The cobblestone streets of Credola led Oliver into a maze. All around him, intricate stone buildings raked the sky. It was worse than any city he’d been to. All the streets were too narrow and too meandering. More than once, a similar archway and adorned facades made him suspect he’d gone in surcles.
A broad stairway led to a garden around a knife-shaped tower. He saw a group of tall, graceful elves who moved through the path between flowering plants with an air of superiority. At least that’s the vibe he got from them.
A man in a fine coat with lace around the neck tried to get one’s attention, and the elf said, “I will not be bothered by boorish human chatter today.”
The man mopped his face with his hand and walked away, muttering.
The elves passed without a glance at Oliver. They wore loose, silken garments, and their eyes seemed ancient and knowing.
His stomach rumbled. He’d hardly touched the ship’s hardtack. If it weren’t for the food fest that was the last world, he’d probably be dead.
The gardens rose on an incline until a view of the westernmost part of the city lay before him. From the forest of masts at the harbor to the rugged mountains, he could tell he’d never be able to navigate the city.
He opened the player screen and found the familiar Star Mage and Weapons Master pages, but he still got an error screen for anywhere else he tried to go. This Universal Constructor could create worlds but not a functioning UI. Figures.
Sometime in the afternoon, he found himself at a bustling market. Merchants hawking their wares mingled with melodies played on lutes and flutes. The aroma of spiced meats and baked bread wafted through the air, making his empty stomach clench like a fist.
With nowhere to be and nowhere to go, he ended up sitting against the foundation of an overhanging building at the corner. A drunk man kept trying to strike up a conversation, and Oliver gave in and asked about the elves.
The man pointed to a litter, a long windowed box carried by a dozen men. “They won’t ride horses, they say. No, a beast is too dirty. Too smelly.”
“Is there some kind of caste here?”
The man gave him a puzzled look. “A what?”
“Are people separated by what they can do in the city?”
“Oh, yeah, I suppose. The elves are rich. Beyond rich. They say it’s because they live so long. They sit around all day at temples and council meetings. Good old humans like us don’t get to do much of running things unless we’re born noble.”
Perhaps the man being drunk was good. Oliver didn’t want to come off as if he knew nothing of the world, but this guy wouldn’t remember. “Are there kings?”
“Not in Credola. Not really anywhere south of here either. They say the elves pull the strings, and the kings and queens are puppets.”
Two younger men leaned against a nearby wall within earshot. They were listening. One kept an eye on the litter that halted at a textile shop to let the elves pursue the yards of cloth. "Taxes are going up. You can’t shit without a tax on it."
The other added, "They live for centuries, amassing wealth while we struggle to get by. It's not fair."
This place was about to boil over. Oliver thought of the mutiny and couldn’t imagine a whole city descending into violence.
A sharp pang of hunger reminded him of his immediate concern. The market stalls brimmed with ripe fruits, vegetables, meats, and bread. He had no money and no choice.
He left the conversation and edged closer to the food, trying to appear inconspicuous amid the crowd. A stout woman argued with a customer who over-fondled the food at a wagon full of red fruit. Seizing the moment, Oliver's hand darted out, snatched two, put them in his pocket, and withdrew. He followed the flow of pedestrians, heart pounding in his chest. I haven’t stolen since that pack of gum as a child.
"Stop, thief!" the woman's voice struck like a whip.
Oliver didn’t want to break into a full run. That might have drawn more attention than her shouting. He wove through the crowd at a brisk pace. However, the shouts pursued, and he sped up. They were right behind him. He rolled under a wagon and headed into a narrow alleyway. He pressed himself against the cold stone wall. He took out a fruit and bit into it—sweet heaven.
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He sank to the ground, devouring the rest and tossing the pits. He wiped the juice from his chin. "I need more," he said to himself, his stomach still growling.
He rose to his feet. The murky alley mirrored his prospects. Determined, he resolved to find honest work. There had to be a way to earn a living in this city.
But he had no skills. How would he do the simplest thing, like sell food? All those vendors had carts, ovens, money to buy flour, and all that. Hell, he never made anything from scratch, anyway. He started wandering as he thought.
Dim light filtered through narrow gaps. The allies ran beside and behind the large buildings. A huddled figure, wrapped in a blanket, sat against a brick wall.
The man's hard eyes caught his own. "It’s best to stay out of the alleys," the stranger said, a hint of a smirk on his weathered face. No, not a smirk, but a scar that turned one lip upward.
"I don’t have anything. I’m thinking what I can do for work," Oliver said, unsure why he felt compelled to answer.
The man chuckled dryly. "Work, eh? What are you good at?”
“Nothing.”
“In that case, I’d hang around the rougher alehouses until someone kidnaps you and puts you on a ship."
Oliver leaned against the wall. “I had a taste of that life. It wasn’t for me.”
“Well, then, sell that strange staff and live off that for a while.”
The swordstaff had become so comfortable in Oliver’s hands that he hardly noticed it anymore. “You think this is worth a lot?”
“Look at the metalwork, the jewel, the etching—it’s certainly worth a hefty chunk of gold.”
“You won’t try to take it from me even if it’s worth so much?”
The man moved the blanket to reveal a stump where his leg should be. “I worked for the Crimson Pike Guild for years. I guess I should have put back a little money, but I never planned to have a troll smash my leg and start gnawing on it.”
Oliver spun the swordstaff—such a perfect masterwork. Whatever the Memory Sphere did to him, it made him appreciate a weapon that was alive in his hands. “I’m going to go sell it and return with a hot meal.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
It was true, but the man had given Oliver an idea that would put food on the table for quite some time. He walked in circles from the alleys into the markets in the surroundings. Blacksmiths made weapons, but who sold them? After searching, he found merchants selling swords, spears, and bows, but none as ornate as his swordstaff. One wanted to trade, and another offered silver. Even if he didn’t trust the stranger in the alley, the merchants had a restrained eagerness when they examined the swordstaff that betrayed its worth.
“Stop him,” someone shouted.
Were they still chasing Oliver this far away? He glanced around and saw an armored man covered in blood. Two people chaced the man. One shouted again. “Murderer.”
Oliver walked away from the merchant and stood in the path of the bloodied man. He twirled the swordstaff and pointed it forward.
The man stood a head again as tall as Oliver and at least twice as broad. He gripped two swords and leaped forward. “Fine, I’ll kill all of you.” His long reach let him counter the advantage of the staff’s length.
Oliver retreated from the assault, keeping the blades at a distance. They were locked in a dance of death for what felt like an eternity, where a misplaced step would lead to disaster. Finally, one sword skittered across the cobblestones. “It’s over.”
The man knew it, and dropped the other blade.
The two approached. They wore pins on their shirts—little red pikes.
He followed them as they escorted the criminal to double doors adorned with the Crimson Pike Guild emblem.
The tall one with the pin talked about what they did for a living. A nobleman hired them as bodyguards for their current mission. Unfortunately, the criminal snuck past them and assassinated their client. “The guild will take anyone who can pass the tests but don't expect easy coin. The pay's bad, and the work's dangerous."
Oliver regarded the building thoughtfully. It was large and square and must take in a lot of money. "What other kind of mission do you do?"
"Mercenary stuff. Guarding caravans, moving gold, sometimes less savory tasks." His gaze sharpened. "But there’s no refusing work. Lord Heron asks you to do something, you do it or you’re out."
"I see," Oliver said, determination hardening his resolve.
The man shrugged. "Suit yourself. Better men than you have tried their luck and found none."
Pushing open the heavy oak door, Oliver walked in with the two members and the captive. Flickering lanterns dimly lit the interior, and the odor of smoke and sweat hung in the air. Tables and benches filled the hall, and a few people sat drinking mugs of ale.
A gruff voice called out from behind a desk. "Another one?"
Oliver approached and waited for them to fill out paperwork and for them to take the captive in a back room. "I’d like to join the guild.”
“Yep, it is another one. You’ll be the third today and the third to leave with your tail tucked between your legs.” Then, the man spoke in a commanding voice. “Weapons by the door.”
Oliver put his swordstaff on a rack and scrawled his name.
The man’s tone sounded so bored that he must have wanted to do anything else but this. "Do you have any experience fighting, stealth, or bookkeeping?" He glanced at Oliver's messy signature. “Can you fight or burgle?”
"I can handle myself," Oliver said. “I seem to have a nack with weapons.”
The man leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "Is that so? Do you want the hard test?"
Oliver didn’t want to say no and be considered an exaggerator or coward. Well, maybe he was those things. His stomach felt tied in knots. “Sure.”
“Come back tomorrow as soon as the sun’s up.”