Dream (5 page)

“We lost a lot of gear coming through the woods,” Shad held up the string of ears. “We’re here looking for work, thought we would try our luck in the big city.”

“A wise choice.” Rowland dragged his satchel around front, a difficult process because of the straps of his wicker pack. “Gentlemen, we have many a fine grog-shop, tavern, and inn here, but I must warn you that if you lack your own receptacle you will be drinking out of a moldy leather jack which has seen but an indifferent dunking in dubious water between uses by who knows what sort of drinkers.” He got the satchel open and produced a tankard. “Lucky for you I went south today to secure slats and horn. This is a lovely bit of craftsmanship if I do say so myself, cow horn scraped and sealed, with a sandstone base and an oak handle. Note the wood lid-perfect for keeping out dust when hanging from your belt! I do not employ a hinge such as you see on more expensive models as I find it makes washing more difficult. No, the lid is connected by a fine cord of braided horsehair, strong, quick to dry, and not inclined to hold an odor the way leather will.”

“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 knows 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.”