[participant in the Royal Road Writathon challenge]
Dead silence greets my proclamation at first. The longer I look around the workshop and see all the blinking eyes and amused smirks, the more I get the sense that I’ve badly misread the room. I already know this city isn’t as polite as Silaraon, but the interactions I've had with Vicario and his daughter so far have led me to believe that they would welcome a flair for the dramatic. As raucous laughter reverberates all throughout the workshop, I belatedly realize that it appears I’m mistaken.
Vicario chuckles quietly, then lifts his hands to pat the air, silencing his little gang of [Apprentice] workers. He runs his fingers through his tangled mess of dark curls, raises his eyebrows expressively, and lets out a dry, wheezing laugh. “Well you certainly don't hurt for confidence. I'll give you that, nameless [Glassworker]. Bombastic is a good look on you.”
“I can back up my confidence,” I say with a voice that sounds anything but confident in my own ears. I kick myself mentally for the tremor of uncertainty in my tone. The tepid response is taking the wind out of my sails, as Reijo likes to say, and now I’m fumbling for the right words to get back on course.
“Seriously, I like your style,” Vicario says again. “But I’m already behind on orders for the week. I don’t have the time to test out your Skills and try to integrate you into the workshop, even if you are as good as you say you are. And if you're just passing through town, not sticking around? Not worth the investment. Now, if you ain't buying, you ain't staying. You hear me?”
“Five minutes!” I sputter, holding up my hands. “That's all I ask. Show me your hardest order, your most profitable wares, and I’ll duplicate it. You can double your income on the piece without putting in another copper. I swear it. I’ll . . . I’ll even supply my own glass!”
That catches his attention. Vicario leans back against a workbench, resting his elbows on the flat surface behind him. He rubs his chin with a calloused hand, considering me with eyes that suddenly seem too sharp.
With a world-weary sigh he pushes himself upright. “I’ve indulged you this far. What’s a few more minutes?”
I grin and take a breath, about to tell him that he won’t regret his choice, when he jerks his head toward the door. Iriye scurries over and slams it shut, turning the key and pocketing it before I can react. The expressions of the workers grow hard.
I swallow hard. “I don’t know what you want, but I’m not looking for trouble. Please, just let me go.”
“Perhaps,” Vicario says. He shrugs. “You don’t look like you’re carrying much with you. Where’s the glass you’re going to supply? I’m hearing awfully big words for a young man who looks like he’s barely eaten in a week or two. If your Skills are so impressive, how come you’re so obviously hurting for money? Nah, a man who knows what he’s worth doesn’t come begging around here. The rich and powerful avoid these parts. There’s more you’re not telling us. Explain.”
I don't think as quickly on my feet as Lionel or Mikko, and I’m not sure how to answer without getting tripped up by my lie at a later date. My teeth click together audibly with the force of my clenching jaw. After two weeks of freedom, I’ve gotten sloppy. There’s a reason I’ve stayed off the road. There’s a reason I don’t trust anyone. And now, just like that, I’m a rat in a trap again.
The panic must show on my face, since Vicario blows air out through his lips, making a sound like blowing bubbles in water. “All right, family, I don’t think he’s with the watch. They tend to get angry or scared—he just looks sick.” He turns to me and winks. “Had to know for sure. No hard feelings. Keep your secrets.”
I clear my throat. “Thank you. But I still want to make some glass, sir.”
“Sir!” Vicario hoots, slapping his hands together. “Listen to those fine manners. All right, son. You asked for five minutes, and I’ll give you at least that courtesy. But don’t expect charity here if you can’t pull your own weight.”
I nod, trying to release the tense muscles in my jaw enough at that I can open my mouth and say thank you, but he’s already striding off toward the back of the shop and not paying any attention to me. I scramble to keep up, dodging past workers putting the finishing touches on panes of glass or mounting them in wooden frames. They bustle around me, ignoring me completely now that Vicario has apparently deemed me safe.
Following the [Foreman]—I suspect his actual Class is more unconventional than that, but I don’t dare pry any further—I duck through a doorway that forces me to stoop down to half my height. I wonder idly if it was made with children in mind. Does Vicario employ adults at all? Or does he prey on the young and desperate, forcing them to work for a pittance?
I keep the thought to myself. They seem well fed and relatively happy here, so I decide to leave the question alone. He’s the first nice person I’ve met in this gloomy town, and I don’t want to cast aspersions on his character without any actual evidence.
Once we’re inside the storage room, Vicario angles toward a cabinet tucked away in the back left corner. He fishes through his threadbare, dull green vest, withdraws an iron key with a fake, red glass gemstone set in its handle, and slips it into the lock while humming a song.
When Vicario turns the key, the lock clicks far more loudly than I expect; there’s a bright, resonant tone that makes me wonder if there’s an enchantment on the lock for added security measures. Maybe he really is showing me his most expensive wares.
Intrigued now, I slowly weave and wend my way through the stacks of wooden frames and delicately packaged glass panes, taking care not to knock anything over. If there’s one thing I’ve learned working in the glass shop, it’s that our chosen medium is awesome, challenging, and fun to work with, but frighteningly easy to break.
The great thing about glass, though, is that a mistake can almost always be fixed unless the project completely shatters. Your detail’s not quite right? Apply some heat, smooth it out, and start over. Part of your sculpture cracks off? Simply get more glass, heat it up, and administer the fix. When the glass is cold and lifeless, however, after it’s finally set and annealed, then it becomes rigid and unyielding in shape and form. All of a sudden, the same wonderful rule of fixing your mistakes no longer applies.
Sometimes I wonder if it’s a metaphor for life: while I’m still young and relatively elastic, I have time to shore up my weaknesses, amend my shortcomings, and reshape the core of my identity and personality. As I grow older, and ossification inevitably affects me, then I’ll likely become set in my ways. Intractable and unrelentingly flawed. I swallow. I’ve come a long way in the last year, and I hope I keep growing, because I have a lot further to go before I’m the kind of man I want to be.
“Still with us?” Vicario asks, shaking me out of my musing by snapping his fingers in my face.
I blush and mumble a reply, but he just waves me off and holds up a complex scene of stained glass a little smaller than a dinner plate. The colors are vibrant, evidence of mineral infusing of all kinds—iron, cobalt, and magnesium immediately come to mind—as well as other materials that give the glass its colorful hues. The image formed by the glass itself is strangely pastoral for this dingy city, but it’s pretty and oddly peaceful to look at.
Vicario turns the glass to face me so I can take it in properly. Depicted in exquisite detail, the glass shows a plump farmer with a kind face. He’s sowing seed in rich farmland, stepping over deep furrows in the soil as he toils under a burning sun. I’m not familiar with this particular scene, but based on the reverent way that Vicario handles the glass, it appears to have some meaning to him that I can’t suss out.
“This is my best,” Vicario says with uncharacteristic solemnity. He lifts his head up from where he was studying the piece, and his dark violet eyes bore into mine with enough intensity to make me flinch. “I made this for a nobleman, years ago. I greatly respected him, but I didn’t want to part ways with what I made. In fact, I loved it so much that I never delivered the order.”
I chuckle. “I get it. Sometimes selling our creations is like giving away a child. There’s no way that someone else will ever love what I’ve made as much as I do.”
“Indeed! You seem to understand,” Vicario says warmly. “Instead of keeping it for myself, though, it was a gift to my wife. It was the only thing that eased her pain before she passed. Its soothing and restorative properties are far more potent than it may appear at first glance. This is the pinnacle of my craft, made in tandem with a healer of some repute. I made the glass, while she provided the enchantment that prolonged my wife’s life.”
He gives me a wry smile. “It’s all I have left to remember her by. I have no intention of ever giving it up. Yet I’m not a dishonorable man. Although it’s been many years, I would surely love to deliver at least a facsimile of my work to the man who commissioned it. Tell me: do you think I am an evil man, young traveler, for stealing from him? Do you judge me from my choices?”
“I don’t think what you did was right, but I can’t judge you, either,” I say slowly, shaking my head as I work through my conflicting emotions. I’ve withheld things before, too. “There’s a lurking specter of ugliness deep inside each of us that rears its head at any opportunity. By judging you, I think I’d only condemn myself for my own moments of selfishness. Now, enough talking—let me see what I can do to recreate this incredible work.”
Vicario grunts at my response. His lips twist into a frown. “Be that as it may, perhaps some of us deserve condemnation. Haven’t you ever felt that way before? A world without any judgment seems like a free for all. It will only cannibalize itself and collapse under the weight of its own permissiveness.”
I don't really know what to say to that, so I just lick my lips and nod tentatively. Finally, I pipe up: “I’ll just stick to glass, if it’s all the same to you. I’m not much of a philosopher. I will say, though, that if I’d known this piece was so complex I might have asked for five hours instead of five minutes. I hope you won’t hold the timer against me.”
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“Take all day if you'd like, as long as you can come through and make a replica. We can finally collect on the second half of the commission. That will pay for half a year’s rent in this old dump of a workshop.”
I take the offered glass design tenderly, using my fingertips to cradle the lead frame. I’m careful not to smudge the glass; the piece obviously means a lot to Vicario, and he’s doing me a great honor simply by showing me the stained glass tableau and telling me the story behind it. I won’t give him cause to regret his kindness.
“May I have a workbench for this particular project?” I ask. "I think I need to sit down so that I can properly focus on the work at hand.”
“Right this way, my mysterious young [Glassworker],” Vicario replies, a ghost of a smile on his hollow-cheeked features. He leads me back into the main workshop, shoos a few of his [Apprentices] out of the way, and clears off a bench for me with a clatter of tools.
I nod in thanks, flare my cloak behind me so that I won't sit on it, and perch on a work stool with as much gravitas as I can muster. I gingerly touch the stained glass, close my eyes, and activate my best Skill, the [Architect of Unseen Worlds].
In a rush of power, mana spools out from me. My consciousness falls away from my body, rushing down through my hands to inhabit every little crack and crevice in the stained glass. I take a firm hold of the Skill, not allowing it to meander. I don't have time for indulgent, languid exploration. I narrow my focus, diving into the composition of the glass and the exact shape of the wireframe. If I’m going to copy the template of the design, then I need to know it in exacting detail. That takes time and intention.
It’s a strangely intimate process, delving into the depths of another crafter’s work. By the time my Skill has grasped the essence of the stained glass, a lump is building up in my throat. I feel like I’ve gained a new understanding of Vicario. This is a precious piece to him. My respect for the man grows.
Satisfied at last with the results, I eventually release the inspection and analysis portion of my artisan Skill. As much as I love [Architect of Unseen Worlds], it’s always disorienting to observe the world outside of my own head. Reintegrating my perspective with my body leaves me slightly off-kilter, and I take a deep, shuddering breath to clear my mind.
“Impressive attention to detail,” I say at last, nodding to Vicario, who dips his head in acknowledgement of my praise.
I blink a few times, rub my temples, and switch over to using [Manasight] to try to get some insight into the peculiar properties of the healing enchantment. I won’t be able to copy the healing effect, not without a dedicated Skill in that domain, but perhaps I can suffuse my copy of the glass scene with enough mana to offer some slight benefit. It’s just a hunch, based on my still-unfounded theory about mana-imbuing, but I’d like to think it’s a promising lead.
To my surprise, however, the stained glass piece is completely inert. There’s not a trace of mana in the entire thing—it’s as mundane as the shoes on my feet.
I school my face to remain neutral while my mind runs wild with speculation. I murmur a few more words of appreciation to Vicario, just in case I’ve missed something. But I don’t think I have. I suspect the touching story he fed me was just that: a story. He’s just having a spot of fun at my expense, and I fell for it.
You’re an idiot sometimes, Nuri. Guess this is a good learning experience.
“Have any mana draughts?” I ask after an awkward pause. I keep my voice light, as if I still don’t have any clue that things are amiss. “My next Skills will drain me dry, and I don’t want to leave the job half-finished now that I have a good feel for the piece.”
“Iriye, fetch our guest a draught. His work is building up a powerful thirst, even though it still looks like he hasn’t done anything yet!” Vicario commands grandly.
His daughter giggles. She scurries off to comply with her father’s wishes, and I smile tenuously as the [Apprentices] shoot me dirty looks. One boy in a dark blue cap makes a rude gesture, but I just roll my eyes in response. I’m certain that they don’t often get to dip into the supplies, and envy is a bear. Mana draughts aren't exactly cheap.
Time for a show, I tell myself. I point toward the table next to the stained glass, and with a dramatic wrist-roll, I summon glass using [The Eternal Glass Forge: Extended Reach].
The gasp of shock that ripples through the crowd of [Apprentices] is extremely gratifying, I have to admit. Perhaps it’s petty of me, but I’m tired of these kids underestimating me. When I was half their age, I could work circles around the lot of them, based on the quality of glass I’ve seen so far. The shop here is focused on mass production. It’s all utilitarian and basic.
They’re assembly line workers; I’m an artist.
Once I judge that I have enough glass to finish the scene, I switch off my Skill, panting slightly with the strain of creating so much glass in one go. In most circumstances, I downplay the effort that creating glass out of raw mana actually takes, but I've got an audience now. I want them all to know precisely how difficult and rare the Skill they’ve just witnessed truly is.
With a curt nod of thanks, I accept the little, elaborately-embossed glass bottle that Iriye holds out to me. It doesn’t escape my notice that she kept it in reserve until I displayed a top-tier Skill, not that I blame her. I don’t know if I would give a free mana draught to a stranger, either. A slight smile twitching on my lips, I salute my host with the bottle, pop off the seal, and throw it back, guzzling down the entire bottle in one go.
Raw, latent energy hits my stomach in a rush of restorative power. The mana sublimates into my core, swirling through my veins and viscera before it makes the jump into my mana pool and fills my channels. I have to confess that I don’t quite know how the anatomy of magic works, but somehow my physical body pumps the mana to my energy body. The intoxicating sensation of unlimited potential courses through me, and I let out a soft chuckle in amazement.
“That’s some potent drink,” I say, shaking out my hands and breathing heavily.
“Careful. Don't let it go to your head,” Vicario warns me. “You have a lot of work ahead of you to pay me back for my investment. Fulfill your half of the bargain, and all is well. Fail? I’ll make sure the magistrate remands you into my custody until the debt is paid.”
I nod seriously, getting hold of myself. “Give me a few minutes to top off, and then I’ll put on a show you won’t soon forget. I promise you that.”
“Looking forward to it,” Vicario says dryly. “Your tricks are impressive so far. I’d love to be able to conjure glass out of nothing. But I’m still waiting for it to look like something I’d want to buy, and that’s where you’re falling short at the moment.”
“Behold,” I intone ominously as I flex my mana, leaning on my first and most practiced Skill to pull the warmth out of the room in a rush and make them all shiver. I can’t help myself; after the jokes they’ve played on me, they deserve some theatrics. I apply [Heat Manipulation] again to melt the various glass types and ensure they are at a malleable temperature. With my bare hands, my skin kept safe by yet a third casting of [Heat Manipulation], I shape the rough outline of the scene.
Vicario’s violet eyes are bugging out of his head. I simply smirk in return.
Once I have the general shape in place, I release [Heat Manipulation], gather up my mental energy, and pour myself into the transmutation abilities of [Architect of Unseen Worlds]. Straining the Skill to the limit, I superimpose the template I copied earlier over the rough shape of the scene, refining and completing the work I started shaping freehand.
With a final, massive surge of mana, the piece is complete.
“By the abyss,” Vicario breathes. “How are you poor? You should be rolling in silver—no, in gold! This is the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“And it’s one-hundred-percent real, unlike your little con,” I reply with a cheeky grin to let him know that I know his story is a ruse, but that I don’t care.
Vicario bursts into laughter, and so do the rest of the [Apprentices]. “Can you believe he bought the whole side story? Methinks our young friend is a romantic at heart, if a bit soft in the head. At least he seems like a nice kid.”
Apparently, it’s not the first time he’s played this prank on guests, since the other kids all start teasing me about the details of the supposed healing relic and the accompanying sob story about Vicario’s beloved wife. At first it’s funny, and I tease them right back, but the longer I think about it, the more uncomfortable I become.
I sit back and stare at my finished stained glass, feeling a strange mixture of triumph, indignation, and embarrassment. I thought Vicario had entrusted me with something personal, thought he had bared his soul and expected me to assist in a complicated situation. The more I think about it, the more I realize how ridiculous it all was. How arrogant do I have to be to think that a random encounter with this businessman will give him the confidence in me and my Skills, sight unseen, to expect me to intervene?
No wonder Mikko teases me sometimes that I act like I’m the only hero in our tale, that everyone else only exists to be swept along in my grand drama. I snort, then wryly join the others in their laughter.
“Maybe you can sell the piece for extra if you tell the same story to the next poor fool,” I say, only realizing after I speak up that it’s probably already part of the con. “Rich folk will buy almost anything if it tugs on the heart strings.”
“Indeed! I knew you were a kindred spirit,” Vicario says with a wink.
My rather jaded perspective of the world nets me my first moment of camaraderie in the window shop. The boy in the blue cap from earlier puts down his wooden frame to swing by my workbench and slap me on the back with a grin. “Ole Vic got me, too, when I was younger. Had me crying in my cup right in the middle of the village square! Most embarrassing day of my life, getting snot all over myself in public.”
The others snicker at him, but he just winks back. “Know what, though? Turns out that people have a heart when they see an orphan boy crying. Most beggars only call out for alms; the few who make you feel guilty for not helping them tend to get the handouts. Turns out that Vicario did me a solid. I’ve been running games with him ever since.”
The last detail clicks into place, and I snap my fingers. “That’s why you’re all young! You can slip around unnoticed. Helps with the cons, I’ll bet. Is that how you all got here?”
“Hey, now! We make an honest living these days,” a red-headed girl says. She sticks out her tongue at the first boy. “Most of us do, at least.”
I join in as their jeers turn into more legitimate laughter, and just like that, our friendship is sealed. They’re not exactly saints, but nor are they rapscallions and ruffians. Vicario’s helped them all leave behind begging and petty theft. Sure, they’re not above a bit of embellishment to sell their merchandise, but they work with their hands and produce solid windows.
I hop up on my workbench, clapping twice to get everyone’s attention. “Thank you all for the help today. You’ve been kind to me when you didn’t have to be, given that I barged in here and made ridiculous demands.”
A round of chuckles meets my declaration. “I understand better your initial mistrust, but I’m looking forward to our brief—but hopefully lucrative—partnership today. Thank you for your time and patience, from the bottom of my heart.”
Rousing cheers wash over me when I sit back down. I blink back tears of gratitude. It’s been a while since I’ve felt at home anywhere. That it’s in a glass workshop of a sort is no real shock, but that I found friends among part-time con men certainly is a surprise.
I shake hands with Vicario before he returns to his place of honor in the rear of the shop, and wish him well with selling the duplicate. Humming tunelessly to myself, I take a seat at the vacated workbench where I produced the stained glass. As he promised, it’s mine for the rest of the day. Time’s a wastin’, I remind myself, so I roll up my sleeves, grinning at the possibilities, and get to work.