Chương 56: Chapter 35: Another Contract - II

I sigh quietly while Liora disappears behind the counter once again. Drawers slide open and several ledgers appear before being exchanged for others. Somewhere within the guild hall another clerk announces that somebody has signed their name in entirely the wrong place. Apparently, I am not the only victim. The contract itself returns a few moments later, though it no longer resembles the weathered notice I removed from the board.

The original has been copied onto fresh parchment bearing the guild seal in one corner, leaving space beneath it for additional observations. Liora places it before me.

"Your copy." I glance over the page.

"The original remains with the guild?" She nods.

"It always does. If something happens to you, another adventurer needs to know where you were sent." The matter-of-fact explanation earns a brief pause from me.

"You say that rather casually."

"I've worked here long enough." The answer tells me considerably more than the words themselves. I continue reading the contract. Adding to the details I saw earlier, someone has already marked several nearby villages upon a small map attached to the bottom of the page.

"The map is quite helpful."

"We try." She reaches beneath the counter once more before placing a narrow leather wallet beside the contract.

"This goes with your badge." I pick it up. Inside, stitched neatly into the leather, sits a small metal clasp perfectly shaped to hold the copper emblem.

"It protects the badge from being damaged during travel," Liora explains.

"Most adventurers wear it beneath their cloak or attach it to their belt." I fasten the badge into place. The fit is surprisingly precise.

"Better."

"It also saves you from explaining yourself every time you arrive somewhere new." That alone seems worthwhile. Liora gathers another sheet from the counter.

"This contract has no reporting intervals." I look up.

"There are contracts that do?"

"Certainly." She folds her hands together.

"Escort contracts sometimes require adventurers to report at predetermined guild branches along their route. Longer investigations occasionally require updates if they continue beyond their expected duration. Some high-risk commissions are handled by parties rather than individuals."

"And this one?"

"This one is simple. You just need to solve the problem, find the source if you can and eliminate it if possible. If you feel the threat exceeds to what you can handle then return. Inform the guild. We'll issue a higher-ranked commission and adjust the reward accordingly." I smile faintly.

"You expect adventurers to retreat?"

"I expect them to survive." The distinction feels important. Liora studies me for a moment before continuing.

"Dead adventurers rarely complete contracts."

"I imagine that would also create paperwork."

"It creates considerably more paperwork." Despite myself, I laugh. She allows the silence to linger before becoming serious once more.

"One more thing. The guild pays for completed contracts. It does not pay for unnecessary heroics." The sentence hangs between us. I understand what she means. My previous contract had stopped being ordinary almost immediately. This one might do the same.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I'd appreciate it." She says it lightly, but the concern behind the words is genuine. I roll the contract carefully before securing it inside my satchel alongside the payment pouch, supplies and provisions for a few days on the road. The routine feels strangely familiar, as though some forgotten part of my life has quietly slipped back into place. Liora notices me adjusting the straps.

"When do you leave?" I consider the question.

"The sooner I reach the farms, the sooner the attacks stop." She nods once.

"I'll mark the contract as active." The words carry a quiet finality. Liora asks for the contract copy before adding a final mark beneath the guild seal. A small stamp follows, pressed firmly into the parchment with practiced efficiency.

"There." She allows the ink a moment to settle before rolling the document and handing it back to me.

"The commission is officially yours." I slide the contract into my satchel beside the pouch containing the five silver coins. The weight is noticeable and unfamiliar. My hand moves through the satchel almost instinctively, waterskin; half full; bedroll, still tightly rolled from the previous journey, flint and tinder, rope and a small pouch of dried herbs. Everything is exactly the way I kept it. Months beneath the Silverwood have changed many things. Apparently, packing for the road is not one of them.

Liora watches the inspection with quiet curiosity.

"You've done this before."

"More times than I cared to count." This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"It shows." I tighten one of the leather straps before lifting the satchel onto my shoulder. The familiar weight settles comfortably across my back. There is something reassuring about equipment arranged exactly where it belongs. When a journey lasts several days, certainty often begins with small things.

"I'll need to restock before I leave." Liora nods.

"The market should still be open." She hesitates for only a moment.

"If you're travelling alone, I'd recommend carrying an extra waterskin. The streams north of the city become unreliable this time of year." Useful advice.

"I'll remember that."

"The same goes for rations. The villages mentioned in the contract are small. Don't assume they'll have supplies to spare." I incline my head.

"I appreciate the warning." She offers a small smile.

"I'd rather you return complaining about carrying too much than not return because you carried too little." There is nothing dramatic in the words, only experience. I have heard similar advice before. From Vael, from wandering merchants and from old hunters who measured wisdom in winters survived rather than years lived. The road has little patience for people who confuse confidence with preparation.

"I'll be careful."

"I know." I leave the guild with the contract secured beneath my cloak and the copper badge resting safely inside its leather case. The afternoon air feels warmer than I remember. Merchants continue calling across the marketplace while wagons move steadily through the streets beyond the square. My feet turn toward the market almost automatically. There are still several things I need before I can leave. Fresh rations, another waterskin, perhaps a new rope.

The old one has served well enough, but experience has taught me that equipment rarely chooses a convenient moment to fail. I find myself mentally assembling the journey before I have even left the city. The map attached to the contract reappears in my thoughts. Two villages northwest of Fallowspire, forested hills occupying the area beyond the last farms. If I leave before sunrise tomorrow, I should reach the first village by the evening of the second day.

That leaves the following morning free to examine the attack sites while the tracks are still fresh, well as fresh as they can be. The plan settles into place with surprising ease. It has been weeks since I last prepared for a journey. Yet walking the road, like wielding a staff or tending a campfire, appears to be one of those skills the body remembers long after the mind has stopped thinking about it. The market has grown busier by the time I reach it.

Afternoon sunlight spills between the buildings while merchants compete loudly for the attention of passing customers. The smell of fresh bread mingles with roasted meat, leather, damp earth and the faint scent of wood smoke drifting from nearby hearths. It is the sort of organized chaos that every city eventually develops, noisy enough to overwhelm a newcomer yet strangely predictable once one learns its rhythm. I begin with the things least likely to change, rations.

Dried meat keeps well enough, though I purchase considerably less than I might have a year ago. The habit of traveling alone has never entirely left me, but the grove has changed how I think about food. It is remarkably difficult to justify carrying excessive supplies when Aibell has spent the past several weeks reminding everyone that stale bread still has perfectly respectable culinary applications.

The provisioner's shop occupies a narrow corner of the market beneath a faded green awning that has likely seen more summers than its owner cares to admit. Shelves line the open-fronted stall from floor to ceiling, stacked with sacks of grain, dried beans, smoked meat, hard cheese and neatly bundled trail rations wrapped in waxed cloth. The air smells faintly of salt, flour and cured meat, a practical scent that immediately reminds me of weeks spent living from a satchel rather than a kitchen.

The merchant himself appears to match the shop. Broad-shouldered despite his age, with a neatly trimmed grey beard and forearms thickened by decades of lifting grain sacks instead of swords, he barely glances up before beginning to assemble my order. Judging by the ease with which he moves around the shelves, he could probably find every item in the store with his eyes closed.

"Heading north?" he asks as he weighs several strips of dried venison.

"Northwest." He grunts knowingly.

"Take the smoked meat instead. Keeps longer." I do not argue. People who make a profession out of supplying travelers generally know more about surviving the road than the travelers themselves. He wraps the provisions carefully in waxed cloth before securing them with coarse twine and passes the bundle across the counter.

"Long journey?"

"A few days."

"Hunting?"

"Something like that."

"That will be 10 copper coins."

"Okay." I hand him one silver coin. He nods slowly as he keeps the silver coin in his pouch and hands me over the remaining ninety copper coins. Without pressing further, he moves to the next customer. It appears people living near Fallowspire have grown accustomed to adventurers. Curiosity exists, though experience has apparently taught them that asking too many questions rarely produces comforting answers. The second purchase proves easier, a waterskin.

The leatherworker's stall stands beneath a broad canvas awning whose shade offers welcome relief from the afternoon sun. Belts, satchels, saddlebags and waterskins hang from polished wooden beams, their rich browns and deep tans giving the impression of an orderly forest of leather. The scent of cured hide and beeswax lingers in the air while the craftsman himself, a lean, weathered man with calloused fingers stained permanently dark from years of tanning, quietly oils the strap of a saddle without looking hurried.

He glances up only long enough to judge what I am searching for before reaching beneath the counter and producing several waterskins of varying sizes. Mine remains serviceable, but Liora's advice lingers in the back of my mind. Streams become unreliable north of the city during late summer. Experience has taught me that water is one of those things one only appreciates after they begin running out.

The leatherworker allows me to inspect several before I settle upon one stitched from thick hide with reinforced seams around the neck. More expensive than the others. Also considerably less likely to leak. Worth the eight copper coins it cost me. The decision regarding the rope requires rather longer. Unlike the provisioner and leatherworker, the rope seller appears to have little interest in appearances.

His stall is little more than a timber frame supporting dozens of neatly coiled ropes hanging from wooden pegs, each labelled with a small wooden tag identifying its length and weave. Hemp, flax and braided horsehair occupy separate rows while heavier climbing ropes are stacked beneath the counter. The merchant himself is an older fellow whose broad hands bear more scars than wrinkles, suggesting he spent far longer using rope than selling it.

He notices me studying the coils and simply says, "Tell me what you're tying down, and I'll tell you which rope to buy."

"Nothing much really. I just want to keep one in case of emergency." He inspects me from head to toe and then arranges three different coils across the stall, each claiming to be stronger than the last. The merchant insists the thickest could suspend an ox from a cliff. I have absolutely no intention of testing that claim. Eventually I settle upon the middle option. Strong enough to support my weight. Light enough that I will not spend the next four days regretting the purchase.

By the time I finish, the satchel feels subtly different across my shoulder. It feels balanced and complete. I pause briefly beside the edge of the square and mentally count through everything once more. Nothing I missed immediately comes to mind. That usually means I have forgotten something. I spend another minute thinking before reluctantly concluding that, for once, I may actually be prepared. The realization feels oddly satisfying. There is still enough daylight remaining to return to the grove before morning.

I should tell the others where I am going. Garrick, at the very least, would appreciate knowing why I intend to disappear into the forests for several days. Aibell will undoubtedly insist I have forgotten something important. Ciara will ask how long I expect to be gone. Whether any of them approve of the answer remains considerably less certain. I turn away from the market and begin walking toward the eastern district. For the first time in many weeks, the road is waiting for me once again.