Mercenary of Lastia - BtLH - Ch 58 (Patreon)

“So, how much did you get?” Stormwell asked.

Lys hesitated, unsure if she should reveal the full extent of her newfound wealth. “More than I expected,” she admitted, trying to keep her voice casual.

Plainfield let out a low whistle. “We all did pretty well. I got thirteen silver thanks to the battle pay. That’s more than I’ve ever had in my life.”

Woodrow and Stormwell nodded in agreement, their grins stretching from ear to ear.

“What about you, Lys?” Woodrow asked.

Lys shifted uncomfortably, the weight of the money pouch suddenly tugging at her. “I got a bit more, thanks to the loot rights and regular’s battle pay.”

The three other recruits exchanged glances.

“Well, looks like drinks are on you tonight!” Stormwell declared, clapping Lys on the shoulder.

Lys laughed, the sound a bit forced. She followed her companions as they made their way towards the town, unsure of what to expect.

The stone walls were massive, and she couldn’t help but gape at their sheer size. The gatehouse loomed above as they neared. As they passed through, the two town guards barely spared them a glance.

The streets of Mythshell were a far cry from the quiet lanes of Thornfield.

Throngs of people bustled about, the din of their voices mixing with the clatter of horse-drawn carts and the shouts of street vendors hawking their wares. Shops lined the streets, their signs advertising everything from fresh bread to fine silks.

Lys tried to take it all in, her senses overwhelmed by the sights, sounds, and smells of the bustling town. The only thing that kept her grounded was the small triangle of her companions as they plowed through the street. Everyone stepped out of their way. Eventually, they came to a stop outside a tavern.

The sound of laughter and music spilled out into the street as they pushed open the door. Inside, serving wenches hurried between tables, their trays laden with frothing mugs of ale and steaming bowls of stew.

Stormwell led them to a table in the corner, signaling for a round of drinks.

Lys shook her head, a wry grin on her face. “You didn’t even ask how much the drinks cost!”

The others burst into laughter, their cheeks already flushed from the warmth of the tavern.

“Why bother?” Stormwell quipped, leaning back in his chair. “We’ve got more coin than we know what to do with!”

“Keep that quiet or someone will be around to part you from them, real quick,” Woodrow replied, shaking his head.

As if on cue, a pair of serving wenches appeared at their table, balancing trays laden with frothing mugs of ale. They set the drinks down with a flourish, their eyes lingering.

One of the girls, a buxom blonde, perched herself on Stormwell’s lap. He looked momentarily stunned, his hands hovering awkwardly at his sides.

Lys watched the exchange with amusement, noting the way Plainfield and Woodrow’s eyes widened at the sight. It was clear none of them had much experience with this sort of thing. As much as they had been pretending otherwise.

Clearing her throat, Lys caught the attention of the other serving wench. “How much for a round of stew to go with these drinks?”

The girl eyed her appraisingly. “Four bowls of stew and eight ales? That’ll be eighty libra.”

Lys nodded, reaching for her coin pouch. She counted out the copper coins, handing them over to the girl.

The others cheered as the wenches sashayed away, their hips swaying.

“Looks like Lys is buying tonight, boys!” Stormwell crowed, raising his mug in a toast.

Lys rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the grin that tugged at her lips. She lifted her own mug, the ale sloshing over the rim as she clinked it against the others.

She had to fight not to spit the drink out on their faces. Woodrow laughed at her reaction and that devolved into jibes. Instead of responding, she just sipped at the ale—it tasted like bread, sweet, and bitter all at once. With some kind of spice?

The conversation washed over her, and she was content to listen to the others trade stories and jokes while she tried to work out her drink. For a moment, she could almost forget about everything else. This is what it had been like for the men who had patron’d Gaius’ inn?

No wonder he had been the most powerful man in Thornfield.

Stormwell regaled them with a tale of a prank he’d pulled on his older brother. Plainfield and Woodrow roared with laughter, slamming their mugs on the table in appreciation.

The stew arrived, and they all ate eagerly. It wasn’t anything special, about the same as the stews and meals they had eaten under Hawkins’ watch. Which she guessed meant they weren’t eating half-bad in the company. That sort of made sense. They wouldn’t be able to train or fight on empty stomachs.

As the hour wore on, they took turns buying rounds, the ale flowing freely. With that came a pleasant lightheadedness, and her cheeks flushed from the drink and the warmth of the tavern. She loosened her shirt collar.

Stormwell’s blonde suddenly returned with her friends, and the serving girls descended upon them like a flock of colorful birds.

A petite redhead with freckles dusting her nose perched herself on Lys’s lap. The other girl leaned in close, her breath hot against Lys’s ear.

“A silver for a tumble upstairs, love,” she whispered, her voice low and sultry.

Lys felt her face grow hot, a blush creeping up her neck. She glanced at her companions, noting the way the other girls were whispering similar offers.

“I... I’m flattered, but I’m afraid I must decline,” Lys stammered, gently shifting the girl off her lap.

The redhead pouted but moved on to the next table, her hips swaying.

Lys watched as Stormwell, Plainfield, and Woodrow accepted their offers, their faces alight with anticipation. Stormwell looked almost as embarrassed as Lys felt, his cheeks flaming.

“What’s the matter, Stormwell? Don’t tell me you’re a virgin!” Plainfield prodded, his voice teasing.

Stormwell sputtered, his eyes wide. “I... I mean... that’s not...”

But it was obvious from his reaction that Plainfield had hit the mark. Woodrow joined in the teasing, his laughter booming across the tavern.

Lys shifted uncomfortably in her seat, not understanding why it was such a big deal. She had never given much thought to that kind of thing.

Woodrow turned to Lys, his eyes glinting with mischief. “And what about you, Lys? How can you say no to getting your sword wet? There might not be another opportunity until after we’re promoted!”

Stormwell’s face flushed crimson as the buxom blonde serving girl pulled him towards the stairs, cooing, “Come on, sweetie, let’s make a man out of you tonight.”

Lys stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floorboards. “Remember, we need to be back at camp in four hours, or there’ll be hell to pay.”

“Suit yourself, Lys, but you’ll regret being such a penny pincher!” Plainfield called after her as she strode towards the tavern door.

The summer afternoon air hit her like a slap as she stepped out onto the street. She took a deep breath, savoring the momentary solitude nestled in a sea of people. The weight of her coin pouch bumped inside her shirt.

For a few precious hours, she could do whatever she wanted. No drills, no marching, no orders barked in her ear. Just the bustling streets of Mythshell and the jingle of coins in her pocket.

Lys wandered down the street, her eyes roving over the various stalls and shops lining the way. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the sharp tang of spices, making her mouth water despite having just ate.

She paused at a stall selling an array of colorful fabrics, running her fingers over a bolt of deep blue silk. The merchant eyed her appraisingly, no doubt taking in her uniform.

“A fine choice, young sir,” the merchant said, his voice oily. “That silk would make a stunning doublet. Or perhaps a gift for a special lady?”

Lys shook her head, moving on to the next stall. She had no need for finery, and there was certainly no special lady—or boy—waiting for her back home.

As she walked, Lys couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer variety of goods on offer. From gleaming swords to delicate glass baubles, every type of ware seemed to sparkle under the sun.

She fingered the coins in her pouch, a thrill running through her at the thought of being able to buy anything she wanted.

But what did she want?

She had never had coin for frivolous purchases. Growing up in Thornfield, every copper had been carefully counted and saved. Or turned into fresh apples.

But now, with more money than she’d ever had in her life, the possibilities seemed endless. She needed something that would be useful to her.

Lys wandered down the bustling street, her eyes scanning the various shops and stalls lining the way. A small bookshop caught her attention, its window displaying an array of leather-bound tomes and writing implements.

She pushed open the door, a small bell tinkling above her head. The shopkeeper, a wizened old man with spectacles perched on his nose, looked up from the book he was reading.

“Good afternoon, young sir,” he said, his voice creaky with age. “How may I assist you today?”

Lys approached the counter, her eyes roving over the shelves. “I’m looking for a small journal and a pencil. Something I can carry with me on the road.”

The shopkeeper nodded, shuffling out from behind the counter. He plucked a small, leather-bound journal from a nearby shelf, holding it out for Lys to inspect.

She ran her fingers over the smooth cover, admiring the craftsmanship. The pages were crisp and white, perfect for recording observations or tactics.

“This one is well-made,” the shopkeeper said, noting her interest. “The binding will hold up to the rigors of travel, and the paper is of the highest quality.”

“How much?” she asked, reaching for her coin pouch.

The shopkeeper named a price that made Lys’s eyebrows shoot up. She had never spent so much on a single item before.

“That’s a bit steep,” she said, trying to keep her voice casual. “Surely we can come to a more reasonable arrangement?”

The shopkeeper eyed her appraisingly, taking in her recruit’s uniform. “I suppose I could let it go for a half-silver. But that’s my final offer.”

Lys hesitated for a moment, but in the end, the lure of having a place to record her thoughts and observations won out.

She pulled out the coin, handing it over to the shopkeeper. He wrapped the journal in a piece of cloth, tucking a charcoal pencil alongside it.

“A pleasure doing business with you, young sir,” he said, handing over the package.

Lys thanked him, tucking the journal into her shirt as she returned to wandering through the bustling market, her eyes scanning the stalls for anything that might catch her interest.

A glint of metal caught her eye, and she veered towards a stall displaying an array of gear and equipment.

The stall tender nodded in greeting as she approached. “What can I do for you, young sir?”

Lys’s gaze landed on a whetstone, its surface smooth and even. She picked it up, testing its weight in her hand. “How much for this?”

The man named a price, and Lys haggled him down to ten libra. She handed over the coins, tucking the whetstone into her pouch.

As she continued through the market, a sign caught her eye: “Boots and Gear.” She hesitated for a moment before pushing open the door.

The shop was dimly lit, the walls lined with boots of all sizes and styles. Lys ran her fingers over a pair of sturdy leather boots, admiring the craftsmanship.

“Can I help you, sir?” The shopkeeper greeted.

“I’m in need of a new pair of boots,” Lys said, gesturing to her worn recruit boots. “Something comfortable for long marches.”

The shopkeeper nodded, eyeing her feet. “I have just the thing. We’ll need to measure your feet and then it will take me an hour to fit them properly. Anything better than that would take at least a week.”

Lys glanced out the window at the bustling market. “That’s fine. How much?”

“Half a silver for the boots, and twenty-five libra for the fitting.”

Lys counted out the coins, handing them over to the shopkeeper. He gestured for her to take a seat, kneeling to measure her feet.

“You have small feet for a man,” he remarked, jotting down the measurements.

Lys laughed weakly, trying to ignore the flutter of nerves in her stomach. “I get that a lot.”

As the shopkeeper worked, Lys wandered over to a rack of cloaks. She ran her fingers over a lightweight one, admiring the waterproof leather exterior and soft linen lining.

“How much for this one?” she asked, holding it up.

The shopkeeper glanced up from his work. “Another half-silver.”

Lys hesitated for a moment before nodding. The cloak would be a valuable addition to her gear.

She settled back into the chair, watching as the shopkeeper carefully stretched and molded the leather of the boots to fit her feet. She pulled out her journal and considered what to first write in it.

A list of her purchases turned into a dirty, nearly unreadable scrawl. It had been a long time since she had written anything in the dirt. Why was she surprised that writing with an actual pencil was different, and harder?

Instead of anything specific, she focused on practicing writing the alphabet and numbers, turning it into a silly self-made game. The first page was more black than white by the time the shopkeeper announced he was done.

The new boots were the same color as her standard issue, but the interior was padded.

Lys couldn’t help but smile as she slipped them on, wiggling her toes in the soft leather. Comfortable.

The others would definitely end up regretting their choice of some short-term fun over their feet considering how far they still had to go to reach Dragonblanc.