Chương 11: Fantasy Math Is Still Math

The dull murmur of shoppers rumbled from all around us. We were making our way past the vendors on the wharf into the open-air market where fishmongers sold the day's catch. The whole area smelled like low tide, and none of the fish rested on ice like I was used to seeing. We paused after we passed the last of the shoppers. At the edge of the marketplace, townsfolk strolled casually, taking in the late morning. The friendly waves of the bay still shimmered close in our view.

That's where we took stock of our sales numbers. Altogether, we sold 34 cups of punch. At a rate of two cups for three copper, we'd made 57 copper total. After playing years of role-playing games, 57 copper felt like a whole lot of nothing. To Wynnie, however, it was a veritable gold mine. Or rather, maybe it was a copper mine. Her eyes grew wide as saucers as she looked into our money pouch. She ran her fingers through the dirty, tarnished coins. They made soft clinking sounds, which sent shivers through her.

"We're rich." Her whisper was reverent and quiet, as though she was afraid that anyone who overheard us might rob us at any second. Maybe that was the case. After all, most low-level encounters that my DM sent our way were bandits. That was how one got introduced to a new campaign, right? Bandits first, then cultists. Sometimes goblins, but I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they were sexy here. I'd have to ask at some point. Wynnie kept recounting the coins, turning them over in her fingers to inspect them.

They clinked lightly in her hands, drawing curious attention from a few people nearby. Despite assurances that there was no crime around here, it still felt uncomfortable to hold an ostentatious amount of money out in the open. I begged Wynnie to stow the pouch away so that we wouldn't draw attention. She tied the bag to her waist. It made a conspicuous jingling as we walked up the hill back to the inn. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if anyone was following us. I should have kept my eyes front and center.

"Well, well, well. What do we have here?" Lady Talia stood with her arms crossed, staring intently at the two of us. Her sword hung in a scabbard affixed to her waist, and the leather case rested comfortably on her thigh. Emerald green eyes narrowed to slits as we approached.

"Anyone care to explain the surly crew of drunken sailors descending on the town?"

"I think she means ascending," I murmured to my companion.

"We are going uphill, right?" Wynnie giggled, then turned to the constable.

"I'm sure we haven't the slightest clue. They're sailors, right? Aren't they known for drinking?"

"On land and at sea, aye, but rarely on the docks." Lady Talia set her jaw.

"Now, what will I do with a drunken sailor?"

"This early in the morning? I can think of a few things."

"Do tell. We don't have that much room in the jail." I pulled on my memory of briefly working at a pirate-themed bar that traveled around to festivals. Counting off on one hand, I began listing off what I could remember.

"Shave his belly with a rusty razor. Chuck him in the longboat till he's sober. Put him in the scuppers with a hosepipe on him." The last one might get me in trouble.

"Or maybe put him in the bed with the captain's daughter." Lady Talia's expression grew increasingly aghast. She shook her head, taking a step back as if to put more space between us. A gust of breeze tousled her strands of blonde hair, making her look both heroically fierce and fully disgusted with me.

"Egads! Why would anyone do that? Are you still drunk?" More proof that I shouldn't bring Earth culture here.

"Sorry, it's from a song."

"No song I've ever heard of."

"I'm from, um, distant lands." Wynnie nudged me and murmured under her breath, "Here, we call them the Far Shores."

"I mean, I'm from the Far Shores," I offered. Lady Talia's hand went to her sword, and she took a menacing step forward. Her eyes cast about as if looking for an attack to come from any direction. Wynnie gulped and nudged me.

"Oh, I should have mentioned. We're not technically at war with the Far Shores, but things are pretty hostile between us. That's where most of the Black Ship Raiders come from. We don't know much else about them." Great. As if I needed the local law enforcement to think any less of me. She already thought I could be a Raider, and now I'd nearly identified myself as one. Yet if she knew me, she'd realize how ridiculous that sounded. I'd never even been on a boat in my life.

Unless you counted an inflatable one I'd floated in at our local lake, that is. Something told me that didn't count in their eyes, though.

"I'm from the Far Shores, but not, um, those Far Shores. Not the ones that you're thinking of. Farther Shores. Much farther, in fact. Maybe the farthest? There are other lands," I added, hoping that was true. Lady Talia nodded slowly, tentatively accepting my explanation. Her hand drifted away from her sword. Tension dropped from my shoulders. I let out a heavy sigh of relief.

"Something's going on, and I don't trust you," she said.

"Wynnie, I expect you to keep him in line."

"Of course, your ladyship constable, sir!" She punctuated her affirmative with a crisp salute. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"And he's still here with you, so I assume I was right that he had enough coin to cover his night?" The truth of the matter was more complicated than that. We still hadn't really talked about what I'd owe her for room and board. Wynnie glanced at me. She fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve and bit her lip nervously.

"There's no trouble with coin. We've made a good arrangement, I think."

"Good. Good day." The severe dragonkin turned sharply and grumbled something about what to do with all these drunken sailors. It was all I could do not to start singing, "Way hey and up she rises." A few more minutes of walking had us returned to the Breakwater Inn. It loomed into view like a drunkard staggering down the road, all unnatural angles and tattered trim. It looked every bit as disheveled and in need of repair as ever. Warped boards, caked-on salt, and peeling paint made it look ready to topple over.

Which, maybe that would've been a better starting place. The building needed at least a few more nails before it felt safe. Simply tearing it down and rebuilding it from the foundation up might be the best play. But we had a prohibitive budget and a timeline to hit. Not only that, but our goal wasn't to survive an earthquake, anyway—it was to get people in the door. We didn't need to meet any building codes. All we needed was to look decent enough to take a chance on.

Sometimes, when you wanted to sell something, it was better to make it look the part on the outside while you worked on whatever was broken underneath. Like putting on pants and a fresh shirt, even when you're depressed. Pretty rather than functional. I had a few exes like that. That's what we were aiming for. It was another concept I was borrowing from back on Earth. The Breakwater Inn simply needed a rebrand. The last bar I'd worked at had done something similar in the past.

A new logo and a bit of marketing brought in far more curious customers than a new menu and interior redesign ever could. Point was, all the real changes could wait till later. It was time to put lipstick on this pig and see who lined up for a kiss. Wynnie finished stashing the handcart and met me back in the main entry room. She dusted off her hands and looked at me expectantly.

"What next?" After a few beats, I realized that suddenly, against all odds, I was running the show here. It'd been only a couple of days. Maybe there really was something to this Reborn isekai thing. Or maybe Wynnie had simply been that hapless. I thought about our top priorities.

"Where can we get paint? And a few bottles of liquor?"

"Liquor and paint? I was with you on the punch, but that sounds awful. And dangerous." I laughed.

"No, they're for separate things. I promise."

"Well, you won't find them in the same place. We have a paints, pigments, and ink shop. And for the liquor there's… Gus-Gus and Willy."

"Gus-Gus and Willy?"

"Preferably just Gus-Gus."

"Honestly, neither sounds great to me." She winced.

"Oh, they're terrible. Trust me."

We visited the paints and pigments shop first. Wynnie opened the thin wooden door, which swung open without any resistance. It banged against the wall, sending a loud echo through the room. It was drafty and cool inside, typical of the coastal climate. An older woman came out from behind a hallway, rubbing her hands together for warmth. A gray bun of straight, mousy hair hung loosely on the back of her head. A simple brown frock covered a skinny, aging body covered with paint smudges.

She pushed up a pair of spectacles on her nose and blinked a few times as we came into focus. A smile spread across her face as she realized what was happening.

"Oh! Customers! How can I help you?"

"We're looking to buy paint," I said.

"Well, you're in the right place. That's what we do." She peered closer at Wynnie and then blinked a couple times. Her smile grew even wider.

"Wynderriel! I thought that was you! You've filled out nicely." A red bloom spread across Wynnie's cheeks, and she looked down in embarrassment. Apparently, she wasn't happy with whatever changes had gone on recently to warrant a public notice of her "filling out." Whatever changes had happened, I sure appreciated them.

"Yep. I'm back. Time to paint the inn again, I guess."

"Same as last time?"

"Might as well." I put a hand on Wynnie to pause her.

"Wait. When was the last time you painted the place?" The old woman scratched her chin and thought, tapping her foot.

"Must be around three years ago now, yeah? Back when you first inherited the place." I scoffed. That was simply unbelievable. Wynnie had already painted the inn to such little result? And in just a few short years, most of the paint had already faded and flaked off? We had to make a change. Whatever she did last time, it wasn't enough.

"I think we might want to explore a different paint, actually," I said.

"Oh really?" asked the old lady.

"Yeah, oh really?" added the pretty innkeeper.

"How much did it cost for a can of the last paint?"

"Three copper per can, and one can covers roughly a quarter of the building."

"So, one silver, two copper to paint the whole thing?"

"More or less. Add one can for safety. Some places might need a double coat or extra attention. Then you'll want another can for trim. So one silver, eight copper total." Wynnie grimaced. Her newfound wealth was about to go right into paint. Yet all things considered, that didn't sound like so much to me. Back on Earth, quality paint cost a lot more than a cocktail. This sounded like a screaming deal. One silver and eight copper wasn't even a third of our total profit.

For a quick facelift, that could be quite a valuable investment. However, I wasn't impressed with how long the last paint had lasted. If this paint would again last only a couple of years before it got destroyed, we'd have to keep painting every couple of years, investing not just our money but our time repeatedly. I didn't like the sound of that one bit.

"Do you have any paint that would last longer?" I asked.

"Oh, sure. Of course. It costs more, though."

"How much more?"

"One can of weatherproof super paint costs seven copper." I did a bit of quick mental math. Thanks to bartending, I was actually pretty good at adding, subtracting, and multiplying small sums.

"So, five cans for the main body, plus one can for trim. Seven copper each would come to four silver, two copper?" The woman nodded with a kind smile. Wynnie blanched. Her eyes grew worried, and she shook her head slowly, mouthing the word "no" over and over again.

"I don't suppose you'd do a bulk discount, would you?" She thought about that for a few seconds.

"I haven't before. I'm not sure that's something I would feel comfortable with. What did you have in mind?" This was my one chance. I hoped that my economic sensibilities and natural bartending charm would help me out here.

"Here's the deal. You could definitely make a sale to us for one silver, eight copper, but we won't be happy with it. Unfortunately, you definitely can't make a sale for four silver, two copper. But at three silver, five copper, then you've got a deal, and you'll nearly double your sale." She shook her head.

"I couldn't go that low. This paint is something special, I tell you."

"What's so special about it?"

"The ingredients." I tried not to roll my eyes.

"What, is there magic in them or something?"

"Yes. There's a small charm spell. How else do you think we got it to be weatherproof?" Wynnie shrugged. She had me there.

"Well, if that's not enough, what's a number that would work for you?"

"You're asking for more than a copper off per can of paint. I could knock a bit off, but there's gotta be some profit for me, too. Magic doesn't come cheap, you know." That sounded fair to me. My first offer was just a shot in the dark to see if I could anchor the price somewhere. My second one would be more accurate. A half a copper off per can, plus one more copper to make it feel like a good deal, and we were in business.

"How about three silver, seven copper for the total?" It wasn't much of an increase, but any more would be too expensive.

"And your first drink at the bar is on the house. That's worth another three copper." I wasn't sure what the materials cost per cocktail came to, but it had to be a fraction of a single coin. Bartering our product could be an incredible bargaining chip for us, though we'd have to be careful not to mortgage our future profits with freebies. But a drink here and there? I was just incentivizing people to show up and try us out.

It was just like offering to comp a future drink or meal if a guest had a bad experience—getting them back in the door for a fresh look at the place was the real goal. She thought hard for several seconds. I couldn't tell if it was real consideration or just theater. Eventually, she nodded slowly.

"Okay, you've got yourself a deal. What colors do you want?"