Chapter 17: Cobbles, Gadgets, and ‘See’s’

  A funny thing happened when I used my [ink; good] on a new batch of [torchlight] scrolls. It was only an order for half a dozen this time, placed by Mr. Wordsworth across the street, not a huge Guild contract. It will certainly be easier to deliver them. A nice surprise greeted me when I finished the last one, too.

  Another step on the way to the next [Level]. As another bonus, it should streamline the stock for my side business. I still needed an initial layout of coins for the supplies. I would need to dig deeper into the tradition behind the apprentice side hustle. Perhaps, I could get an advance on my stipend? Or take the materials on the prospectus (//sure you used that right, English Major?//). It's not a conversation to look forward to. On the other hand, if I could convince the customer to cough up a down payment ahead of delivery, I’d be sitting golden.

  Two problems. First, I needed actual customers before I could look for payment. Second, the plan was to post-up at the adventure bulletin boards and sell to last-minute buyers. And last minute did not equate to, ‘Please, kind adventurer, may I have a few coins today and I’ll get you a scroll next Tuesday?’ Yeah, that would not fly. Not with my ugly mug, anyway. And I’m not the street husker type, considering my lack of conversational prowess. No, that would not be viable, even with a more personable front person. However, a pretty face might not be a bad idea, if I could find a partner.

  I didn’t bother with a satchel this time, instead bundling the scrolls into the crook of my elbow. The bell over the door to “Papers & Papers” jingled behind me as I stepped out into the street. The evenly placed, multi-colored cobbles were smooth and level, free of debris. Any modern city planner would be envious. The shopkeepers along Parchment Lane chipped a few coins into a pooled fund earmarked for maintenance and upkeep. Or in Master Alric’s case, he provided the [torchlight] scrolls placed in clear globes in front of each shop, way better than Victorian-style gaslights. And like I said before, every scroll had its own…flavor?...making for a colorful lightshow on dark nights. And guess who made those scrolls, now? That’s riiiight.

  I looked both ways before crossing, an unnecessary habit I couldn’t shake. Even if a carriage happened to be trundling along, there was plenty of time to move out of the way. The narrow streets and sharp corners prevented anything from moving faster than a quick walking pace. The rumbling crunch echoing from where wagon wheels met cobbles would give more than plenty of notice. There was no clip-clop of hooves to give warning, anyway. Elfhome’s horse analogs were called steedles, a three-toed llama-esque creature with long, curly fur—usually filthy; grooming the things anywhere lower than midway to the ground was an exercise in futility. I hadn’t heard if they were spitters or not, but I did hear they were bitters. To make matters worse, they had omnivore teeth, not the vegetarian ones in a horse’s blunt-toothed maw. There had been attempts at automated—artificed—carriages, but with no success on anything larger than a shopping cart—ooh-ooh, motorcycle! Not that I knew how to ride one, but still. And I’m sure Tess knew how, so there’s that, too. Maybe I could ride in a side-car.

  Besides, deliveries were made in the alleyways parallel behind most of the buildings in Oakland Fields, our little suburb on the outskirts of the city. Oakheart was the capital and seat of the Elven Matriarchy ruling over the nation of Willowstohn. I did the same double take on hearing ‘Oakland’. My first thought on the similarity was more bleed-through between galaxies. I tossed that aside after a few thoughts, however. Elves were associated with nature, nature with trees, and oaks were trees. It was a small leap for any isekai’d individual—wink-wink.

  Was I, really? Isekai’d, that is. I had not died—I don’t think—and I was not in someone else's body. Portal, maybe? I could make that stretch work. Alien abduction and a matter-transmitter were close enough for my mind. Looking back, I think I might have died a couple of times at least, and been resuscitated. Resurrected? Either way, genetic jiggering, and orc-tech integration were danger-fraught. That, and it hurt. A lot.

  “Hello? Mr. Wordsworth?” I called out as the door over his shop jangled. Not jingled, there was a difference. “I have your order of [torchlight] scrolls ready for you.”

  No answer.

  “Hello? Anybody here?”

  I heard shuffling coming from the back, where the scribe apprentices were kept. If that sounds more like a stable than an office space, well, you’d be right. Some would think we were being sequestered out of the light. Familiar, yep. Overexaggerating? Time will tell.

  “Hey, Book,” came a disembodied voice. “Come on to the back.”

  I recognized the voice. It belonged to Magali Wordsworth, youngest son and apprentice. I made my way around the front counter, carefully maneuvering so I didn’t lose any of the scrolls I balanced.

  “Magali, how’re they hanging?” The back room was about the same size as the one in Alric’s place. I think most of the stores lining Parchment Lane were roughly similar in size and layout. Instead of the impressive, motley assortment of materials, ingredients, and…things, I was used to, this back room was tidily efficient. Square cubbies were affixed to the walls, holding papers, parchments, and other bits needed for scribing. Five immaculate, varnished, wooden workstations occupied it. They were set in a staggered, left alignment. One desk, then two, and then three set in precise rows. None of them had mannequin legs.

  “How’s what hangin’, Book?” Magali looked up at the ceiling, not seeing any hooks or dangles.

  This time, I’d ‘slipped’ deliberately on using slang. I wanted to see his face, scrunched up and confused.

  Priceless.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  “Don’t worry, buddy,” I said, letting him off the ‘hook’ (//*groan*//). “Just a figure of speech from where I come.”

  “That small town on the edge of the Matriarchy? Boulder, was it? Strange name.”

  “Yeah, that’s it.” At least it wasn't named after a species of tree. Not many would consider Boulder a small place, especially anyone from around here. Oakheart was not much bigger, and it was the capital city of a country.

  I‘d forgotten that I’d told that little nugget to Magali. We always chatted for a moment when our paths crossed. Same age range, same apprenticeship woes, same—close, anyway—proximity. Outside of Tess, he was the closest thing I had to a friend. She had to be my friend, given the circumstances. Not really, since we'd been friends for all our college days; close friends, with one of us wanting more. Guess who.

  “Those th’scrolls?” Magali was a fast talker, his words tending to clip and run together. Before I could nod, he gestured for me to deposit the said items in a box sitting on a table near the loading door. It was ingeniously marked, ‘Delivery’.

  I placed them in a neat stack, then turned to rest my back against the wall. “Master Alric told me to...,” I paused to put on a formal expression. “'Thank You for the business,’ so, there you go.” The two Masters were in an ongoing war of politeness. There is a back story there, for sure. Just not one I was in a hurry to find out.

  Magali matched my expression, adding in a short bow to one-up me. “We graciously accept your thanks.” He made an exaggerated effort to slow-talk, all dignified and formal like. My grin held out a fraction longer than his own, and then we both let the smirks fly.

  Magali was the smartest person I’d ever met. I’m talking genius level. His mind worked so fast that his mouth could not keep pace. I thought it was a shame to waste his intelligence on scribing, making copies, and penning agreements. It was the family business, however, and he had confided a reluctance to say no to his father. That, and it let him read all kinds of things. In fact, he might be the only person I knew who read more than I do. Did; whatever. And it wasn’t fluff, either, but manuals from the Artificers Guild, treatises on magical theory from the collegiatetry (//Now you're just making up words, English Major!//), it didn't matter the contents, he took it all in.

  “Is that your new toy?” I asked Magali, walking over to where he sat. Taking pride of place on his desk was an intricate clockwork of tiny gears and miniature pistons. A set of little mirrors rotated on the top, and a small cistern filled with fluid connected to the back. I poked it a few times with my index finger, prompting the apprentice scribe into a panicked reach and grab. “What is it?”

  “It’s a wate’ timer. See,” Magali loved to explain his gadgets. “The water droplets dripfromtheback at a steady rate, one I’ve calculat’d o’er the past weeks, see I have this journal where I mark it…,” He saw he was losing me, so he stepped on the tangent. “…anyhow I figure if I timed it right and matched it righ’ these mirrors…” he pointed to the slowly spinning reflectors, “will put the right amoun’ light on the pages when I work.”

  “Breathe, Magali. Breathe.” I told him before he passed out from the lack of. Was there a way to use my [translation; superior] to slow down his speech for me, clarify it in real time?

  “Whoo,” he took a deep inhale. “Thanks, Book. You know how I get sometimes.”

  “I know, man. Exciting stuff you’ve got going on.”

  “Yes, it sure is, Book. It sure is.” For some reason, all elves seemed to place importance on including a person’s name in any conversation. I’ve tried, too, so I could fit in better. It just felt unnatural, forced, when I did it.

  Once he saw it was safe from my poking finger, Magali set his treasure back in its exacting place. There were faint marks on the desk surface, measured with care and precision if I knew Magali. I resisted the urge to slowly reach out with the offending finger.

  “You know, Book,” he struggled to keep a more measured pace. “I have the worst placed desk.” It was in the bottom row and squished next to the wall.

  “You are the youngest, Magali.” I did it, name-dropped.

  “You don’t have to remind me. I have three older brothers for that, mostly done with their own apprenticeships—two of them are already journeymen. And then ther’s Chet.”

  “Can’t forget Chet,” I smirked and rolled my eyes. Chet was probably the oldest apprentice to still hold the title. He was some sort of a family friend that went back decades, Chet kept his position through pure altruism. I’d say nepo-baby, but I’m reasonably sure he’s not related to the Wordsworth’s. Mr. W was the best, and if his four sons were not already learning under his tutelage, I bet he would have given me a shot back when I had asked him. Thankfully the randy goat hadn’t. Magic! With a capital M!

  “I need the best light I can get, you see, so I can, well, see. You know?”

  I smiled as his words started to pick up pace, again.

  “Where was I? Oh, yes. See, the mirrors, they spin a fraction with ever’ drop of water, timed out with the angle of the sun, reflecting the light and making it easier for me…”

  “To see,” I interjected good-naturedly. I kept the smile going throughout all this before I realized he had a problem. The reflected glare from the mirrors Magali was so proud of, struck him square in the eyes. I didn’t have the heart to say anything. He squinted back at me, happy with his gadgetry.

  “I don’t want to change the subject,” I really did, “but I wanted to ask you about something.” Magali sat up straighter, always eager to pass on some knowledge. “You told me before, right after we met, that apprentices usually eked out some extra coin, plying their trade on the side.”

  “Yes, I pick up some proofreading for a few students.”

  Shoot, he didn't need any supplies for that. Eyes only.

  “Why?” He must have seen the disappointment in my stance.

  “Well, see (//C is for Contagious//), I need to make some extra coppers (//C is for Coppers…go for silvers, you dolt!//), and I already owe my roommate, Tess, for an advance on rent.” He started to make that look, the one saying he’d loan me some, so I rushed on before he could offer. I didn’t need to owe money to both my friends. And, yes, I decided he was my friend. Hopefully, he felt the same about me. “Do you know what the proper etiquette is? Can I pay my Master after I use his supplies? Or is that frowned upon?”

  “Each Master is different,” he said.

  “Sure, sure.” I made the ‘move-on’ motion, circling my hand.

  “But the tradition is unofficially named the ‘Blind Eye’. I expect Master Alric would expect it of you.”

  There is a great saying about 'assume' and 'ass', but how about expect? Dare I say, I expect there was? Score another one for dad jokes! My own would be proud.

  “So, don’t ask. Just reimburse. Wait, the supplies or the coin?”

  Yeah, I deserved that look. What apprentice did not know about this stuff already, huh? Why do I ask myself questions, anyway? Why…oh, look! Shiny!

  “The supplies. Coin would be too obvious, Book.”

  “Of course it would, right.”

  “Do you have a project you want to work on?” He asked.

  “Yeah, I thought about trying to sell [torchlight] and [heat] to adventures by the boards. Last minute, impulse buys and such.”

  “A good thought, but only a few at a time, Book. Too many, and if you get caught without a vendor license to prove you have a right to sell there, they will levy you a big fine. Fair warning.”

  I nodded, having had the thought myself. It takes money to make money, no matter how cliche. And the Crown would need their cut if I was too obvious about it. Tax-free utopias don’t exist, not even in a fantasy realm of Elves. Boy, when I create my own the concept will be abolished and the currency of choice will be unicorn farts, or ogre earwax. (//Bodily wastes? And copyright infringement?//) Fine, Angel feathers and mermaid tears. Nobody likes a critic.

  “Alright, thanks. I’d better get back across the street, or Master Alric will have my ears. Later, Magali.”

  “See’ya.”

  We both tossed off a male, half-wave—can’t show we cared—and he went back to fiddling with his gadget while I made my way out of the shop. I rubbed my hands in gleeful thought, copper—Silver! —coins spinning in my eyes.

  does have another friend, so, yay!

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