Chương 15: A Familiar Door

The patrol had been almost boring. That was the sort of thing no one said aloud until they were back inside the city walls. Saying it on the road invited rain, broken axles, or a beast with too many teeth and a personal dislike of adventurers. So I waited until the western gate closed behind us.

"Boring," I said. Lio groaned.

"You couldn't wait another ten steps?"

"We're inside."

"We're still wearing our packs."

"The danger has passed." A loose strap snapped on Seren's shoulder. Her bedroll dropped into the road and unrolled through something I hoped had once belonged to a horse. Lio pointed at me.

"That was you."

"It was an old strap."

"It survived the entire patrol."

"It had a sense of timing." Seren stared at the bedroll.

"I'm burning it."

"You can wash it," I said.

"I'm burning it." We had spent two days checking the reopened western road, walking the old milestones, and making sure nothing larger than a thornback had settled too close to the wagon route. We found three thornbacks. All of them were small. One had attempted to bite Lio's boot before discovering the leather was thicker than its teeth. Lio had taken this as a personal victory.

The patrol had also escorted a merchant cart around a washed-out section of road, moved a fallen branch, and listened to an elderly farmer explain every defect in the city's drainage system. Twice. Nothing had tried to kill us. It was a good patrol. The younger guild members rarely understood that until they had survived enough exciting ones. Seren gathered the ruined bedroll and tied it into a bundle. Lio checked the thornback scratches on his boot for the sixth time.

The others looked tired, though less than they had after similar patrols. Joe's travel meals helped. He would have corrected that statement if I said it to him. The meals supported ordinary recovery. They did not heal injuries. They did not restore an emptied mana reserve. They did not replace sleep, medicine, or sensible decisions. They still helped. We had stopped near midday beneath a line of wind-bent trees and opened the last of the rice parcels. The warming marks held.

Steam rose as soon as the paper unfolded. Lio had stared at the fermented cabbage tucked beside the browned rice.

"Why does he keep putting this in?"

"Because you need vegetables," Seren said.

"I eat vegetables."

"You removed every root from last night's stew."

"They were in the way."

"Of what?"

"The meat." He complained through the first half of the meal. Then he asked whether anyone planned to finish theirs. No one did. I had packed two extra parcels because I knew him. That was leadership. The guild called it preparation, though leadership sounded better. I was C-rank now, which meant I was trusted to lead small patrols, escort work, and simple clearances. It also meant that when something went wrong, everyone looked at me before deciding whether to panic.

My father claimed that was the main difference between the lower ranks and the upper ones. At F-rank, people panicked freely. At C-rank, they waited for permission. At B-rank, they expected you to solve the reason they were panicking. Jacob Clovefield had been B-rank for years. Older guild members still said he had been close to A before he traded long expeditions for warehouses, wagons, and the daily misery of paying employees. I suspected he still frightened more monsters than most active adventurers.

He certainly frightened clerks. We crossed the western district in a loose group. The road was busier than it had been before the repairs. Wagons rolled between the gate and the central streets. Porters carried boxes into shops that had once closed before sunset. A new cobbler had hung a bright wooden boot over a narrow storefront. Three people stood near The Second Spark's hungry cupboards. I noticed them before I noticed the restaurant itself. That happened more often now.

Joe's cupboards had become part of the street. Guards stopped there after shifts. Couriers collected rice parcels. Laborers checked the red and gold marks before deciding what they could afford. Most of them never thought about the inscriptions inside the wall. They only knew the food was warm when it came out. Joe preferred it that way. I left Lio and Seren at the guild hall with instructions to turn in the patrol record and return the borrowed equipment. Lio looked toward the street behind me.

"You're not coming?"

"I have another report."

"To the restaurant?"

"To my father."

"That is worse."

"It can be." Seren adjusted the bundle that had once been a bedroll.

"Are there more rice parcels tomorrow?"

"If you return the tins." Lio held up both hands.

"I returned mine."

"You returned one."

"I only used one."

"You used two."

"That sounds unlikely." I left before he could explain further. Clovefield Company occupied a wide building two streets north of the western market. The front half held shelves, crates, and enough expedition supplies to equip several very nervous armies. The rear held my father. He sat behind a desk covered with route sheets and delivery tallies. A gray coat hung across the back of his chair. His sword rested within reach, because years away from active patrols had not convinced him that an office was safe.

A clerk stood across from him holding a list.

"No," Father said. The clerk looked down.

"It's only three additional wagons."

"Then it should be easy for them to provide three additional drivers."

"They thought we might—""They thought incorrectly." The clerk nodded and left with the expression of someone who had narrowly escaped a cave-in. Father looked at me.

"You're late."

"I returned on time."

"You were expected twenty minutes ago."

"I had to stop Lio from reporting a thornback as a significant road threat."

"Was it significant?"

"It damaged his pride."

"That may be permanent." I dropped the patrol copy onto his desk. He read it while I removed my pack. Father did most things quietly. He spoke only after he had sorted through the relevant pieces, which made waiting for him feel like standing before a closed door. He reached the final page.

"Three thornbacks."

"Small ones."

"One damaged boot."

"Mostly wounded pride."

"One ruined bedroll."

"That happened inside the wall." His eyes lifted. I smiled. He returned to the report.

"Any trouble with the meal parcels?"

"No. The warming marks held. No one became ill. Lio complained about the cabbage."

"He complained last time."

"He ate two parcels." Father set the report aside.

"The guild sent another order request."

"I know."

"They asked for forty."

"I changed it to twenty-four." That earned a pause. A small one. With Father, that was nearly applause.

"Why?"

"Joe would refuse forty."

"He should."

"He can make twenty-four without turning the restaurant into a field kitchen. I gave him ten days."

"You've already spoken to him?"

"I was going there after this." Father tapped the request with one finger.

"You changed an order before asking the supplier."

"I changed it before wasting everyone's time." Another pause.

"You're learning." I decided to take it as praise before he could explain otherwise. Father opened the side ledger.

"His grain orders have increased for three months. So have preserved goods, storage jars, waxed paper, and cooling stones."

"He has more customers."

"I had noticed."

"He might need a larger delivery."

"He needs another cold cabinet." I looked at him.

"Joe told you?"

"No. His orders did." That was the problem with having a merchant for a father. Normal conversations became evidence. Father turned several pages toward me. The listed deliveries were all to The Second Spark. Flour. Rice. Root vegetables. Oil. Salt. Waxed wrapping. Cooling stones. Preserved herbs. Replacement crockery. The quantities rose almost every week.

"He's keeping magical ingredients in the same cabinet as the regular produce," Father said.

"How do you know that?"

"He ordered three sealed herb boxes, two humidity jars, and enough interior lining for a divided shelf." I looked at the page again.

"You make him sound obvious."

"He is obvious when he buys things."

"He is less obvious when speaking."

"I'm aware." Father closed the ledger.

"I have a cabinet frame in the east warehouse. It was built for a boardinghouse that closed before delivery. The interior is unfinished."

"And you want Joe to buy it."

"I want to offer it to him before he pays a carpenter to build one from the ground up."

"That sounds generous."

"It has been taking up space for eight months."

"That sounds more like you." This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

"It can be both." He rose and took his coat from the chair. Father was still broad through the shoulders. Age had placed silver at his temples and stiffness in one knee, though neither had softened the way he carried himself. He no longer wore guild armor every day. He never looked entirely unarmed.

"You're coming?" I asked.

"I need to discuss delivery days."

"I can carry the message."

"You changed the guild order without speaking to the supplier."

"That was efficient."

"It was. I would like to see whether it happens twice." We left through the front. The western market had begun winding down, though the main road remained busy. Lanterns glowed over shop doors. A produce seller shouted the final price of a basket of pears as though the city's future depended on it. Father walked beside me in silence until I turned toward Mara's bakery.

"The restaurant is the other way," he said.

"I have to return a basket."

"You returned one four days ago."

"She uses several baskets."

"So does every bakery."

"This one is hers." Father looked at the basket hooked over my arm. It had traveled through two days of patrol tied to the outside of my pack. I had kept it clean. Mostly.

"She asked me to return it," I said.

"When?"

"Last week."

"And you carried it on patrol."

"I forgot it was attached." Father glanced at the basket again.

"You remembered to keep it away from the thornbacks."

"They bite anything."

"Apparently not that basket." The front of Mara's bakery was still warm from the ovens. The last loaves rested along the shelves. The room smelled of browned butter, honey, and the faint sharpness of yeast. Mara stood behind the counter tying paper around a round loaf. She looked up when the bell rang. Her face brightened. It was a small change. I noticed it anyway.

"You're back."

"That was the plan."

"You were supposed to return yesterday."

"The patrol was two days."

"You left two days ago."

"Yes." She stared at me. I counted backward.

"We left early."

"You said you would be back before the evening bake."

"I was wrong."

"You could have sent word."

"From the road?"

"The guild has message birds."

"For emergencies."

"I could have decided it was an emergency." She came around the counter and looked me over as though searching for missing pieces. I spread my arms.

"Everything is attached."

"There's a tear in your sleeve."

"Everything important is attached." Her gaze moved past me to Father. Mara straightened.

"Master Clovefield."

"Mara." Father knew everyone's name. He remembered debts, delivery schedules, birthdays, and which merchants had tried to cheat him ten years earlier. Mara wiped flour from her hands.

"I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did I," I said. Father ignored that.

"I hear your morning orders have increased."

"They have."

"You may want to move your flour delivery to the same route as the restaurant's. It would lower the cart fee." Mara's expression shifted from surprise to interest.

"How much lower?" They began discussing sacks, days, and storage as though I had stopped existing. I placed the basket on the counter. Mara glanced at it.

"You carried that the whole way?"

"I said I would return it."

"You could have returned it before leaving."

"That would have required remembering it before leaving." She laughed. I liked when she did that. Father noticed. Of course he did. Mara took a wrapped loaf from the shelf and held it out to me.

"Eat this before you go home."

"I ate on the road."

"When?"

"Midday."

"It's nearly closing."

"The rice parcels were filling."

"Take the bread." I took the bread. The crust was glazed with honey and scattered with seeds. It was the good loaf again. That had happened enough times to become suspicious.

"Are we still going to the market?" Mara asked.

"Yes."

"This rest day?"

"Yes."

"After I close?"

"That was the plan."

"Good." She smiled, then turned back to Father. I stood there with the loaf under one arm. Father's face remained calm. His eyes did not. I knew that look. It meant he had found something entertaining and planned to become unbearable about it later. We said goodbye and stepped outside. Father waited until the bakery door closed.

"How long have you been courting her?"

"I'm not."

"You carried her basket on patrol."

"She needed it returned."

"You visit three times a week."

"The bakery is near the guild."

"It is in the opposite direction."

"It depends where I'm going afterward."

"You are taking her to the market."

"She asked."

"Yes." I adjusted the loaf beneath my arm.

"We're friends."

"Perhaps you should tell her."

"She knows." Father glanced back at the bakery.

"I'm not certain she does." We continued down the street. I was still considering that when The Second Spark came into view. The restaurant looked different at night. Warm light filled the front windows. The painted sign above the door had darkened with the weather, though the gold line around the name caught the lamplight. The Second Spark. When Joe first rented the building, the sign had been faded, the windows dusty, and half the tables had leaned in different directions. Now people recognized it.

A pair of guards stood near the outside cupboards. One collected a sealed bowl from the red-marked door. The other checked the gold door before finding it empty. The cobbler across the road was still open. A tea seller had begun using the corner near the wall. Even the street sounded different. More voices. More wheels. More doors opening and closing. Father noticed the same things, though probably as rent values and delivery routes.

"You did well choosing this property," I said.

"I rented an empty building to a man with no restaurant experience."

"And now?"

"I was fortunate." That was close enough to admitting it. I stopped at the gold cupboard and inserted the guild token. The mechanism turned. A rice parcel slid into the lower compartment, still warm. Father looked at the parcel, then at the front door.

"You could enter like an ordinary customer."

"I'm checking the warming mark."

"You're hungry."

"That too." I tucked the parcel beneath my arm beside Mara's loaf. The restaurant door stood several steps away. Before I reached it, a shadow moved behind the glass. Joe appeared in the dining room. He was already facing the entrance. I paused with one foot on the step. Father nearly walked into me.

"What?"

"Joe's waiting by the door."

"You used the cupboard."

"He usually shouts from the kitchen."

"You find that less strange?"

"I'm accustomed to it." I opened the door. Joe stood in the low amber light with one hand resting near the counter. His expression did not change when he saw me.

"Amon," he said.

"Do you wait there all evening now?"

"No."

"Good. That would be unsettling." Father entered behind me. Joe's eyes shifted to him. There was the smallest pause. It was nice to know Father could still surprise people.

"Jacob."

"Joe." Father closed the door. The dining room had already been cleaned. Chairs sat neatly beneath the tables. The counter lamps remained lit, though the kitchen beyond was dark. Joe looked at the parcel under my arm.

"The warming mark held."

"I know."

"How?"

"I checked it before stocking the cupboard."

"You should accept praise when it is offered."

"You have not eaten it."

"I have eaten the previous ones."

"That does not confirm this one." I opened the parcel. Steam rose. I took a bite while he watched.

"It's warm."

"That is insufficient."

"It's good."

"That is unrelated to the warming mark."

"It can be both." Father moved farther into the room, looking over the shelves, tables, and counter. Joe noticed. He always noticed when someone looked at his systems.

"The tables are stable," Joe said.

"I wasn't checking the tables," Father replied.

"You looked at the legs."

"I remember the old ones." Joe accepted that. I placed the loaf on the counter.

"Mara sent bread." Joe looked at the honey glaze.

"For the restaurant?"

"For me."

"Then why did you place it on the counter?"

"There was space." Joe moved the loaf farther from the payment ledger. Father removed the guild request from his coat and set it on the nearest table.

"Twenty-four travel meals," he said.

"Ten days from now." Joe looked at me.

"The guild requested forty."

"How did you know?"

"They asked for thirty last time. Forty was likely."

"I changed it."

"Why?"

"Because you would say no."

"I might have said twenty."

"You can make twenty-four." Joe stared at me. I smiled.

"You can."

"I can."

"Then I was right."

"That does not make changing another person's order appropriate." Father pulled out a chair.

"It made the order possible." Joe looked between us. Then he picked up the request.

"When are the tins being returned?"

"Tomorrow," I said.

"All of them?"

"Most."

"That is not all."

"Lio claims one was lost during combat."

"What combat?"

"A thornback bit his boot." Joe lowered the page.

"The tin was not attached to his boot."

"I told him that." Father sat.

"The guild will pay for missing tins." Joe looked at him.

"That encourages them to lose more."

"Charging them encourages them to return what they have." Joe considered that. I sat across from Father and opened the rice parcel fully. There was fermented cabbage in this one too. Excellent. Father watched me eat.

"You complained about that last month."

"I was younger then."

"That was three weeks ago."

"I've changed." Joe took the seat at the end of the table and read the order.

"Twenty-four is acceptable. I need the final dietary list by the third day."

"No shellfish," I said.

"One person avoids redroot. Lio claims cabbage is a spiritual burden."

"He eats it."

"He eats everyone else's too."

"Then I will keep the cabbage." I pointed at him with my spoon.

"That is leadership."

"It is inventory management." Father's mouth moved slightly. He was nearly smiling. Joe noticed that too. He turned the guild request over and wrote the delivery date on the back.

"What did you need to discuss?" Father placed one hand on the table.

"Your orders."

"They were paid."

"They were."

"Were any incorrect?"

"No."

"Then what about them?"

"You are buying enough stock to justify a regular delivery schedule."

"I already have scheduled deliveries."

"You have several schedules. Grain comes on one day. Produce comes on another. Preserved goods arrive when the warehouse remembers to include them."

"That has happened twice."

"Which is why we are changing it." Joe's posture shifted. He was interested now. Father continued.

"Two deliveries each week. Grain, preserved goods, oil, and ordinary produce together. Special ingredients remain separate. Mara's flour can use the same route if she agrees."

"She likely will," I said. Father ignored me.

"The combined route lowers the cart cost. Regular quantities allow a lower price on grain and oil."

"How much lower?" Father gave him the number. Joe's eyes narrowed slightly. That meant he was calculating.

"How long does the price remain fixed?"

"Through the next season."

"What happens after?"

"We review it."

"Will I be required to buy the same amount every week?"

"No."

"Minimum?" Father gave him another number. Joe looked toward the kitchen.

"That is lower than my current average."

"Yes."

"Maximum before the price changes?" Father answered. Joe asked six more questions. Father answered all of them. I finished the rice. The conversation moved from delivery days to storage loss, then from storage loss to the cold cabinet. Father mentioned the unfinished frame in the east warehouse. Joe stopped him.

"Dimensions?" Father knew them. Of course he did. Joe stood, crossed to the wall beside the pantry, and took a piece of chalk from behind the counter. He marked the cabinet's width across the plaster. Then the height. Then the depth. The frame would fit with three inches to spare on one side. Joe stared at the marks.

"How thick is the insulation?"

"Two inches."

"Material?"

"Corkwood and wool."

"Interior lining?"

"Unfinished."

"That is preferable." Father raised an eyebrow.

"It is?"

"I need separate compartments."

"For magical ingredients." Joe looked at him.

"Yes."

"I assumed."

"How?"

"Your orders." Joe glanced toward me.

"Apparently I am obvious when buying things."

"You are," Father said.

"Only when buying things," I added. Joe ignored me. He measured the wall again. The price discussion took longer. Joe did not want a favor. Father did not offer one. The cabinet had been sitting unused. Joe would pay for the frame, delivery, and any work Clovefield Company completed before it arrived. Joe would handle the interior partitions and rune work himself. It was a good price. Joe still negotiated. Father looked pleased. That was more alarming than when he looked angry.

"You've become difficult," Father said.

"I was already difficult."

"You were previously difficult without records." Joe returned the chalk to the counter.

"I have records now."

"That improves matters." The agreement remained verbal for the evening. Father would send the measurements and cost breakdown the next morning. Joe would inspect the cabinet before payment. No one used the word exclusive. Joe would continue buying some produce and specialized goods elsewhere. Father expected that. A single supplier could fail. Joe did not like systems with one point of failure. Father had taught me the same thing with bridges, ropes, and business partners. Joe sat again.

"The restaurant is staying here?" Father asked. The question changed the room slightly. Joe looked around. At the tables. The counter. The dark kitchen. The wall where the second cabinet would stand.

"Yes." He answered without delay. Something in my chest eased. I had not realized the question bothered me until then. The restaurant had begun as a place for Joe to recover from his last failure. A building to fill. A plan to keep him busy while he decided what came next. At some point, it had become the thing that came next. Father nodded.

"Then permanent improvements make sense." Joe looked at the chalk marks on the wall.

"I intended to stay before the improvements."

"I know." That was all either of them said. It was enough. Father stood and walked toward the rear passage. The narrow staff-room door stood open. The lamp inside was unlit, though the desk, bench, and coat hooks were visible.

"You made a staff room," he said.

"The intervals between meal services are breaks."

"For you as well?" Joe did not answer immediately. Father looked back at him.

"For both of you?"

"Yes." I coughed into my hand. Joe's eyes shifted toward me. I became interested in the empty rice paper. Father returned to the table and collected his coat.

"I'll send the cabinet details tomorrow."

"I will inspect it before agreeing."

"I assumed you would."

"And the revised delivery prices."

"With the measurements."

"And the cart schedule." Father put on his coat.

"Yes, Joe." Joe nodded. Business concluded. Father looked at me.

"Do not keep Mara waiting on market day." I nearly dropped the spoon. Joe looked up. Father opened the door.

"I won't," I said.

"I was speaking from experience."

"With Mara?" Father stopped. Joe became very still.

"With your mother." Then Father left. The door closed behind him. For several seconds, the restaurant was quiet. I looked at Joe. Joe looked at me.

"He could have said that before opening the door," I said.

"He chose not to."

"Yes."

"That was deliberate."

"I know." I gathered the empty parcel. Joe took it from me and folded the paper into the waste bin.

"Mara asked me to go to the market," I said.

"I heard."

"She asked last week."

"You agreed."

"Yes." Joe waited. I waited too. He was better at it.

"Does everyone think Mara and I are courting?" I asked. Joe considered the question with more care than it deserved.

"Do you want the complete list?"

"No."

"That is sensible." I leaned back in the chair.

"We're friends."

"Yes."

"She gives me bread."

"Yes."

"I return baskets."

"Yes."

"We go places together."

"Yes." I frowned. Joe's expression remained calm.

"You could be more helpful."

"I have repeated the relevant information."

"You've repeated my information."

"It appears sufficient." I looked toward the loaf on the counter. The good loaf. Again.

"Should I bring flowers?" Joe looked at the bread. Then at me.

"Probably."

"What kind?"

"I do not know."

"You know Mara."

"I know what flour she uses."

"That is less useful."

"It is useful to her." I stood and picked up the loaf. Joe began gathering the papers Father had left behind. The room felt settled around him. The lamps, the cupboards, the cleaned tables, the chalk marks waiting for a cabinet that had not arrived yet. Three months earlier, the place had looked like something Joe was trying to rescue. Now it looked as though it had plans of its own. I reached the door.

"Joe." He looked up.

"The food was good."

"You already said that."

"I meant all of it." He studied me for a moment. Then he nodded once. I stepped outside with Mara's loaf under my arm and the market still several days away. I had time to find flowers. Probably.