“It makes sense,” I say to Samuel Swan, and it’s true. I’m not on a cross country jaunt. I’m on a quest. More than that: I’m becoming an adventurer. (Perhaps the greatest adventurer. Only time will tell.) As for my supply of coins, let’s just say that when my mom gave them to me they felt like a lot, more coin than I’d ever held, then I paid the innkeeper for my room and literally felt myself become poorer. How can anybody afford to live? “As long as you can honestly help me search for Eduard, I can’t really say no to your offer.”

“Excellent.” He makes space on his desk. “I’ll draft the contract of servitude—don’t worry, that’s just antiquated legal language. The profession does love its traditions. Really, consider it an employment agreement. And you write up a description of this thieving blacksmith you're after. Looks, of course, but also anything else that might help identify him. Land of origin, accent, taste in women, what he likes to order at the pub. If someone might ask him about it and he might let slip an honest answer, write it down. Add a picture too, if you can draw. Can you draw?”

Art is not one of my strengths. “Not well.”

“Try.”

He hands me a quill and I attempt to draw Eduard’s head. An oval. Then his eyes. Two more ovals, sideways. Then his mouth. Another, larger, sideways oval and—

“A written description will do,” says Samuel Swan, pulling the quill out of my hand. “I believe you said before that you were from a village. Were your parents egg farmers, by any chance?”

“No, why?”

“Simple curiosity. I had a client once who’d been held for decades in an underground prison. To keep track of time he started scratching exes into the walls of his cell with a sharp rock. By the time he was rescued, he’d covered every surface with exes. Exes upon exes upon exes. Afterwards, that’s all he could write: x. Signed his name: x. Wrote the year: xxx. Had a daughter, named her: x. Get the picture? Eventually he wrote a book about his ordeal. Seven hundred thirty-three pages of exes. It caused quite the controversy but it sold like hotcakes. Now he lives off the royalties in a manor somewhere.”

That’s interesting. “But what does that have to do with my parents being egg farmers?”

“Oh,” he says, looking at my aborted picture with its ovals. “Nothing. Forget it.”

I go back to my description of Eduard, but I do more thinking than writing. There’s not much I actually know about him. (If I was planning to steal someone’s sword, I would also be tight-lipped about personal details. By which I reason that Eduard must have been planning to steal something, but he didn’t know about the sword—right?—so he couldn’t have been planning to steal it specifically.) When I’m finished, I hand the sheet of paper to Samuel Swan (“Please, call me Sam.”) and he hands me back a rather short contract of servitude.

“Standard terms,” he says.

I read it over and my eyes water. If lawyers are weasels, then can their writing be called weaselese? I do think that’s rather clever of me. But, moving on: as I understand it, the contract says that I, Grom, agree to work for a Samuel Swan (Barrister & Solicitor) in the capacity of an “indentured assistant” by performing a selection of enumerated tasks (copying, delivering, seeing, speaking, enforcing, appearing “and any other reasonably expected activity”) in exchange for which the aforementioned Samuel Swan shall compensate me. I shall work six days per week “at reasonable hours and at the employer’s discretion.” As part of my remuneration I shall be given “room but no board.”

“My job description feels a little vague,” I say.

“That’s because I don’t know exactly what you’ll be doing. I’ve wanted to hire an assistant for some time—but I’ve no clear idea of what one does. I’m used to doing everything myself. But, here,” he says, “let’s add this: ‘tasks to be reviewed on a bi-monthly basis and amended with the agreement of both parties.’”

“Does bi-monthly mean twice a month or once every two months?”

Sam smiles.

He changes the sentence to say “twice per month.”

“And,” I say, “if we can change the tasks only if both of us agree, doesn't that mean we'll never change the list until you feel like it? I'm the one who wants it changed but I'll need you to agree, and if you agreed you wouldn't have made this list in the first place.”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“What do you propose instead?”

I have to think about it for a few seconds. “How about: we don’t list the tasks at all but we write in that I can refuse any task I find objectionable?”

“As an employer, I have no incentive to agree to that. What’s to stop you from saying no to everything I tell you to do? Also, what’s the functional difference between your right to say no to something you find objectionable versus your right to say no to anything at all?”

This is good. I like this. This reminds me of the books I’ve read. Like when Al-Qabr defeated the Black Djinn by solving the riddle of the three-humped camel. “I guess there is no difference because I’m the one who decides what’s objectionable.”

“So you want an absolute right of refusal?”

“Yes.”

“Very well.” He crosses out the list of tasks and writes in my right of refusal. “What about my concern about you saying no to everything I ask you to do?”

“I could do that. I have the right, but I think we both know I wouldn't because you'd dismiss me. It's in my interest to keep my job so I can't keep saying no.”

“So the existence of a right doesn't equal the certainty of its exercise?”

“I guess not.”

“Anything else you'd like to change?”

“Obviously there's an issue with my hours. The contract says they're to be ‘reasonable,’ but reasonable to who, me or you?” (“Or someone else,” says Sam.) “So that sounds like something we'd argue about all the time. There's also the bit about you having discretion. I'm not sure what that refers to. Come to think of it, even the part about my remuneration including my right to sleep in the office isn't clear. Is that in addition to my actual pay or is it taken out of my pay? I mean, do I get my coins plus I get to sleep here, or do I get my coins minus whatever the value of sleeping here is, and if it's the second option, who decides how much sleeping here is worth?”

By now Sam is grinning from ear to ear. He's stopped writing, stopped crossing anything out. Indeed, he's picked up the contract of servitude and looks about ready to tear it up. “Grom, I would like to offer you a job,” he says.

“You already offered me a job,” I say. But it is becoming increasingly apparent to me that the contract was a ruse, a kind of interview, which I have passed—or think I passed, because based on my limited experience with lawyers (the last hour with Sam) it really is very difficult to tell when they're being genuine and when they're playing games. They seem to always be playing games.

“I offered you servitude.” He does tear up the contract. “I like to test people. You passed. You've got a good head on your shoulders. Tell me, back in your village, when people agree to something, what kind of contract do they draw up between themselves?”

“They don't.”

“How do they do it then?”

“With a handshake—and, after, they keep their word.” It's how my mom ran her sewing business and how my dad dealt with his mycoherbal customers.

Sam extends his soft, ink-stained hand to me. “Will you work for me, Grom?”

“I will,” I say, accepting his hand and shaking it.

Out of all the things I have accomplished so far on my own, this feels to me the most adult and the most professional. I am employed!

“But I do have a few rules,” says Sam. “First, never let anyone into the office after hours, no matter how insistently they knock. Second, in the back there's a staircase leading up. Always keep the door at the top of that staircase locked. It opens onto a house of ill repute (although, as far as those go, this one has quite a good reputation) that you may have seen advertised outside. Everyone has the right to earn a living, but our businesses are separate and they must remain so. Third, get yourself some finer clothes, man. Here”—He pulls out a money pouch and tosses it at me. I barely catch it—“take that to Jane Thimble’s. Tell her Swan sent you. Get yourself measured. Record the measurements. Then take her advice. The woman may have debts but she also has excellent taste. Pay what she asks. Do not haggle. But do get a receipt. Always get a receipt! And remember, you need to look presentable. You represent not only yourself—but Samuel Swan now too!” He punctuates that with a wink.

The money pouch is heavy, much heavier than the coins I have. Is this yet another test? Surely Sam knows exactly how much is in the pouch. He wants to know if I'll steal from him—how much coin means to me—whether he can trust me.

On a more practical note, “Where is Jane Thimble's?” I ask.

“Right. You still don't know your way around the city. You'll have to remedy that. Jane has her shop off the main square. Follow foot traffic to get there. Point your ear at where the noise is loudest and go. Then, once you're there—well, you can handle it from there. It's in Jane's interest to be found. Just don't get your pocket picked. Or talk to beggars. Or get your pocket picked while talking to beggars. Oh, and maybe get yourself a map.”

“I do have one rather basic question,” I say.

“Please.”

“What's the name of this city?”

Sam gets up, comes to stand beside me and—after I rise too—slaps me goodnaturedly on the back. “Grom, my man: Welcome to Fromburg!”

I feel proud.

“Also,” says Sam, passing his money pouch to me (wait—what?), “I just picked your pocket.”

He gives me another slap on the back and pushes me out the door.

This time, there are shady people milling outside the door to his law office. He waves one in. But I'm not thinking about that. No, what I'm thinking about is Fromburg. It's a sunny day but the city still looks dark and ready to swallow me whole.

(Don't worry: I mean it figuratively. I haven't encountered any sentient, carnivorous cities—

“Yet,” says Randy.)

There he is.

“I keep forgetting you're shy in front of other people,” I say.

“I'm not shy. I'm biding my time.”

“Sure, sure.” And I set off in what I hope is the right direction, clutching the money pouch tightly.