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Caruso sat behind his stall in the mushroom markets, watching the crowds pass him by. He didn’t know why his stall seemed to be ignored by everyone. There was certainly nothing wrong with his mushrooms. While he hadn’t gathered them himself, they were of high quality, containing a popular selection of both Zone 1 and Zone 2 shrooms.

But no one seemed to care.

All week, he’d sold an embarrassingly small amount. He suspected there was more to this job than simply sitting here, hoping for a sale. Whatever it was, if he didn’t figure it out by the end of the day, Bozi would surely fire him. He studied the stalls around him, trying to understand why each one worked.

The stall on his left was always popular. Run by a pretty doe-eyed girl, it was no great mystery why men flocked to her stall. Caruso himself was tempted to buy a few of her sweet shrooms just for an excuse to make eye contact with her. But he could tell her berryshrooms had been picked a day too early. And the colour gradient on her honeyfungus was far from perfect.

An older woman who liked to spit on the ground managed the stall on his right. She had an uncanny ability to talk any passerby into a sale. Her customers weren’t put off by her spitting, or that her Zone 2 shrooms weren’t fresh enough to infuse the air with that characteristic medicinal tang.

The man opposite relied on obnoxiously yelling out every variety of mushroom in his display. Many crowded around the man’s stall as if he were putting on a show and buying his wilted shrooms was the price of admission. Once, during a rare lull in his performance, Caruso had courageously attempted this strategy—it resulted in a memory he was determined to keep buried.

Every stall found something that worked for them.

Everyone seemed to know what they were doing.

Everyone but Caruso.

He wished Bozi had told him what to do, rather than letting him struggle on his own.

A man with a blackened eye gave Caruso’s display a disinterested glance. Buy something! Caruso willed at him. But the old woman to his right snagged the customer’s attention.

Caruso strained an ear to listen in.

‘What are you after?’ asked the old woman.

‘Got any sourcaps?’ said the customer.

‘I have redparasols, they’ll suit you just as good.’ The woman spat on the ground beside her. ‘How many do you want?’

The customer looked dumbly at her display. Caruso considered telling him about his own supply of sourcaps, or that redparasols were a completely different shroom. But it seemed a bit rude to steal her customer. The last thing he wanted was to make things awkward.

He waited until the customer finished his purchase, then made his move.

‘Uh…excuse me, sir?’ Caruso called out before the man walked away. ‘I have sourcaps.’

‘I’m good. I just bought me some redparasols.’

‘They are two completely different shrooms.’

‘Nice try, lad. I ain't no sucker.’ But the man didn’t turn to leave. He stood there, facing Caruso, as if challenging him to prove him wrong.

Caruso hated this part. The dreaded confrontation where the sale no longer hinged on the quality of his mushrooms, but on his ability to talk convincingly.

He took a deep steadying breath.

He reminded himself that he’d exhaustively studied every book and scroll about mushrooms in the library. He reminded himself there was no reason to fear looking the customer in the eye and explaining the differences between the two shrooms.

The old woman spat on the ground again. She was watching the standoff with an amused smile that widened as each second of silence stretched out.

Caruso took another steadying breath. ‘I assume you wanted sourcaps for their antibruising effects, for your eye. Redparasols have no such effect, their only medicinal property is the energizing tea they make. The two shrooms look similar, but they cannot be substituted.’

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Caruso felt himself relax slightly as he talked about the mushrooms.

‘Taste one of your parasols,' Caruso continued, 'it will be bitter, not sour. That’s a good indicator that they are unrelated.’

The man nibbled one of his parasols, gave the old woman a glare, then examined Caruso’s sourcaps.

‘Alright then. I’ll give you 2gil a pop.’

‘Um…Sorry, sir. These are 3gil each.’

‘Well, I’m buying in bulk, so I’ll need a discount.’

Caruso’s heart leapt. This was it. The sale that would save his job.

‘If you buy in bulk, I can do 2gil each. How many would you like?’

‘Four.’

‘Just four?’

‘S’what I said.’

‘I’m not sure if four counts as bulk...’

‘I don’t give a shit what you think.’ The man slapped 8gil down, and helped himself to four sourcaps.

Am I being robbed? Caruso considered calling out for the nearest Forester guard. The Foresters were trustworthy, and very strict against thieves. They ruled over Jamala and the neighbouring shroom circles, controlling the trade of mushrooms. But Caruso decided not to bother them with such a small complaint. It wouldn’t make a difference anyway—Caruso figured his job was doomed regardless.

He recorded the sale in the ledger and mentally prepared himself for the next customer.

----------------------------------------

A few small successful sales, and countless fails later, Bozi returned. Caruso sat up straighter, as if his posture would dissuade Bozi from firing him.

‘You do any better today, boy?’ Bozi asked, reaching for the ledger behind the display.

‘I think I’m getting the hang of it.’

Bozi read the ledger with a frown. ‘You know, one of my sellers showed up three hours late today, fell asleep at his stall, and still sold twice as much as you.’

‘I think I’m just in a bad position here.'

Bozi raised an eyebrow at the heavy flow of potential customers.

It was bad timing.

A nearby stall had began roasting spiceshrooms on a brazier, the savoury peppery aroma attracted market goers from all around.

‘Or maybe it’s the mushrooms,’ Caruso added quickly. ‘Everyone sells these, there’s nothing special about them.’

‘The problem ain't the mushrooms.’

‘But—’

‘What are you doing, Caruso?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, what are you doing, here, in the market?’

‘I need a job?’

‘You had a job.’ Bozi grabbed the purse and fingered through the coins, counting silently and talking at the same time. ‘One that you were damn good at.’

‘I’m done with being a gatherer.’

‘When you came to me two years ago, you told me you’d studied every single book and scroll about the mushroom forest, that all you wanted was to work there, in the

shroom circles. But now you tell me you’re happy working here in the market?’

Caruso was far from happy about it. But what other choice did he have? ‘It’s because of the Zone 2 sporesickness, I never fully adjusted.’

‘Cut the shit. We both know that aint true.’

Caruso opened his mouth to respond, but he had nothing. Bozi knew him too well. Caruso looked down at his feet, waiting for the inevitable. Bozi stashed the purse and the ledger away and gave an exaggerated exhale, the way one does before delivering unpleasant news.

‘Look, Caruso—’

A commotion erupted from the other side of the market. Multiple yells of “Thief!” cut through the air. Market goers turned their heads as a young girl came sprinting down between the stalls, a pair of expensive mycelium leather boots clutched to her chest. She dodged around an elderly couple and twisted away as someone grabbed at her. As she neared their stall, a man tackled her down to the cobbles—he wore the stone disc necklace of a Forester.

A crowd circled around them, blocking them from view. But Caruso wasn’t interested in watching—he knew how the Foresters dealt with thieves. A couple more Foresters arrived at the scene, pushing through the gathered onlookers.

‘Where was I?’ Bozi said, turning back to Caruso.

‘I think you were about to fire me.’

Bozi gave a sympathetic smile, ‘Can I be honest?’

‘You normally are.’

‘You’re a shit salesman. The worst I’ve ever seen. So yeah, I’m taking you off my stalls.’

Even though Caruso expected it, the news punched him in the gut. As if sharing his pain, a sharp cry came from the young girl. Caruso hoped the Foresters didn’t break too many of her fingers. The worst thieves sometimes got all ten broken.

Bozi continued, ‘You want another job?’

‘Better than becoming a thief.’

‘Aye.’

‘But I meant what I said before, I’m done with being a gatherer.’

‘Coz you’re afraid of the Vandelier brothers?’

Caruso felt a trickle of dread. ‘How did you know?’

‘Foresters told me they caught the Vandeliers pissing on you while you were tied to a tree.’

Caruso looked down so Bozi couldn’t see his face flushing with shame.

Bozi said, ‘But you won’t have to worry about those brutes no more. You remember my nephew Webber? I want you to teach him about shrooms and gathering.’

The idea startled Caruso. He eyed Bozi. ‘You want me to teach him?’

‘Aye.’

‘But I can’t teach, I don’t know how.’

‘How hard could it be. Just answer his questions, tell him what you know.’

‘But why would Webber want to learn from someone like me?’

‘What do you mean someone like you? I’ve already told him ‘bout this. Lad was thrilled.’

Caruso didn’t see how Webber could be “thrilled” about learning from him. Teaching implied a lot of talking—Caruso was not good at talking. Just the thought of it made his stomach churn with anxiety.

Bozi said, ‘Just go with him this afternoon into the shroom circles—’

‘Wait. Into the shroom circles? This afternoon?’

The girl gave a second cry of pain. Caruso winced and cradled his own unbroken fingers to his chest.

‘Aye. All the way into Zone 2. Don’t worry about the Vandeliers, they won’t bother you if you’re with Webber.’

‘You clearly don’t know the Vandeliers.’

‘You clearly don’t know Webber.’

‘I’m not sure about this, Bozi. I appreciate the offer…I’ll think about it.’

‘You think too much. Just do it. Webber will be waiting for you down at the Zone 1 stables.’

The crowd around the young thief finally dispersed. The girl was led away by the Foresters, clutching her two broken fingers to her chest. She looked miserable. Caruso stood up to leave as well.

‘If you don’t do this,’ Bozi said. ‘I got nothing else for ya.’

A sly grin came over Bozi’s face. ‘Although, Fun-Guys down in the redcap district is always hiring young men such as yourself.’ Bozi chuckled and slapped him on the back as he left.