The gnomish pressure gauges that crowded Bean Works’ walls told different stories depending on where you looked: 37 PSI meant the morning rush had ended, the slow descent of needle 12-B tracked the day’s coffee reserves, and the quiet ‘tick-tick-tick’ of the master regulator counted seconds until the next batch of Dwarven Dark Roast would finish its precisely-timed extraction. Thadan found himself reading the dials automatically, the way Meyla had taught him during those endless summer afternoons in her father’s workshop. “Engineering is just poetry with more explosions,” she’d say, right before demonstrating how explosive poetry could be. Five years later, he still couldn’t look at a pressure gauge without smelling singed copper and hearing her laugh. The needle on gauge 8-C spiked as he dropped into the chair across from Rytha, whose skin skipped through shades of blue faster than the shop’s fastest brew cycle—the kind of color shift that meant attempted murder.

  “You’re interrupting.” Rytha didn’t look up from her notebook.

  “I have a business proposition.”

  “Done with the lantern scheme already?” Her pen moved in precise strokes across the page.

  “Come on, you don’t even know what I’m offering. And we’re practically colleagues—the Patchwork Post?”

  “Seeing you waste your potential doesn’t make us colleagues.” She finally looked up, her skin darkening to the same judgmental teal he remembered from last time. “You’re still copper-ranked.”

  “I’m retired.”

  “Shouldn’t you be Thadan Brightsteel Fourth of his name? I’m sure you, more than anyone, know the reputation he has at the guild.”

  “I didn’t tell you this last time, but I go by Ginedras now—Thadan Ginedras. But just call me Thadan.”

  “Interesting choice,” Rytha said. “Abandoning a name that could open any door in Ironweave.”

  “Those aren’t my doors.” The words came out harder than he intended. “And I quit adventuring, so yeah.”

  “The great Thadan Brightsteel’s son, abandoning the path to Orichalcum rank to do... whatever it is you’re doing now.”

  “I need mimics.”

  That got her attention.

  “Well.” She set down her pen with deliberate care. “That’s certainly not your father’s line of work.”

  The gnome barista appeared with a fresh cup.

  “Live ones. Preferably not too damaged. I’ll pay three copper each.”

  “Three copper.” She leaned forward. “For creatures that regularly eat adventurers whole.”

  “Four copper?”

  “Try fifteen silver. Per mimic. More if they’re from the deep dungeons.”

  “Fifteen sil- that’s insane! I could buy a decent sword for that!”

  “A decent sword won’t try to digest me during transport.”

  “Five copper and I’ll throw in one of my father’s tactical manuscripts.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one about shadow positioning in confined spaces.”

  “I have three copies already.”

  “With his original annotations?”

  “...go on.”

  “Seven copper per mimic, plus the manuscript, and I’ll add his notes on penumbral resonance patterns.”

  “Thirty silver for anything past the outer dungeons. Transport costs alone—”

  “Two silver for standard, twelve silver for deep delvers, and I’ll include his entire collection of shadow theory marginalia.”

  Rytha’s skin cycled through several shades before settling on a thoughtful teal. “Why do you need them alive?”

  “Would you believe it’s for furniture?”

  “No.”

  “Smart woman.”

  “The manuscript first. I’ll need to verify it’s genuine.”

  “Done. But I need at least five by next week.”

  “That is doable. The Copper Mines have had increased mimic activity lately. Something there is affecting their breeding patterns.”

  Thadan’s stomach clenched at the mention of the Copper Mines.

  “I don’t need to know the details.”

  Even after months away, he could still smell the metallic tang that permeated every tunnel, still feel the weight of millions of tons of rock pressing down from above. The Mines were Ironweave’s eternal money pit—a sprawling nightmare of collapsing shafts and monster-infested chambers that claimed more adventurer lives than any other dungeon in the region. Half the job board at any given time was desperate calls for help from mining crews who’d broken through into yet another monster nest or ancient tomb. The Mines had almost killed their party three times before they swore off taking contracts there. But if that’s where the mimics were breeding...

  “Yes, you do. Because if I’m hauling live mimics across three districts, you need to understand exactly what you’re paying for.” She pulled out a fresh page. “Standard rates apply within city bounds. Anything requiring more than two days’ travel incurs additional fees. Particularly large specimens will need special handling—”

  “How about we start with the five I need immediately, then work out a long-term arrangement?”

  Her pen paused. “Your father would be pleased.”

  “What?”

  “About time you applied yourself to something. Even if it’s...” She gestured vaguely. “Whatever this is.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It’s a ‘we need proper contracts with defined terms and conditions. And I want copies of all his notes on shadow theory, not just the marginalia.”

  “Deal. My partner’s obsessed with contracts. He’ll be thrilled to write up all the boring details.”

  “I haven’t finished listing terms.”

  “I know. But you’re going to help anyway.”

  “Because of your natural charm?”

  “They don’t call me prince charming for nothing.”

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  “They don’t.”

  He stood. “8 Merchant’s End, three days. I’ll bring the manuscripts.”

  “Five days. Proper mimic handling takes time.”

  “Four days, and I’ll add his treatise on umbral mathematics.”

  “...acceptable.”

  ****

  Brakar stared at their new sign: “Mimic & Co.” All that was left was to put it outside so people would know that was the name of their establishment.

  The door crashed open with enough force to startle the mimic-sofa. Brakar looked up from his work just in time to see Thadan burst in, practically vibrating with excitement.

  “I found us a mimic supplier!” The words tumbled out in a rush. “And she’s legitimate!”

  “She?”

  “Rytha Mar. Shadowpriest. Four days, five mimics, guaranteed delivery.”

  “And what exactly did you promise her in return?”

  “Nothing major. Just some old family documents. Theoretical stuff. Shadow manipulation techniques.”

  “Your father’s notes?” Brakar sensed his eyebrows climb. “Is that really a good idea?”

  “What good are they doing collecting dust?” Thadan released him, only to grab his arm instead. “Come on, we’re celebrating!”

  “Now? But the accounts—”

  “Can wait! This is a momentous occasion!” Thadan was already dragging him toward the door. “Our first official day as legitimate businessmen!”

  “At least let me get my—”

  “No time! The Six Spoons awaits!”

  “Wait!” Brakar dug in his heels. “We should invite Kip. He’s been super helpful, and it would be rude not to—”

  “Brilliant!” Thadan changed direction so abruptly that Brakar nearly stumbled.

  ****

  Kip looked up from his workbench. “May inquire about the nature of this unexpected visit?”

  “We’re celebrating!” Thadan proclaimed. “The business is official!”

  “Most excellent news. I trust the registration process went smoothly?”

  “Smooth as silk! Well, there was this weird ratkin asking questions, but that’s not important right now.” Thadan gestured with a grand sweep. “Join us for dinner? The Six Spoons, our treat! Please?”

  Brakar managed to cut in. “You’ve been so helpful. It would mean a lot.”

  “In that case,” Kip carefully removed his work apron, “I would be delighted to participate in your celebration.”

  The walk to The Six Spoons was mercifully short, though Thadan’s enthusiasm meant they moved at what felt like double speed. The usual dinner crowd hadn’t arrived yet, leaving the main room relatively quiet save for the sounds of apprentice cooks learning their craft.

  A waiter approached their table, recognizing Brakar and Thadan. “Ah, the usual for you, gentlemen? Unseasoned meat with—”

  “Not today! We’re celebrating! Bring us the crocodile special, extra seasoning!”

  Brakar’s face flushed crimson. Crocodile? In front of Kip? He tried to catch Thadan’s eye, to somehow communicate the massive cultural faux pas they were about to commit.

  Thadan noticed his expression and froze. “Oh. Oh shit. I didn’t mean— Kip, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t thinking—”

  “If I may,” Kip interrupted smoothly, “I would very much enjoy the crocodile as well. The chef here has quite the talent for bringing out the natural flavors.”

  “You... would?” Thadan blinked.

  “Indeed. The preparation method is quite fascinating – a blend of techniques from three different cultural traditions.”

  “Oh.” Thadan’s relief was palpable. “Oh good. For a second there I thought—”

  “That I might take offense?” Kip’s expression held a hint of amusement. “I assure you, such concerns are unnecessary. We lizardfolk have a rather practical view of cuisine.”

  Brakar’s shoulders visibly relaxed. “In that case, I’ll have the same.”

  “Excellent!” Thadan turned back to the waiter. “Three crocodile specials, extra seasoning, and a round of beer!” He paused. “Actually, make it two beers for Brakar.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I’ve known you for years and I’ve never seen you properly drunk.”

  “That’s because I barely drink. On purpose.”

  “Nailed it! You’re always so... controlled. Come on, live a little! We’re celebrating!”

  Brakar looked to Kip for support. “Celebration does traditionally call for some loosening of usual constraints.”

  “See? Even Kip agrees! Come on, just this once?”

  Brakar sighed. “Fine. But just this once.”

  The food arrived in ten minutes – one of the benefits of eating early – and the conversation flowed as easily as the beer. Thadan regaled them with the story of tracking down Rytha, complete with dramatic reenactments of his sprint through the city.

  “—and then,” Thadan was saying, gesturing with a piece of meat, “she says she wants thirty silver per mimic! Can you believe it?”

  “Quite reasonable,” Kip observed, “considering the risks involved in procurement.”

  “But this jackass here probably tried to haggle her down to copper pieces!”

  Thadan’s fork clattered against his plate.

  “Did... did you just call me a jackass?” Thadan asked incredulously.

  “Damn straight I did!” Brakar jabbed a finger in Thadan’s general direction, missing by several inches. “Always tryin’ to cheap out on everything! Y’know how many times I had to patch you up ‘cause you bought cheap equipment?”

  “Brak, are you drunk?”

  “Nah, but I’m sure these mimics ain’t cheap, ya feel me? Living merchandise costs quality coin, ya dig?” Brakar’s accent had somehow shifted into something approximating a street tough from the lower districts. “Can’t be running no respectable business if we ain’t willing to invest in the product, know what I’m sayin’?”

  Thadan and Kip exchanged glances. Then, simultaneously, they burst out laughing.

  “Holy shit,” Thadan wheezed between guffaws. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the guy who’s gonna make sure we run this joint proper,” Brakar declared, somehow managing to sound both sophisticated and thuggish at the same time. “None of that amateur hour bullshit you tried to pull with them lanterns!”

  Kip’s carefully maintained composure cracked completely as he doubled over, his scales flushing a deeper copper from suppressed laughter.

  “Amateur hour?” Thadan wiped tears from his eyes. “I got us some contracts!”

  “Yeah, yeah, real impressive.” Brakar waved dismissively, nearly knocking over his empty mug. “But we gotta think bigger, ya know what I mean? Can’t be nickel-and-diming every little thing if we wanna make it in this town!”

  “perhaps we should order water?” Kip managed between chuckles.

  “Water’s for chumps!” Brakar declared. Then he blinked. “No, wait, that ain’t right. Water’s important. Gotta keep myself hydrated and shit.”

  “And shit,” Thadan repeated, dissolving into fresh laughter.

  They lingered at their table, ordering another round and finishing off the last of their meals with the slow satisfaction of men who had nowhere urgent to be.

  Through the pleasant haze of alcohol, Brakar found his mind drifting back to that night in the leaking tent, when everything had seemed to be ending. He’d been so certain then that they were losing something irreplaceable.

  But sitting here now, watching Thadan laugh until tears streamed down his face, seeing Kip’s scales flush copper with genuine mirth, he realized something profound through his ale-addled thoughts: maybe they hadn’t lost what mattered most after all. Sure, Mira and Pockets had moved on to their own adventures, but that warmth of friendship, that ability to transform even the most challenging situations into something manageable simply by being together—it wasn’t gone. It had just... changed shape. Like their mimics.

  “Y’know somthin’?” he announced, his sophisticated-thug accent growing even more pronounced as words started blending together. “This right here? S’the good stuff. The real treasure. Like them maps Mira used ta draw on napkins, or them crazy machines Pockits was always talkin’ bout building.”

  “Brak,” Thadan said gently, “you’re not making any sense.”

  “Nah, but ‘m making a point!” He jabbed his finger at the table for emphasis, missing slightly. “We thought we needed all that ‘venture stuff to be... to be us. But maybe we jus’ needed this. Jus’... being here. Together. Makin’ stupid decisions ‘bout furniture that eats people.”

  Kip took a careful sip of his drink to hide his smile, but Brakar was already pushing onward, his words flowing with drunken sincerity.

  “Even if it all goes wrong t’morrow – even if our shop fails an’ all our mimics decide to eat us—at least we tried somethin’ new. Together. An’ that’s... tha’s worth celebrating, ain’t it?”

  They settled their bill.

  “Perhaps I should ensure our colleague reaches home safely?” Kip said, steadying Brakar as he attempted to navigate the tavern’s threshold.

  “I’ll take him. The Stack isn’t far. I live there too.”

  “Very well.” Kip adjusted his craftsman’s clothes. “This has been... educational.”

  “Damn straight. Professional development,” Brakar mumbled as he gave him an enthusiastic thumbs-up.

  They made their way to the Stack under a sky streaked with deep orange and fading blue. The air had cooled.

  With a sigh, Thadan crouched down and hefted Brakar onto his back, adjusting the weight as he started up the narrow stairs. Reaching the small room, Thadan lowered him onto the bed with as much care as his patience allowed, then stepped back, rolling his shoulders.

  “Sleep well, you professional businessman,” Thadan whispered, closing the door behind him.