She chuckled. “No, I’m here to have a talk with your father.”
“He’s in the back, I’ll go get him.”
“No need! You just keep Bluebell company, won’t you? Ordan, this is Bluebell. Bluebell, this is Ordan.”
Ordan was puzzled, but certainly not above humoring a customer. As the lady from yesterday made her way to the counter, behind which was “the back”, he turned to Bluebell.
“Good afternoon! Is there anything here you like?”
Bluebell didn’t look at him. She seemed out of place, uncomfortable. The way she stood, she reminded him of the time his father got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. His mother had been furious.
He started to ask Bluebell if she’d been caught stealing cookies, but thought better of it.
In time, she responded, “I haven’t looked around yet.”
Ordan hesitated. This happened from time to time, and he thought about what his father would do.
“Why don’t I show you what we have, then?”
Bluebell seemed to think about that for a moment. Then she said, “Because I don’t like people very much, and I’m trying not to be rude.”
Ordan hesitated again. This was not how things usually went. Selling his parents’ goods usually went a certain way. He’d say things like, “That looks so good on you.” or, “You can’t put a price on good hygenic paper, and this one comes all the way from the continent to the south.” They’d say, “Oh that’s too much money though…” and the cycle would go on.
After thinking for a while himself, he opted for honesty.
“I’m not sure what to say to that. That’s not how this usually goes. If it helps, the way grown-ups talk around me sometimes, I’m not really sure I’m ‘people’ yet.”
Bluebell cocked her head, looking straight at him for the first time.
“You’re ‘people’ enough.” she said. Then she sighed, “I suppose it would be alright if you show me around.”
Ordan did just that. For the next hour, he showed her all the different kinds of things they sold. As they walked through the narrow aisles, Ordan unconsciously adopted a posture similar to that of Bluebell’s. He slouched when she slouched, he radiated excitement when she showed interest.
“What are these?”
“Orcish romance novels. My mother says I’m not allowed to read them but she also says they’re very good.”
“Which one does she say is best?”
“What is this? It looks like you put a book on it?”
“Yes, it’s a reading stand that was carved in Brieland!”
“And what if I use my magic to hold my books up?”
Ordan paused. Magic? That was new.
“Well… does using magic ever make you tired?”
“I’ll take one.”
“What’s this porcelain bowl?”
“Well, it’s for… you know… doing your private business?” Ordan said, turning a little red.
“Should I get one?”
“It needs special pipes in your house to make it work so you don’t have to empty it by hand.”
“No, then.”
Ordan simply nodded.
“And this?”
“It’s a spice rack. You turn it and you don’t have to reach very far to get your spices.”
“Could it be used for spell components?”
“What are spell components?”
“Various herbs, powders, and small crystals that help my magic work.”
“Are they usually in jars or bottles?”
“Yes.”
“Then it could work.”
Ordan quickly realized that the “game” usually played between the customer and the seller wouldn’t work here. She asked direct questions, and he gave direct answers, and she believed him. She also didn’t seem interested in anything that wasn’t either a book, or something without a practical application.
Most of the fashion options were right out, as was anything purely decorative. And when she asked for a price for her first purchase, she accepted his answer without protest. That felt wrong. It was one thing to haggle a price up or down, but she simply agreed to a rather outrageous price for the book.
It would be easier than yesterday, and he couldn’t rightly accept that. So for everything that Bluebell decided to buy afterward, he offered what his parents would consider an acceptable price after haggling.
After that hour, the lady from yesterday returned. She saw the basket full of items, and one larger machine of still-indeterminate purpose from which Ordan was removing the tags. She smiled.
“I hope you haven’t spent every copper you have, Bluebell.”
Bluebell shrugged and shook her head, “I have a lot more money than that.”
She said it so matter-of-factly, that Ordan was nonplussed. She clearly wasn’t bragging. He said, “Ummmm, Bluebell, I don’t mean to be… impreten… ummm imperf”
“Impertinent?” she interrupted, but she didn’t sound annoyed, only curious.
“Yes, thank you!” Ordan said, then continued, “But maybe you shouldn’t say that sort of thing in public around most people. If the wrong people hear you they might try to rob you.”
Bluebell was impassive, “Do you think any of those people are here?”
“No, but it’s just some… advice?”
Bluebell nodded solemnly, “Thank you. If the wrong people did hear me, I’ll kill them.”
The other lady winced, and said, “Bluebell, I’d ask you to consider apprehending them for the constabulary.”
“Alright. I will consider it.”
The other lady relaxed, a little. She said, “Well, I hope you both had a wonderful time!”
Ordan, back on familiar territory, said “Oh, I was able to show Bluebell the entire store, and I think she’s very interesting. I hope the two of you will return.”
“After all you’ve bought today,” he stage-whispered to Bluebell, “it’s okay if you just come back to talk.”
In his youthful excitement, he was being perfectly honest.
Bluebell cocked her head and looked at him again.
“Truly? You’d like me to come and… talk?”
“Well,” said Ordan looking down a little, “I was hoping you’d come and tell me a little more about magic?”
The Old Man was confused. She should be celebrating this as a triumph. But she didn’t trust Bluebell yet, and she hoped that if anything went wrong, this kind and talented young boy would forgive her. Even so, she steeled herself, and looked back at the counter, where the boy’s parents stood, beside one of those porcelain bowls that she’d bought for herself.
They looked so proud, it sickened her.
She turned back, and put on her best encouraging smile when she said, “Well, Young One, there’s a way you can talk to her whenever you like, after some training. Have you ever wanted to be a Stalwart Companion?”
Ordan, now nineteen, flushed a little as he saw a familiar book on one of Bluebell’s many bookshelves. He’d gotten a chance to read one of those Orcish romance novels once. They were beatiful. The prose more closely resembled poetry.
And by all the gods they made his ears burn. Knowing that Bluebell… his mother… he quickly pushed that thought aside.
“I remember when I sold you that book.”
Bluebell looked at him. “Oh. That was you.”
He smiled, “Yes, that was me.”
She nodded, “I’m… glad… you made it through the training. You are to be my Stalwart Companion, then?”
“Absolutely! Ready to go on patrol?”
“I have no desire to go on patrol.”
“Then we’ll just have to begin those etiquette lessons The Old Man ordered.”
“I’ll get my coat and boots.”