“I could get more money selling you my dirty toenail clippings!” I grumble, glaring back and forth between the handful of coins on the countertop and the proprietor of the pawn shop. I’m deep in the bowels of the city, caught up in a heated argument over the worth of my mana crystals. The pawn shop is a dingy, cramped affair, but there’s clearly a don’t ask, don’t tell policy as regards the origin of the goods.
The [Cutthroat Swindler], as I’m sure his class must be—how else could he stand to be such a bold, unapologetic thief?—crosses his arms and snorts at me. He stands there in his frayed overalls, with his greasy hair slicked back, utterly unperturbed by my outrage.
“I don’t buy toenails, but in this case you might be right,” he says with an easy laugh. “I’ll bet they’re less disfigured than those lumps of rock.”
“Mana crystals,” I correct him immediately.
“Pretty rocks,” he repeats, chuckling at me again. He pulls out a dirty rag and polishes the countertop, whistling tunelessly as he works. “You ain’t the type to get your hands on the real stuff. These are shiny, I’ll give you that. I even feel a chunk of mana in them, but they’re rough, so they’re probably a ripoff of some kind. That said, they’re not gonna fetch much. I’m taking a loss offering you this much, and that’s because I feel sorry for you.”
“Why? Because of my hand?” I demand indignantly, holding up my left arm. I’m still new to my condition, but I’ve already grown tired of the pitying looks and awkward conversations. I’m not whole anymore, but I’m not useless, either.
He rolls his piggish eyes. “Nah. Don’t care about that. I mean that you’re clearly new to Grand Ile, and you’re in the wrong part of town. If Baryl didn’t rescue you, then you’d be dead in a gutter somewhere, the way you were strutting around with your money pouch and shiny rocks on full display.”
I shift away from the counter to put some space between us in case he tries to jump me. My right hand clutches at my side, near my previously injured ribs, where I’m hiding the money pouch under the folds of my robe. “I see. I didn’t realize I’d hidden the pouch so poorly.”
“You didn’t,” he replies with a wink. “Just took a stab in the dark. Thanks for proving my point for me, though. You’re a fat plum ripe for the picking. Try to relax a bit. Blend in by acting like you belong. Hear me?”
Despite his calm demeanor, I back up another step, widening my stance. I’m not giving up the last of my coins without a fight. I glance around in case anyone tries to relieve me of my money. I probably can’t rely on fending them off physically, but I’ve recovered just enough mana in my leaking core to blast off a single burst of [Heat Manipulation]. It won’t last long enough to deter a truly determined attacker, but the searing wave of heat will likely give me enough time to make my escape—although activating my Skills in my current condition will hurt me almost as much as it will hurt them.
“Relax, stranger,” the proprietor says, laughing as he leans on the counter. “I ain’t a thief. I work with a few, sure, but clients are off limits. Always. That’s the secret to staying in business. Everyone gets a fair shake here.”
“Oh? Then why are you lowballing me for the mana crystals?” I snap back, peeved at how quickly my naivete is getting me in trouble. I should have picked a less grungy shop. This place is disgusting.
He shrugs his heavy, sloped shoulders. “Ain’t much of a market for stones of this quality, honestly. Those who can use them effectively can likely afford to buy higher quality crystals with standard sizes, shapes, and strengths. Those who can barely scrape together a few coins for your lumpy, shiny rocks? Well, they likely can’t get the full effect from the mana in here. So why sell it to them?”
“How’s that your problem?” I ask. “Coin is coin, no?”
For the first time, the man’s friendly demeanor slips. “When you don’t have much money, parting with it doesn’t come easily. I’m not going to take someone’s food away by conning them into a malformed mana stone. Besides, if it doesn’t work the way they expect, then they grumble about it to their friends. Bad for business.”
A terse, bitter laugh escapes before I can help it. “How charitable of you to look out for your clients. And what if I need the money to put food on my table? Are you going to deny me? If you really want to show the goodness of your heart, then help me out.”
He exhales sharply, running his hand through his hair. “Look, I’d need to get these to an [Appraiser] first. That costs money, especially if it’s one who knows how to keep tightlipped. So, if the rocks check out, then maybe I can make my investment back. If they don’t? Then we’re both taking a step back.”
“Fine, that makes sense,” I concede reluctantly. “What do we do next, then? If you want me to front the cost, well, I can’t afford it right now.”
“Didn’t expect so,” he says wryly, although his gaze slides down to eye the slight bulge my money bag makes under my tunic.
I lick my lips as I debate how much information I should divulge. “Surely you could find a buyer who’s more interested in the content of the crystals than their uniformity. What if I told you that the mana is from a lesser Rift? Think you could sell it to a collector?”
He shrugs. “Sure. But how are you going to verify that?”
When I hesitate, he sighs and shakes his head. “No need to answer. If you had that kind of veracity or connections, then you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m not lying,” I insist. “I just need to keep this transaction quiet. I’m willing to swear to it before a [Notary] or other functionary who can detect lies.”
He drums his fingers on the shop’s countertop. “Discretion I can understand. I’ll see what I can get sorted. If we’re able to agree on a cut of the profits, and you check out with a [Notary] or [Adjudicator], then maybe I can offer you a deal more in line with standard mana crystals. It’s not a lot given what they’d be worth, but I’ll have to go to great lengths to find an appropriate buyer. I might still take a loss.”
“I want better than the standard deal,” I say, bristling as I imagine my hard-earned money slipping away. “These are collector’s items! Show me anyone else selling souvenirs from a Rift. Not many have ever stepped foot in one.”
“Picked them up yourself whilst on vacation, did you?” the shop-keeper drawls with a sarcastic bite to his words.
I clamp my jaw shut, not willing to give away more information than I already have. With an inward curse at my clumsiness, I survey the store again, checking again for any hostiles or listening ears. While Ash and his crew could vouch for my story, I’d rather not get them involved in this transaction. The less they know about me, the better, just in case things go sideways.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine, be that way. You got a place I can reach you once I have things in order?”
I shake my head. “Rather not say. I’ll sit on your bench and wait.”
“What, leave you in my shop unattended?” he snorts. “I think not.”
“I don’t mind standing in the street while you’re busy,” I offer.
“Bad idea. Never know what might happen,” he says, leaning his elbows on the counter. “You really aren’t from around here.”
“I can look after myself,” I start to protest.
“Nah. Bodies are bad for business,” he says with a wink.
“Maybe Baryl can be my lookout? He seems to have a sharp eye.”
The shopkeeper gathers up his dirty rag and stuffs it in the front breast pocket of his overalls. He gives me a considered look, then shakes his head. “I must be going soft in my old age. Look, it won’t be today. I have to send out some feelers, make sure it’s doable. Come back tomorrow afternoon and we’ll talk.”
I grin, unable to help myself. The prospect of earning enough to pay for my entry fee is intoxicating. “Now you’re talking! Deal. But don’t try to short me. I’m not dumb enough to take clipped coins, regardless of what you think about my street savvy.”
“Sure mark of an out-of-towner,” he says, pulling out a small copper and spinning it on the countertop. “See this? Perfect condition. That’s because Grand Ile, the bastion of glorious marvels that it is, makes sure we can’t clip or sweat an officially minted coin.”
“Shouldn’t be that hard,” I say dubiously. “Every material has its weak points.”
“Nah. Some bigshot in the local treasury has a Skill to ensure that coins aren’t tampered with in any way. Trust me. I tried when I was a kid. We all did. Can’t be done, not unless you’re powerful enough that you’re the kind of person to pay with favors, not money. We don’t walk in those circles, eh?”
“So exchange them for foreign coins, then mess with those. Easy,” I reply with more contempt in my voice than I should.
“Genius. Why haven’t I thought of that?” he says, slapping his big belly and letting out a deep guffaw. “Nah, ain’t worth the trouble. You know why? Because everyone who does trade around here knows that a Grand Ile coin is worth something. Using our own coin is a sign that we mean business.”
I cross my arms. “I don’t know that I believe you. My inn didn’t care about taking foreign coins. None of the shops I looked at today said anything about only taking Grand Ile currency, either. Doesn’t seem like a big deal.”
He sighs wearily, lifting his eyes to the ceiling as though imploring the heavens about the unfairness of having to deal with simpletons like me. “It’s about reputation. We could use inferior coin, could sell broken goods, could cut corners. But we don’t. That’s why people come back here. You hear me?”
I nod slowly. “Sounds like I picked a good shop. I look forward to talking with you again after you’ve tracked down some leads. In the meantime, perhaps you could point me toward a glassworks studio. I have further business to attend to in town.”
He clears his throat a few times, running his hand through his greasy hair as though he’s trying to remember where to find one. “Ah, I believe there’s a glass place five or six streets over, on the river-side. I’ll call Baryl and have him take you there, as long as you promise to tip the tyke so I don’t hear him complain later. He’s an entitled little chap. Gets annoying when he goes on and on.”
“Deal,” I chuckle. “I look forward to doing further business with you.”
“Oh, and give me the smallest crystal so I can use it to convince my contacts,” he says as I make my way toward the door.
I turn back, my eyes narrowing as we lock stares. “That sounds like a good way to never see it again.”
He shrugs. “No rock, no deal.”
“Then give me an advance,” I say, my mind racing through options. “That way we each hold some surety. Acceptable?”
“Fine. Fair’s fair,” he grumbles at me after a pause. “But if you’re trying to pull a fast one, best not show your face again in this part of town, hear?”
“I aim to sell the mana crystals. All of them,” I say, stressing the word all so that he knows I mean it. I match his gaze, keeping my voice as steady and even as I can.
One side of his lips twists up into a half-smile. “Good. I like a man with conviction.”
=+=
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Baryl, the [Watchful Urchin]—a Class I never even knew existed before today—leads me to the first workshop on our list. He’s full of questions about where I came from and why I want to work with glass since I don’t even have two hands, but I keep tight-lipped after my interaction with the pawn shop owner. I don’t want to give away vital details in an unguarded moment. He doesn’t seem bothered by my reticence in the least, however, which in my mind makes him the perfect travel companion.
A few twists and turns later, we cross a rickety bridge that spans a narrow channel of dark, sludge-like water. It smells suspiciously like the sewer. Baryl holds his nose dramatically, and I copy his exaggerated movement and expressions, earning a chortle of amusement. He motions for me to follow, guiding me to a ramshackle brick building with dark plumes of heavy, coiling smoke rising from its five chimneys.
I square my shoulders and make my way inside to plead my case.
“Sorry, don’t have time or money for another [Apprentice], ‘specially one without a left hand,” the gruff old [Gaffer] says before I’m even onto my second sentence. He leans to the side, hawks up a gob of phlegm into a glass spittoon, and shouts orders to his team.
“I am a full-fledged [Glassworker], not an [Apprentice],” I say, indignation creeping into my voice. What is it with people doubting me today? “I want to pay you for studio time, not beg for a measly position! I’ve put in many years in a hot shop already, thank you very much. I just want a place to practice while I’m in town.”
The [Gaffer]’s face darkens. “What, think you're too good to learn anything in my shop, ya cripple? Get out of here!”
I scowl and stomp out, not dignifying his abuse with an answer. Some people are too stupid to even bother reasoning with. His loss. I could put his shop on the map if I promote it after winning the competition, I fume to myself as I slam the door on the way outside.
Left stubbornly unsaid, even in the privacy of my own mind, is the nagging doubt that I’ll never work with glass again. How am I supposed to turn a rod or mold the glass with only one hand? Worse, how am I going to be competitive without any Skills? I’m back to only my [Heat Manipulation], but I can barely use it without searing pain. It’s not worth the tradeoff unless it’s an emergency.
“Where to next, boss?” Baryl asks me, interrupting my pity party. He’s looking up at me with his big, gap-toothed grin, and there’s an impish excitement in his eyes that I find infectious. How am I supposed to mope around when this kid is counting on me for an adventure?
“Isn’t that your expertise? I don’t know my way around town,” I tease, elbowing him in the shoulder gently.
“Don’t exactly shop for glass often. Can’t eat it,” Baryl responds gravely.
“Wanna grab food before we check the next place?” I ask him, somehow managing to keep the heartbreak out of my voice. “My treat.”
When Baryl brightens at my suggestion, I gesture toward a stall farther down the street with a blue wisp of smoke curling up from a grill, and he dashes off with an announcement that he’s going to look over their menu.
I follow more slowly, wondering how he ended up in such dire straits. Grand Ile is one of the richest cities in the entire world. If crushing poverty exists here, then what hope do any of the other places in Densmore have? Were there places like this back in Silaraon? There must have been. I just never knew.
I’ve pasted a smile back on my face by the time I catch up. The vendor is casting Baryl a rather suspicious look, but he dissolves into unctuous politeness when I pull out a foreign coin and plop it down on his table. Unlike the pawn shop proprietor, he seems to have no qualms at the thought of using outside money.
We each pick a spicy mixture of vegetables wrapped in a delicate, almost gauze-like leaf that’s translucent. I have no idea what it is, but it’s a convenient way to hold the food. Looking through the leaf wrapping at the red peppers and sauteed onions dripping in sauces reminds me of gazing through old, smoke-darkened glass. It’s hazy and indistinct, but there’s something wistful about the experience that reminds me of home.
“Got directions to the next glass studio?” I ask around a big, juicy bite. We maneuver our way through the crowd and sit on the edge of a fountain made from the characteristic Grand Ile white stone veined with gold. The aesthetic reminds me that we’re back in a nicer part of town.
I glance over at my young guide when I get no reply. Baryl’s eyes close in bliss while he eats, a look of sheer contentment on his face. He doesn’t answer me when I ask again.
I let out a soft chuckle, and then take another bite and chew happily. I don’t blame Baryl for ignoring me. The food is just that good.
=+=
“You’re wasting our time. Bother someone else,” the [Foreman] snaps, waving at me to get out of the hot shop before I can even show off my skills. He turns back to his project, clearly putting me out of sight and out of mind.
I march out in a huff, crossing off the third glass shop of the afternoon. No one is willing to give me a chance. I’m having a harder and harder time fighting off the feelings of depression and loneliness. My entire self-identity is coming loose, like peeling paint flaking off an old, worn down shed. There’s a deep disconnect now between who I think I am, and who people perceive me to be.
Baryl is waiting for me out front, his little face screwed up in distaste. He kicks a pebble, bouncing it off the side of the studio windows. “They’re mean. Let’s find somewhere else.”
“That’s the plan,” I mutter, studying the map I got from the hostess at the inn. All of the glass shops I’ve visited so far are a bust, but maybe one of the curio shops won’t dismiss me out of hand. No pun intended, I think as I groan internally at the bad joke.
I’m growing increasingly desperate to find a place to practice my glass making skills, although my confidence is waning with each rejection. What if they’re all right? What if I can’t work anymore without my left hand?
“I don’t like Riversiders. They always look down on us Wallsiders,” Baryl says, scowling.
I look up, startled by his outburst as I realize that I’m not the only one frustrated by how the day is going.
Baryl swings his arms around him, gesturing at the gleaming white buildings, the streets scoured clean by an army of [Street Sweepers], the immaculate gilt lettering on all the storefront signs. “It’s too perfect here. They act like we’ll ruin it just by walking by.”
“They might be right. Have you seen that pawn shop owner’s face?” I say, winking at my young accomplice.
Baryl bursts out laughing. “Ole Rizzi ain’t exactly winning a beauty pageant, I’ll give you that one! But I’m a little charmer. Who could dislike me?”
I tip an imaginary hat in Baryl’s direction, earning a smirk from the lad. “I can’t imagine how anyone could dislike you. Oh, and I never caught Rizzi’s name. Thanks.”
Baryl gulps, his eyes darting around. “Oops. He doesn’t like to tell people his name until he’s gotten to know ‘em. Don’t rat me out.”
“Not a word,” I say solemnly. I pause a moment to give Baryl time to calm himself. Then I tap the map with my stump. “I think I’ve got a lead. Ready for the next shop?”
“I still think we should have stayed over Wallside,” Baryl grumbles at me, but he looks at the souvenir shop on the map, nodding to himself as he recites the names of the streets under his breath. “Yeah, I can get us there. Let’s go.”
He takes off trotting down the street without waiting for confirmation, weaving in and out of the passersby with practiced ease. I have to jog to keep up.
I keep a close eye on his hands, but it doesn’t seem like he’s pickpocketing anyone as we rush along. Instantly, I feel guilty for doubting him. Just because he works as a lookout for the shops doesn’t mean that he’s crooked. Maybe I’m more like the Riversiders than I realized. We suspect anyone who looks or acts out of place.
Fifteen minutes later and half a dozen bridges later, we reach a quieter, more upscale neighborhood. While the previous market district is well kept with the veneer of luxury, this area doesn't need to flaunt its wealth; even a newcomer like me can sense that we’ve wandered into a special place.
The difference between this area and the rest of Grand Ile is immediately apparent. The ubiquitous white stone is missing, replaced by tailored colors and designs that complement the rest of the city rather than competing against the prevalent white and gold theme. There’s an undeniable quality to the materials and craftsmanship of the houses and shops here.
We’re surrounded by a tasteful proliferation of nature: short trees trimmed into fantastical shapes, flower beds that spell out privacy runes, and a maze of water channels that separate all of the homes and businesses from each other. Space is always at a premium in a city, but here they have all the land and streams they could ever ask for.
“I think we're in the wrong place,” Baryl says, slowing down to walk next to me. He pulls his raggedy jacket closer around his frame, as though he’s shielding himself from view. “People don’t make things around here. This isn’t a crafting sector. They don’t need the money.”
“Art doesn’t require a commercial reward,” I say, ready to launch into a lecture about art for art’s sake, but Baryl doesn’t seem convinced.
“Rich people are weird. If I had this much money, I’d sit in a hammock all day and sip on fancy drinks. Or boss around my servants. Or do nothing at all!”
I chuckle at his fervent response. “What if you get bored? Then what will you do?”
“I wouldn’t!” he insists. “Or if I did, I’d take a trip. Sail down the river and go wherever I wanna. No one could stop me, because I could do anything I want.”
“Even make glass?” I ask innocently.
His eyes narrow, and he looks at me with disgust. “Fine. You win this round.”
“I’ll take a victory lap later,” I say, “but for now I think we’ve reached our destination.”
“Where?” Baryl asks, scrunching up his face and glancing around. “All I see are houses. Doesn’t look like a workshop. Where’s the smoke? The shouting, crabby old men?”
I nod toward one of the smaller, cozier buildings we’ve seen so far in this neighborhood. It’s set apart, standing alone on an island in the middle of the channel. A wooden plank bridge, painted red, leads from the street we’re standing on over to the private island.
I stride across the bridge, my stomach twisting in knots. “Come on, Baryl. Let’s check out our last hope. Maybe our luck will finally turn.”
No one answers my tentative knock on the front door, and I avoid looking at Baryl. If he’s anything like most kids I know, he’s just dying to burst out and say ‘I told you so!’ at the slightest glimpse that his doubt is vindicated.
I knock again, louder this time, and a faint voice calls for us to enter. I depress the latch, hold the door open for Baryl to enter first, and step over the threshold with a mix of hope and trepidation warring in my chest. If this last option is no good, I’m out of ideas.
The first room inside the door is a lobby that’s larger than I expected. Based on the humble exterior, I imagined we were about to enter someone’s home. Instead, we’re greeted by a spacious, open display room, dominated by a red brick wall. In front of the brick is a polished wooden butcher block, on which a variety of finely-crafted glass pieces are proudly on display. Even to my dulled mana senses, they fairly sing with power.
Off to our left, down a short flight of three double-wide stairs, a single workbench and a furnace make up the hot shop. An elderly woman with pure white hair and dark, piercing eyes sits in front of the bench. A globe of molten glass takes shape in front of her as she turns her metal blowpipe.
She reminds me of Melina with an extra half a century of laugh lines, not to mention more experience working with glass. That seems like an auspicious sign.
“I’ll be with you in a moment, my dears. Feel free to peruse the glass wares. If it’s on display, then it’s available for sale,” she says cheerfully, although she never takes her eyes off her work. With swift, deft twists of her wrist, she turns the glass, blowing into a slender hose at the end of the rod to keep air flowing. She pauses briefly once or twice to shape the glass with her bare hands—a telltale sign of [Heat Manipulation] at work.
There’s something nostalgic and soothing about watching glass work performed well; for her, it seems like a passion, not simply a job. Before I even realize it, I’ve shuffled down the steps to stand nearby and watch more closely. She doesn’t seem to mind my presence, so I keep a respectful distance and observe her technique.
As the nearly-finished vessel takes its final shape, I pick up a fresh glass rod from a cart next to the bench and hand it to her. I risk a spike of pain to briefly channel [Heat Manipulation] and bring the rod up to a matching temperature with the rest of the glass. It fuses right away, so that she can create a join on the cold point and safely remove the delicate vase from where the glass is still connected to the metal blow pipe.
She completes the work without comment, then points toward a kiln and hands me the blazing hot vase. I balance it on my jacket, ignoring the burn marks, and wring out the last few drops of mana from my cracked channels to keep a cold barrier between the vase and the skin of my right hand, although the temperature control isn’t perfect as my Skill sputters.
I hiss against the pain, but I don’t dare drop her work. I carry it to the annealer quickly, put it in with another dozen pieces—ranging from intricate tableware to fanciful creatures like a flying horse—and return to take up an [Assistant]’s position at her workbench.
She points toward a graphite paddle as she grabs two more colored rods and begins the process of melting them in her hands. I hand over the shaping tool, ready to assist if she needs me to do anything else. We fall into a comfortable rhythm, working together easily without much need for direction or conversation. Her style feels comfortable. Familiar.
Like home.
Baryl stares, wide-eyed, as I help her complete three more works of art. The last one is a crouching lion, caught mid-snarl as he’s about to leap at his prey. Mana surges forth from the [Glass Smith]’s hands, transforming the statue into something so lifelike that I almost swear I can hear the faint echoes of the lion roaring when I put it in the kiln to anneal.
Finally finished with her work, she picks up a cane, pressing on it to help her stand to her feet. She stretches, knuckling her back, and beckons for Baryl to come closer. “Well, lad, if you leave your mouth hanging open like that, you may as well fill it with sweets, hm?”
He scurries down the steps, still staring at her in awe. It occurs to me that he’s probably never seen a proper artisan at work before. With a big grin, Baryl accepts the offered handful of candies, popping them all into his mouth at once, as though he’s afraid she’ll change her mind.
She turns to look at me with her steady, glimmering gaze. There are depths there, an inescapable heaviness that says she’s seen far more of the world than I have. I don’t feel judged by the weight of her implacable stare, however. I feel like she’s simply waiting to find out more before she renders a verdict. “What are you boys shopping for, anyway?”
“Could use some studio time to practice while I’m in Grand Ile,” I say shyly. I take a deep breath, fumbling for the words of my rehearsed speech as a dozen ill-fated scenarios play out in my mind. What if she’s not happy with the way I jumped in to assist her? What if I can’t afford the rates she charges for the studio? What if—
“Fine. Make yourself comfortable. I’m going to take a long nap upstairs. I expect to see something good in the kiln when I wake up,” she says, shuffling out of the room.
And just like that, I’ve secured a studio space. Step one of my master plan is complete.