The wind runner book 10.., p.13
The Wind Runner: Book 10 (The Wandering Inn), page 13
Quelm the [Alchemist] roared and charged. Octavia turned and ran. She sensed a few shutters above her fly open as Quelm’s neighbors caught on to what was happening at last. They shouted insults at Octavia as she fled. But no one called for the Watch. Undoubtedly, someone would, but they knew this was an [Alchemist]’s fight. Not worth sticking their noses into, in short.
It was two blocks before Quelm finally gave up chasing Octavia. She slowed, panting, and wiped sweat from her brow. Well, she’d delivered her message. Unfortunately, she doubted it would do anything. And now she…probably…had to pay for a broken window.
Still, it had to be done. Standards were standards. And Octavia, as one of four [Alchemists] in Celum, had to guard her territory. Not just in the physical sense; it was also about what each [Alchemist] sold. And in this case, one of her competitors, Quelm, had just figured out her match formula. And worse—he’d made it better.
“Damn it, Quelm. Why couldn’t you have blown up your shop making those matches?”
Octavia kicked at a pebble as she walked down the street. She was already imagining how much business she’d lose. Not just because Quelm’s new ‘sparking matches’ ignited more reliably, but because he was charging less than she had. Before, Octavia had cornered the market, and she’d inflated prices as much as she dared. That was coming to bite her now. But she’d really thought they’d have a harder time figuring the matches out!
The Stitch-girl got back to her shop and checked the boarded front. She still hadn’t replaced her glass window, and her shop looked rather run-down. But she liked to think it was a well-known spot, even if that knowledge was mostly infamy rather than fame. Come to that, the boards might help if Quelm retaliated. She wished she actually employed guards—this could get nasty if the trade war escalated.
“If Quelm spreads his designs—no, if he partners with that bitch Mabel the Magnificent or Jeffil—he won’t partner with Jeffil. But if they start creating their own designs—I’ve barely gotten orders from [Merchants] from the larger cities yet! I’ll lose access to the market, and that’s before they figure out a way to copy my designs in the larger cities!”
Octavia clutched at her braided hair, wondering if it was worth selling the recipe to her matches to an [Alchemist] in Invrisil—if she could even make the deal at anything approaching a profit. And then she wondered if it would come to violence. Quelm wasn’t as thuggish as Jeffil or Mabel—but he did hold a grudge. And he was an [Alchemist]. Could she afford hired help? Maybe a few Bronze-rank adventurers?
Alchemy was a cutthroat business. In some cities, [Alchemists] worked together in harmony and got along fine, creating wonderful potions and other items for the good of everyone. Octavia had yet to find a city where this was the case, but she assumed there was at least one. But in most cities where there was more than one [Alchemist], they got along as well as a bag full of cats. And bull feces. On fire.
It was mainly due to personality. It was a very odd type of person who became an [Alchemist]. Not only did you have to be keen on mixing various poisons and ingredients that might explode, melt, or create something entirely unexpected, you had to be part [Merchant] as well to obtain your ingredients and sell your products.
Most [Alchemists] were odd in some way. You could roughly divide them into two camps: the insane geniuses who just wanted to create and weren’t much good at interpersonal communication, and the ones who were business-savvy and could sell as well as create. Octavia fell into the latter camp. She liked to think she’d made her store, Stitch Works, quite profitable. She liked to think that.
But if she was honest…Octavia sighed as she looked around her shop. She had potions on the shelves, goods on display, with her boxes of matches prominently featured right next to the counter. She had money in the little safe hidden in her bathroom—a good amount and almost all gold. All in all, she was running a good shop. An average shop.
Not a famous shop. Her potions were mid-tier at best. Octavia was a Level 21 [Alchemist]—she’d just reached the point at which she could consider taking on an apprentice, if one even wanted to work for someone of her level yet. Her store might be something in ten years if she reached Level 30—then she could move to a bigger city up north or go south into Drake lands. Or she could stay here and be the top [Alchemist] in Celum.
If she was Level 30. If she had real potions to sell. But right now, she earned her living selling cheap healing potions to [Guards], [Mercenaries], adventurers, and mana potions to the low-level [Mages] who came by. Her profits came in silver, not gold. And while it was steady, it wasn’t much. Octavia had been a middling [Alchemist]. Until she’d met Erin Solstice. And Ryoka Griffin. And had made matches.
“Five levels in two months. Sales through the roof! And the pepper potion, the smoke bag, the, er—exploding flour—all of it at competitive, but not too steep prices!”
Octavia puffed out her chest as she remembered the days when her shop had been filled with customers. Then she recalled each of her competitors stealing her designs, producing the same potions and finding ways to improve her formulas, taking her business. That was what [Alchemists] did. It was hard, very hard to come up with something that wouldn’t be stolen at once.
“But I do have something. A Haste Potion. Or—or a lead to go on. And the, uh, peni-whatever.”
Octavia muttered to herself. She walked behind her counter and checked on her projects. Mold, growing on pieces of bread—and cheese, she’d expanded the set—in little jars. In all colors too. Octavia had been looking for the blue-green consistency Ryoka had told her was the right mold, but none of the molds she’d found had worked like Ryoka had said. She shook her head and then looked at her most precious project, sitting in a little bottle in a hidden drawer right under her desk.
A tiny bit of potion. Glowing yellow, streaked with bright pink. It glowed as Octavia carefully held it up and regarded the liquid. Even after months of being in the sealed container, the potion looked as bright as it had on the day Ryoka had shown it to her. The colors were vivid, the liquid practically raced by itself. Octavia’s heart beat quicker as she imagined the [Alchemist] who’d made it.
“A high-grade potion of haste. Gold-rank adventurers would sell their hair for a potion like this.”
If she could replicate it—or the penicillin that Ryoka had talked about—Octavia would be rich. And famous. Healing potions were notorious for not working on serious diseases. In fact, they made them worse. An infection would spread even faster with a healing potion accelerating it. Healing potions couldn’t handle sickness; it was one reason why [Healers] were still needed. But if Octavia could distill the anti-disease agent Ryoka had wanted so badly…
Or make a potion of this caliber. The Stitch-girl shivered and replaced the sample of the potion in her compartment. If she could do either, she’d finally make it. All her hard work, the years she’d spent apprenticing, moving from Chandrar to Izril, fighting for every grimy copper coin—it would all be worth it.
But she couldn’t do either. It was impossible. Octavia hadn’t been able to analyze the precious sample of potion or find which damn mold cured infection. And now she was fighting with the other [Alchemists] over matches.
“I could really use some new products. Or hired help. A few [Thugs] with bats, maybe? But I need coin. I’ve already spent too much on new equipment.”
Octavia cast a glance at the shiny new sets of alchemy gear—magical burners which could more effectively regulate temperature or even produce different flames for special ingredients, enchanted glassware to contain even the most dangerous reactions, retorts made by master [Glass Blowers] from Terandria, and so on. Octavia was willing to admit she’d splurged too much recently. But if she could get a new product on her shelves, something truly uncopyable—
Her eyes slid sideways as her fingers drummed restlessly on the counter. Octavia’s leg shook, tapping the floor. She looked down and frowned.
“Restless leg. I should check that.”
Absently, she sat on her stool and took off her leg. It was fairly simple; Octavia’s legs were secured to her body with black string. The [Alchemist] had to take off her pants to undo the leg, but as soon as she removed the stitching, she felt her limb disappear. And a cloth leg, very detailed but cloth nonetheless, appeared in her hands.
It was a peculiarity of the String People. They had been made, and they made themselves. Their bodies were cloth; they could reattach limbs or even redesign themselves at will if they had the right materials. In Octavia’s case, she was a String-Girl of the Cotton folk; hence her name.
Octavia Cotton. Not poor, but not rich by any means. Her body was functional, but it developed flaws over time. Like wadded up stuffing, or in this case, misaligned nerves. Octavia checked her leg thoroughly before sewing it back into her body. She felt her leg reattach; the restless shaking stopped.
A good enough body. The kind you wanted as an [Alchemist] anyways; cheap to replace. But what Octavia would have given for a body made of silk! Even really cheap silk! Or another precious material, like satin or Griffinfeather cloth or….
Again, Octavia’s eyes slid left. Towards something set into the left wall of her shop. A door.
It was a curious thing. Just a wooden door. It clearly, clearly did not lead anywhere since if you went through the wall you’d be exiting right into the alley and there was no door on the other side. And yet, the door did lead somewhere. It was magical, or the glowing gem set into the doorframe was. It was bright green, and it connected the door, in theory, to a magical door a hundred miles south of here. To an inn located just outside the Drake city of Liscor.
Magic. And Octavia’s shop was the place this humble door was connected to. How incredible was that? How potentially lucrative? Some nights, Octavia lay awake in bed, practically salivating over the possibilities. She’d already secured a deal to sell her potions in Liscor’s market with a hard-bargaining Gnoll [Shopkeeper].
And she had a…friend? A person who lived in said inn who could give her everything Octavia needed. New ideas, an edge on the competition—maybe even a way to guard her now-perilous shop at night.
But—Octavia hesitated. Her fingers drummed faster on the counter. It wasn’t the time to go. She knew that. Not for business. Even Octavia had a heart. And yet, she wanted to go nonetheless. For reasons other than making a profit. Because—
She was at the door before she knew it. Octavia told herself she was just going to peek. Besides, if the door wasn’t set to Celum, it wouldn’t matter. It probably wasn’t anyways. Probably—
She opened the door a crack, and her breath caught. Instead of stone wall behind the door, there was a dark wooden floor. A larger room than Octavia’s shop. The scent of cooked food, wood, and just the faintest whiff of something putrid. The Stitch-girl hesitated.
She shouldn’t. She knew she probably wasn’t wanted. But she still pushed the door open wider a bit. She’d poke her head in, scope out the scene—
Octavia looked around The Wandering Inn. Her first glimpse of things was of a dark, dark room. Practically pitch-black, in fact. A tall ceiling looked down at her, and the room stretched ahead of Octavia. Impossibly far, like some kind of huge mess hall. Or a theater.
At the far end of the room was a stage. It was empty, and the chairs and tables leading up to it were deserted. It was dark. Octavia could barely make out the far end of the room. The only light came from a pair of big candles burning low on the tables closer to the front door and kitchen. There was no light from outside; not even moonlight. The shutters were closed so tightly nothing could get in. And the inn looked deserted.
Was everyone gone? Surely not. Octavia cracked open the door a bit wider. She stepped into the inn, half-closing the door to her shop behind her. She looked around, heart beating a bit fast. Where was everyone? Normally, the inn would be full of life. True, given what had happened, Octavia didn’t expect that, but she’d assumed someone would be—
Click.
Octavia heard the gentle sounds of nails clicking on the hardwood floor. She spun. A small, white shape had crept up on her from behind. Two bright eyes stared up at Octavia. The [Alchemist] nearly jumped out of her stitches. Then she recognized the creature who’d appeared. Not an animal, but a person. A child.
“Mrsha?”
The white Gnoll looked up at Octavia. She lowered herself and sat cross-legged on the ground, staring up at the Stitch-girl. Octavia passed a hand over her forehead.
“You scared the—hello! How’s my favorite match-seller doing? Ah, is anyone around? Are you alone?”
Mrsha didn’t respond. She just gazed up silently at Octavia. That wasn’t unusual in itself; Mrsha couldn’t speak. But Octavia noted the stillness of Mrsha’s form. Normally, she’d be full of energy. Her tail, usually wagging, was still. She just sat and looked up at Octavia, a world of unspoken words waiting behind her eyes.
“Um—”
A creak. Octavia turned again and saw someone walk out of the kitchen. Lyonette, a girl with red hair, paused as she walked out of the kitchen holding a saucer and smaller candle. She reached for something at her side the instant she saw Octavia—then relaxed. But her voice wasn’t too friendly as she walked over.
“Octavia? What are you doing here? The inn’s closed. If you’re here to sell something—”
“What, me? No! Never! I mean, not right now!”
Octavia raised her hands and protested. She looked from Lyonette to Mrsha. Neither one was smiling. Both looked…quiet was the only word for it. Not just in words, but in action. They stood together, in the dark common room, staring at Octavia. She already felt like an intruder.
“I, uh, was just coming over to say hi. And to check on how things were—were doing.”
“There’s nothing for you here. And don’t bother trying to get to Liscor; we’re not changing the magical door, and I’ve barred the front door.”
Lyonette put her candle on the table and crossed her arms. Octavia winced. Why did everyone think she only thought about money? Oh, right. Well, she wasn’t thinking of it in this case!
“I don’t want to sell anything. Honest. I’m just here to see—is Erin here?”
The word made Lyonette’s expression flicker. Mrsha looked from her to Octavia.
“Erin’s upstairs. She’s alive.”
Not the most reassuring of words. Octavia looked around and saw the staircase.
“I—I mean, I won’t if it’s not a good time, but I could say hi. Is she—how’s she doing?”
Lyonette hesitated. She looked at Octavia suspiciously, as if still suspecting that Octavia was here to make a deal or bargain for something. Then she shook her head.
“She’s not doing well.”
“Still?”
The two young women looked at each other. Lyonette nodded and moved to sit at a table. Mrsha crawled onto a chair next to her and leaned on her. Quiet. Octavia shifted from foot to foot, but she didn’t sit down. It felt empty in here. Empty and silent, like a graveyard.
Or a wake.
“She’s upstairs. Crying. I check on her a few times every day. She’s…it’s been six days, and she hasn’t done anything.”
“I…I know that. I checked in on the second day. When, uh—six days? It feels shorter than that. I mean, I just heard about all of it. The door only came back when it was over. Obviously. And I was relieved to hear—I mean, I didn’t know until—”
Octavia babbled a bit. Lyonette just looked up at her. The [Alchemist] stopped.
“How bad was it?”
She hadn’t gotten a chance to ask before. Lyonette paused. She seemed to search for words.
“We were in the city. That was all. We didn’t see any of the fighting. We just saw the aftermath.”
“And was—”
The Stitch-girl got no further. The look in Lyonette’s eyes—in both hers and Mrsha’s eyes—was enough. They stared at Octavia in silence. The [Alchemist] paused. She looked around the empty inn silently for a minute. She chose her next words carefully.
“I heard—in Celum, that is—that people were complaining that the Players of Celum weren’t putting on performances. Er, does that mean the inn’s…?”
“No one’s putting on performances. Erin told Wesle that. And there’s no point anyways. No one’s coming here.”
“No one at all?”
Part of Octavia wasn’t surprised. But it had been six days. She would have expected someone to stop by, if only for Erin. But she hadn’t understood what Lyonette meant.
“No one can enter the inn. It’s impossible for anyone in Liscor to come here, aside from the Horns, the Halfseekers…and me and Mrsha.”
“What? You mean the door’s locked?”
The [Alchemist] was confused. Lyonette shook her head as Mrsha reached out and tipped the candle, staring at the wax as it ran down one side.
“No. I mean, they cannot enter. Most can’t even leave the city if they want to get to the inn. Erin’s not letting them.”
“You mean—with a Skill?”
Lyonette nodded. Octavia blinked. She could do that? Of course, Octavia knew of Skills that could affect a shop’s popularity—like [Shopper’s Stop] or [Discerning Clientele], which could affect which customers you got or how much business came to you, but physically preventing someone from reaching the inn? That went way beyond what most Skills were capable of. Spells as well.
And no one? Lyonette just nodded when Octavia asked about that.
“No one. No one who was in Liscor. Or on the walls. Even people like Halrac or Typhenous can’t enter. And the rest…definitely not.”
“You mean, the ones who were there. Who watched and didn’t…”
“Yeah.”
The ones who’d watched the last battle of the Goblin Lord. Six days ago, two armies had fought here. Three, if you wanted to count the last part of the battle. Four if you included Liscor. But the two armies that had fought, one to defend Liscor and the other to take it, had been Goblins.
The Goblin Lord’s army had advanced on Liscor, forced into the action by Lord Tyrion Veltras and an army of Humans intent on using the battle as a pretext to claim Liscor. They had been stopped and Tyrion’s plans foiled—by an army of Goblins who’d appeared to defend Liscor. Cave Goblins, a tribe opposing the Goblin Lord, the famous Redfangs of the High Passes, and the five Hobgoblins staying at Erin’s inn.
