Chapter 78: Ratatouille

One of the nice things about a quasi-medieval society was the relaxed attitude towards bringing your pet with you to dine. That had often been an issue back in London, whenever the team went out together and brought the office cats along for the ride. Some restaurants were accommodating, others tried to refuse us entry, and it was never fun having to stand outside while the biggest lad on the team argued with the manager. I like to think that they learned a lesson from the bomb threat phoned in after the fact, but I had no way of verifying that without being implicated, so I never did follow up on the subject, so this remained firmly in the realm of speculation.

Thus free to roam the dinner table, Pumpkin was having a grand time, wolfing down the local mystery meat casserole while fending off the odd opportunistic dog with precision warning strikes delivered by his tail. None of the canines had name tags, nor did they display any signs of intelligence greater than those back on Earth. Yet another open question, how the System chose who to acknowledge; the pamphlets in the library claimed that only those of good moral fibre were blessed with access, which was clearly rubbish given present company, so I was leaning towards it being random chance, in the absence of evidence to the contrary. I’d gone for a saltfish and potato soup, the closest thing on the menu to a proper fish and chips. It was good, the dried fish adding a rich and savoury flavour to the herbal soup, thickened with potatoes to the edge of becoming stew. Delicious, but also very hot, forcing me to eat far slower than I usually liked, so I naturally turned that downtime into a bit of people watching.

The clientele was diverse, as befit a major city, though there were a few trends visible even at a glance. A predilection towards fine dress, be it the tanned leather and chainmail preferred by the adventurous types that crowded the bar, or silk for those of a more mercantile persuasion, occasionally accompanied by full face masks and hoods for those preferring discretion. Everyone thus far displayed a name tag, though few said anything of substance, with only a handful of Soldiers and Merchants showing their full identity. The rest oscillated between a generic Class title, akin to the old Blacksmith, or else picked from an array of amusing and obviously fake names, waiting for their counterparts to arrive.

[Sue Donim]

[E.Z. Mark]

[Nom D. Plume]

Occasionally, one of them would excuse themselves and head outside, talking loudly the whole way while plugging their ears with both hands to drown out the noise, an old frustration that every member of the cell phone generation can sympathise with. Once again, I was reminded of the convenience of texting, and idly wondered if I could find time for some upgrades, preferably after the first round of sales so that I had some coin to my name. True to Harvey’s words, the atmosphere was nice and calm, with even the inevitable disagreements kept at a low whisper. There was no sign of criminality, and the closest thing to a commotion came from one man who had a little too much to drink, and had to be helped outside by his companion; yet another commonality of mankind that seemed to transcend two worlds.

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“Can I go hunt some rats?” Pumpkin suggested, turning begging eyes towards me, as if he hadn’t just finished a full course meal. “I can smell some nice plump ones nearby, I wonder why the local cats haven’t beaten me to it?”

“It might have something to do with the half a dozen Great Danes lounging around,” I deadpanned, shoving my mostly empty bowl off to the side and watching as the nearest of them eagerly snapped up what was left of my meal. “You don’t want to see our room first?”

“Will there be food inside?”

“Probably not,” I admitted, and that was all it took for Pumpkin to go running off into the night, all pretence of asking for permission gone in a flash.

“You eat more than Garfield,” I scoffed, though I didn’t bother to chase after him.

Despite being rather food-motivated, Pumpkin could take care of himself, and I had him in my Contacts lists too, so staying in touch wouldn’t be an issue. I hadn’t anticipated the exact reason, but temporarily splitting up came as no surprise to me, because as smart as Pumpkin was, he’d never shown much of an interest in economics, nor was he keen to get near the Valkyrie Dust after his bad first experience. I brought both our trays back to the counter, where one of the staff was on hand to collect them.

[Inne Keeper]

“Is there a story behind your name tag?” I took the opportunity to ask, because I doubted it was a coincidence that the name was identical to the old man in Allensward.

“It’s tradition!” he replied proudly, a gap toothed grin on full display as he rolled back his sleeve to show me a wooden tag wrapped around his wrist.

[Naeme’s Tag: Applies a custom name when worn. Currently set: Inne Keeper]

“When a man completes their apprenticeship and is ready to run their own house, the Guild of Innkeepers gives them a tag, to show that they’ve paid their dues. Wearing it isn’t required, but everyone does it while on duty, since it helps the customers spot us.”

“I see,” I replied blandly, my lip twitching at the name of the item; the System had many strengths, but creativity did not appear among them.

My curiosity satisfied, I left the man to his duties and headed upstairs, using the key Harvey handed me to let myself into my room for the night. It was considerably smaller than the one in Allensward despite being thrice the price, little more than a single bed, a bedside table and a glass of water; truly, it was like renting in London again. I’d barely had the chance to sit myself down when I heard a loud beep coming from everywhere and nowhere.

[Harvey: Don’t trust your eyes.]

The message received was ominous, but at that moment, all I could feel was annoyance that Harvey had text permissions while I did not.