(Path of the Dragon Mage: Exiled) 24. Scholar's Apprentice 1 of 2 (Patreon)

As Corvus walked down the village's main road, he  kept an eye out for Gwen and Roan. Their camp was nowhere near the  village, but perhaps they would need to purchase supplies, too.

The street was narrow and filled with people—some brushing past Corvus, completely heedless of his rank.

Because I have none, he reminded himself. It wasn't as if he  had forgotten he was no longer a prince, but sometimes it was still  odd. Here, no one knew him. No one cared. It was both freeing and  terrifying.

Unconsciously, he slipped his hand into the Bag of Holding to touch  the dragon egg. It seemed fine. The warm pulse against his fingers was  reassuring.

Steadied, he studied the faces of the villagers. None had the look of  Horsemen, with the colorful strips of fabric they wove into their hair.

Didn't Solt say the Horsemen weren't trusted by regular folk? Perhaps they would not wish to shop in the village after all.

With a sigh, he gave up that idea and focused on his task: Buying supplies for the next few days.

Other than that disgusting crab apple, he hadn't had fresh fruit  since leaving the palace. Solt only purchased starchy tubers, salted  meat, and oats. Something fresh would be nice. Something sugary would be  nicer.

Corvus headed to the stalls.

Fresh fruit was expensive: A half copper a piece. Reluctantly, he  bought two out of season oranges which were still green and unripe  around the rind. One copper down.

The next five coppers were spent on the cheaper staples: Oats which  could be steamed at breakfast, beans, dried fish, meat, and tubers to  round out the meal. Finally, Corvus spent an entire copper piece on a  little bag of sugar he planned to sprinkle into his morning oats.

All of it went into the bag, bringing up his inventory to eight slots used including the stacked coins and the dragon egg.

He bought no wine. If Solt wanted alcohol, he could purchase it himself.

His frugal purchasing left him with four coppers left from Solt's  ten, and eleven from his ratkin loot. Solt had suggested he buy lunch  for himself or a trinket. Surely, with the amount he had left he could  get both. Maybe he could get himself that shield—

A shield for a half Shield son, he thought to himself. And that reminded him of his mother again, and his promise to write.

A simple tented booth halfway down the street caught his eye. The  banner above waved with the scholar's guild insignia — two quills  crossed over a field of deep blue.

Corvus perked up and hurried over, nearly running into a cart going the wrong direction.

A bored-looking teenager in the blue smock of the scholar's guild  manned the booth. He sat behind a table loaded with thick books on both  ends, several sheets of parchment paper, and a small pot of ink in front  of him.

"How may the scholar's guild help you?" he muttered sullenly as Corvus stepped up.

Corvus looked with greed at the books, wishing Solt had even a small  library. There was nothing to read in his house—not even old parchment.  Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away.

"I wish to send a letter." Part of the duties of the scholar's guild,  he knew, was to act as reliable messengers throughout the kingdom.

The teenager yawned out his answer.

"Short messages are a quarter copper, half page is a half copper. Full page for one."

"Why would it matter if it's a half-page or a full page? The messenger has to carry it all the same," Corvus asked.

The teenager seemed to look at him for the first time. "That's the  price to write out the letter, of course. Sending it is an additional  charge."

Corvus scoffed. "I will write out my own letter thank you. I only need it delivered.”

"You know how to write?"

"Of course." He drew up. "I am of the—" He caught himself, inwardly  cringing, "Cartwright House. We all know how to read, write, and  calculate advanced arithmetic."

To his surprise, the teenager—the apprentice scholar, Corvus  realized, looking at the badge pinned to his blue smock—grabbed a fresh  sheet of parchment off the top of the pile and shoved it across the  table to Corvus, along with a quill and a pot of ink.

"Show me. Write this out."

Then the scholar recited a short poem—one Corvus knew well, as it was  one of the basic Kingdom primers all tutors drilled into the minds of  their students.

With an inward roll of his eyes, Corvus put quill to the parchment to copy it out in a neat hand…

… or he should have.

His fingers faltered on the page. Instead of the first word, he made only a splotchy mark.

The apprentice snorted and started to take back the parchment.

"Wait—it's the quill," Corvus said and shook out his hand to loosen it up. What was wrong with him?

Redipping the quill, he put it back to the page and concentrated on  drawing out the simple characters as he had not had to do since he had  first learned to write as a child.

His handwriting was unusually messy, but he managed to eke it out. Thankfully, the poem was short.

This world of dew
is a world of dew,
and yet, and yet…

As he placed the last dot, he received a message.

You have learned a new skill: Writing

New skill? He had written every day at the palace, under his tutor's  eye, and during his private dragon research. How could this possibly be a  new skill?

But he suspected he knew the answer.

His skills and notifications had only shown up once he left the palace. Had nothing he had done as a prince transferred over?

Before he could reflect on the unfairness of this, the apprentice took the parchment and looked it over.

"Your handwriting's not the best, but it's readable."

Corvus grit his teeth. He used to pride himself on his handwriting.  That and memorization of the written word were the few things he used to  do well.

The apprentice didn't seem to notice his annoyance. He smiled. "I  never introduced myself, did I? I'm Tabor, scholar apprentice."

"Tomas Wright," he muttered.

"I apologize I didn't recognize you, sir." His smile was fixed and  there was a glint of eagerness in his eyes that made Corvus uneasy.  "Where are you sending the letter to, by chance?"

"Lord Cartwright's Palace estate.” This was a lie. He had meant to  send it to Lord Shield, expecting his grandfather would refer any letter  from him to his mother. But something—he suspected an aspect of his  deception skill, or perhaps his gut—made him think twice.

He edged back, ready to run, and not entirely sure why.

"All the way to the capital?” Tabor exclaimed. “If you don't mind me saying, sir. That will be… expensive."

"How expensive?"

"Two silvers."

"Oh! Well—" He edged a half step back. Perhaps he could find another way to send a message.

"Luckily," Tabor said, "I think we can work out a deal."

"… What would that be?" Corvus asked.

His smile widened. "It's easy. You man this booth in my place for the  next couple of hours. Write out letters for the common folk, read to  them whatever they need to have read, and collect the fee. When I come  back, I'll waive the silvers to send your letter."

"What?" he asked, dumbstruck. This was the last thing he expected.

"It'll be easy," Tabor pressed. "You can even read as much as you  want between customers—I saw you eyeing these books as you came up. Let  me guess, your noble parents don't like you reading? They want a  fighter, not a thinker?"

That was… uncomfortably close to the truth. Corvus said nothing.

Tabor went on. "I'm not judging you. I'm a merchant's son, third in line. That's the only reason they allowed me in the guild—"

"Why do you want to leave the booth so badly?” Corvus interrupted before Tabor could spin a tale.

A merchant son. That would explain why he felt he was getting fleeced into a bad bargain.

Tabor paused, and Corvus could almost see the schemes churning behind  his eyes as he considered what to say. His mother had the same look.

Abruptly, Tabor shrugged and dropped the act. "Word is that the  guard's night shift brought in some live ratkin—some of that swarm that  got broken up last week. They say they're going to get rid of 'em in a  live feeding to the cockatrices. It’s going to be great fun to watch.”

"That seems like a low sport." Corvus had no love of ratkin but  didn't see the need to torture the things by making a spectacle of which  would be eaten first.

Tabor leaned in. "Then you won't want to see it. You might as well be  here. There's going to be prime betting going on, and I don't want to  miss it moldering by reading to dullards who never learned their  letters. Come on," he wheedled. "Maybe if I win some money, I'll share  it with you. What do you say?"

You have been offered a new quest!

New Quest: Man the booth!

Scholar Apprentice Tabor is desperate  to gamble away his coppers. He just needs a stooge—ahem—helpful person  to run the scholar's booth in his place. Are you the scholar for the  job?

Quest Difficulty: Easy

Rewards: Special merge skill + skill bonus

Failure to complete the quest: None

ACCEPT / DECLINE

Corvus was not surprised to see the quest pop up. He swiftly read through it, frowning to himself.

This seemed like a truly easy quest with the rewards to match. There  was no penalty for failing to complete it, and he would not even receive  any XP for his trouble.

The merge skill and skill bonus was interesting, however…

Corvus glanced at Tabor who seemed to be waiting with bated breath.

"You will be back within two hours," he said. "I have places to be."

Tabor crossed his finger over his heart. "Scholar's promise."

Mentally, Corvus accepted the quest. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

"Here." And before Corvus quite knew what was going on, Tabor had  lifted his own blue smock over his head, leaving a simple linen shirt  underneath. He tossed it at Corvus who only caught it just in time. "Put  this on and sit down on the stool back here. And don't worry if someone  comes up with lettering you can't fully decipher—make something up.  It's not like they know any better."

"But… but—" he sputtered.

Tabor, though, was already backing away into the street with a wide smile on his face. "You'll be fine!"

With that, he was gone, leaving Corvus in charge of the scholar's tent.

Wondering what he had gotten himself into, Corvus slipped on the  smock. It was large on his skinny frame, but that was nothing new. Then  he sat on the stool behind the table and did his best to look like he  belonged there.

He hoped this quest lived up to its easy level, this time.