Chapter 9: The Price to Pay (Patreon)

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Chapter 9: The Price to Pay - Link: https://www.patreon.com/posts/99652685

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Chapter 9: The Price to Pay

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Huh? “Asked me what?”

Seriously, what the fuck was she talking about?

“The fact that you’re asking says he didn’t,” the baker, Mrs. Crumbwell, said, her smile betraying a hint of pity.

“What was he supposed to ask me?”

“Forget it, girl. Maybe he never will. Who knows what’s going on in that man’s head.”

“He asked me if I could cook,” I blurted out, unwilling to just give up. After all, this was about me and my life here on Brass Row, and in a damn alchemist’s house to boot. “ . . . to cook and do some gardening. Is that what you meant?”

The baker chuckled and patted me on the shoulder. “Then you’re a lucky girl. Some ladies would LOVE to cook for him - though I highly doubt their cooking skills.”

“Wait, did you mean if he asked for my hand? I would never . . . ”

The baker burst out laughing, her chest jiggling in front of my eyes as if in mockery of mine. “That look - you grimace as if I told you to eat a pie filled with horse dung. Honestly, a healthy approach - as far as alchemists are concerned.”

“Faulkner, too?”

“Sure. He’s an alchemist, ain’t he? But don’t worry, he’s one of the finer ones. Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be cautious and think carefully about what you agree with.”

“Which might be what?”

“You’ll see when it comes . . . or not.”

“Seriously, you can’t say all that and leave me hanging. Please.”

Mrs. Crumbwell met my gaze, frowned, and sighed. “I only have myself to blame, don’t I? Besides, someone would have told you sooner or later, anyway. You see, when I bake a new kind of pastry, I experiment with the recipe, taste it, tweak it. The same goes for potions and other stuff alchemists make.”

“You don’t mean . . . ?”

“Yes, they have to test it on someone before they sell it to their customers. Can you imagine if one of the lords or councilors got a rash from a hair growth potion? What a fuss they’d make?”

“But Faulkner claimed his products were free of side effects.”

“Sure, the ones you find on the shelves of his shop. But do you think he brewed them that way on the first try?”

“No - wait, he didn’t, right?”

“Depends on what you are asking? Does he try potions on himself? Not that I know of.”

“Then that Lawrence guy - his previous assistant?” I asked, dread gripping my throat as everything she said fell into place.

To my horror, the baker nodded. “Yes, he did. BUT don’t get your knickers in a twist, girl. Lawrence said he always got paid handsomely - he almost convinced me to try it a couple of times. But then I heard that one such test left him with a fever for a week, and . . . well, the thought of making extra money at the expense of a mere rash left me.”

“Have you heard of anything worse happening to him?”

“Not really, but you know how it is - people brag about their successes, not their failures.”

Yeah, I wasn’t exactly eager to show off the scars on my body either; if anything, I would brag about surviving a shower of Golden Age goo.

“You could ask Faulkner yourself, but I’d wait for him to ask you first,” Mrs. Crumbwell suggested. “The guy doesn’t like outsiders sticking their noses in his business. But then, we all do, don’t we?”

Unable to help but agree, I nodded back.

“True. You’re not going to tell him I asked, are you?”

“Now that he’s got you, that man won’t be showing up at my bakery anymore. Besides, we were just talking.”

“And it was a nice talk, Mrs. Crumbwell,” I said with a slight bow of my head, truly grateful for what I’d learned.

“I like you, girl. Lawrence wasn’t a half-bad, but I had always found him rather arrogant. Working for an alchemist went to his head, I think - hope the same doesn’t happen to you. It would be a shame.”

“I’ll do my best not to let it happen.”

Mrs. Crumbwell. “Not always something you notice yourself.”

“Then please tell me if I ever grow arrogant.”

“Sure, but you better not yell at me,” she said, laughing, and gestured for me to hand her the shopping list.

I left the bakery with a full basket, a loaf of bread under my arm, and no choice but to return to the atelier. Only after putting the groceries in the pantry did I return to the streets of Greymare and make my way to the greengrocer. Never in my life have I held such fresh tomatoes in my hands - no mushy parts, no black spots. Honestly, at first I wasn’t even sure if they were tomatoes. Same with the cucumbers, and don’t get me started on the apples. Their skins glistened like gems, and the smell - nothing short of divine.

And so, when it came to buying butter, cow’s milk, and cream at the next place on my list, I couldn’t help but wonder what it all tasted like. I’ve had my share of butter in my life, most recently this morning for breakfast on stale bread, but fresh, unsour milk, let alone cream, was the stuff of my wildest dreams. Tempted as I was to see if the taste matched the one I had dreamed up, I made my way to the spice shop, the second to last stop on the list, before returning to store the groceries in the kitchen pantry at Alchemist’s house.

It may have sounded stupid, and it probably was, but I didn’t want to walk into the Crafts and Gears workshop Faulkner had sent me to with a broken pocket watch, a basket of food in my hand. Those folks working with the machines of today were the closest equivalent to the machinists of the Golden Age. They deserved to be treated with respect, and often demanded it. It was they who kept the town running, the clock tower, the power plant, the water treatment plant, the trains, and, as in the case of this workshop, the machines of daily use - a pocket watch, my first such machine, being one of them.

“By the Gears,” I gasped in awe, for no sooner had I crossed the threshold than a whiff of grease, metal, and steam wafted over me. The workshop was packed with machines, the sound of their running echoing from every corner. Ticking, grinding, squeaking - to my ears, it sounded like the most beautiful music.

In my entire life, I’ve only seen a workshop like this once. The beating I got afterwards was something I remember to this day. I couldn’t sit down for a week, and I didn’t get a good night’s sleep for almost two. And all that just for my curiosity, for which the owner had no understanding.

Actually, I got off easy. He could have made up a story about me stealing and had the Caps lock me up. Come to think of it, I should actually be grateful to him.

That beating kept me from making a mistake like that again.

“Look at that, you don’t see that every day,” the hoarse voice of a man about my size, wearing a leather gearsmith’s apron and work glasses perched on his head, snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Ah, forgive me. Hello, my name is Nika Ratchetmare, sir.”

“Burke,” the man replied simply, smoothing his beard. His eyes scanned me from head to toe. “Never seen you here before, Miss Ratchetmare, but I like the look on your mug.”

Mug? That certainly wasn’t the kind of language I’d expect from someone from uptown. But maybe he’d just caught a whiff of who I really was and didn’t care about the pretense.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“The fact that you don’t just see things that make your life easier. You see the machines, don’t you?” he asked, smiling broadly, his arms outstretched, gesturing to the little Workings in his workshop.

“And they are wonderful, sir.”

“A rare answer. All right, why are you here? I could make you a price.”

“I . . . actually . . . ” I stammered, not quite sure what to say. “That’s nice of you, but . . . ”

“Spare me the flattery and tell me why you are here. Are you looking for something, or do you need something repaired? I warn you, if it’s one of those ero-tools, don’t even bother to bring it out. I wouldn’t touch those things with a ten-foot pole.”

“Ero-tools? What are those? No . . . I’m here to get my pocket watch fixed,” I said, quickly taking the little working out of my pocket.

“Let me see,” the man said, snatching the watch from my hand with the finesse of a thief. Pulling his work spectacles down over his eyes, he turned his gaze to the watch, turning it in his hands and muttering something I didn’t quite understand.

“These aren’t yours, are they, miss?”

“No, I got them yesterday.”

Mentioning Faulkner seemed foolish, as the man obviously wasn’t thrilled with what he’d done with the pocket watch.

“Like this, I assume?”

“Yes.”

“I thought so. Someone with that look in their eyes would care for it more than the idiot who owned it before you,” he said, not minding his words. “If it’s someone you know, I’m not sorry. Anyway, I can fix it; two days, price - I’ll see when I look inside the gears.”

Fuck!

“I-I see.”

My stutter wasn’t exactly a vote of confidence, but I had a damn good reason for the falter. Faulkner might not have given me a coin limit, but neither did Burke. The gearsmith might end up charging more for the repair than a new pocket watch would cost.

“Don’t worry,” Mister Burke said, seeing my doubts stemming from years of experience with the merchants of the lower town. “I’ll take it apart and see - if the price gets unreasonably high, I’ll discuss it with you first, miss. Sounds good?”

“It does, Mister Burke,” I said with as much gratitude as I could muster. “Good, but be prepared, miss; at the very least, it needs greasing, the spring has to be replaced, and the glass has seen better days. At a minimum, one thousand talons.

My breath caught in my throat. A thousand talons? That was . . . five days’ work in a coal mine - no food, sleeping on the street.

“I u-understand,” I choked out again, doing my best to stay calm as a bead of cold sweat rolled down my spine. “I’ll tell . . . ”

What exactly was the Alchemist to me? Employer? Master? Come to think of it, neither, and both at the same time. He was the alchemist, and I was his assistant, bound to him by a five-year contract.

“I’ll let Mr. Faulkner know.”

Burke grinned, nodding to himself. “I had a hunch you were his new assistant. No one can ruin a watch like he can. Honestly, it’s a damn waste - a fine lass like you should be working in my trade.”

My eyes widened; the beat of my heart quickened. “You’re looking for an apprentice?”

“Gears, no! I already have two half-wits on my hands. Besides, even if I did . . . would you have the time to be here for weeks on end - gear work is not a craft to be approached half-assed.”

As much as I wanted to say yes, I had no choice but to clench my fists, bite my lip, and shake my head. My contract with the alchemist didn’t allow it.

“I wouldn’t, Mr. Burke.”

“I thought not,” the mechanic said, smiling broadly. “I like your honesty, though. Refreshing. Not like those uptight ladies with the stick up their asses.”

Whether it was the completely different experience I had here, the magic of the workshop, or the casualness with which the gearsmith spoke, I didn’t know, but I laughed. And much to my relief, Burke laughed with me.

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***

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Not much had changed on the street; there was no hustle and bustle, just about a dozen people minding their own business. If I had to guess, assistants and servants like me, doing the bidding of their masters. At most, they spared me a glance. Yet, ever since I’d left the Crafts and Gears, I’d had the strange feeling that I was being watched.

Given that the first rule of survival on the streets was out the window - I already had someone’s attention - there was nothing left to do but fall back on the second one, and look confident. Quickening my pace, looking around and trying to figure out who was watching me and from where would be a total rookie mistake, screaming at them that I was an easy pick. However, the same mistake, perhaps even worse, would be to look oblivious.

There was simply a certain finesse to it that took me a while to grasp, but I did eventually. As a result, I’ve managed to stay out of trouble with the worst of the lower town’s scum for years.

Well, most of the time.

Annoyingly, some thieves were more persistent than others, or just downright dumb enough to pick up on those hints. And that seemed to be the case with the ones on my tail. I made it halfway back to the atelier, yet their stares didn’t waver; if anything, the uneasy feeling they gave me grew more piercing.

Brass Row, my ass - it was no different from the streets of lower Greymare.

A few more steps and I could have sworn they were right behind me.

My mind raced with my options - all of which boiled down to one: bolt for the atelier. I could make it there. It wasn’t far; I was at full strength, with new shoes on my feet - the only hitch was the skirt.

“Greymare Police. May we have a few words with you - ma’am?”

“Shit!” I cursed in my head. My luck couldn’t have been worse. Dealing with a Cap was even more troublesome than facing a bunch of thieves.

“Yes?” I said after taking a breath and turning on my heel, only to freeze when my eyes fell on two Caps.

“Good morning,” a man in a typical black uniform with silver buttons and trim said, grabbing the white cap that gave them their name and bowing his head slightly. The same could not be said for his partner, a woman who kept giving me piercing stares.

“We couldn’t help but notice you walking down the street,” the man continued as I returned his greeting - doing my best not to show how tense I was. “You see, it’s our job to keep this street and the good people who live here safe.”

There it was - now he was going to ask me for the toll. Typical. They weren’t that different from the thugs, just sanctified by the city council and the lords who sat on it.

“And as such . . . ”

“By the Gears, Derek. Hurry up, will you? She’s obviously not a local. No need to fawn over her as if she were Lady Rosemare herself. What?! What are you looking at? I have a nose for people like you. Or am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not,” I said with all the calm I could muster. Saying anything back would only make things worse.

“See?”

Her smug grin made my blood boil. On the other hand, her colleague’s resigned sigh caught me off guard, almost making me feel like he was on my side.

“My apologies, ma’am. Name, citizenship number, and the reason you’re here, please.”

“Are you arresting me?”

The woman smirked. “Perhaps we should. People like you have no business here - always trying to be something you’re not.”

“No, you’re not under arrest,” the man said, ignoring his colleague. “We need to know who’s moving about on Brass Row, and for the record, in case of need.”

Ah, sure, if anything went missing, I’d be the first one they’d look for.

“I see. Nika Hester Ratchetmare. F - 0 - 354-2-896-17.”

“Place of residence?”

“If any,” his colleague remarked.

“Brass Row 537.”

“Got it, thanks . . . hold on, did you say 537?”

“Yes,” I said with a nod, the realization in the eyes of the two Caps mirroring mine. No longer was I just another poor gal surviving in the bowels of Greymare. As strange as it sounded and felt, I now had a status.

“You are Alchemist Faulkner’s new assistant - and I am an idiot. The colors you wear.”

The colors of my clothes? Did red and gold have something to do with alchemists? First time I’d ever heard of such a thing. Not that it mattered. If anything, it was good to know.

“Yes, I am. Since yesterday.”

“Good for you,” the woman growled, crossing her arms over her chest. “But it doesn’t mean shit, Derek. I say we should keep an eye on her all the more. Do you hear me, Ratchetmare? One mistake, and I’ll make sure your ass ends up behind bars.”

The man laughed awkwardly, straightening his white cap. “Don’t take her too seriously, Miss Ratchetmare. She’s just trying to do her job well. Anyway, that’s all from us. Have a nice day.”

Watching the man rush his colleague, who was giving me a hard glare, as if to keep me from getting the impression that she wouldn’t follow through with her warning, I couldn’t help but stare back. This was the most bizarre encounter I’d ever had with the Caps.

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***

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“How did it go with the gearsmith?” Faulkner asked as I brought him a morning snack in his study. To be honest, I couldn’t wait to have some myself - fresh bread, sausage, tomatoes. I was literally drooling. But instead of rushing back to the kitchen to get my share, I froze.

“Mr. Burke said he had to take the pocket watch apart first, but . . . ”

“Yes?”

“At least two days’ work and a thousand talons,” I said with a knot in my throat.

“Only one talar?” the alchemist wondered, looking up from his notes.

“That’s what he said, sir.”

One talar, a thousand talons, a currency rarely used in lower Greymare. So rarely, in fact, that I couldn’t get my tongue around it.

“Really? I was sure he would ask for at least two - you must have impressed him.”

“Well . . . ”

“Nothing to be ashamed of, Miss Ratchetmare. In fact, I’m impressed myself, Mr. Burke, let’s just say he’s not very fond of me - did you mention my name at all?”

“Yes, he knows that I am your new assistant.”

“Then very well done. You have saved me a considerable amount of coins.”

“That is not certain, sir,” I corrected him, having absolutely no desire to be on the other end of his ire after failed expectations.

“Fear not, Miss Ratchetmare. I base my calculations on the facts, not on speculation. Only a fool would spend the coins he knows he’ll most likely need.”

My chest heaved as I let out a sigh of relief.

“Now, leave,” the alchemist said, waving me away. “I’ll meet you down at the shop at nine.”

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