Trulda looked past Weylan's shoulder into the dark alley on the northwestern edge of the city’s downtown district. “Are you sure this is a legitimate bathhouse? It looks more like a drug den to me.”
Weylan, unfazed, gave the alley a quick once-over. “I’ve gone through the Baron's accounts. It’s a bathhouse that pays its taxes regularly and has passed the city's health inspections for the last three years without any complaints. The town is strict about cleanliness to prevent epidemics.”
He gestured to the cobblestone street leading off the main road, past the bathhouse. “The land prices here are relatively low. It’s close to the river but too far from the main roads This is where the river barges arrive. That's why there are mainly warehouses and storage silos here." He pointed to a cobblestone street that turned off the main road and went right past the bathhouse. "I asked Master Jago how the bathhouse can survive in an area like this. Apparently, it's quite cheap and has a good reputation with the riverboat crews.
Trulda’s eyes followed his hand, her curiosity piqued. “And they’re willing to pay extra for the convenience?”
“Yes,” Weylan continued. “They don’t want to travel stinky and sweaty through the city to the more upmarket bathhouses. This one also has access to the sewers and a standing agreement with the sewer guild. If a worker falls into the slurry, he can clean up here. He gets his own tub and spare clothes."
“Already connected to the sewer? Convenient...” Trulda mused.
“Malvorik said he can just about reach it with his current abilities. Shall we take a look inside?”
Inside, the bathhouse was surprisingly well-kept, with polished wooden floors and the scent of essential oils lingering in the air. Simple citizens stood at the reception desk, paying before disappearing through a door at the back.
An elderly lady behind the counter finished writing in her ledger and looked up. “Gods’ blessings. A single room with a tub for two?”
Weylan’s cheeks flushed. “I…”
“I see.” She smiled without missing a beat. “Two tubs in a double room then?” Weylan felt the amusement in her eyes.
“Yes, that’s fine. With extra bath oil, please,” Trulda said, smoothly intervening.
“That will be two silver and three copper.”
Trulda handed over the money, and they followed her directions to a room at the end of a corridor. She went in, beckoned the hesitant Weylan to follow her and then closed the door. The door closed with a simple latch. The room contained two tubs, each just large enough for a person to lie down. Steam rose from the water, and Weylan quickly noticed a ruby set into the wood at the foot of one tub, encircled by runes. “Warmth spell. Nice.”
Trulda removed her shoes, placing them neatly by the door. She reached back to untie her dress. “Would you please turn around until I’m in the tub?”
Weylan, puzzled, raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
“So I can undress and get into the tub?”
“I can’t see anything with the censorship clouds anyway.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know about the censorship clouds? No one’s ever undressed in front of you?”
“Of course not!”
“It’s part of the age restriction. Just as I can’t touch you inappropriately, my vision is obscured by these thick black clouds if I try to look. Otherwise, there would be partitions in rooms like this.”
Trulda glanced around the empty room, then nodded slowly. She swiftly unlaced her dress and slipped it over her head. Weylan, already unbuttoning his shirt, folded it neatly. Trulda, standing naked, looked at him expectantly. He had removed his trousers but kept his linen underpants on, similar to modern boxer shorts. Their eyes didn’t meet as he stared at a point below her face. She turned to face him fully, arms at her sides. He blushed deeply.
She looked down at herself calmly. “There’s no such thing as censorship clouds, is there?”
He tried to speak but could only shake his head, then quickly averted his gaze. She rolled her eyes. “Teenager.” She stepped into one of the tubs without hurry.
“Are… are you mad?”
“No. You totally got me. I really should have read up on the youth protection rules by now.” She giggled.
He reached for his underpants, then hesitated. “Would you look away for a moment?”
“Why?” She watched him, arms crossed over her chest. He waited, undecided, then climbed into the tub still wearing his underpants. Once submerged, he removed them, wrung them out, and laid them beside the tub. Then he grinned victoriously at Trulda, who met his gaze with a calm expression.
“I’m curious to see how you’ll wear those soaking wet underpants under your trousers.”
“I’m sure they’ll dry a bit by then.”
“Depends on how you put them back on.”
Weylan looked at the underpants, then back at Trulda’s grin, sighed, and let himself sink back into the warm water until only his face was visible.
* * *
Weylan’s face still showed traces of red, and Trulda’s a smug grin when they later spoke with the bathhouse owner. Veroden, approaching sixty, had invited them to his small living room on the second floor. The beer-bellied man stroked his bald head, amused. “So, you two kids want to buy my bathhouse? Wouldn’t you rather get your parents?”
Weylan nodded understandingly. “I hear that all the time. I always tell my master that no one will take us seriously. He really should finally get out of his study room himself. But does he listen? No. Master Malvorik lives only for his study of magic. Always inventing new artifacts and spells. One crazier than the next. Do you need a singing writing feather? Me neither.” He threw his arms up in feigned exasperation.
Veroden’s confusion deepened. “But what does that...?”
Weylan continued, “My master needs all kinds of exotic materials. Stones, ores, parts of animals you’ve never heard of, woods with names even I can’t pronounce, gemstones… all sorts of things. All expensive. I’ve told him dozens of times he can’t just spend money on experiments that don’t earn any gold. He needs to invest. In something stable. Something with a future income when his inherited fortune runs out. While he still has gold.”
“And you thought of a bathhouse?”
“No, we considered a trading house, but that’s too costly. Then an inn, but that’s also expensive. Currently, we’re investigating bathhouses. If they’re out of budget, a fish store in the northern quarter and a coach station at the western gate are still on my list.”
“I’m happy with my bathhouse. Why should I sell? It was built by my father; may he rest with the gods.”
Trulda gently added, “I’ve asked around a bit; you don’t have any children, as far as I found out.”
Veroden’s expression turned wistful. “My wife left me years ago, and since then... Well, yes, I have no children. No successor.”
Weylan sympathetically placed a hand on his shoulder. “You should really think about financing your retirement. All the other bathhouses we’ve looked at are family-owned.”
Veroden grimaced briefly, and Weylan quickly continued, realizing that he had taken the conversation in the wrong direction: “Anyway, you can sell now or hope that trade routes don’t change.”
Veroden stiffened. “What do you mean?”
“Well, trade carts currently stop here on their way to the count's trading house. What if the new baron moves his warehouses? Or sets up his own inn with bathing facilities? There’ve been rumors, but the governor had contracts with the trading companies for years about who could use which route and warehouses. Without that, he’d have had constant disputes. But the baron? I doubt he’s even aware of the previous agreements.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
Veroden paled. “I hadn’t thought of that. If the routes change… I can’t get cheaper. Without the convenient location, only locals will come here when their wives drag them for their weekly bath!”
Weylan had learned a lot from his master and had asked him about the bathhouses and other parts of the economic system. With this knowledge, he was able to lower the price of the bathhouse to rock bottom. His negotiating strategy would work because he was right. The risk of the inn losing its source of income was real. He could probably lower the price considerably. But... Veroden had to make do with the money for the rest of his life. He needed a new place to live, because the "Nonstandard Party of Charismatic Specialists " could hardly let him continue to live here. Not if they went ahead with the plan.
"Tell me, Veroden, what do you earn from the bathhouse? How much do you keep each month?”
The owner shrugged. “Seven gold pieces, sometimes nine.”
“Then I offer you this: Two thousand gold pieces, all my master can afford. Plus a lifelong pension of ten gold pieces a month for as long as the bathhouse operates.”
Veroden rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’d need assurances. My future would depend on you keeping your word.”
“I will swear an oath to the Voice of the World.”
Trulda’s head jerked around. “What?”
Veroden fetched a parchment and ink pen, beginning to jot down details. Trulda pulled Weylan aside. “What do you mean, an oath to the Voice of the World? We were taught never to swear or curse by Nemesis!”
Weylan, nodding gravely, whispered, “A written contract invoking the World’s Voice is enforced by it. The penalties for breaking it must be precisely defined. We’ll need a scribe to check everything. A careless oath can have severe consequences. The Voice usually ignores jokes, but there are scary stories…”
“Can we afford it?”
“We should. I’ll suggest a thousand gold pieces as a down payment; that’s what we have. The rest in a month when we’ve sold more artifacts and maybe completed a quest or two. Once we’ve set up the portal to the dungeon in the basement, I have ideas of what we can do to finance the monthly installments."
"More trade? With chimera products?"
"Also. But above all, we will control access to the magical portal to a distant secret dungeon. The Dungeon of Assassins."
"How did you come up with that name? That's a stupid idea. Do you want to tell everyone about your class?"
"No. Of course not. We will make revenants pay for the privilege of visiting the secret training dungeon of the Assassins Guild. A dungeon where they have to face dangerous assassins and monsters."
"Monsters I understand, but where do you get assassins?"
"I'm level 6 and my master is currently tutoring me in the teaching skill. I have at least one skill relevant to the class at journeyman level and an exotic feat. Therefore, I meet all the requirements for teaching assassins as apprentices up to level 5. Of course, I can't do any more than that until I've reached level 11 and risen to master level. Only then will I fulfill the requirements for training journeymen. But five levels in a combat class is not bad."
"How are you going to train revenants? They have their own structures. If you want to become an assassin, you do it through the Assassins' Guild. Besides, they certainly don't work in a dungeon as hero fodder for nothing."
"You can't choose Assassin during character creation. You have to earn it first."
"Really?"
"The guild gathered all the information about them during the last plague. Some revenants are extremely talkative. My master has informed me in great detail. But I have no intention of training revenants."
"Locals? You want to send NPCs to their deaths?"
Weylan threw up his arms in dismay: "No. Of course not!" He pulled himself together and spoke more quietly again as he grinned mischievously: "I'm going to train the lurking stranglers as assassins. Imagine what they'll do with increased stats in sneaking, close combat and melee weapons. Daggers and strangleholds, for example. Not to mention poison and sneak attacks."
"Monster assassins? Monsters can't learn character classes!" She hesitated: "Or can they?"
"I went over the idea of selling the revenants access to a training dungeon with Selvara. She said we definitely need an exotic concept. Something that won't make every revenant immediately gossip about the dungeon. I mean, they'll gossip anyway, but if they're afraid of being assassinated by the Assassin's Guild until they have to delete their character and start over, it'll at least stay in a small circle. We went over a few common concepts. In the process, Selvara told me that a Dungeon Master of at least level 6 can have one of their monster races trained in classes. Most wait until they get high level humanoid monsters to do this, as they can't change the race later. Usually, dungeon masters aim for something like minotaur berserkers or dark elf mages. At higher levels, you can then have other character classes taught via feats or hired teachers. But only ever the same monster race. Of course, the monster must have a suitable physique, so you need something vaguely human for most classes. For magical classes, they need suitable magical abilities, so the stranglers probably don’t qualify."
Trulda was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly: "Okay. Could work. To start with a new character, you have to buy a new account. Not cheap. Everyone thinks twice about that. Plus, you're banned from the game for a month."
"Monsters with class levels also give more XP, that alone should attract interested parties."
"Every revenant that dies in the dungeon strengthens Malvorik. But what if they find the duskgnome city?"
"Malvorik said that the portal rings have two sides. If you go through one of the portal rings from a certain side, you come out of the other portal on a certain side. We build the portal into a wall in the basement. From the official side you enter the training dungeon. From the other side to a shortcut to the gnome city."
The door opened and the owner of the bathhouse looked in: "I think I have all the key words together. We should see a scribe to have the contract fully formulated."
Weylan nodded in agreement: "I had already planned that too. Of course, the scribe is on me."
The three of them spent the rest of the day visiting a scribe and having the contract drawn up. With a planned oath to Nemesis, the scribe wanted to be particularly careful and checked every formulation carefully before declaring the contract ready.
When everything was done, they commissioned craftsmen to enlarge the cellar. Allegedly for a larger wine store. The plan was to bring up some duskgnomes so that they could completely rebuild the cellar. They would dig a recess in the floor and ceiling at the edge of the cellar to fit the three-step ring of the portal. Then they would dig the tunnel to reach the back of the portal later. They would wall in the portal in the cellar. They would build a door in the middle. That way, no one using the portal would be able to see the actual artifact.
Tired, they made their way home through the city. Everywhere in the city was still bustling with activity. Citizens were making their way home, merchants were packing up their stalls. Adventurers returned from their excursions in the city and moved into the inns.
Weylan looked up in an alley. He shook his head disapprovingly, "It's too early for this."
Trulda also looked up, but didn't see anything special: "What do you mean?"
“Someone just jumped from roof to roof. The sun is still above the horizon. His shadow gave him away."
"Are you speaking from experience?"
"No. I..." He hesitated. Looked up, then at Trulda. He narrowed his eyes. "I don't know. I just do. I see a house and recognize where I can climb up the eaves and where they wouldn't hold. Where there are bars on the windows and where there aren't. Must have something to do with my class."
"Fascinating. For players, the level gives them assistance on appropriate activities. For... natives... the class probably gives real knowledge."
Weylan looked at her with wide eyes: "How is it with you?"
She shrugged, "I don't do a lot of typically barbarian things. Hard to say."
They had almost reached the crossroads where their paths diverged. She slapped him on the shoulder: "I'd like to know one more thing. How are you actually going to get this portal ring into the cellar?"
Weylan stood still as if nailed to the floor: "What?"
"The artifact for the portal. You said it was a ring of metal, three steps in diameter. You and Malvorik never revealed how you would get it up through the narrow tunnels."
He stared silently in front of him. In his mind, he walked through the narrow tunnels that led him into the dungeon. The no less narrow staircase down to the basement of the bathhouse. They had had the room enlarged, but no corridor or door in the inn was big enough. He turned his head, searching. A raven flew down from the nearest rooftop and landed on his shoulder. The claws dug into his skin: "Ouch, watch out!"
"I did tell you to get some thick leather sewn in at the shoulder."
Weylan replied through clenched teeth, "I... did... on the other side."
"Oh... Oops?" The crow's voice didn't match her body at all. Her ability with the shapeshifting spell had increased significantly.
"Selvara, can you contact Malvorik and ask him how we can get the portal ring up here?"
"Of course." The crow fell silent and looked into space. After a few heartbeats, she tilted her head. Nodded.
Trulda nudged Weylan with her elbow: "You think she's grinning right now?"
"It's hard to say. You can hardly make out facial expressions with the beak. I wonder how she manages to speak so clearly."
Selvara let out a rhythmic crow and tossed her head up and down. It took her two attempts before she managed to get the words out again: "That was wonderful. I've never felt him so surprised. He really didn't think about it for a moment, since he is able to move that artifact around in his dungeon so easily."
Trulda grinned at Weylan, but he looked back stern. Her silliness evaporated. The problem was serious. Weylan tapped the crow: "Does he have a solution yet?"
"No, at the moment he's just stuttering around in confusion."
She was silent for a while, then nodded her crow's head: "He can only move the portal within his dungeon. But not even the smallest outpost of it may come to the surface." She spread her wings briefly, a gesture that the two humans could not understand.
"There you go. He has a solution. His intelligence of 20 shows its worth in his superiority." Weylan shrugged indignantly, almost throwing her off: "It's not proper to give away the attribute values of others."
"I'm sorry. The solution is actually quite simple. You have to separate the cellar from the surface. The cellar stairs must be completely filled with earth. No hole, however small, may lead upwards. Then he takes over the cellar as a temporary outpost, transports the artifact up, quickly rebuilds everything to fit and dissolves the outpost again. Then you dig up the cellar again and you're done."
Weylan thought for a moment. Then he nodded: "Tell him to leave a hole in the cellar where we can throw in the dirt later. Otherwise, I don't know how we can get rid of it without attracting attention. We'll start by dragging soil up from below, then close the bottom staircase door and then throw the soil back down and fill the staircase tightly." He groaned: "It'll take me days."
"You don't have to do everything on your own. Malvorik will send a few duskgnomes up to you. They won't stand out in the chaos with all the revenants. As long as they don't leave the bathhouse, nothing can happen. They'll do all the work, then they'll go back through the portal."
Weylan and Trulda went over the plan in their heads a few times. They looked at each other and nodded.