Chương 121: Chapter 118 - Atelier Meeting

Alric had chosen the tavern because it was close to the docks, close to the warehouse, and close to the people who would actually use whatever came out of the conversation. Seren had not accepted this reasoning. She walked beside him with the expression of someone who had heard his explanation, placed it carefully in a category, and found the category wanting.

"Why are we meeting here?" Seren asked giving Alric a side glance.

"It's my favourite tavern and, and, and it even sells our beer."

"So does the fish market." The tavern stood two streets back from the river, which was to say it had been given just enough distance from the docks to pretend it was not part of them. The smell disagreed. River mud, tar, fish, wet rope, old smoke, and spilled beer had all made long-term arrangements with the building. Its sign had once been painted. Possibly more than once. Time, weather, and dock workers had reduced it to a dark shape swinging above the door. Seren let out a sigh as they approached.

The tavern was open-air. Alric went to his usual table. Behind him, his security detail took theirs. The tavern was not full, but it was occupied. Two dockmen sat near the front, eating something brown from a bowl and arguing softly about whether a third man owed them money or merely dignity. A woman with arms like barrel staves leaned against the counter, speaking to the barman in a tone that suggested he had already disappointed her twice that morning.

Near the back, three bargemen played cards with the careful silence of men cheating each other professionally. The room noticed Seren first. That was understandable. Seren looked neat. Not noble, not rich, but neat in a way that suggested ledgers, clean hems, and consequences. The tavern accepted her after a moment because she was with Alric, and Alric had begun to acquire the sort of local familiarity that made people curious before they were hostile. They had just sat down when Margaret entered.

The tavern made a small adjustment around her. No one bowed. That would have been too much. But one bargeman stopped reaching for a card. The barman straightened by half an inch. The woman at the counter glanced at Margaret's cloak, then at the quality of the clasp, then away with the speed of someone choosing survival over interest. Her clothing was not extravagant, but it was good. Good cloth, good cut, good colour, all of it too controlled for the room around her. Alric lifted a hand.

"Over here." Margaret's gaze moved to him slowly. Seren closed her eyes for a moment. Margaret crossed the deck with the careful steps of a woman who did not intend to let the floor claim anything from her shoes. She reached the table, looked at the bench, then at Alric.

"This… this is where you wanted to meet?"

"Yes," Alric said with a large grin.

"You know there are taverns in the noble district?"

"There are. They don't sell my beer though." Seren made a small sound. Margaret sat, though she did it in a way that suggested the bench had been granted a temporary honour and should not become proud.

"Before we go too far," Alric said, "any atelier I form lives in the lower city." Margaret blinked. Seren's head turned toward him very slowly. Alric continued.

"Not the noble quarter, not near the magery, not tucked away somewhere everyone can pretend magic is clean, quiet, and expensive. The work is here. The businesses that need mana are here. If I have an atelier, it is here." Margaret looked at him for a long moment, then leaned back slightly.

"I did not expect that as the first thing."

"Thought I should get that out the way."

"Yes," she said.

"I am starting to see that expecting anything normal from you is bad use of my time." Seren drew in a breath.

"Mister Alric, introductions maybe?"

"Right." Alric gestured.

"This is Seren, my personal assistant." Margaret turned to her with more interest than before.

"Margaret Isevel," she said, inclining her head.

"Third daughter of Lord Isevel's second branch, registered practitioner of the Magery of Avengard." Seren's face changed in stages. First came recognition that the title was real. Then came the memory that they were in a dockside tavern. Then came the understanding that Alric had known both of those things and had proceeded anyway.

"Mistress Isevel," Seren said, very carefully.

"Margaret is fine," Margaret replied.

"No, it is not," Seren said. Margaret looked at Alric. Alric shrugged.

"She does that."

"I maintain standards," Seren said.

"You maintain several standards. Some have subheadings." The barman arrived before Seren could answer, which was probably for the best.

"Beer," Alric said. Margaret lifted one brow.

"Wine, if there is any." The barman looked at Alric. Alric looked at Margaret.

"You do not want the wine here."

"I have had bad wine before, I survived."

"Sounds like a bad habit when the beer is good." The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. Margaret's expression flattened.

"Beer, then."

"I make this one," Alric added. That changed the barman's expression, though only slightly. He returned a short while later with three tankards and the careful neutrality of a man serving a noblewoman something she had not asked for in a place she would not have chosen. Alric noted that Margaret had received what generously be called a newer tankard.

"It is very light." Margaret said peering into the mug.

"It is the ale we make." She lifted the mug and took a polite sip. Then she stopped, the mug still close to her mouth, and looked down into it as though the liquid had failed to behave according to class. She took another, smaller sip.

"Not sour?"

"No," Alric said, shaking his head with a small grin. Margaret looked at him. Seren reached for her own mug, tasted it, and seemed faintly relieved that at least one part of the meeting was competent. Alric folded his hands on the table.

"So. What is in it for me, why form this thing?" Margaret set the mug down.

"Direct as ever."

"I have been told I have very little time."

"You have a week until the royal inquiry."

"How do you know that?" Alric asked, wide-eyed. Margaret just gave a small shrug.

"An atelier gives you some standing. Access, you can buy things from the adventurers. Legal structure. The ability to train mages under recognised authority." She began listing the points. Alric waited. Margaret exhaled through her nose.

"And I would handle the teaching."

"That sounds like what is in it for you."

"I would teach your people. And you." Alric leaned back. The bench creaked loudly.

"I am only half interested in hocus pocus." Margaret's eyes narrowed.

"Magic."

"Magic, then. But most of what I have seen is either expensive, theatrical, or a fire waiting for better timing. Fireballs set things on fire I understand."

"Magic is a noble pursuit."

"Nobility is not a function." Margaret stared at him. Alric gestured toward the river side of the city.

"Can it heat? Clean water? Move air? Stop people from carrying boiling liquid across floors because some dead man thought buckets built character?" Margaret's annoyance shifted slightly.

"Yes. Some of it."

"Then that part interests me." Margaret took another sip of beer, perhaps to give herself time not to answer in a way that ended the meeting.

"The magery's prices are exorbitant," she said at last. Alric waited.

"Everyone knows this. The magery is not built to serve tradesmen in the lower city. It sells to nobles, established houses, and other practitioners. Small quantities. High prices." Margaret explained while holding eye contact, her free hand gestured as she spoke.

"It's pretty awful."

"It is arranged that way."

"That makes it worse." Margaret ignored that. Alric looked down at the table. The table was sticky in one place. Someone had carved a name into the edge and then lost interest halfway through the last letter.

"So the magery sells the same things at a markup because everyone else is kept away from the source?" Alric asked.

"Yes." She nodded taking another sip.

"And that is legal?"

"Yes." She shrugged. Alric tapped one finger against the mug.

"If I form one, do I have to join some group or whatever?" Margaret blinked once, then made a small dismissive hand wave.

"Well, a backed atelier normally has to back the noble who backed it, so defend the realm and such. We'd need the king's approval for that and you won't get it. I'm suggesting a research atelier, so it's not so subject to politics."

"That sounds better at least." Margaret's mouth twitched, though she hid it behind another sip.

"There are also expectations. An atelier must have members and records. Some proof of training. A stated purpose, in this case research."

"Purpose is easy." Margaret looked wary.

"Is it?"

"Yes. Practical magic for useful work."

"That is not... a traditional purpose." Alric sighed.

"Fine. Practical application of mana in trade, production, and public works." Margaret went still for half a breath. Seren's eyes widened.

"That," Margaret said slowly, "would sound respectable."

"It would also be true."

"How unfortunate." Alric leaned forward.

"There are conditions."

"Of course there are."

"I build businesses. Some already run on mana and more will too. If people train under my roof, they contribute. I do not want five people floating around in robes feeling mystical while boilers need stones charged and equipment needs checking." Margaret's expression became difficult to read.

"You want apprentices to perform labour?"

"I want apprentices to learn that magic has weight even when it is invisible. Not manual labour, however. They just need to donate mana." Seren looked at him. He saw the look and frowned.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"That was not a nothing look." Margaret looked from one to the other.

"You understand that many practitioners would find this arrangement… beneath them."

"Then they can practise elsewhere." Margaret rested her fingers against the side of her mug.

"Battery complains often about your charging station, you know."

"Battery complains?"

"Not strongly. He mostly looks tired when he says it."

"That sounds like Battery."

"He is a strange mage." That caught his attention.

"How so?" Margaret seemed glad to be on ground that belonged to her.

"His casting is poor." Alric waited.

"A good mage moves mana quickly and cleanly," she said.

"Speed and Control. A spell formed too slowly leaves openings, wastes focus, and collapses under pressure. Battery can cast, but he gathers mana like a man pulling mud through cloth."

"And once he casts?" Margaret looked toward the docks, though the view was mostly a wet street and a man arguing with a coil of rope.

"That is the odd part. Once the spell forms, he can hold it for a very long time. Longer than he should. Waterspout, mostly. He can maintain the output for over an hour if left alone." Alric sat back. The noise of the tavern continued around them. A bowl scraped. Someone laughed once and then coughed. From outside came the faint clatter of wheels over uneven stone.

"He is slow to start," Alric said.

"But steady, you say?" Margaret nodded.

"Does he tire?"

"Not while casting that I've seen." Alric considered that. The charging station had required repetition. Mana put into the sword daily. Battery had been doing that again and again, more than Alric himself. He tapped his finger against the table. Margaret saw something in his expression.

"What?"

"Nothing certain."

"Well, let's hear your theory."

"Battery charges the station daily…" Alric said before trailing off. Margaret leaned forward slightly.

"You think the station changed him?"

"I think work changes people."

"That is not an answer."

"It is the only one I trust right now." Margaret looked irritated, but not dismissive. That was better.

"He would not be considered promising," she said.

"By whom?"

"Most instructors."

"Because he cannot cast quickly?" Alric nodded slowly.

"But if you needed someone to keep a casting for an hour?" Margaret did not answer immediately.

"That is not how mages are judged," she said.

"Are all mages trained as duelists? That seems narrow," Alric said with a frown. Margaret lifted her mug again, realised it was nearly empty, and looked disappointed by that. Alric pointed at it.

"You liked it."

"I did not say that."

"You finished it." Seren closed her eyes briefly, but Margaret laughed. It was small at first, almost surprised out of her. Then it became real enough that the sailors at the back looked over and immediately decided to focus harder on their card game. Margaret set the mug down.

"Show me this station." Seren looked up sharply.

"Now?"

"Yes," Margaret said, standing.

"No," Seren said. Alric turned to her.

"It is not far."

"That is not the issue. You cannot simply take a noblewoman through the lower city to inspect a equipment without preparation." Margaret's brow rose.

"Can he not?"

"No," Seren said. Alric stood.

"Don't worry, Seren, this noblewoman needs a favour. Many in fact." Margaret laughed again. Seren looked at him as though several new categories had just been forced onto the board without permission. Margaret stood, adjusting her cloak.

"I would like to see the station before I agree to anything further."

"You came to convince me," Alric said.

"Yes. Then you placed the atelier in the lower city, insulted fire magic, offered my future apprentices shift work, and made me drink beer in a dock tavern." She looked at the empty mug.

"Good beer." Alric smiled slightly. Margaret noticed and pointed one finger at him.

"Do not look pleased with yourself."

"I was not," Alric said, trying not to chuckle. Seren rose beside him.

"He was." The barman watched them leave with the guarded interest of a man who had just seen a noblewoman finish a mug of lower-city beer and could not decide whether the world had improved or become less predictable.

"This is where you would put an atelier?" Margaret asked as they set off. Alric followed her gaze. He saw mud, work, smoke, tired men, busy hands, buildings that needed repair, carts that needed loading, and a dozen problems magic could help with if it stopped pretending usefulness was vulgar.

"No, I have a nicer home just off the main avenue," he said. Margaret looked at him, then at Seren, then back toward the docks. After a moment, she gathered her cloak a little higher.

"Then show me the station. Also your home, if you would." Alric started walking. Seren fell in beside him, with a sigh. Behind them, Margaret followed, still noble, still careful, and still smelling faintly of beer. The security detail followed on, standing a little straighter and glancing at Margaret occasionally.