“One dove, miss,” Mishal said to her tenth and last client of the day. The customer, a girl who’s most likely her age, judging by appearance alone, held out one piece of silver coin. Mishal extended her own hands, opening the coin purse wider. The girl tossed the coin there, and let out a tiny ‘oh’ at the clinking of coins. “Thank you for your patronage,” Mishal said, bidding farewell. If the girl responded at all, Mishal wouldn’t have known as she hurried off right after the transaction. She could hear the girl calling for someone, muffled, above the sound of her own footfalls.
The tall tower rang just as Mishal began descending the hill. She snapped at its direction in reflex, and then at the sky, squinting against the sun’s glare. The bell rang again, signaling the beginning of rest and the end of work. For most people, that is. She made quick work of the downhill path, letting her own weight pull her but without tripping on her own legs. Years of practice gained from her daily trek up, down and across the ravine had given her body some kind of understanding with how Lavrosi terrain works.
When Mishal arrived at the sculptor’s shop, she was met with a long line of patrons fussing about at the entrance. All the windows have been occupied by peering eyes and those who couldn’t get any of the view inside settled with pestering those who could. Mishal briefly wondered what it was about, and then charged forward, apologizing for anyone she might have offended on her way.
“Mr. Gylliam? It’s me, the transporter!” Mishal managed to squeak out above the buzz and chatter of the people, quietly hoping that the owner heard her. The door opened very slightly, a single blue eye peeking out, and then a strong hand grabbed Mishal into the shop. She landed on the floor on her knees, the door making a sound thud as Gylliam slammed it close. She could hear a chorus of dismayed but still determined noises from outside the door.
Gylliam tsked, clearly annoyed, if the deep lines on his forehead wasn’t enough proof. “Them gossipmongers, I’ve no idea why they fuss about other’s businesses so much.” It wasn’t clear to whom he was speaking but he had a glare fixed to the door. Mishal stood, extending the bag of coins to the dwarf. The implication of money seemed to appease his irritation, if only a bit. He swung the leather bag back and forth and smiled at the sound it produced. He then poured them on the low table and then began counting. There were a bunch of scrolls on that same table and, to make room for counting the money, Gylliam pushed them aside. Whether the scrolls falling to the floor was intentional or not, Mishal cringed either way. She fought the urge to pick them up, careful of being scolded. Instead, she diverted her attention away from her employer to the... peering eyes of the people outside.
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Mishal had no reason to be startled by their attention. Gylliam’s customers have always been like that — dwarves’ customers. His race, whether due to myth or truth lasting for centuries, has been alluded with the notion of exemplary skill in whatever craft they chose to dedicate their lives to. Gylliam and Xion were the only dwarves in town and only Gylliam was in a good enough temperament to negotiate with clients. On most days. Mishal had remembered from her childhood reading that dwarves often preferred solitude when not mingling amongst their own folk. She wondered if that was true, and if it was, why has she never heard either party talk about each other when there were only two of them?
She was soon pulled away from her thoughts when Gylliam approached her. He gave her six shields, two copper coins short from the usual pay. Mishal rose from her seat, about to pose an inquiry, when the dwarf said to her, firmly, “You were late.” And then he knitted his eyebrows tighter. “Again. Late yesterday, late the other yesterday.”
At that, her reasons crawled back to her throat and drowned in the acid in her stomach. She accepted the coins, already dreading the number of bites she will have to resist taking from tonight’s dinner. Before she could utter any word, Gylliam suddenly yelled. Mishal raised her head in alarm, thinking it was directed to her. What she saw instead was the dwarf glaring at a face Mishal was slightly familiar with. The woman wore a blue robe, one that was distinctive of the academy. “Shit,” Mishal muttered below her breath.
“There’s no need to be so sulky, is there, Gylliam?” The woman was taller than Gylliam by four heads, and had a voice much smoother than Gylliam. Mishal began to walk as quietly as she could towards the door. When her hand was about to land on the door’s handle, a weight the shape of a hand also landed on her shoulder. “Wyld! If it isn’t my favorite pupil! What are you doing here?” Why haven’t you attended class for the past two weeks? Mishal didn’t need to know telepathy to understand.
Mishal turned to stare at her teacher’s grinning face and couldn’t find a good answer.